But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee;
And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.
‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less bright
When poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light!
But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake,
And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!
‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear!
But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here!
The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell—
’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’