"This is no time to fill the joyous cup,

The Mammoth comes,-the foe,-the Monster Brandt,* With all his howling desolating band;—

These eyes have seen their blade, and burning pine Awake at once, and silence half your land.

Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine: Awake, and watch to-night! or see no morning shine

XVII.

Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:
Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:
No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth,
Escaped, that night of blood, upon our plains!
All perished!-I alone am left on earth!

To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
No!-not a kindred drop that runs in human veins !

XVIII.

"But go and rouse your warriors ;-for, if right
These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs
Of striped and starred banners, on yon height
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines—
Some fort embattled by your country shines:
Deep roars th' innavigable gulf below
Its squared rock, and palisaded lines.

Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;

Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!"

XIX

Scarce had he uttered,-when heav'n's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star,

* Brandt was the leader of those Mohawks, and other savages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylvania.-Vide the note at the end of the volumo.

[scream,

And sounds, that mingled laugh,-and shout,-and
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed;
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed ;-
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.—
XX.

Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung

The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ;

Or swept, far seen, the tow'r, whose clock unrung,
Told legible that midnight of despair.

She faints, she falters not,-th' heroic fair,
As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.

One short embrace-he clasped his dearest care—
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade
Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the
shade!

XXI.

Then came of every race the mingled swarm,
Far rung the groves, and gleamed the midnight grass
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;

As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass,
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines :
And first the wild Moravian Yagers pass,
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins—
And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.
XXII.

And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,

'To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer; Old Outalissi woke his battle song,

And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,

Tells how his deep stung indignation smarts,
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,

And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.—

XXIII.

Calm opposite the Christian father rose,
Pale on his venerable brow its rays
Of martyr light the conflagration tnrows;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one th' uncovered crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n,-
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,

He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n,—
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.
XXIV.

Short time is now for gratulating speech;
And yet beloved Gertrude, ere began

Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach,
Looked not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relaxed to love! And murmurs ran
As round and round their willing ranks they drew,
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,

Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu!

XXV.

Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tow'r
That like a giant standard-bearer, frowned

Defiance on the roving Indian pow'r.

Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,
And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin,

Wove like a diadem its tracery round

The lofty summit of that mountain green;

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene.

XXVI.

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow.
There sad spectatress of her country's wo!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!

XXVII.

But short that contemplation-sad and short

The pause that bid each much-loved scene adieu!
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew ;
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd❜rous deeds,
Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambushed foeman's eye-his volley speeds,
And Albert-Albert-falls! the dear old father bleeds

XXVIII.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wounds,
These drops?-Oh God! the life-blood is her own;
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-

66

Weep not, O Love!"--she cries, "to see me bleedThee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone

Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed [deed. These wounds;-Yet thee to leave is death, is death in

XXIX.

"Clasp me a little longer, on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

G

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy wo's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust! XXX.

"Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none
In future times-no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me!
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee !"

XXXII.

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,