Rise from the midmost groves, and o’er the trees,
A hundred smokes curl on the morning breeze.
LXVIII.
And now to sight, through leafless boughs revealed,
Now hid where thicker branches wove their screen,
Bounding and glancing, in swift circles wheeled
Men painted, plumed, and armed with weapons sheen,
And flashing clear or by the trees concealed,—
Glimmering again and waved with threatening mien,—
The lifted tomahawks and lances bright