And groan of torture, marked the night and day.
With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,
Or souls more brave to battle for the right-
The white the unjust warfare did pursue,
Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight
From homes he loved, from altars he revered,
And left, forever, scenes to him endeared.
O, what an hour for those brave people that!
Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;
Young men and maidens who had often sat
In love and peace beneath the forest tree;
Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears
Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years!
From every tree a voice did seem to start,
And every shrub that could a shadow cast
Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,
So closely twined was each one with the past.
O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?
Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel.
And thus they went,—a concourse of wronged men,—
Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,
Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,
Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;
And white men paid the price-and now they hold
This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold.
And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more
Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave
Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,
And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave
Of the last Indian,—last of that brave band