But all was wild and hideous--and the heart,
Mayhap, of stout man, trembled as a child,
--And oft the exile's tear would, gushing, start,
That ever he was lured from Albion's coast to part.

But there was one, the chieftain, of that band,
Whose soul no dread, however great, could chill,
His was the towering mind, the mighty hand,
On which, his feeble followers resting, still
Would fear no peril from approaching ill.
With him the strangers built their rugged home,
And turned the soil, and eat, and drank their fill;
Glad that to this fair Eden they had come,
And reconciled became to their adopted home.

Thus pass'd away in peaceful happiness,
A little space by yonder river's side,
But now arose the wail of keen distress,
Gaunt Famine, with his murderous eye, they spied,
Stalk round the walls of those who wept and sighed,
And when their venturous chieftain wandered forth,
Ill hap betrayed him to the savage pride,
The death-club rose, his head upon the earth,
To perish there and thus, that man of kingly worth.

Not yet! before that last sad deed be done,
An Indian maiden springs beneath the blow,
And says her virgin blood shall freely run,
For him, extended on the ground below,
See! how, her face upturned, her tears do flow,