. The calumet of the Coteau, and other poetical legends of the border. ed by our country, not fallen in vain,Though moulder our ashes and lowly each bed,Tis only lifes casket which sleeps with the dead;Our spirits are basking afar from the grave,In bowers of Eden awaiting the brave,Where the warrior with hatchet neer enters for gore;For caPmets of purple are smoked as of yore,With friends and with comrades in bliss evermore. When from such feast these demons, begrimed with paint and gore,Leave wolves to finish revel, and hasten after more;24 Nor bold as men of courage gainst remnant on the hil

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. The calumet of the Coteau, and other poetical legends of the border. ed by our country, not fallen in vain, Though moulder our ashes and lowly each bed, Tis only lifes casket which sleeps with the dead;Our spirits are basking afar from the grave, In bowers of Eden awaiting the brave, Where the warrior with hatchet neer enters for gore;For caPmets of purple are smoked as of yore, With friends and with comrades in bliss evermore. When from such feast these demons, begrimed with paint and gore, Leave wolves to finish revel, and hasten after more;24 Nor bold as men of courage gainst remnant on the hill, But prowlinglong the border, the innocent to kill;As vultures scent the carrion, each teepee of the broodAlong the trail to slaughter swarms forth its whelps of blood !The bold, thrifty yeoman seeks wealth in the West, The mate of his bosom a dove from its nest;Through deserts and dangers they suffer and roam, Till in sweet sheltered valley they make them a home;Soon neighbors build round them, all labor in peace, Till of strength over-conscious does vigilance cease.. 38 THE CAL-U-MET OF THE CO TEA U. Bestride his fleet pinto, over mountain and glen, Rides the proud Sioux chieftain unto rapine again, With ghouls from the slaughter of our Custer and men, And whelps from their kennels in each valley and glen, From the crests of the mountains white glistning in snow, These friends scan this Eden all-enchanting below;In darkness descending, —fitting season of crime, —While the orb of the evening refuses to shine, Like the scream of the eagle oer the nest of the doveIs the war-whoop of savage in the valley of love;Like true painted demons, naught is sacred they find, —Happy homes are before them, smoking ruins behind. But the sword of vengeance tardy, erst gleaming oer the broodOf the Eagle and Cay-ou-ta, must now be drenched in bloodDrawn forth for that of pilgrims upon the coteau slain, —Mercys plea from innocence, be now as then in vain.From the coteaus of Wy-o-ming and Co-lo-ra-dos