Old mossy hemlock reared on high, The forest eagle's lofty throne When tired of circling in the sky. The mock-bird, perched on bending spray, With arching neck and air of pride, And gabbling in sequestered cove, The black duck oiled her breast, and dove. IV. East of Irondequoit the scene Was rich in robes of living green, On naked point of table-land That, beetling o'er the polished strand, Commanded view of wave and wood V. Knives in their braided girdles hung, And edged with long and gaudy frills. Adorned with feathers brightly dyed, And ornaments of bone and shell; Trim hunting frock of smoke-tann'd hide Their manly forms befitted well. Light hoofs of deer on sinew strung Were closely to the ancle bound, And when the foot was lifted, rung With a low, strange and rattling sound; B Their rounded heads were shorn and bare, When meet wild warriors of the wood When bosom thrills with sense of power;" Would sculptor in their forms have found, Full of wild energy and grace, And the marked features of their race By Nature's brush embrowned. VI. Tone, dignity of step and mien, Apart from flaunting pomp of dress, Denote high birth and kingliness: And likeness to each other bore Not only in the garb they wore, VII. The senior of the two was tall, On brow and breast in "glorious scars." His hand the whirling hatchet guide, When close encounter prowess tried. Sounds only caught by tutored ear, While looked they forth with searching glance On Cadaracqui's calm expanse, For floating on his bosom blue Large objects slowly loomed to view. VIII. At last the younger woodman cried, For weapon feeling at his side, "Look, Father!-gleaming in the sun, Are pointed spear, long knife and gun, While hither, on the swelling waves, Float Yonnondio's hostile braves!" "Yes, boy!—those war-canoes are mann'd By foemen to our native land; They hope to wrap our huts in flame, And blot from memory our name; My people unprepared assail, Change the light laugh to dying wail, And flowers tread down that fragrance shed On grave-mounds of our honored dead. I fear them not!-three moons ago My warriors laid their bravest low, And gory scalps, on homeward track, To shrivel in the smoke bore back. Look, look! a viler race is near— The coward Hurons guide them here, And fondly hope, in lucky hour, To crush the Aganuschion power: But will they find a dreaming foe? No, thanks to Ou-we-nee-you,* no! When hunters for the panther search They never find their game asleep, But watchful on his lofty perch, And crouching for the deadly leap. * Great Spirit. |