XXIII.
Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast.
Their hoary prophet breath'd the ban of fate:
"Hence with the thunderers! Hide their race, unbless'd,
Deep 'neath the soil they falsely call their own;
For, from our fathers' graves, a hollow moan,
Like the lash'd surge, bereaves my soul of rest.
'They come! They come!' it cries. 'Ye once were brave:
Will ye resign the world that the Great Spirit gave?'"
XXIV.
They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire,
And wore the semblance of a quiet smile,
To lull the victim of their deadly ire:
But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen,
Blame not too much those erring, red-brow'd men,
Though nursed in wiles. Fear is the white-lipp'd sire
Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain
To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain.
XXV.
But the low shiver of its dripping leaves,
Save here and there, amid its depths profound,
The sullen sigh, the prowling panther heaves,
Save the fierce growling of the cubless bear,
Or tramp of gaunt wolf rushing from his lair;
Where its slow coil the poisonous serpent weaves:
