Rude relic of a lost and savage race!
Memento of a people proud and cold!
Sole lasting monument to mark the place
Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled.

Cold is the hand that fashion'd thee, rude dart!
Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow!
And cold the dust of the heroic heart,
Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow.

Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown;
Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone;
All that remains is this rude pointed stone,
To tell of nations mighty as our own.

Such is earth's pregnant lesson: through all time
Kingdom succeeds to kingdom-empires fall;
From out their ashes, others rise and climb,
Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall.