Graced was his belt by beads of dazzling sheen
And painted quills--the handiwork of one
Dearer than life to him;--though he had seen
From the gray hills, beneath a wasting sun,
Only the snows of twenty winters run,
The warrior's right his scalp lock to adorn
With eagle plumes in battle he had won:
O'erjoyed were prophets old when he was born,
And hailed him with one voice "_First Sunbeam of the Morn_."