It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making the subject of a note. It is this--that Indian poetry always wants the correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success. I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages and incidents. The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:-- And who are they To whom the Brave has given his bow, His arrow, and his spear; To whom the Hunter has given the flesh, The juicy flesh of the elk, At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe, The shaggy skin of the old black bear, Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star[A], The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes, Whose neck is the neck of the swan, Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove, Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing. Whose step is the step of the antelope's child, Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song, Has cast the gifts of her Brave, Cast, without a tear, The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sang From its bower in the bush on the beautiful night, That he called his maiden, "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew, Ere the mocassins decked his feet? I will tell you who they are: Listen, brother! Thou from the distant land, Pour oil into thine ears, for I Will fill them with a song.