An Indian Massacre-Song.

A poem by John Carr

See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,
And Despair sullen rides on the wings of the night;
Lo! he comes, and reproaches our arms with delay, -
Then arise, let us go where Revenge points the way!

In the deed should we fall, (since who'll e'er breathe a slave?)
Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;
In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,
While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.

Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;
By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss'd to your God!
Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave
All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?

Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,
And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:
Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey,
Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.

Yes, remember the lashes that pierc'd thro' our flesh!
See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh!
In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call;
I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall!

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