[Mine, whose grave-pennon floats]
Over the foeman's line!
Baim-wä-wä!
WAR SONG.
Where are my foes? say, warriors, where? No forest is so black,
That it can hide from my quick eye, the vestige of their track:
There is no lake so boundless, no path where man may go,
Can shield them from my sharp pursuit, or save them from my blow.
The winds that whisper in the trees, the clouds that spot the sky,