Still show the chief of sixty years ago.
Beside him lay the calumet of peace—
It was his sceptre mid the din of arms;
No martial dyes did on his visage trace
The lines of wrath—for him they had no charms;
The neyhom’s[17] mantle did his shoulders grace,
With ample folds that stayed the winter’s harms;
At every movement, changing in the sun,
From plume to plume its glistering glories run.