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Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the
mighty Behemoth,

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the
bolts of the thunder,

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of
the red man?

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the
Crows and the Foxes,

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread
of Behemoth,

Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts
the Missouri's

Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prair-
ies, the camp-fires

Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust
in the gray of the daybreak

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's
dexterous horse-race ;

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell
the Camanches!

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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!

SONGS.

SEAWEED.

WHEN descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic

Storm-wind of the equinox,

Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

Laden with seaweed from the rocks :

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