Who led her train of playmates, day by day, O'er rock, and stream, and wild, a weary way, Their baskets teeming with the golden ear ? Whose generous hand vouchsaf'd its tireless aid To guard a nation's germ ? Thine, thine, heroic maid !
��On sped the tardy seasons, and the hate Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast.
Their hoary prophet breath'd the ban of fate : " Hence with the thunderers ! Hide their race, un- blest,
Deep 'neath the soil they falsely call their own ;
For, from our fathers' graves, a hollow moan, Like the lash'd surge, bereaves my soul of rest.
' They come ! They come ! ' it cries. 'Ye once were brave : Will ye resign the world that the Great Spirit gave ? ' "
��Yet, 'neath the settled countenance of guile,
They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire,
And wore the semblance of a quiet smile, To lull the victim of their deadly ire :
But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen,
Blame not too much those erring, red-brow'd men, Tho' nurs'd in wiles. Fear is the white-lipp'd sire
Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain.