Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sit
That warrior Indian. His head was still
Proudly erect. But his glassy eye
On vacancy was fixed, and from his side
There flowed a crimson stream that spake of death.
Alas! how changed the noble warrior!
His snowy plume—the captured eagle’s gift—
Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;—
Yet see! he rises slowly—but anon,
He reels—he falls—a deathless stillness comes