Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They bent no more the forest bow,
They arm’d not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o’er them dim and slow—
They left us for the spirits’ land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
Son of the stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,