And to a stunted pine-tree clung,
Cracked like the sound of frost and fell
Down in the cataract’s boiling well,
He watched it as the foam and spray
Dash’d up and bore it far away.
Though lithe and agile as the hound,
He cannot leap that chasm’s bound,
And though his feet are shod with speed,
’Twere vain to try the daring deed.
He will not—no! the Indian knows