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WHEN his hour for death had come,

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He slowly raisd himself from the bed on the floor,

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Drew on his war-dress, shirt, leggings, and girdled the belt around his waist,

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Calld for vermilion paint (his looking-glass was held before him,)

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Painted half his face and neck, his wrists, and back-hands.

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Put the scalp-knife carefully in his belt—then lying down, resting a moment,

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Rose again, half sitting, smiled, gave in silence his extended hand to each and all,

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Sank faintly low to the floor (tightly grasping the tomahawk handle,)

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Fixd his look on wife and little children—the last:

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(And here a line in memory of his name and death.)