Classic Poem

On sped the tardy seasons, and the hate
Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast.
Their hoary prophet breathed 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?”