High from the ground, and blown upon by air
Sun-sanctified; caught from corruption's mold,
Girdled by streams amidst the foot-hills fair,
With wind-chants making music sweet and old,

This red man rests. Unto the elements
He doth return; his soul soars glad and free,
And e'en his body seems, in going hence,
To cry, " O grave, where is thy victory! "