Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;
And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.
But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,
Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.
Indian Hunter.
Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the tiger’s track?
Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze
Bear riches for him alone—
And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,