LXX.
As ’twere from frantic demons. And the face
Of Waban paled—then darkened as he said,
“The Narragansets there their war-dance trace,
They count our scalps, and name our kindred dead;
This heart grows big—it cannot ask for peace;
’Twould rather rot upon a gory bed
Than hear the spirits of its sires complain,
And call for blood,—but ever call in vain.”
LXXI.