Chapter I

Overhead the sky of morning
Gives of goodly weather sign;
From the milking to the meadows
Slowly go the lowing kine.

Fall in sparks of fire the dew-drops
From the overburdened leaves;
Flit from bough to bough the peewees;
Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves.

Mists that recent wrapped the valley
Now are sweeping o’er the hills;
And the broad red sun is casting
Gold upon the lakes and rills.

Deep and brown and sombre shadows
Creep the forest trees between;
Here and there the shades of crimson
Speck the liquidambars’ green.

Lo! a horseman swiftly rising
From between the river’s banks;
Dust is on the rider’s garments,
Blood upon his horse’s flanks.

At the portal of the tavern
Hard he draws the bridle-rein,
For a moment, feet in stirrup,
One refreshing draught to drain.

What can make the village dwellers,
In a hushed and breathless group,
Gather round that jaded horseman
By the village-tavern stoop?

To him come the anxious mothers,
Bearing babes upon their arms;
Close behind them crowd the maidens,
Yet unscathed by love’s alarms.

Near him gather stalwart farmers,
Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned;
And the curious village children,
Play suspending, stand around.

Breathless all, until the horseman,
Mug in hand, has told his tale;
Then around there spreads a murmur
Like the warning of the gale.

Now it lulls and now it rises,
Like the patter of the rain—
“Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance!
Walter Butler has been slain!”