Chapter XIX

Alas! for them--their day is o'er,
Their fires are out from hill and shore;
No more for them the wild deer bounds,
The plough is on their hunting grounds;
The pale man's axe rings through their woods,
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods,
Their pleasant springs are dry;
Their children--look, by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west,
Their children go--to die.