Chapter IV

In the waste of Cherry Valley
Desolation long was seen,
Seated on the heaps of ashes
Where the home of man had been.

Desolation there was sitting,
Brooding on the fearful past,
Crouching in the murky shadows
Of her sullen pinions vast.

There, amid the thorny briers,
Mingled with the earth and stones,
Hidden by the noxious herbage,
Were the weather-whitened bones.

On the branches of the maples
Sat the houseless cocks, and crowed;
In the forest’s dark recesses
Starveling watch-dogs made abode.

Through the copse-wood, snorting, scampered
Herds of wild and savage swine;
And with yellow deer there wandered
What survived among the kine.

In the fenceless fields the panther
Crouched to spring upon his prey;
And the rattlesnake lay basking
Careless in the public way.

Where had stood the barn and stable,
And the garden with its bees;
Where the house, with peakèd gable,
Peeped through groves of locust-trees;

Where the children, newly risen,
Peered at sunrise through the pane,
But through which the murdered children
Nevermore may peer again;

Where the housewife in the morning,
Pail in hand, the fountain near,
Stopped to gossip with her neighbors,
And the village news to hear;

Where the farmers in the porches
Sat at closing of the day,
Smoking pipes whose odors mingled
With the fragrance of the hay;

Where at eve the cows were lowing
Answer to the milkmaid’s cry;
And, with hens about him, proudly
Sultan Spurs came strutting by;

Where the horses, in the pasture,
On the fence’s topmost rail,
Crossed their necks and loudly whinnied,
Some tired traveller’s horse to hail;

Where the rooting swine at footsteps
Raised their heads beneath the trees,
And the watch-dog bayed defiance
To the murmur of the breeze—

Clouds that overhung the valley
Would not melt in gentle rain;
They were waiting for the tidings—
“Walter Butler has been slain!”