Chapter XLIII

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Built o'er the Indian's grave, the city, here,
To all the pomp of civic pride is giv'n,
While o'er the spot there falls no tribute-tear,
Not e'en his kindred drop--the dew of Heav'n.
How touching was the chieftain's homily!
That none would mourn for him when he should die;
Soon shall the race of their last man be run--
Then who will mourn for them? Alas! not one--not one!