Because we use not plough or loom,
Is ours a black and bitter doom
That has no light—no world of bliss?—
Then is our hell commenced in this.
* * * *
Nay, it is well—but tell me not
The white race now possess the spot,
That fury marks my brow, and all
I see is but my fancy's pall
That glooms my eyes—ah, white man, no!