Classic Poem

He mounts his favorite steed of war,
And o'er the prairie wild,
He speeds that fiery courser on —
A lonely forest child.

His home is desolate and drear;
His kindred, where are they?
That tribe, once powerful and brave,
Disease hath swept away.

He yet survives; but what is life,
When those we love are fled?
That Indian seeks a resting-place,
Among the peaceful dead.

And now he halts; before him lies
A vast expansive plain,
A moment, and that noble steed,
By his own hand is slain.

Shade of my fathers! he exclaims,
I come with you to rest;
He grasps the instrument of death,
And plants it in his breast.

Fast streaming from the fatal wound,
He sees the purple gore;
'Tis done! 'tis done! he faintly cries,
Then falls, to rise no more.