III.
On the forehead of Earth strikes the Sun in his might, Oh gift me with glances as searching as light. In the front of the onslaught, to single each crest, Till my hatchet grows red on their bravest and best.
The Indian in his Wigwam; Or, Characteristics of the Red Race of America: From Original Notes and Manuscripts
On the forehead of Earth strikes the Sun in his might, Oh gift me with glances as searching as light. In the front of the onslaught, to single each crest, Till my hatchet grows red on their bravest and best.