And still he soothes me with his accents bland.
“If true he speak—that should his actions show;
May not his heart be darker than yon cloud,
And yet his words white as its falling snow?
Still, if his speech were true, and not a shroud
To hide dark thought, these gray hairs yet might go
Down to the grave in peace—and of my blood
Might all, whilst rivers roll, or rain descends,
Live with the Yengee, kind and loving friends.”