Their hatchets keen from troubled slumber rise
And through Coweset make their edges glare;
Chiefs strike the war-post,—blood is in their cries,
And fierce their yells cleave Pokanoket’s air;
They count already with revengeful eyes
The future scalps of vanquished enemies;—
XXVII.
“And all for Wampanoag’s life-blood crave.
On Seekonk’s marge the storm of war will burst;
Lands might I give thee there but that the wave