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The dark chiefs yelled alarm, and swore 

 The white man's blood should flow, 



And his hewn bones should bleach their shore. 

 Two hundred years ago ! 



But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim. 



PI is arm was left alone, 

 The still black wilds which sheltered him 



No longer were his own ! 

 Time fled, and on the hallowed ground 



His highest pine lies low, 

 And cities swell where forests frowned 



Two hundred years ago ! 



Oh ! stay not to recount the tale — 



'Twas bloody, and "tis past ; 

 The firmest cheek might well grow pale, 



To hear it to the last. 

 The God of Heaven who prospers us, 



Could bid a nation grow, 

 And shield us from the red man's curse, 



Two hundred years ago ! 



Come, then, great shades of glorious men 



From your still glorious grave ; 

 Look on your own proud land again, 



O bravest of the brave ! 

 We call you from each mould'ring tomb, 



And each blue wave below. 

 To bless the world ye snatched from doom. 



Two hundred years ago ! 



Then to your harps, — yet louder, — higher, 



And pour your strains along ! 

 And smite again each quivering wire, 



In all the pride of song ! 

 Shout like those godHke men of old. 



Who, daring storm and foe, 

 On this blest soil their anthem rolled, 



Two hundred years ago ! 



