“Shall our white brother, not for me or mine,
But for himself, seek Narraganset’s shore,
Disperse the clouds, and let the sunlight shine
From the blue sky of peace?—Our wounds are sore
But hatchets none too keen; and our design
May profit by delay, if he will light
His council fire and gathering friends invite.
XXXVII.
“His bow’s now broken, and his knife now dull,—
But when his warriors shall around him throng—