With frowning brows they whirl around
Within this consecrated mound!
Away—away, vile caitiff race,
And give the dead their resting-place.
They point—they cry—they bid me smite
The Wa-bish-kiz-zee[118] ] in their sight!
Did Europe come to crush us dead,
Because on flying deer we fed,
And worshipped gods of airy forms,
Who ride in thunder-clouds, the storms?