His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips;
He stands and vainly calls to his relief
His savage nature; but, alas! ’tis gone.
Then falling on his face amid the woods
That often echoed to his war-whoop fell,
He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet,
And lays aside his garments stained with blood.
His voice in accents of his soul now speaks,
His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream,
And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks,