“How shall I knit my soul to thine?
How right the wrongs of thine injured race?
“What shall I do for thee, glorious one?
To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.
Speak! and say how the Saxon’s son
May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!”
He speaks, he speaks!—that noble chief!
From his marble lips deep accents come;
And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,—
“Ple’ gi’ me tree cent for git some rum?”