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Unbeard their clock repeats its hours! • Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs! * And should we thither roam, • Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead !
And by my side, in battle true,
Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone,
XXXIX. 'But bark, the trump 10-morrow thou 'In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : . Even from the land of shadows now “My fatber's awful ghost appears, * Amidst the clouds that round us roll; • He bids my soul for battle thirstHe bids me dry the last-the first• The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul; "Because I may not stain with grief · The death-song of an Indian chief.'
END OF PART THIRD.
THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.