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Music upon the breeze! the savage stays
His flying arrow as the strain goes by;
He starts! he listens! lost in deep amaze,
Breath half-suppress'd, and lightning in his eye
Have the clouds spoken? Do the spirits rise
From his dead fathers graves, with wildering melodies?
Oft did he muse, 'neath midnight's solemn sky,
On those deep tones, which, rising o'er the sod,
Bore forth, from hill to hill, the white man's hymn to God.
His flying arrow as the strain goes by;
He starts! he listens! lost in deep amaze,
Breath half-suppress'd, and lightning in his eye
Have the clouds spoken? Do the spirits rise
From his dead fathers graves, with wildering melodies?
Oft did he muse, 'neath midnight's solemn sky,
On those deep tones, which, rising o'er the sod,
Bore forth, from hill to hill, the white man's hymn to God.
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