'I look on the bow that my father bent,
And I know the ways where the warrior went.
I remember the flash of the chieftain's eye;
When he heard the whoop of the foeman nigh!
I can see the fall of that stately head
On the dauntless breast, when its blood was shed;
And I bear in my heart the charge that hung,
To avenge his death, on the faltering tongue!
'My hand is as firm to bend the bow;
My foot through the forest as fleet to go;
I can aim my dart with as sure an eye;
And I am as ready as he to die!
My spirit is burning with thirst to meet
Our ancient foe-for revenge is sweet.
Lo! onward I go, and my father's shade
Shall be at my side, till the debt is paid!'
He leaps, and is gone, like the bounding deer;
But not like her, from the hound and spear.
He flies to his death-he has met the dart;
And 'tis drinking the blood of that fearless heart!
But it came too late, for his dying ear
The curse of his falling foe can hear-
The arrow was sped, which brings him low,
By the hand of the son, from the father's bow!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem