Hung on the pine his idle bow,

His pirogue useless on the shore?

When age hath dimm’d his failing eye,

Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?

Sons of the brave! delay no more—

The spirits of my kindred call.

’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er!

Oh, bid the aged cedar fall!

To join the brethren of his prime,

The mighty of departed time.