"Some bricks I burnt, and now a house arose,
Finer than aught the Indian chieftain knows;
A wicker door, with clay-like plaster lin'd,
Serv'd to exclude the piercing wintry wind;
A horn-glaz'd window gave a scanty light,
But lamps cheer'd up the gloom of lengthen'd night;
The cotton shrub through all the woods had run,
And plenteous wicks our rocks and spindles spun.
Around their fields the yam I taught to grow,
With all the fruits they either love or know.
The bed I rais'd from the damp earth, and now
Some little comfort walk'd our dwelling through.
My fame was spread: the neighbouring Indians came,
View'd all our works, and strove to do the same.
The wampum-belt my growing fame records,
That tells great actions without help of words.
I gain'd much honour, and each friend would bring
'Mong various presents many a high-priz'd thing.
And when, with many a prayer, I ask once more
To seek my friends, and wander to the shore,
They all consent, — but drop a sorrowing tear,
While many a friend his load of skins would bear.
Riches were mine; but fate will'd it not
They grew the treasure of the Spanish foe;
My Indian friends threw down their fleecy load,
And, like the bounding elk, leap'd back into the wood.