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Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pensylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. Though the Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event, I forbear to quote any of the historical pages which give a minute detail of it, because the circumstances narrated are disagreeable, and even horrible. It is sufficient for my purpose to state, that the testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.