A canopy of smoke is o’er you;
Around you fiery streamers play,
And the dark savage is before you!
Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy,
In slumber’s silken links had bound them;
They wake! ’tis but to hear the cry
Of savage slaughter raging round them!
They wake! ’tis but to mark the arm
Of death above each brow impending;
Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm—