Chapter XLV

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Yet, who, that ever trod upon this shore,
Since the rude red man left it to his tread,
Thinks not of him, and marks not, o'er and o'er,
The contrast of the living with the dead?
There the tall forest falls--that Indian mound
Will soon be levelled with the ploughed-up ground--
Where stands that village church, traditions hold,
The war-whoop once rang loud o'er many a warrior cold.