I.

He stood where the mountain moss outspread Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot; The chestnut boughs above his head, Hung motionless and mute. There came not a voice from the wooded hill, Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, Save the plaintive song of the whip- poor-will,(2) And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, The night-bird's mournful cry. Deep silence hung round him; the misty light Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell Arose on the ear like some loved one's call; And the wide blue sky spread over allIts starry canopy. And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, Whose grave could not give him rest; So deep was the settled hue of grief, On his manly front impressed: Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, And his port was erect and high, Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, When his men have failed in fight; Who rather a thousand deaths would die,Than his fame should suffer blight.

II.

And who by kith, and who by name, Is he, that lone, yet haughty one? By his high brow, and eye of flame, I guess him old Ottalli's son. Ottalli! whose proud name was here In other times, a sound of fear! The fleet of foot, and strong of hand, Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, The forest child, of mind and soul Too wild and free to brook control! In chase was none so swift as he, In battle none so brave and strong; To friends,all love and constancy,-- But we to those who wrought him wrong! His arm would wage avenging strife, With bow, and spear, and bloody knife, Till he had taught his foes to feel, How true his aim, how keen his steel. Now others hold the sway he held,-- His day and power have passed away; His goodly forests all are felled, And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay, Chaunted by youthful voices, where His battle-hymn once filled the air-- Where blazed the lurid council fire, The village church erects its spire; And where the mystic war-dance rang, With its confused, discordant clang, While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry For blood and vengeance, filled the sky, Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove, Proclaims her rule of peace and love. And of his true and faithful clan, Of child and matron, maid and man, Of all he loved, survives but one-- His earliest, and his only son! That son's sole heritage his fame, His strength, his likeness, and his name.

III.

And thus from varying year to year, The youthful chief has lingered here; Chief!--why is he so nobly named? How many warriors at his call, By Arcouski's breath inflamed,Would with him fight, and for him fall? Of all his father's warrior throng, Remains not one whose lip could now Rehearse with him the battle song, Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. And yet, no weak, complaining word, From his stern lip is ever heard; And his bright eye, so black and clear, Is never moistened by a tear; Of quiet mien, and mournful mood, He lives, a stoic of the wood; Gliding about from place to place, With noiseless step, and steady pace, Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, Like the lone Genius of the spot.

IV.

And this was he who, standing there, Seemed as an image of Despair, Which agony's convulsive strife, Had quickened into breathing life. The writhing lip, the brow all wet With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat; The hand, that with unconscious clasp, Strained his keen dagger in itsgrasp; The eye, that lightened with the blaze Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze; The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came At intervals along his frame; The tremulously heaving breast,-- These signs the inward storm confessed: Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke A soul within, whose haughty will Would wrestle with immortal ill, And only quit the strife, when fate Its being should annihilate. Silent he stood, until the breeze Bore from his lips some words like these.

V.