The spotted Demon of Contagion came
Ere the sacred bird of Peace could find a nest,
And vanished Tribes like summer grass when flame
Reddens the level prairie of the West,
Or wasting dew drops when the rocky crest
Of this enchanted hill is tipped with gold;
And ere the Genii of the wild-wood drest
With flowers and moss the grave mound's hollowed mould,
Before the ringing axe went down the forest old.