He for his happy hunting-fields
     Forgets the droning chant, and yields
     His numbered breaths to exultation
     In the proud anticipation: 
     Shouting the glories of his nation,
     Shouting the grandeur of his race,
     Shouting his own great deeds of daring: 
     And when at last death grasps his face,
     And stiffened on the ground in peace
     He lies with all his painted terrors glaring;
     Hushed are the tribe to hear a threading cry: 
     Not from the dead man;
     Not from the standers-by: 
     The spirit of the red man
     Is welcomed by his fathers up on high.

     MARTIN’S puzzle

     I

     There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
     And her Good morning, Martin!  Ay, lass, how d’ye do? 
     Very well, thank you, Martin!—­I can’t understand! 
     I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe! 
     I can’t understand it.  She talks like a song;
     Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;
     She seems to give gladness while limping along,
     Yet sinner ne’er suffer’d like that little lass.

     II

     First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. 
     Then, her fool of a father—­a blacksmith by trade —
     Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart? 
     His heart!—­where’s the leg of the poor little maid! 
     Well, that’s not enough; they must push her downstairs,
     To make her go crooked:  but why count the list? 
     If it’s right to suppose that our human affairs
     Are all order’d by heaven—­there, bang goes my fist!

     III

     For if angels can look on such sights—­never mind! 
     When you’re next to blaspheming, it’s best to be mum. 
     The parson declares that her woes weren’t designed;
     But, then, with the parson it’s all kingdom-come. 
     Lose a leg, save a soul—­a convenient text;
     I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God. 
     When poor little Molly wants ‘chastening,’ why, next
     The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.

     IV

     But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles
     To read books to sick people!—­and just of an age
     When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles! 
     Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. 
     The more I push thinking the more I revolve: 
     I never get farther:- and as to her face,
     It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve,
     And says, ‘This crush’d body seems such a sad case.’

     V

     Not that she’s for complaining:  she reads to earn pence;
     And from those who can’t pay, simple thanks are enough. 
     Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense? 
     Howsoever, she’s made up of wonderful stuff. 
     Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord;
     She sings little hymns at the close of the day,
     Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord,
     And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.