Classic Poem

Spare him not! said the chief,
Haughty was the White Bear,
Spare him not! cried they all,
As he smote so now shall he fare,
'Tis the foe of the tribe,
The Black Eagle we describe!

They bind the Black Eagle
To a stiff ash-tree,
His hands tied behind,
And thongs at his knee,
And they bare his broad chest
That ne'er tremor confest.

Ten warriors step forth,
Each armed with his bow,
And each took good aim
To kill the proud foe,
When the bright Harvest Moon
Sprang swift, and lovely as June;

And a soft, graceful form
Placed 'tween him and them:
Kill me, if you will,
And spare the brave Sachem;
In my heart is a place,
For that cold, patient face!