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XII.

"And hast thou then forgot," (he cried forlorn, And eyed the group with half-indignant air,) "Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, That now is white as Appalachia's snow; But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe, Bring me my boy- and he will his deliverer know!"

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,
Ere Henry to his loved Oneida flew :

"Bless thee, my guide!"- but backward, as he

came,

The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, And grasped his arm, and look'd and look'd him through.

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The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view: -

At last delight o'er all his features stole,

"It is my own," he cried, and clasp'd him to

'his soul.

XIV.

"Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd`

men,

I bore thee like the quiver on my back,

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd,*
For I was strong as mountain cataract:

And dost not thou remember how we cheer'd, Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts. appear'd?

XV.

"Then welcome be my death song, and my death,
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced."
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath,
But with affectionate and eager haste,
Was every arm outstretch'd around their guest,
To welcome and to bless his aged head.
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed
On wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely
bled.

XVI.

"But this is not a time," he started up,

And smote his breast with wo-denouncing hand—

*Cougar, the American tiger.

"This is no time to fill the joyous cup;

The Mammoth comes, the foe,

Brant,*

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the Monster

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 Brant himself I went to battle forth: Accursed Brant! he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth: No! not the dog, that watch'd my household hearth,

Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!

All perish'd! 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 bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs

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

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!"

Scarce had he utter'd

treme

XIX.

when heaven's verge ex

Reverberates the bomb's descending star,

And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, -

and scream,

To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.

Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd!
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd:
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet
wail'd.

XX.

Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung
The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare:
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,
Told legible that midnight of despair.

She faints, she falters not,

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th' heroic fair,

As he the sword and plume in haste array'd.
One short embrace--he clasp'd his dearest care—
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the

glade?

Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are tramping through

the shade!

XXI.

Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight grass,

With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;

As warriors wheel'd 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 buskin'd hunters of the deer,

To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng: Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,

Old Outalissa 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

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