And shook his dart and battle-axe on high,
While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue,
As deeper and more close the conflict grew.
Here too at early morn the hunter’s song
Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade;
And here at eve, these clustered bowers among,
The low sweet carol of the Indian maid,
Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long,
That kept her lingering lover from the shade:
While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o’er,