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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Jeckoyva
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They made the warrior`s grave beside
The dashing of his native time:
And there was mourning in the glen-- 
The strong wail of a thousand men--
   O`er him thus fallen in his pride,
Ere mist of age - or blight or blast
Had o`er his might spirit past.

They made the warrior`s grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm`s wreath,
When the dark hunter`s piercing eye
Had found that mountain rest on high,
   Where, scattered by the sharp wind`s breath,
Beneath the ragged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.

Where was the warrior`s foot, when first
The red sun on the mountain burst?
Where -- when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,
   And made the woodlands faint with thirst?
`Twas where the wind is keen and loud,
And the gray eagle breasts the cloud.

Where was the warrior`s foot when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash--
None saw the fallen warrior dash
   Down the bare rock so high and white!
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.

They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away,
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left--
   Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid this feathery helm
By the dark river and green elm.
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