Long his cruel fast, had prayed,
All his soul in yearning steeping,
Not for glory, chase, or maid;

But to sing in joy, and wander,
Following the summer hours,
Drinking where the streams meander,
Feasting with the leaves and flowers.

Once his people saw him painting
Red his sides and red his breast,
Said: "His soul for fight is fainting,
War-paint suits the hero best;"

Went, when passed the night, loud calling,
Found him not, but where he lay
Saw a Robin, whose enthralling
Carol seemed to them to say;

"I have left you! I am going
Far from fast and winter pain;
When the laughing water's flowing
Hither I will come again!"

Thus his ebon locks still wearing,
With the war-paint on his breast,
Still he comes, our summer sharing,
And the lands he once possessed.

Finding in the white man's regions