XXIV.
“How could your brother plant, where all around
War’s tempest raging pours its showers of blood?
Where from each thicket bursts the war-whoop’s sound,
And death in ambush lurks in every wood?
When would the feet of his dear friends be found
To pass along the blood-stained solitude,
And bring their all—their dearer far than life—
Beneath uplifted axe and scalping knife?”
XXXV.