And Nature, in the moss of time attired,
On her green throne of forest sat, when came
The host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,
To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,
And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,
Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and red
With scalps of hoary age and childless dame:
Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spread
Their yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.
Eastward the soldiers of that campaign bore