“This, with the Maqua how a league they made,
And filled with arms his all-destroying hand.
This, how they claim right over quick and dead—
Our fathers’ buried bones, their children’s land.
This, how the earth grows pale, as fast they spread
From glade to glade, like snow from Wamponand,
When borne o’er ocean on the sounding gales,
It crowns the hills and whitens through the vales.
L.
“Take thou the fragments—count their numbers well—