Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,—
The youth, and hoary head,
Were by those monsters murdered there,
And numbered with the dead.
Methinks I hear some sprightly youth
His mournful state condole:
"Oh, that my tender parents knew
The anguish of my soul!
"But oh! there's none to save my life,
Or heed my dreadful fear;
I see the tomahawk and knife,
And the more glittering spear.
"When years ago, I dandled was
Upon my parents' knees,
I little thought I should be brought
To feel such pangs as these.
"I hoped for many a joyful day,
I hoped for riches' store—
These golden dreams are fled away;
I straight shall be no more.
"Farewell, fond mother; late I was
Locked up in your embrace;
Your heart would ache, and even break,
If you could know my case.
"Farewell, indulgent parents dear,
I must resign my breath;
I now must die, and here must lie
In the cold arms of death.
"For oh! the fatal hour is come,
I see the bloody knife,—
The Lord have mercy on my soul!"
And quick resigned his life.
A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,
Pursue the doleful theme;
It is no fancy to delude,
Nor transitory dream.
The Forty Fort was the resort
For mother and for child,
To save them from the cruel rage
Of the fierce savage wild.