For hunting-grounds made holy by the bones
Of our great seers and sagamores of old?
Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold—
Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear—
Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,
Then drive our starving, wailing race in fear
Beyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.
“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![[D]] Strike the pointed-post,
And gather quickly for the conflict dire;
You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,