Chapter VIII: The Struggle for the Continent (1)

While England was colonizing the Atlantic seaboard, France
was firmly establishing herself to the north along the St.
Lawrence. It was inevitable that war should follow; and as
early as 1613 the English had destroyed the French settlements
in Nova Scotia. The country had scarcely rallied from the blow,
when it was torn asunder by the contest between Charles la
Tour and the Chevalier D'Aulnay--a contest which, after twelve
years, resulted in victory for the latter.

ST. JOHN

[April, 1647]

"To the winds give our banner!
Bear homeward again!"
Cried the Lord of Acadia,
Cried Charles of Estienne!
From the prow of his shallop
He gazed, as the sun
From its bed in the ocean,
Streamed up the St. John.

O'er the blue western waters
That shallop had passed,
Where the mists of Penobscot
Clung damp on her mast.
St. Saviour had looked
On the heretic sail,
As the songs of the Huguenot
Rose on the gale.

The pale, ghostly fathers
Remembered her well,
And had cursed her while passing,
With taper and bell;
But the men of Monhegan,
Of Papists abhorred,
Had welcomed and feasted
The heretic Lord.

They had loaded his shallop
With dun-fish and ball,
With stores for his larder,
And steel for his wall.
Pemaquid, from her bastions
And turrets of stone,
Had welcomed his coming
With banner and gun.

And the prayers of the elders
Had followed his way,
As homeward he glided,
Down Pentecost Bay.
Oh, well sped La Tour!
For, in peril and pain,
His lady kept watch,
For his coming again.

O'er the Isle of the Pheasant
The morning sun shone,
On the plane-trees which shaded
The shores of St. John.
"Now, why from yon battlements
Speaks not my love!
Why waves there no banner
My fortress above?"

Dark and wild, from his deck
St. Estienne gazed about,
On fire-wasted dwellings,
And silent redoubt;
From the low, shattered walls
Which the flame had o'errun,
There floated no banner,
There thundered no gun!

But beneath the low arch
Of its doorway there stood
A pale priest of Rome,
In his cloak and his hood.
With the bound of a lion,
La Tour sprang to land,
On the throat of the Papist
He fastened his hand.

"Speak, son of the Woman
Of scarlet and sin!
What wolf has been prowling
My castle within?"
From the grasp of the soldier
The Jesuit broke,
Half in scorn, half in sorrow,
He smiled as he spoke:

"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,
Has ravaged thy hall,
But thy red-handed rival,
With fire, steel, and ball!
On an errand of mercy
I hitherward came,
While the walls of thy castle
Yet spouted with flame.

"Pentagoet's dark vessels
Were moored in the bay,
Grim sea-lions, roaring
Aloud for their prey."
"But what of my lady?"
Cried Charles of Estienne.
"On the shot-crumbled turret
Thy lady was seen:

"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,
Her hand grasped thy pennon,
While her dark tresses swayed
In the hot breath of cannon!
But woe to the heretic,
Evermore woe!
When the son of the church
And the cross is his foe!

"In the track of the shell,
In the path of the ball,
Pentagoet swept over
The breach of the wall!
Steel to steel, gun to gun,
One moment,--and then
Alone stood the victor,
Alone with his men!

"Of its sturdy defenders,
Thy lady alone
Saw the cross-blazoned banner
Float over St. John."
"Let the dastard look to it!"
Cried fiery Estienne,
"Were D'Aulnay King Louis,
I'd free her again!"

"Alas for thy lady!
No service from thee
Is needed by her
Whom the Lord hath set free;
Nine days, in stern silence,
Her thraldom she bore,
But the tenth morning came,
And Death opened her door!"

As if suddenly smitten
La Tour staggered back;
His hand grasped his sword-hilt,
His forehead grew black.
He sprang on the deck
Of his shallop again.
"We cruise now for vengeance!
Give away!" cried Estienne.

"Massachusetts shall hear
Of the Huguenot's wrong,
And from island and creekside
Her fishers shall throng!
Pentagoet shall rue
What his Papists have done,
When his palisades echo
The Puritan's gun!"

Oh, the loveliest of heavens
Hung tenderly o'er him,
There were waves in the sunshine,
And green isles before him;
But a pale hand was beckoning
The Huguenot on;
And in blackness and ashes
Behind was St. John!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The rivalry between the colonists for the fur trade grew
steadily more bitter, and in 1690 (King William's War) Canada
undertook the conquest of New York and destroyed a number of
frontier towns. The English made some reprisals; Sir William
Phips capturing Acadia and Major Peter Schuyler leading a
raid into the country south of Montreal, where he defeated a
considerable body of French and Indians under Valrennes, in a
spirited fight at La Prairie.

THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE

[1691]

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_

A fleet with flags arrayed
Sailed from the port of Brest,
And the Admiral's ship displayed
The signal: "Steer southwest."
For this Admiral D'Anville
Had sworn by cross and crown
To ravage with fire and steel
Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,
And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,
Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise;
But if in thy Providence
A tempest should arise
To drive the French Fleet hence,
And scatter it far and wide,
Or sink it in the sea,
We should be satisfied,
And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,
For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed
The answering tempest came;
It came with a mighty power,
Shaking the windows and walls,
And tolling the bell in the tower,
As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly
Unsheathed its flaming sword,
And I cried: "Stand still, and see
The salvation of the Lord!"
The heavens were black with cloud,
The sea was white with hail,
And ever more fierce and loud
Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,
And the broad sails in the van
Like the tents of Cushan shook,
Or the curtains of Midian.
Down on the reeling decks
Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;
Ah, never were there wrecks
So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke
The great ships of the line;
They were carried away as a smoke,
Or sank like lead in the brine.
O Lord! before thy path
They vanished and ceased to be,
When thou didst walk in wrath
With thine horses through the sea!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really
only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at
peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North
American continent. The French claimed all the country west of
the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string
of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At
last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused."

THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED

[1755]

Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,
To rouse the august lion from his den,
Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.

Rouse, _British Lion_, from thy soft repose,
And take revenge upon the worst of foes,
Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.

They always did thy quiet breast annoy,
Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,
Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.

Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',
They never did nor would keep faith with you
By popes and priests indulged so to do.

All neighboring powers and neutral standers by
Look on our cause with an impartial eye,
And see their falseness and their perfidy.

Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.
But by indulgence mightily increase,
Killing and scalping us in times of peace.

They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,
In children's blood for to imbue their hands,
Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.

Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blows
Upon the heads of your perfidious foes,
Who always truth and justice did oppose.

Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,
And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,
And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.

Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,
And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,
A faithful drubbing to their future good.

Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;
And when the news unto Versailles it comes,
Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.

Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,
And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,
And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.

While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,
Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;
To see such hail-stones down among them fall.

Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,
And others in a vast amazement fled,
While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.

My roving muse the surface reach again,
Search every part of the Atlantic plain,
And see if any Gallics yet remain;

And if they do, let British cannon roar;
And let thy thunders reach the western shore.
While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.

STEPHEN TILDEN.

Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General
Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once
to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne.
George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience
with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29
the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey
across the mountains.

THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN

[May 29, 1755]

To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!
Hark, how the drums do roll it along!
To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;
We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.
Let not your courage fail you;
Be valiant, stout and bold;
And it will soon avail you,
My loyal hearts of gold.
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;
The battle is begun as you may fairly see.
Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;
We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.
A squadron now appears, my boys;
If that they do but stand!
Boys, never fear, be sure you mind
The word of command!
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

See how, see how, they break and fly before us!
See how they are scattered all over the plain!
Now, now--now, now our country will adore us!
In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!
Then laurels shall our glory crown
For all our actions told:
The hills shall echo all around,
My loyal hearts of gold.
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men,
reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and,
on the following morning, with colors flying and drums
beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under
Contrecoeur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young
captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained
permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass
the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven
miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow
road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire,
spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush.
The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see
their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild
with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion,
but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet
struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.

BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE

[July 9, 1755]

Come all ye sons of Brittany,
Assist my muse in tragedy,
And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,
And spend a mournful day,
Upon Monongahela fields,
The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;
And British blood bedews the hills
Of western Gilboa.

July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,
They had a bold and bloody fray,
Our host was smote with a dismay;
Some basely did retire,
And left brave Braddock in the field,
Who had much rather die than yield,
A while his sword he bravely wield
In clouds of smoke and fire.

Some time he bravely stood his ground,
A thousand foes did him surround,
Till he received a mortal wound,
Which forc'd him to retreat.
He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,
As he was home-ward on his way;
Alas! alas! we all must say,
A sore and sad defeat.

Now to his grave this hero's borne,
While savage foes triumph and scorn,
And drooping banners dress his urn,
And guard him to his tomb.
Heralds and monarchs of the dead,
You that so many worms have fed,
He's coming to your chilly bed,
Edge close and give him room.

HIS EPITAPH

Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,
Who always hated cowardice,
But fell a savage sacrifice
Amidst his Indian foes.
I charge you, heroes, of the ground,
To guard his dark pavilion round,
And keep off all obtruding sound,
And cherish his repose.

Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,
Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand
And to resign thy great command,
And cancel thy commission.
Altho' thou didst not much incline
Thy post and honors to resign;
Now iron slumber doth confine;
None envy's thy condition.

A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE

Return my muse unto the field,
See what a prospect it doth yield;
Ingrateful to the eyes and smell
A carnage bath'd in gore,
Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,
While sanguine rivers fill the dales,
And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,
The like ne'er here before.

And must these sons of Brittany
Be clouded, set in western skies,
And fall a savage sacrifice?
Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!
My blood boils high in every vein,
To climb the mountains of the slain,
And break the iron jaws in twain,
Of savage Gallic power.

Our children with their mothers die,
While they aloud for mercy cry;
They kill, and scalp them instantly,
Then fly into the woods,
And make a mock of all their cries,
And bring their scalps a sacrifice
To their infernal deities,
And praise their demon gods.

Revenge, revenge the harmless blood
Which their inhuman dogs have shed
In every frontier neighborhood,
For near these hundred years.
Their murdering clan in ambush lies,
To kill and scalp them by surprize,
And free from tender parents' eyes
Ten hundred thousand tears.

Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks
Have so enraged old sixty-six,
With legs and arms like withered sticks,
And youthful vigor gone;
That if he lives another year,
Complete in armor he'll appear,
And laugh at death and scoff at fear,
To right his country's wrong.

Let young and old, both high and low,
Arm well against this savage foe,
Who all around inviron us so,
The sons of black delusion.
New England's sons you know their way,
And how to cross them in their play,
And drive these murdering dogs away,
Unto their last confusion.

One bold effort, oh, let us make,
And at one blow behead the snake,
And then these savage powers will break,
Which long have us oppress'd.
And this, brave soldiers, will we do
If Heaven and George shall say so too;
And if we drive the matter thro',
The land will be at rest.

Come every soldier charge your gun,
And let your task be killing one;
Take aim until the work is done;
Don't throw away your fire,
For he that fires without an aim,
May kill his friend and be to blame,
And in the end come off with shame,
When forced to retire.

O mother land, we think we're sure,
Sufficient is thy marine powers
To dissipate all eastern showers:
And if our arms be blest,
Thy sons in _North America_
Will drive these hell-born dogs away
As far beyond the realms of day,
As east is from the west.

Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,
Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,
It is too high and much too strong,
The learned won't allow.
Much honor should accrue to him
Who ne'er was at their Academ
Come blot out every telesem;
Get home unto thy plow.

STEPHEN TILDEN.

Composed August 20, 1755.

NED BRADDOCK

[July 9, 1755]

Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,
"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?
Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,
Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"
--"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,
Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;
In his own doom building large for the Lord,
Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.

Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?
Never a broadsword to bar him the way?
Never a bush where a Huron may hide,
Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"
--Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,
Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:
Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;
Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!

Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,
Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;
Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,
For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.
--'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,
Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,
Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;
Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!

Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!
Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.
Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,
Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.
Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,
And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.
--But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,
And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!

Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?
Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.
And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,
In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."
--"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,
Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?
In his own doom building large for the Lord,
Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

After Braddock's defeat, the Pennsylvania and Virginia
frontiers were left, for a time, to the ravages of the Indians.
The colonies were slow to defend themselves, and could get no
aid whatever from England, who had her hands full elsewhere.

ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA

[September 30, 1756]

Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul
With wasteful rage resistless fall
On Britain's slumbering race?
Still shall she wave her bloody hand
And threatening banners o'er this land,
To Britain's fell disgrace?

And not one generous chieftain rise
(Who dares the frown of war despise,
And treacherous fear disclaim)
His country's ruin to oppose,
To hurl destruction on her foes,
And blast their rising fame?

In Britain's cause, with valor fired,
Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,
And claim'd a nation's tear;
Nor could Oswego's bulwarks stand
The fury of a savage band,
Though Schuyler's arm was there.

Still shall this motley, murderous crew
Their deep, destructive arts pursue,
And general horror spread?
No--see Britannia's genius rise!
Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she flies
And lifts her laurell'd head!

Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,
Great Loudon's awful banners fly,
In British pomp display'd!
Soon shall the gallant chief advance;
Before him shrink the sons of France,
Confounded and dismay'd.

Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!
Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,
And save your country's shame!
Let every hand for Britain arm'd,
And every breast with virtue warm'd,
Aspire at deathless fame!

But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,
And on her foes let terrors shake,
Their gloomy troops defy;
For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,
Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,
For vengeance louder cry.

Why should we seek inglorious rest,
Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,
While war insults so near?
While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,
Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!
In furious bands appear!

Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chase
From their deep haunts, the savage race,
Till they confess you men.
Let other Armstrongs grace the field!
Let other slaves before them yield,
And tremble round Duquesne.

And thou, our chief, and martial guide,
Of worth approved, of valor tried
In many a hard campaign,
O Denny, warmed with British fire,
Our inexperienced troops inspire,
And conquest's laurels gain!

_Pennsylvania Gazette_, September 30, 1756.

Meanwhile things were in a troubled condition in Acadia, where
the so-called "French neutrals" were discovered to be in arms
against England. "Every resource of patience and persuasion"
had been used to secure their loyalty to Great Britain, but
in vain. At last it was decided to disperse them among the
southern provinces, and the deportation began in October. At
the end of two months, about six thousand of the Acadians had
been sent away, and their homes destroyed.

THE EMBARKATION

From "Evangeline"

[October 8, 1755]

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.