Their martial hands the steely tomax wield,
Thus arm'd, thy Sons, Columba, take the field,
360 No groan of slav'ry wounds the Warrior's ear,
No guilt pollutes them, and no scourge they fear,
Nor scornful eye, nor mean imperious dare
Insult the spirit of these Sons of War,
The Chief the Soldier each familiar greet,
365 Share the same cup, nor taste distinguished meat,
One village bore them, and one tutor bred,
And to the field one glorious motive led.

HERE too the Mohawk, fierce, robust, and brave,
For fields of fight forsakes the bow'ry cave,
370 His olive Spouse the various paints prepare,
Or weave in graceful braids his raven hair,
Her curious arts embellish every grace,
And add new terrors to the Warrior's face,
An eagle plumage shades his fable brow,
375 And at his back depends the faithful bow,
The tomax too, the swarthy Warrior's pride,
Threats in his hand, or glitters at his side ;
No linen folds his active limbs compress,
Or gird his motions by the bonds of dress,
380 Loose to the breeze the careless mantle flies,
With ribbons fring'd and gay with gorgeous dyes,
    The