Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prair- Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell Ha! how the breath of these Saxons a like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty s thy wigwams! |