And from its iron sleep the hatchet wakes?
Or does some impious tongue his anger brave,
By speaking names made sacred by the grave?”
XXXI.
Then passed a murmur through that concourse wide,
And man on man cast the inquiring eye;
At length the old chief laid his pipe aside,
And, musing, sate, as pondering his reply;
Then slowly rose, and drew the pluméd hide
From his right shoulder, and, with stature high,