Little suits it tide or time I should here descant on crime, War or loss, mischance or boast, That befell on southern coast, Where, by cruel fate impelled, As a captive I was held. Little boots it, that I here Once again should drop the tear, Not by red man often shed, Save above the honored dead; Or, by sad recitals, throw O’er this scene a garb of woe. Let it, once for all, suffice, That my path was hemmed by vice, Power, misfortune, cross and ill, Such as stoutest bosoms kill; But I had a warrior’s heart, That not light with life could part. Oft I fought with club and knife, Strewing death’s dark path with life, But not often felt the blight Fate prepared _that_ fearful night, When by river, rock, and dell, There Alhalla’s household fell: As I lifted high my brand, O’er the wide retreating strand, Hot the fight and loud the yell, This I only know, I fell: Consciousness, as with a thought, Left me, as the fight I fought, Sudden, as, if in a dream, What we do may only seem. When, from this unguarded stroke, First to life and sense I woke, Darkness spread around the plain, Shielding dying, dead, and slain; Slowly rising from my gore, Faint, I sought the river’s shore; Fatal act! to drink or die, Purchased by captivity. Yet my fate was not to fall By the broadsword or the ball; Taught by kindly hands to know War doth mingle balms with woe, And ’tis only on the field Saxon men will never yield. Soft they made my prison bed, Kindly nurtured, kindly fed, Till my wounds and fevered brain Health and soundness felt again. Seasons now had passed their round When I sought my native ground; But I found no kindred tone, Fire had swept it, friends were gone; Men were ploughing, where, in cheer, Once I chased the noble deer; Piles of brick, and wood, and stone, Rose to heaven—the engine’s groan, The big wheel’s dash, the rattling train, Announced the white man’s iron reign. I sought thy cot—it was a plain Where reapers reapt the yellow grain; I sought the grove, whose solemn shade Our council fire so oft displayed: It was with angled piles beset, Dome, dwelling, garnished minaret, Or steeple called;—with pensive tread I wound me, where repose the dead, And long affection’s pious hand With evening fires illumed the land; It was a shorn and mangled glade, Where not a staddle cast a shade.