Fiercely some strange spirit's name.

Turning to the morning's pathway,
Cried they thus to gods, and none
Dared to fight the bearded giants,
Children of the fire and sun.

From their bodies fell our flint-darts,
Yet their arrows flew, like rays
Flashing from the rocks where polished
By the ice in winter days.

Then the Indians prayed the spirits
Haunting river, bank, and hill,
To let hatred, like marsh vapour,
Rise among their foes and kill.

And they seemed to heed, for anger
Often maddened all the band,
Fighting for some stones that glittered
Yellow on Ugonde's sand.

Seeing axe and spear-head crimson,
Hope illumined doubt and dread,
And our land's despairing children
Called upon the mighty dead.

All the Northern night-air shaking,
Rose the ancients' bright array,
Burning lines of battle breaking