V

In the town of the Melicite The unjarred peace is sweet, Green grows the corn and great, And the hunt is fortunate.

This many a heedless year The Mohawks come not near. The lodge-gate stands unbarred; Scarce even a dog keeps guard.

No mother shrieks from a dream Of blood on the threshold stream,-- But the thought of those mute guides Is where the sleeper bides!