III.
And thus from varying year to year, The youthful chief has lingered here； Chief！why is he so nobly named？
How many warriors2 at his call, By Arcouski's breath inflamed3, Would with him fight, and for him fall？
Of all his father's warrior1 throng4, Remains5 not one whose lip could now Rehearse with him the battle song, Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. And yet, no weak, complaining word, From his stern lip is ever heard；
And his bright eye, so black and clear, Is never moistened by a tear；
Of quiet mien6, and mournful mood, He lives, a stoic7 of the wood； Gliding8 about from place to place, With noiseless step, and steady pace, Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, Like the lone9 Genius of the spot.
