The voyager he had a friend Among the Indian band, Who lay and slept, while Christian blood Thus dyed the yellow sand.
He started up, and drew a knife, With vengeance in his eye, And seiz’d the murd’rer by his hair, And, “Dog!” he utter’d, “die!”
And with these words, he smote with might, And pierced the Indian dread, Who prayed for life, and gasped for breath, Then sank to earth and bled.
On, on they rushed, a furious throng, For wild disorder reigned; And drinking, yelling, noise, and song, The live-long day had stained.
Out furious in the wild melée, The voyager he ran, With streaming wound, and upraised knife, Averse to counsel’s plan.
At once a cry of death arose, “I’m killed,” he said, and fell: A deep, low wound, and gushing blood, Attest the truth I tell.
O ye who hear this living tale, Your hearts with care berate, Nor give the red man cause to feel The bitter pangs of hate.
Learn that strict justice is alike, Nor favors red, nor white; That kindness wins—that patience charms, E’en more than beauty bright;
That friendship’s glow, whate’er the name, Clime, country, shade or line, Is e’er the same, if touch’d with truth And constancy benign.
Last—saddest, truest of my song— Provoke nor sot, nor king; Shun passion’s sway, and liquor’s ire, Nor trust its poison sting.