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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 throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one th' uncover'd crowd to silence sways;
While though the battle flash is faster driven, ——
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,

He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven 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 towers to reach,
Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relax'd 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 seem'd the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd
Defiance on the roving Indian power.
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd,
An arrowy frieze, 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

scere,

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 seem'd to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's wo!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of

snow

On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild

alarm!

XXVII.

But short that contemplation - sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR

TILD

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