Mazelli, and Other Poems (Canto2,3)

 III.

    And thus from varying year to year, The youthful chief has lingered here； Chief！——why is he so nobly named？

    How many warriors at his call, By Arcouski's breath inflamed, Would with him fight, and for him fall？

    Of all his father's warrior throng, Remains 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 mien, and mournful mood, He lives, a stoic of the wood； Gliding about from place to place, With noiseless step, and steady pace, Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, Like the lone Genius of the spot.