The woe we taste is solid woe.
Comes then the thought of better things,
When we were men, and we were kings.
Men are we now, and still there rolls
A monarch's blood in all our souls!
A warrior's fire is in our hearts,
Our hands are strong in feathery darts;
And let us die as they have died
Who are the Indian's boast and pride!
Nor creep to graves, in flying west,