The aged monarch stood alone,
By his council-hall again;
The unbending monarch, unsubdued,
King of his bloody plain.
But what was that red plain to him?
His groves? his country? all?
In his lodge there were no loved ones now,
No voice in his council-hall.
The old man’s heart was desolate--
His warriors all were dead;
He knew the pale-face tree had root,
And far and wide would spread.
And sadly toward the western sky
He turn’d his weary eyes,
Where mountains blue are dimly seen,
And the land of spirits lies;
And he thought, could he lay his aged bones
In that peaceful land to rest,
Where the pale-face foe could never come,
The red man to molest;
Where his gather’d tribes might hunt the deer
Through the forest wilds again,
And plant their corn in peace once more
Upon the sunny plain;
And where by the shadowy mountain’s brow;
He in his quiet cot
His wife and children might behold,
’Twould be a blessed lot;
And casting one long, painful look
On his lost land and home,
Ere through the western wilds afar
A pilgrim he should roam,
He took his war-club for a staff,
And his footsteps westward turn’d,
And sought for rest in the far-off land,
Where the ruddy sunset burn’d.