Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue,
The Indian warriors built their council-fire,
And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite,
Till morning broke upon the dusky woods.
Then, at the hour when mortals soundest slept,
And nature was at rest, they sallied forth,
Armed with the hatchet and the scalping-knife,
And trusty rifle, whose report was death.
The sleeping father woke to hear the cry
Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn