And wandering on, he neared the brook; Then sat him down to rest; ’Twas a noble sight⁠—that warrior free⁠— That Monarch of the West. He gazed around. O! a wistful gaze Saddened his upturned brow, As he thought of those he’d fondly loved, Of those now laid so low.

He mused aloud “Great Spirit!” list To the Indian’s earnest plea; And tell me why, from his own loved home, Must the Indian driven be. When the “Pale Face” came to our genial clime, We wondered and were glad; Then hied us to our chieftain’s lodge, Our noble “Flying Cloud.”