hand-to-hand combat with the famous Indian fighter, Capt.
O radiant face that found me tired and lone,
I shall not for the dear dead past forget
The sweetest looks of all the Summers gone.
Ah! time hath made familiar wild Regret;
For now the leaves are white in last year's bowers;
And now doth sob along the ruined leas
The homeless storm from saddened southern seas,
While March sits weeping over withered flowers.