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What is there left, O White Man, what is there remaining ? What is there flees not from before thy face ? Wonder thou not to hear the Spirits’ loud complaining For flower, forest, race !
As the worn body by a lingering breath is haunted, So is my Ghost withheld from final peace;While these strong roots thus firmly in the earth are planted, Am I denied release.
Hast thou no mercy, Storm-wind ? let thy fury hound me ; Let loose thy Fiends, and bid them work their will, Till in Earth’s bosom snaps the link that bound me ! Then shall my soul be still !”
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