Believing soon that doom would crack,

Or that the de'il was on their track!

Had Robert Kid, that pirate knave,

Heard it come creaking o'er the wave,

He had supposed some demon's shell

Was sounding from the gates of hell.

[Pg 9]

The red men, savage, wild and rude,

Deep buried in their solitude,

Would wake affrighted from their dreams,

If, haply, Park's poetic screams

Should penetrate their secret lair;

And they, forthwith, would kneel in prayer

To the great Spirit of the sun,

Believing that their days were done;

That hell's dark hole was open thrown,

And that this strain was Satan's own,

In wrath, now prowling through the wood,

Devouring Indians for his food.

Ev'n David Crockett would have run,

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