Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s hand
Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;
While I in lonely wilderness shall greet
Thy little foot-prints—or by traces know
The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet
To feed thee with the quarry of my bow,
And poured the lotus-horn,[43] or slew the mountain roe.
XXVI.
“Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!
But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mock