THE DEERFIELD MASSACRE.

In 1703, Colonel Johannis Schuyler, grandfather of the Revolutionary general, Philip Schuyler, and uncle of the still more famous Peter Schuyler, so distinguished in the Franco-Canadian war, was mayor of Albany. From some Indians trading there he obtained information that an attack on Deerfield was planned from Canada. He sent word to the villagers, who prepared to meet it. The design not having been carried out that summer, the people of Deerfield supposed it to have been abandoned, and dismissed their fears. The next year Vaudreuil, the governor of Canada, despatched a force of three hundred French and Indians against the place. The expedition was under the command of Hertel de Rouville, the son of an almost equally famous partisan officer. With him were four of his brothers. The raiders came by way of Lake Champlain to the Onion River—then called the French—up which they advanced, and passed on, marching on the ice, until they were near Deerfield. The minister of the place, the Rev. Mr. Williams, unlike the rest of the townsmen, had feared an attack for some time, and on his application the provincial government had sent a guard of twenty men. There were two or three block-houses, and around these some palisades. De Rouville came near the town before daylight on the 29th of February, and learned by his spies the condition of the place. Finding that the sentinels had gone to sleep two hours before dawn, and that the snow had drifted in one place so as to cover the palisades, he led a rush, and then dispersed his men in small parties through the town to make a simultaneous attack. The place was carried, with the exception of one garrison-house which held out successfully. Forty-seven of the inhabitants were killed, and nearly all the rest captured. The enemy, failing to reduce the single block-house, retreated with their prisoners, taking up their march for Canada. A band of colonists was hurriedly raised, and pursued De Rouville; but they were beaten off after a sharp fight. A hundred and twelve prisoners were carried away. A few were killed on the march; the greater part were ransomed, and returned in about two years.ELEAZER WILLIAMS.Among the prisoners was the Rev. Mr. Williams. His wife, unable to keep up with the party, was killed on the second day by her captor. Two of his children had been killed during the sack. One of his daughters, Eunice, while in captivity was converted to the Catholic religion, and married with an Indian. She entirely adopted Indian habits, and was pleased with her life. Afterwards she occasionally visited her friends in New England, but no persuasion would induce her to remain there. A chronicler states, with a comical mixture of surprise and indignation, “She uniformly persisted in wearing her blankets andcounting her beads.” One of her descendants was a highly respected clergyman, the Rev. Eleazer Williams, who died a few years since, and who during life became the subject of controversy. Mr. Hansen wrote an article, and finally a book, “The Lost Prince,” to prove that Mr. Williams was really the missing Dauphin, Louis the Sixteenth. A look at the clergyman’s portrait shows the half-breed features quite distinctly, though the claim was plausibly put, and for a time had its ardent supporters.

ELEAZER WILLIAMS.

Among the prisoners was the Rev. Mr. Williams. His wife, unable to keep up with the party, was killed on the second day by her captor. Two of his children had been killed during the sack. One of his daughters, Eunice, while in captivity was converted to the Catholic religion, and married with an Indian. She entirely adopted Indian habits, and was pleased with her life. Afterwards she occasionally visited her friends in New England, but no persuasion would induce her to remain there. A chronicler states, with a comical mixture of surprise and indignation, “She uniformly persisted in wearing her blankets andcounting her beads.” One of her descendants was a highly respected clergyman, the Rev. Eleazer Williams, who died a few years since, and who during life became the subject of controversy. Mr. Hansen wrote an article, and finally a book, “The Lost Prince,” to prove that Mr. Williams was really the missing Dauphin, Louis the Sixteenth. A look at the clergyman’s portrait shows the half-breed features quite distinctly, though the claim was plausibly put, and for a time had its ardent supporters.

Of the onset fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillageOf our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell,When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning,With no token shown or spoken, came the foemen, hear me tell.High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombreHeavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,’Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.Fell the shining hatchets quickly ’mid the thickly crowded women,Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redlyWith the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,With amazement saw the foemen quickly enter where I lay;Heard my wife and children’s screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming,Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.’Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleadingOf my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;’Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.At the spot to which they bore me, no one o’er me watched or warded;There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloodySlew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streamingO’er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the shrieking,Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;For a knife lay there—I spied it, and a tomahawk beside itGlittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me thenIf the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;Quickly drawn o’er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;’Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;Fury braced me, for I knew him—he my pleading wife had slain.Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain—Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.As I brained him rose their calling, “Lo! appalling from yon meadowThe Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!”As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,Till their shattered forces scattered widely o’er the snowy plain.

Of the onset fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage

Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell,

When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning,

With no token shown or spoken, came the foemen, hear me tell.

High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.

High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,

At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;

And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,

That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.

We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombreHeavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,’Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.

We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre

Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;

But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,

’Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.

Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.

Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,

Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;

But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,

And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.

Fell the shining hatchets quickly ’mid the thickly crowded women,Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redlyWith the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.

Fell the shining hatchets quickly ’mid the thickly crowded women,

Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;

Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly

With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.

I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,With amazement saw the foemen quickly enter where I lay;Heard my wife and children’s screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming,Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.

I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,

With amazement saw the foemen quickly enter where I lay;

Heard my wife and children’s screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming,

Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.

’Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleadingOf my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;’Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.

’Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleading

Of my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;

’Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,

Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.

At the spot to which they bore me, no one o’er me watched or warded;There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloodySlew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.

At the spot to which they bore me, no one o’er me watched or warded;

There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;

Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloody

Slew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.

And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streamingO’er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.

And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streaming

O’er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,

That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,

Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.

Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the shrieking,Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;For a knife lay there—I spied it, and a tomahawk beside itGlittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.

Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the shrieking,

Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;

For a knife lay there—I spied it, and a tomahawk beside it

Glittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.

Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me thenIf the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;Quickly drawn o’er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.

Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me then

If the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;

Quickly drawn o’er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,

Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.

Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;’Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.

Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,

Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;

’Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,

Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.

Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;Fury braced me, for I knew him—he my pleading wife had slain.Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain—Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.

Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;

Fury braced me, for I knew him—he my pleading wife had slain.

Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,

And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain—

Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.

As I brained him rose their calling, “Lo! appalling from yon meadowThe Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!”As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,Till their shattered forces scattered widely o’er the snowy plain.

As I brained him rose their calling, “Lo! appalling from yon meadow

The Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!”

As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,

Till their shattered forces scattered widely o’er the snowy plain.

“HUGE HE WAS, AND BRAVE AND BRAWNY, BUT I MET THE SLAYER TAWNY.”

Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing,Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn;Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me;Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn.Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written—Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;For the rest the captives durance, but for me there was assuranceOf the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire.Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthySavage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom aSweet aroma circles ever wheresoe’er they wave their wings,Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.Then I heard her voice’s murmur breathing summer, while my spiritLeaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her,Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;Mingled tears with hers, and chid her, bade her by our love considerHow our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master’s breast.I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend;At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.For I heard the firelocks ringing, fiercely flinging forth the whirring,Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,When the furious leaden couriers from its loop-holes fastly rode.And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives;For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding—Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the sevenRained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.

Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing,

Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn;

Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me;

Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn.

Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written—Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;For the rest the captives durance, but for me there was assuranceOf the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire.

Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written—

Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;

For the rest the captives durance, but for me there was assurance

Of the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire.

Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthySavage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.

Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy

Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,

Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,

Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.

Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.

Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;

Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;

Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,

I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.

Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom aSweet aroma circles ever wheresoe’er they wave their wings,Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.

Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a

Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe’er they wave their wings,

Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,

Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.

Then I heard her voice’s murmur breathing summer, while my spiritLeaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her,Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.

Then I heard her voice’s murmur breathing summer, while my spirit

Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;

Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her,

Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.

Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;Mingled tears with hers, and chid her, bade her by our love considerHow our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master’s breast.

Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;

Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;

Mingled tears with hers, and chid her, bade her by our love consider

How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master’s breast.

I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend;At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.

I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,

In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend;

At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,

While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.

For I heard the firelocks ringing, fiercely flinging forth the whirring,Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,When the furious leaden couriers from its loop-holes fastly rode.

For I heard the firelocks ringing, fiercely flinging forth the whirring,

Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;

There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,

When the furious leaden couriers from its loop-holes fastly rode.

And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives;For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding—Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.

And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,

Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives;

For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding—

Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.

Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the sevenRained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.

Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven

Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;

Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,

Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.

“FOR WHILE THEY THE HOUSE WERE HOLDING, BALLS THE WIVES WERE QUICKLY MOULDING.”

Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightnessOn the whiteness of the snow-drifts and the ruins of the town—On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expendedBall and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown.Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning earlyWith the pearly light and glistering of the March’s snowy morn;Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.Then we heard De Rouville’s orders, “To the borders!” and the dismal,Dark, abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;But we heard a shout in distance—into fluttering existence,Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.’Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor’ward,Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came—Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, “Is’t our captives you are seeking?Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.“With the toil of blood we won them, we’ve undone them with our bravery;Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers’ blood to squander’Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.“Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day.”How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trustyFirelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternestWelled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches,Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted,Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;And the one to whom they bound me, ’mid the scoffs of those around me,Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;Less intense is lovers’ musing than a captive’s bent on waysTo escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;Then my right hand cautious stealing, o’er my bed-mate’s person feeling,Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.’Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber’s art;As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutterOf a snow-bird—ah! ’twas no bird! ’twas the flutter of my heart.Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.

Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightness

On the whiteness of the snow-drifts and the ruins of the town—

On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended

Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown.

Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning earlyWith the pearly light and glistering of the March’s snowy morn;Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.

Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early

With the pearly light and glistering of the March’s snowy morn;

Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,

As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.

Then we heard De Rouville’s orders, “To the borders!” and the dismal,Dark, abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;But we heard a shout in distance—into fluttering existence,Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.

Then we heard De Rouville’s orders, “To the borders!” and the dismal,

Dark, abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;

But we heard a shout in distance—into fluttering existence,

Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.

’Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor’ward,Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came—Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, “Is’t our captives you are seeking?Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.

’Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor’ward,

Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came—

Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, “Is’t our captives you are seeking?

Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.

“With the toil of blood we won them, we’ve undone them with our bravery;Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers’ blood to squander’Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.

“With the toil of blood we won them, we’ve undone them with our bravery;

Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.

Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers’ blood to squander

’Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.

“Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day.”

“Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,

To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;

Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?

If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day.”

How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.

How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!

Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,

When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,

Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.

For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trustyFirelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.

For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty

Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,

And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,

When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.

All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.

All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,

Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,

They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,

Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.

As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternestWelled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.

As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest

Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;

Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,

Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.

They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches,Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.

They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,

Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;

So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches,

Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.

By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted,Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;And the one to whom they bound me, ’mid the scoffs of those around me,Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.

By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted,

Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;

And the one to whom they bound me, ’mid the scoffs of those around me,

Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.

As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;Less intense is lovers’ musing than a captive’s bent on waysTo escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.

As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;

Less intense is lovers’ musing than a captive’s bent on ways

To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;

So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.

There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;Then my right hand cautious stealing, o’er my bed-mate’s person feeling,Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.

There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,

Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;

Then my right hand cautious stealing, o’er my bed-mate’s person feeling,

Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.

’Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber’s art;As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutterOf a snow-bird—ah! ’twas no bird! ’twas the flutter of my heart.

’Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,

Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber’s art;

As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter

Of a snow-bird—ah! ’twas no bird! ’twas the flutter of my heart.

Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.

Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,

Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;

Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,

And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.

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