In northern climes there live’d a chief of fame – Ojeeg his name – who braved rigors of
an Arctic sky. Now round his tent, willing chieftains wait, the gathering council, the
stern debate. Hunters & warriors circle the green: ages sits sedate & youth fills up the
scene. Sacred fire, burning thoughts: Long have our lands been hem’d round by foes.
They hide in every pass, screen’d in thicket, shelter’d in grass, they pierce our forests &
cross our line. No treaty binds them, no stream confines, & every spring we mourn our
brethren, or our children slain. Delay but swells our woes, as rivers wild heap on their
banks the earth they first despoil’d. Oh chieftains! listen to my warning voice: War – war
or slavery is our only choice. No longer sit, no longer hope that justice will be given if ye
neglect proper means of heaven: Fear only makes our foemen conquer us by rage or lust.