From the far border to which they are driven,
They might look up in trust to the clear heaven;
But here,—what tales doth every object tell
Where Massasoit sleeps, where Philip fell!
We take our turn, and the Philosopher
Sees through the clouds a hand which cannot err
An unimproving race, with all their graces
And all their vices, must resign their places;
And Human Culture rolls its onward flood
Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood