When winds unchain the waves;
An hundred scalping-knives are bare—
An hundred hatchets swing in air,
And while the forest Cicero,
Lost power portrays, and present shame,
Old age forgets his palsied frame,
And grasps again the bow.
Thus, sweet, wild-flower of faint perfume!
Thy magic can unlock the tomb,
And forth the gifted sagamore