Learned that like it the spirits pure and white

       Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light. 
    But what return did they profusely give
        Who were dependent on the red man’s corn? 
    Not even to them the privilege to live,
        But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!

       Hunted like wild beasts through the forests’ track;

       For food and welcome such they gave him back. 
    Then roused to madness was the Indian’s soul,
        Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;
    No mortal power his purpose could control,
        Till he had seen the traitors lying low.

       Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,

       O’er every field and every river’s tide. 
    The little child that scarce could lisp a word
        Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair
    Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard
        Their brothers’ wrongs, and madly tore their hair;

       Old men urged on the young, and young men fled

       Swift to increase the armies of the dead. 
    And thus the war began,—­the fearful war
        That swept o’er happy homesteads like a flood;
    The white and red man knew no other law
        Than that which wrote its every act in blood.

       Daylight beheld the ball and arrow’s flight,

       And blazing homes made terrible the night. 
    The rifle’s sharp report, the arrow’s whiz,
        The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;
    Despair in him who saw the last of his,
        And heard “good-by” from children’s dying breath;

       The last sad look of prisoners borne away,

       And groan of torture, marked the night and day. 
    With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,
        Or souls more brave to battle for the right-
    The white the unjust warfare did pursue,
        Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight

       From homes he loved, from altars he revered,

       And left, forever, scenes to him endeared. 
    O, what an hour for those brave people that! 
        Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;
    Young men and maidens who had often sat
        In love and peace beneath the forest tree;

       Parents who’d planted flowers; and with warm tears

       Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years! 
    From every tree a voice did seem to start,
        And every shrub that could a shadow cast
    Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,
        So closely twined was each one with the past.

       O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?

       Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel. 
    And thus they went,—­a concourse of wronged men,—­
        Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,
    Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,
        Was sold for blood, and for a patriot’s grave;