The league of the Iroquois and other legends : from the Indian muse

IY
THE VICTORY.
How frequent, in the battle tried,
Alone the weaker hands prevail ;
While freely flows the crimson tide
From bosoms clad in iron mail.
Still rests with Oway-neo great
The victory in the fiercest strife ;
They triumph at the last who wait
On Him who Master is of Life.
Low-fallen lay each noble brave,
The wigwams empty pressed the plain ;
Save one alone that shelter gave
To Yong-we with her children twain :
Who, spared her kinsmens' sadder fate
Still lingered in that frightful place ;
Lone with her little ones she sat :
Sad remnant of a noble Race.