Chapter II

No thraldom had they known save winter’s frost;
No exile yet had their free bosom borne;
Deep in that glade (now to our Founder lost,)
Their wave eternal had a basin worn;
Oft thence their flow had borne the stealthy host,
In light canoes, before the gray of morn,
Darkling to strike the foe,--but now no more
They bear the freight of men athirst for gore.