"How shall I to myself alone,
The weakness of my bosom own?
Why, mindful of my fame and pride,
When my brave brethren had died;
Why, with my friendly, ready knife,
Drew I not forth my useless life?
Was it a coward fear of death,
That bade me treasure up my breath?
Or had life yet some genial ray,
That wooed me in its warmth to stay?
Had earth yet one whose smile could stir,
My spirit with deep love for her?
Yes, though within me hope was dead,
And wild Ambition's dreams were fled;
Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair
Desponded, love still nestled there;
Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip
Would sneer, to hear me name that name;
Yet was it deep within my soul
A secret but consuming flame;
Whose overruling mastership,
Defied slow Reason's dull control!
And felt for one of that vile race,
To whom my tribe had given place;
Was nursed in silence and in shame!
Shame, for the weakness of a heart,
Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow,
Which could bestow its better part
Upon the offspring of a foe!