Poems (Kemble)/The Red Indian

by Frances Anne Kemble

THE RED INDIAN.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,—
Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last,
Still rings upon the rushing blast,
 That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow,
Beneath the hand of death bends low,
Thy fiery glance is quenchëd now,
 In the cold grave's obscurity.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun
Is set in blood, thy day is done;
Like lightning flash thy race is run,
 And thou art sleeping peacefully.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more
The boundless forest shall explore,
Or trackless cross the sandy shore,
 Or chase the red deer rapidly.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe,
Like thy choice arrow, swift and true,
Shall part no more the waters blue,
 That sparkle round it brilliantly.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,
Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last,
And all is silent, save the blast,
 That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.