Chapter XLIX

How patient was that red man of the wood!
Not like the white man, garrulous of ill--
Starving! who heard his faintest wish for food?
Sleeping upon the snow-drift on the hill!
Who heard him chide the blast, or say 'twas cold?
His wounds are freezing! is the anguish told?
Tell him his child was murdered with its mother!
He seems like carved out stone that has no woe to smother.