With fear of death?—if death is to be feared,
And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave
Who answers thee and hears no call respond,
Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies
Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.
Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread
Engendered by the small neglectful bird,
Brings on the fate thou look'st for.
So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all,
Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;