It thickens.. the tumult of fight,

Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard,.. Remember the wrongs that your country endures! Remember the fields of your fame!

Joy! joy! for the Strangers recoil,.. They give way,.. they retreat to the land of their life! Pursue them! pursue them! remember your wrongs! Let your lances be drunk with their wounds.

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice

As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow Waft thither the song of your praise.

SONG of the CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

'Twas the voice of my husband that came on the gale. The unappeas'd Spirit in anger complains,

Rest, rest Ollanahta, be still!

The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die ;
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear,
To-morrow thy widow shall wield

The knife and the fire; .. be at rest!

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,.
The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow,..
I will think Ollanahta! of thee,

Will remember the days of our love.

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;
I gazed on the bow of thy strength
As it waved on the stream of the wind.

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there, And the musket that never was levell'd in vain,— What a leap has it given to my heart

To see thee suspend it in peace.

When the black and blood-banner was spread to the gale When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard I remember thy terrible eyes

How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek
As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud

Ere the thunder and light'ning are born.

He went and ye came not to warn him in dreams,
Kindred Spirits of him who is holy and great!
And where was thy warning, O Bird,

The untimely announcer of ill.

Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd;
When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads
And the pine-boughs of triumph before

Where the scalps of their victory swung,..

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there.
I call'd thee,.. alas, the white deer-skin was brought,
And thy grave was prepar'd in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!

Ollanahta all day by thy war-pole I sit,..
Ollanahta all night I weep over thy grave,
To morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.

The Old CHIKKASAH to his GRANDSON.

Now go to the battle my Boy!

Dear child of my son

There is strength in thine arm,
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labours of war.
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee

When he went to the first of his fields.

He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd,
Before him his trophies were borne,

These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain
Have rusted their raven locks.

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arriv'd,

The day of the warriors reward;

When the banners sun-beaming were spread,

And all hearts were dancing in joy

To the sound of the victory drum.