“Oppressed and down-trodden and driven to anguish!
What, what can the grief of my bosom gainsay?
Oh will they, Great Spirit, forever thus languish
Till the last of my people have withered away?
VI.
“Ah no!—they will rise on a day great in glory,
And triumph in pride o’er the dust of the foe,[A]
And their valorous deeds in traditional story
Shall pass with the current of years as they flow.
VII.
“But where, ah! oh where are the loved and the cherished
That brightened my home near the deep woody dell?—
They are gone, by the hand of the Pale-face they’ve perished,
And coldly they sleep in their moss-covered cell.
VIII.
“Above them the drooping white willow is weeping,
And lowly the damp-breathing night-winds complain,
And the wan, silent moon her still vigil is keeping,
While their dove-spirits[B] mourn unavenged all in vain.
IX.
“Ye Pale-face, I hate ye, I scorn ye to madness,
I loath to despair, but I cannot avenge.
All wretched I moan and ye scoff at my sadness.
Oh Spirit! Great Spirit! revenge, oh, revenge!”