Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid
Brought wreaths of buds and flowers;
And the gay chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the God of thunders here.
"But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest,
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown,