No thraldom had they known save winter’s frost;
No exile yet had their free bosom borne;
Deep in that glade (now to our Founder lost,)
Their wave eternal had a basin worn;
Oft thence their flow had borne the stealthy host,
In light canoes, before the gray of morn,
Darkling to strike the foe,—but now no more
They bear the freight of men athirst for gore.
Early that morn, beside the tranquil flood,