Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light.
But what return did they profusely give
Who were dependent on the red man's corn?
Not even to them the privilege to live,
But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!
Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;
For food and welcome such they gave him back.
Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul,
Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;
No mortal power his purpose could control,
Till he had seen the traitors lying low.
Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,
O'er every field and every river's tide.
The little child that scarce could lisp a word
Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair
Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard
Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;
Old men urged on the young, and young men fled
Swift to increase the armies of the dead.
And thus the war began,—the fearful war
That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood;
The white and red man knew no other law
Than that which wrote its every act in blood.
Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight,
And blazing homes made terrible the night.
The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz,
The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;
Despair in him who saw the last of his,
And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;
The last sad look of prisoners borne away,