Now stealing through the forest trees
The ruddy morning broke,
And, pouring in its dewy light,
The slumbering monarch woke.
He rose, and in his morning walk,
To the sloping hill he hied,
And there again by his old loved tree
Nemattanow he spied.
Weary and worn the warrior seem’d,
His temple show’d a wound,
And dripping water from his hair
Was moistening the ground.
No quiver now was at his back,
Nor war-club by his side;
Nor battle-axe nor scalping-knife
His enemies defied.
But though all weaponless he stood,
His look was bold and free,
And proud his bearing was, like one
High flush’d with victory.