XIII.
Yet while by life’s endearments crowned,
To mark this day we gather round,
And to our nation’s founders raise
The voice of gratitude and praise,
Shall not one line lament that lion race,
For us struck out from sweet creation’s face?
Alas! alas! for them—those fated bands,
Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands;
Our Fathers called them savage—them, whose bread,