Читать книгу Poems of American History - Группа авторов - Страница 25

That was a brave old epoch,

Our age of chivalry,

When the Briton met the Frenchman

At the fight of La Prairie;

And the manhood of New England,

And the Netherlanders true

And Mohawks sworn, gave battle

To the Bourbon's lilied blue.

That was a brave old governor

Who gathered his array,

And stood to meet, he knew not what,

On that alarming day.

Eight hundred, amid rumors vast

That filled the wild wood's gloom,

With all New England's flower of youth,

Fierce for New France's doom.

And the brave old half five hundred!

Theirs should in truth be fame;

Borne down the savage Richelieu,

On what emprise they came!

Your hearts are great enough, O few:

Only your numbers fail,—

New France asks more for conquerors,

All glorious though your tale.

It was a brave old battle

That surged around the fort,

When D'Hosta fell in charging,

And 'twas deadly strife and short;

When in the very quarters

They contested face and hand,

And many a goodly fellow

Crimsoned yon La Prairie sand.

And those were brave old orders

The colonel gave to meet

That forest force with trees entrenched

Opposing the retreat:

"De Callière's strength's behind us,

And in front your Richelieu;

We must go straightforth at them;

There is nothing else to do."

And then the brave old story comes,

Of Schuyler and Valrennes,

When "Fight" the British colonel called,

Encouraging his men,

"For the Protestant Religion

And the honor of our King!"—

"Sir, I am here to answer you!"

Valrennes cried, forthstepping.

Were not those brave old races?

Well, here they still abide;

And yours is one or other,

And the second's at your side;

So when you hear your brother say,

"Some loyal deed I'll do,"

Like old Valrennes, be ready with

"I'm here to answer you!"

William Douw Schuyler-Lighthall.

Peace was declared in 1697, but hostilities began again five years later, and early in 1704 Vaudreuil, governor of Canada, dispatched a force of three hundred, under Hertel de Rouville, against Deerfield, on the northwestern frontier of Massachusetts. They reached their destination a little before daylight of February 29, and, finding the sentinels asleep and the snow drifted over the palisades, rushed the place, and carried it, with the exception of one block-house, which held out successfully.

THE SACK OF DEERFIELD

[February 29, 1704]

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 foeman, 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 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.

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 enter quickly 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 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 bloody,

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

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 it

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

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.

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 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.

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 captive's 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 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.

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

Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe'er they move 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 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 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.

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 loopholes 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 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.

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

On the whiteness of the snowdrifts 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 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.

'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 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.

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.

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 lover's 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.

'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.

Thomas Dunn English.

Under French officers and priests, the war continued to be conducted with a cruelty as aimless as it was brutal. Isolated hamlets were burned, and their inhabitants tortured or taken prisoners, only, for the most part, to be butchered on the way to Canada. On August 29, 1708, a party of French and Indians, under De Chaillons and the infamous De Rouville, surprised the town of Haverhill. Rushing upon it, as their custom was, just before daylight, they fired several houses, plundered others, and killed some thirty or forty of the inhabitants. The townspeople rallied, and after an hour's fighting drove away the assailants, killing nearly thirty, among them De Rouville himself.

PENTUCKET

[August 29, 1708]

How sweetly on the wood-girt town

The mellow light of sunset shone!

Each small, bright lake, whose waters still

Mirror the forest and the hill,

Reflected from its waveless breast

The beauty of a cloudless west,

Glorious as if a glimpse were given

Within the western gates of heaven,

Left, by the spirit of the star

Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river's tranquil flood

The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,

Where many a rood of open land

Stretched up and down on either hand,

With corn-leaves waving freshly green

The thick and blackened stumps between

Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,

The wild, untravelled forest spread,

Back to those mountains, white and cold,

Of which the Indian trapper told,

Upon whose summits never yet

Was mortal foot in safety set.

Quiet and calm without a fear

Of danger darkly lurking near,

The weary laborer left his plough,

The milkmaid carolled by her cow;

From cottage door and household hearth

Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.

At length the murmur died away,

And silence on that village lay.

—So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, Undreaming of the fiery fate Which made its dwellings desolate!

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped

The Merrimac along his bed.

Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood

Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,

Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,

As the hushed grouping of a dream.

Yet on the still air crept a sound,

No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,

No stir of wings, nor waters flowing,

Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

Was that the tread of many feet,

Which downward from the hillside beat?

What forms were those which darkly stood

Just on the margin of the wood?

Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,

Or paling rude, or leafless limb?

No,—through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,

Dark human forms in moonshine showed,

Wild from their native wilderness,

With painted limbs and battle-dress!

A yell the dead might wake to hear

Swelled on the night air, far and clear;

Then smote the Indian tomahawk

On crashing door and shattering lock;

Then rang the rifle-shot, and then

The shrill death-scream of stricken men,—

Sank the red axe in woman's brain,

And childhood's cry arose in vain.

Bursting through roof and window came,

Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,

And blended fire and moonlight glared

On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.

The morning sun looked brightly through

The river willows, wet with dew.

No sound of combat filled the air,

No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;

Yet still the thick and sullen smoke

From smouldering ruins slowly broke;

And on the greensward many a stain,

And, here and there, the mangled slain,

Told how that midnight bolt had sped,

Pentucket, on thy fated head!

Even now the villager can tell

Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,

Still show the door of wasting oak,

Through which the fatal death-stroke broke,

And point the curious stranger where

De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;

Whose hideous head, in death still feared,

Bore not a trace of hair or beard;

And still, within the churchyard ground,

Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,

Whose grass-grown surface overlies

The victims of that sacrifice.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

Though the Peace of Utrecht (1714) closed the war, desultory raids continued. In April, 1725, John Lovewell, of Dunstable, with forty-six men, marched against the Indian town of Pigwacket, or Pequawket (now Fryeburg). On the morning of May 8 they were suddenly attacked by a large force of Indians who had formed an ambuscade. Twelve men fell at the first fire, among them Lovewell himself. The survivors fought against heavy odds until sunset, when the Indians drew off without having been able to scalp the dead. It was this battle, in its day "as famous in New England as was Chevy Chase on the Scottish border," which inspired the earliest military ballad, still extant, composed in America. Its author is unknown, but it was for many years "the best beloved song in all New England."

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT

[May 8, 1725]

Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing, How valiantly he served his country and his King; He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide, And hardships they endured to quell the Indian's pride.

'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May, They spied a rebel Indian soon after break of day; He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land, Which leads into a pond as we're made to understand.

Our men resolv'd to have him, and travell'd two miles round,

Until they met the Indian, who boldly stood his ground;

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, "Take you good heed," says he,

"This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see.

"The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand,

In order to surround us upon this neck of land;

Therefore we'll march in order, and each man leave his pack

That we may briskly fight them, when they make their attack."

They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy,

As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly,

Which wounded Captain Lovewell, and likewise one man more,

But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore.

Then having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot

Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not,

For the Indians having spy'd them, when they them down did lay,

Did seize them for their plunder, and carry them away.

These rebels lay in ambush, this very place hard by,

So that an English soldier did one of them espy,

And cried out, "Here's an Indian," with that they started out,

As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout.

With that our valiant English all gave a loud huzza,

To show the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a straw:

So now the fight began, and as fiercely as could be,

The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forced to flee.

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began:

"Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain."

For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick

A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit.

Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround,

But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond,

To which our men retreated, and covered all the rear,

The rogues were forc'd to face them, altho' they skulked for fear.

Two logs there were behind them that close together lay,

Without being discovered, they could not get away;

Therefore our valiant English they travell'd in a row,

And at a handsome distance, as they were wont to go.

'Twas ten o'clock in the morning when first the fight begun,

And fiercely did continue until the setting sun;

Excepting that the Indians some hours before 'twas night

Drew off into the bushes and ceas'd awhile to fight,

But soon again returned, in fierce and furious mood,

Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud;

For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,

Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well.

And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay,

To see whether the rebels would have another fray;

But they no more returning, they made off towards their home,

And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.

Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four,

And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore.

And sixteen of our English did safely home return,

The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn.

Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die,

They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, Who was our English Chaplain; he many Indians slew, And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.

Young Fullam, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well,

Endeavoring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell:

But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,

But still they kept their motion, and Wymans Captain made,

Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat,

Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;

And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,

They safe arriv'd at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.

The story of Lovewell's fight is told in another ballad printed in Farmer and Moore's Historical Collections in 1824. It is an excellent example of ballad literature, describing the struggle in great detail and with unusual accuracy.

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT

[May 8, 1725]

What time the noble Lovewell came,

With fifty men from Dunstable,

The cruel Pequa'tt tribe to tame,

With arms and bloodshed terrible,

Then did the crimson streams, that flowed,

Seem like the waters of the brook,

That brightly shine, that loudly dash

Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.

With Lovewell brave, John Harwood came;

From wife and babes 'twas hard to part,

Young Harwood took her by the hand,

And bound the weeper to his heart.

Repress that tear, my Mary, dear,

Said Harwood to his loving wife,

It tries me hard to leave thee here,

And seek in distant woods the strife.

When gone, my Mary, think of me,

And pray to God, that I may be,

Such as one ought that lives for thee,

And come at last in victory.

Thus left young Harwood babe and wife,

With accent wild she bade adieu;

It grieved those lovers much to part,

So fond and fair, so kind and true.

Seth Wyman, who in Woburn lived

(A marksman he of courage true),

Shot the first Indian whom they saw,

Sheer through his heart the bullet flew.

The savage had been seeking game,

Two guns and eke a knife he bore,

And two black ducks were in his hand,

He shrieked, and fell, to rise no more.

Anon, there eighty Indians rose, Who'd hid themselves in ambush dread; Their knives they shook, their guns they aimed, The famous Paugus at their head.

Good heavens! they dance the Powow dance,

What horrid yells the forest fill?

The grim bear crouches in his den,

The eagle seeks the distant hill.

What means this dance, this Powow dance?

Stern Wyman said; with wonderous art,

He crept full near, his rifle aimed,

And shot the leader through the heart.

John Lovewell, captain of the band,

His sword he waved, that glittered bright,

For the last time he cheered his men,

And led them onward to the fight.

Fight on, fight on, brave Lovewell said,

Fight on, while heaven shall give you breath

An Indian ball then pierced him through,

And Lovewell closed his eyes in death.

John Harwood died all bathed in blood,

When he had fought, till set of day;

And many more we may not name,

Fell in that bloody battle fray.

When news did come to Harwood's wife,

That he with Lovewell fought and died,

Far in the wilds had given his life,

Nor more would in their home abide,

Such grief did seize upon her mind,

Such sorrow filled her faithful breast;

On earth, she ne'er found peace again,

But followed Harwood to his rest.

'Twas Paugus led the Pequa'tt tribe;—

As runs the Fox, would Paugus run;

As howls the wild wolf, would he howl,

A large bear skin had Paugus on.

But Chamberlain, of Dunstable

(One whom a savage ne'er shall slay),

Met Paugus by the water side,

And shot him dead upon that day.

Good heavens! Is this a time for pray'r?

Is this a time to worship God?

When Lovewell's men are dying fast,

And Paugus' tribe hath felt the rod?

The Chaplain's name was Jonathan Frye;

In Andover his father dwelt,

And oft with Lovewell's men he'd prayed,

Before the mortal wound he felt.

A man was he of comely form,

Polished and brave, well learnt and kind;

Old Harvard's learned halls he left,

Far in the wilds a grave to find.

Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts,

His closing lids he tries to raise;

And speak once more before he dies,

In supplication and in praise.

He prays kind heaven to grant success,

Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless,

And when they've shed their heart blood true,

To raise them all to happiness.

Come hither, Farwell, said young Frye,

You see that I'm about to die;

Now for the love I bear to you,

When cold in death my bones shall lie;

Go thou and see my parents dear,

And tell them you stood by me here;

Console them when they cry, Alas!

And wipe away the falling tear.

Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,

His arm around his neck he threw,

And said, brave Chaplain, I could wish,

That heaven had made me die for you.

The Chaplain on kind Farwell's breast,

Bloody and languishing he fell;

Nor after this said more, but this,

"I love thee, soldier, fare thee well."

Ah! many a wife shall rend her hair,

And many a child cry, "Wo is me!"

When messengers the news shall bear,

Of Lovewell's dear bought victory.

With footsteps slow shall travellers go,

Where Lovewell's pond shines clear and bright,

And mark the place, where those are laid,

Who fell in Lovewell's bloody fight.

Old men shall shake their heads, and say,

Sad was the hour and terrible,

When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus went,

With fifty men from Dunstable.

The fight near Lovewell's Pond was the ground of still another case of literary priority. Nearly a hundred years after its occurrence, on November 17, 1820, the Portland Gazette printed the first poetical venture of a lad of thirteen years. It bore the title of "The Battle of Lovell's Pond." Its author was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND

[May 8, 1725]

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast

That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,

As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,

Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;

The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,

And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,

Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;

No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,

Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,

And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;

They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,

And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The English gained a notable victory in the summer of 1745 when they captured the formidable fortress of Louisburg, which had been built by the French on the eastern coast of Cape Breton Island. News of the victory created the greatest joy throughout the colonies.

LOUISBURG

[June 17, 1745]

Neptune and Mars in Council sate

To humble France's pride,

Whose vain unbridled insolence

All other Powers defied.

The gods having sat in deep debate

Upon the puzzling theme,

Broke up perplexed and both agreed

Shirley should form the scheme.

Shirley, with Britain's glory fired,

Heaven's favoring smile implored:

"Let Louisburg return,"—he said,

"Unto its ancient Lord."

At once the Camp and Fleet were filled

With Britain's loyal sons,

Whose hearts are filled with generous strife

T' avenge their Country's wrongs.

With Liberty their breasts are filled,

Fair Liberty's their shield;

'Tis Liberty their banner waves

And hovers o'er their field.

Louis!—behold the unequal strife,

Thy slaves in walls immured!

While George's sons laugh at those walls—

Of victory assured.

One key to your oppressive pride

Your Western Dunkirk's gone;

So Pepperell and Warren bade

And what they bade was done!

Forbear, proud Prince, your gasconades,

Te Deums cease to sing,—

When Britains fight the Grand Monarque Must yield to Britain's King.

Boston, December, 1745.

Louis XV felt the loss of Louisburg keenly, and in 1746, to avenge its fall, sent a strong fleet, under Admiral D'Anville, against Boston. The town was terror-stricken; but after many mishaps the fleet was finally dispersed by a great storm off Cape Sable, on October 15, 1746, and such of the ships as lived through it were forced to make their way back to France.

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET

[October 15, 1746]

Mr. Thomas Prince, loquitur