And he is brooding, with a saddened mind,
Over a perish’d nation’s wrongful story.
A few more years, and the wild eagle’s wing
Shall seek his long-lov’d rest with mournful screaming;
A few more years, and no dark form shall cling
To this stern height of perish’d glory dreaming.
And who will mourn when thou art lying low,
And o’er thy shattered limbs green mosses creeping;
What noble heart will melt with generous woe,
When the last warrior of his race is sleeping?