The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

Full many knight puts lance in rest
Against a foeman fair in front,
Expecting there to fight his best
And there to find the battle's brunt,
Nor doubts that yet a fiercer foe
Behind him comes at charging speed,
Who levels spear to lay him low
Before he does a valiant deed.

So Downing rode from day to day
With loaded gun and sharpened steel
To seek adventure far away
And shiver skulls for others' weal,
Nor guessed that, had he bided home,
And calmly dozed in elbow-chair
His dourest enemies had come
To wage him bitter battle there.

Without a fear the hero went;
He held that Shiloh dwelt secure;
He trusted angel-pinions bent
Above his child and kept her sure;
And all his knightly spirit leaned
A-front to spy the sooty wings
Of fallen angel, imp and fiend,
And hear their frightful challengings.

118

For lately woful tidings ran
That lofty potentates of sin
Had entered Salem with their clan
And built anew their state therein;
Proposing thence to clamor down
(Believe the story those who will)
And scourge with burnings Boston town
And drive our flag from Bunker Hill.

II

He reached the town at sunset stroke,
And found it bare of christian folk;
For none who dreaded Satan's snares,
Or valued sleep or evening prayers
Would bide within a haunted land
Where Tophet held the upper hand,
Where every night the lanskip shook
With rigadoons of witch and spook,
And even sheriffs stirred their boots
To flight before Apollyon's hoots.

Through desert ways the hero hied,
With silent homes on either side,
Nor creature spied of mortal frame,
Unless perchance a withered dame
Of evil fame for dance and song
At mid of night with Satan's throng.

Anon he won the oaken wood
Where Tophet's mongrel multitude
Rejoiced to waltz the night away
In Reverend Cotton Mather's day.

119

Yet there he found but evening dusk,
Perfumed by yellow woodbine musk,
And brightly rayed with argent sheaves
Of moonlight sliding through the leaves.

He tethered horse and paced the shade
With pistol cocked and naked blade;
For hours he wandered to and fro,
Alive to every firefly's glow,
To every hoot of owl, or flight
Of bat or insect through the night;
Hoping at every breath to hear
The hellish anthem storming near;
But watching, harking all in vain
Until a terror filled his brain
Lest Belial's crew had spied him there
And called its congress otherwhere.

III

But when the hour of midnight fell,
No doubt, no doubt, there was a hell!
He heard its awful legions come
Through distant gloom with swelling hum,
As though Apollyon's rebel sprites
That moment fell from Eden's heights,
An avalanche of sin and woe,
Tremendous e'en in overthrow.
Afar he heard them; then anear;
A levin brood, both there and here;
Their pinions filling night with soughs,
And smiting 'thwart the groaning boughs,

120

As though contending tempests drove
On mighty pens along the grove.

The air was ghastly overhead
With monsters fit to fright the dead:
The shapes that fallen angels wear
To symbolize their fierce despair:
Unshriven ghouls in winding sheets,
Fantastic hydras, swart afreets,
Titanic dragons winged with fire,
Or formless forms—chimaeras dire:
With clouds of weirdly pigmy things
Who whirred like bats on leathery wings,
All settling black on either hand
And smutting miles of forest land.

Behind arrived the wizard broods
In pairs, in flocks, in multitudes,
The women flaunting through the gloom
On shooting switch or bouncing broom;
The men astride of bucking goat,
Or wayward calf, or wheezing shoat.
Of every age and rank they came,
The lowly scrub, the dainty dame,
The ruffled squire, the ragged boor,
The Indian tramp, the smirking moor,
The puckered hag, the brazen jade,
With here and there a rosy maid
Whose visage wore a seraph-smile,
Yet had an undergleam of guile.

121

IV

And Downing spied among the crew
At least a dozen whom he knew
And hitherto had held for sure
As chosen spirits, levites pure,
Nor guessed that, underneath their show
Of sanctimonious joy or woe,
They were the sons of Ashtoreth
And walked in secret ways of death.

Immensely dazed our hero was
To find the squires of Zion's laws
Communing with the rascal horde
Of those who call the devil Lord.
But being blest with Yankee sense,
He straightway drew the inference
That all who taste of sin's delight
In open day or veiling night,
No matter how they garb their lives,
Are neophytes of wizard hives
Who come perforce to Satan's whirls
And dance to every tune he skirls.

Yet all the keener grew his fear
Because he found acquaintance here;
For doubts befell lest even he
Had bended unaware the knee
To reverence the lord of Dis,
And might receive the branding kiss,
And find himself among the mell
Of those who jig their way to hell.
The whimsy scared; he turned to go;

122

He fled on skulking tip of toe;
He groped in whirls of sulphur-smoke,
And fell within a hollow oak;
There, goggling through a gnarly hole,
He watched aghast the hideous shoal
Of wizard, fiend and imp and troll.

V

Anon a silence fell; and then
The giant Enemy of men
Arose with pipe in hand, and blew
A rune that pierced the forest through
With melody grotesque and shrill,
Yet sweet enough to bow the will,
To fire the blood and turn the brain,
To make a man forget his pain,
Or joy, forget his natal sod,
His very name, his very God.

Our hero marveled much to weet

[_]

To wit; to know; to note.

A note so ravishing and sweet,
So otherwise from all that he
Had thought infernal tunes to be;
And, harking still, he felt a strong
Desire to join the warlock throng,
And bow before the devil's throne,
And dance, although he danced alone.
How think of duty, think of shame,
How care for honor's haught acclaim,
For altars, fires and native land,
Or seraph choir, or sainted band,

123

When trills of demon music stole
From bar to bar of all the soul?
When earth and Eblis listened mute
To Lucifer's beguiling flute?

But halting yet in ways of guilt,
He chanced to touch his sabre's hilt.
The touch was magical; once more
He heard Columbia's battle roar;
He heard through smoke of volleying guns
Undaunted Freedom call her sons,
The drummer's roll, the bugler's peal,
The hissing ball, the clashing steel;
He heard them clear, he heard them all,
And answered back the glorious call.
The fighting blood of a valiant race
Rolled flaming through his farmer face;
He drew his blade and forth he ran
To die perchance, but die a man.

VI

What evil thing of hell or earth
Can bravely meet a soul of worth?
A thousand demons, gathered there,
Dispersed before one patriot's stare.
They knew Columbia's federal head,
And leaped aloft in sudden dread;
Yea, trolls and wizards, imps and spooks
Flew up the trees like frighted rooks.

But, when they saw a single wight
Defied their many-headed might,

124

They rustled down with thunder-shout
And hemmed him closely roundabout,
A weirder, wickeder array
Than ever dares the face of day,
All watching him with settled eyes
Of fury mixed with stark surprise.

A little pause. Then forward came
A wretch who mumbled Downing's name;
A ghastly creature, stiff and cold,
A ghoul escaped from burial mould,
The carrion of a deacon whom
Our chief had followed to the tomb,
A month agone, and left him there
With bended head and mournful stare.

This foul apostate, full of guile,
Advanced with stony eye and smile
And proffered fist, but all the while
His speechless muzzle yawned apart
To suck the blood of Downing's heart.
Aroint! what worthy wight could take
In patience that cadaverous shake,
The touch of that defiling hand!
Our Greatheart flashed his ready brand
Athwart the smirking, noisome hound,
And spread his halves along the ground.

Instanter all that wizard troop
Volcanoed forth a mongrel whoop,
A discord vast of yelp and howl,
Of hoot and snarl and bleat and growl;
While many-fashioned hideous maws
Disparted: alligator jaws,

125

Revealing yards of glinting teeth,
Or goatish mouths with beards beneath,
Viparian muzzles, clattering bills,
And tuskéd snouts and scaly gills;
All pouring spiteful threats and jeers,
While Downing vainly stopped his ears.

A moment thus they lifted high
Their slogan, scaring earth and sky;
And then the wondrous fight began—
All Eblis 'gainst a single man.

VII

“It was the daintiest of brushes,”
Our Yankee Caesar calmly writes,
“An' what with double teeth an' tushes
I got a fisher's luck of bites.
The stunted trash begun the flurry,
As leetle chaps are apt to dew;
They scaled around me hurry-scurry
With every kind of spit an' mew.
They stung an' pizened like muskeeters
Until I fairly danced with pain,
An' rubbed me with their bristly feeturs,
An' allays rubbed agin the grain.
But, what was specially disgustin',
They'd skip atop of me an' crow
To make believe that I was bustin'
An' hadn't many steps to go.
But all the same, I kep' a-whirlin'
My hefty sabre 'round my head,

126

An' sent at least a hundred skirlin',
An' left a hundred more for dead.

“At last I druv the pigmy passel
To scatter out an' fly like chaff;
An' then begun the serious wrastle
With Beelzebub an' puss'nal staff.
The first I tackled was a dragon,
A dozen yards from snoot to tail,
With eyes a chap could hang a flag on,
An' pinions like a lugger's sail.
But when I punched the bloated critter
I found him nawthin' but a skin;
He wasn't even stuffed with litter,
An' vanished when I punched agin.
That raised my grit; I recollected
That Satan flies the spunky saint;
An' so I purty soon dissected
Another dragon's gilt an' paint.

VIII

“'Twas jest the same with all the boodle
Of shapes from regions underneath;
They couldn't face a puppy poodle
Who had the grit to show his teeth.
I collared demon, imp an' devil,
Apollyon, Moloch, Beelzebub,
An' made the puffy vermin travel
Like squirrels through the oaken scrub.
They stood about as poor a tussle
As flocks of guinea-hens an' geese;

127

In fact they hadn't any muscle,
An' didn't weigh a pound apiece.

“The only shapes that give me trouble
Belonged to granther Noah's herd;
For instance, wizards an' their rubble
Of ghoul an' vampyre, beast an' bird.
The women sartinly did scuffle
An' scratch an' claw like all possest;
They didn't leave me half a ruffle,
Nor nary button down my vest.
The warlocks, too, were tough curmudgeons
Who did their best to whack an' stab
With pitchforks, cobblestones an' bludgeons,
Or any wepm they could grab.

“I had an hour or two of battle
Afore I druv the human crowd,
Whereas the longtailed, flying cattle
Of Hell had vanished like a cloud;
From whence I dare to draw conclusion
That only spooks of mortal birth
(Ourselves perhaps) can work confusion,
An' reely hurt the sons of earth.
Now, like enough you've heerd the stories
That all my wizards, imps an' sprites
Were nawthin more 'n a troop of tories
Who met in Salem woods of nights.
But never mind these doubts an' cavils:
They worry Downing not a jot;
He fought with somethin'—men or devils,—
An' won the fight—no matter what.”

128

IX

The parlous strife was scarce completed
Before a headlong rider came,
His rowels red, his courser heated,
His visage pale, his eyes a-flame,
Who touched his hat in salutation
And shouted, “Putnam sends me here
To tell you how the bulls of Bashan
Are charging round our flanks and rear.
From Canada Burgoyne is striding
To reach us through the Hudson way,
While other scarlet hordes are gliding
From Newport up Rhode Island Bay.
Nor pillage do they crave, nor slaughter;
They come with neither cord nor fire;
They only seek your gracious daughter
To hold in hostage for her sire.
For seers have told the king of Britain
That whilst your mighty arm is free,
The Lion shall be surely smitten,
And Yankees never bow the knee.”

Thereon the rider wheeled and hurried
Away o'er meadow, hill and dell,
While Downing straddled mare and scurried
To succor Shiloh ere it fell.

X

This planet hath no fairer sight
Than men who march in ranks aright,
Responding to the drummer's beat

129

With measured tread of sounding feet,
Their shining arms at even slant
And not a visage turned askant,
The column straight from front to rear
And angled like a shapely pier,
As though a granite wall should come
Along the ways to sound of drum.

So marched the scarlet-coated men
Who sought the Shiloh Lion's den;
While tory horse in careless ranks
Patrolled the van, the rear, the flanks;
And, far in advance, loosely strayed
Six braves to watch for ambuscade.

Some yards before the musketeers
A fiery courser pricked his ears
And stamped the earthly ways in scorn
As though he were a steed of Morn
Who longed to set his wings a-flare
And transverse avenues of air.
This charger lightly bore along
The chief of all the martial throng,
A gracious youth of noble mould
In brave attire of red and gold,
Whose lilied cheek and flaxen curls
Reminded one of youngling girls.
A noble youth he surely was,
Who dearly loved his country's cause,
And loved his king with reverence,
Nor dreaded death in their defence;
Who also loved his ancient name,
And longed to give it statelier fame

130

Than any that his sires had won
Crusading 'neath Judean sun;
And therefore loved the trumpet's bray,
The battle set in proud array,
The volley's crash, the cannonade,
The gleam of bayonet and blade.

XI

No lord was he of mean degree,
But famed for state and pedigree.
Of many castles was he heir,
And none a castle in the air;
But each upon its craggy steep,
A massy pile of tower and keep,
Wherein were story-haunted halls
With armored shapes along the walls;
And each within a spacious fief
Of grain and turf and oaken leaf,
Where ravens prophecied of woe
To antlered deer a-drowse below.

But (better loved than all of this)
He left behind a mother's kiss,
And also left the pure embrace
Of girlish sisters, fair of face,
Who yet of lovers had no ken,
And thought him grandest man of men.
He carried next his gentle heart
Their letters sweet, and, while apart
From other folk, would read anew
The kindly wish and fond adieu,

131

And gladly think of days to come
When glorious peace would send him home
To hear those blessing angels speak,
With tears and kisses on his cheek.

XII

He held a letter even now
Beneath his eyes and bended brow
When suddenly arose the keen
Crack of a Mingo carabine;
And, glancing down a sidelong rift,
He spied a maiden riding swift
While close behind her lightly ran
A leather-garbed and painted man.

In vain she rode; the cunning shot
Had deftly sought a vital spot.
He saw the courser plunge and die;
He saw the maiden rise and fly;
He saw the Mingo's gleaming knife,
And spurred amain to save a life.
He won; he tore the maid from death;
He reached her while she stopped for breath
And turned with horror-stricken glance
To face the wolfish foe's advance.
He fiercely wheeled his fiery bay,
And drove the savage from his prey.

She seemed a maid of twenty years;
Her eyes were azure through her tears;
Her countenance was passing fair,
Despite the pallor of despair;

132

Her golden locks had broken free,
And she was gold from crown to knee,
A creature beautiful to see.

XIII

I find that never wight of worth
Can go, no matter where, on earth,
But men divine his honored name,
And point him out, and tell his fame.
This lordly youth could scarcely save
An ambushed girl from savage glaive
And hide her safe behind his van,
Before a passing dotard man
Uplifted ragged hat and smiled,
And greeted her as Downing's child.

Ah! mighty was the captor's joy;
He colored like a gladdened boy;
For chance had compassed what he planned,
And triumph overbrimmed his hand.
But all the hotter flushed his face
Because his captive's piteous grace,
(Unconsciously and lacking guile)
Had made him long to win her smile.

So, while he faced his ranks about
And cheerly trode the seaward route,
He brought her wherewithal to ride
And journeyed courteous by her side,
Beseeching pardon for the wrong
He did in haling her along;
Or grieving o'er the bloody shame

133

Of strife 'twixt men of English name;
Or trusting that her sire would bring
New loyalty to crown and king,
And garner clemency for those
Who now were Britain's valiant foes;
With many other words of ruth.
Befitting well a noble youth
Who followed gentilesse in sooth.

XIV

It is an easy thing, I hold,
For youngling souls of kindly mould,
Who journey lonely side by side,
To think of altar, groom and bride.
So presently this English earl
Began to love our Yankee girl,
And strove with every tender art
To reach the heaven within her heart;
Though gallantly ashamed to tell
His suit to captive damozel,
So virginal was he in soul,
So chivalrous and soft to dole.
Yet many gracious words he passed,
And many yearning glances cast,
Or smiled to meet her dreamy gaze,
And offered service in courtly ways.

But how could Esther think of love?
Her mind was drawn to things above;
Her heart was otherworldly pure.
She knew no girlish guess or lure;

134

And when she lifted up her eyes
Of azure light to azure skies
She purposed not to dazzle men,
Nor guessed that she was comely then;
She only lifted them to pray
That worldly thoughts might pass away.

XV

By day the column seaward strode—
At night a country squire's abode
Secluded Esther. Near at hand
The earl encamped with all his band.
That evening, while a zither played,
He sang a lovelorn serenade,
And watched her gentle face askant
With longing that the fervid chant
Might win the smile he loved to see,
Or win her heart, if that could be.

But Esther thought it worldly song,
And doubted sore of doing wrong
In hearing such a lightsome strain
With any feeling but of pain.
And when he pleaded she would sing,
She made the roomy mansion ring
With solemn airs and pious lays,
The psalmodies of olden days
When captive Hebrews choired beside
Euphrates and the Kebar's tide.

It made him wondrous sad to hear
Such melodies from one so dear.

135

How should his spirit ever win
Such altitudes, so clear of sin!
How could her holy soul descend
To know him, even as a friend!
Anear they sat, yet far apart—
A mighty gulf 'twixt heart and heart—
So passed in vain the lovelorn day,
As lovelorn lives have passed away.

XVI

Not every earthly sight can be
So clear as sights behind the eye;
Not every mortal man doth see
If this be true, or that a lie.
I think each human doth create
No little of this world of dole,
And shapes his daily life and state
Accordant with his fateful soul.
One meeteth ghouls and sheeted ghosts
And witches foul and murky sprites;
Another meeteth saintly hosts
And angel wings and Eden lights.
One findeth only bitter strife
And corpses stark and weapons bare;
Another, naught but peaceful life
And gladsome creatures everywhere.

So burly Downing, born for war,
And nursed on battle's smoke and flame,
Found earth a very different star
From her who bore his honored name.

136

No matter whither fared his girl,
She quickly won, as told above,
Some worshipper, perhaps an earl,
Who longed to save and serve and love;
While he, the hero, hero-like,
Met hazards numberless and dire,
Forever pushed to draw and strike
Through men and demons, blood and fire.

And now, yet panting from the broil
With Salem's wizard crew, he spurred
To save his threatened home, and moil
The British ranks and Tory herd.
The odds were huge, the peril light:
A coming nation nerved his arm:
A prototype of might and right
May front a host without alarm.

XVII

But nearing home, our Romus found
The village still above the ground,
And heard from many a rustic scout
How Albion's troop had faced about,
And also how his gracious child
Had fared to meet him through the wild,
And vanished, none could settle where,
Though many sought her trail with care.
Thereon he bade them seek again,
And hied away with flowing rein
To hunt the Lion's scarlet files
From solid land to Brandon's Isles.

[_]

St. Brandon's Isles.

137

Good lack! how many snares bestrowed
His way, whichever way he rode!
For warriors trained in weird deceit
Protected England's slow retreat
With stratagems of forest guile
That made each furlong twice a mile.
At last, so weary grew the track,
He fell asleep upon his hack,
And jolted on with knightly snore,
As though a trumpet blew before,
Till Satan brought the strangest hap
That ever spoiled a hero's nap.
He had a dream: he felt a jar:
He thought himself a shooting star:
He clutched the mane and hooted, “Who!”—
The world was thirty feet below!

Yes, thirty feet below his boots,
And thirty-five below his hoots,
He spied the path he lately trod,
He spied the shadow-dappled sod,
And caught through tossing leaves a clear
Though hasty glimpse of azure mere;
While overhead (can this be true?)
A score or more of comets flew
And all the demon-stars that hie
Before a fallen skater's eye.
At first he thought a Tory wizard
Had mounted him astride a blizzard
And sent him whirling overland,
A prisoner in Satan's hand,
Who nevermore would deal on earth

138

A valiant stroke or punch of worth.
But, looking twice, he clearly spied
His nag beneath, himself astride,
And also spied around her chest
A twisted thong of hide undressed,
Which held her with a condor-grip
Suspended from a walnut's tip.

XVIII

Right choleric was Downing then
To think that painted heathen men
Should hoist him with a beastly noose
Like any doltish wolf or moose.
But vainly might he snort and rave
At powwow, sagamore and brave;
He found himself no less in air,
And waltzing like a cultured bear.
So clutching hard the cowhide twist,
He shinned aloft, hand over fist;
Then seized a bough and deftly swung
To earth, from leafy rung to rung.

But how pursue the foe afoot?
Or how desert a faithful brute
Who whinnied from her lofty berth
Her shrill desire to visit earth?
Our Ajax searched for axe or spade;
But finding neither, drew his blade,
And hewed as only heroes hew,
Until he smote the walnut through
And tumbled it with mournful soughs

139

Athwart the woodland's crowded boughs;
Thus landing Dobbin, still alive,
But scarcely fit to ride or drive.

In vain he heartened her to rise.
She lay at length with filmy eyes
And trembling legs and heaving chest,
A creature sorely needing rest;
While Downing sadly watched her throes,
Till presently both fell a-doze,
The courser lying prone, and he
With folded arms against a tree.

XIX

I hold opinion that the sprites
Who fell from Eden's shining heights
Do very rarely slumber well;
And often pace their grievous hell,
Or wander Yaveh's universe,
Bethinking them with zeal perverse
What manner sin to fashion next
Whereby to keep the angels vext;
Or, chancing near a worthy man,
Asleep, or watching ill, they plan
A scurvy scheme to make him gird
At Yankee Doodle's Baldybird.

No doubt it was an imp like this,
A vagrom rogue from burning Dis,
Who tricksily allured, or drove,
A Tory robber through the grove,
And showed him Downing napping there

140

In sentry o'er his napping mare.
Right well the skulking skinner knew
The paladin of Freedom's crew
Whose mighty arm had brought to scorn
The Lion and the Unicorn.
So, riving sundry withes of wood,
He bound the hero where he stood,
Upright, but slumbering as sound
As any sleeper underground.
This done, he stirred his rascal shanks
To overtake the scarlet ranks,
And bade their chieftain wheel his men
To crush Columbia there and then.

XX

Erelong the sleeper woke refreshed,
To find himself securely meshed,
And see before his wondering eyes
A painted brave of matchless size:
A redskin tramp who chanced that way—
No matter whence—from far a-gley—

[_]

Astray.

And, finding Shiloh's pinioned son,
Had halted for some Mingo fun:
A murderous tramp who brandished slow
A tomahawk in act to throw,
And had a leering, cruel grin
Between his vulture beak and chin.

But deadly dark as seemed the case,
The archetype of Yankee race
Disdained to utter prayer or cry,

141

And faced his foeman eye to eye
With such a haughty Marian look
That even Indian muscles shook,
And all askant the hatchet flew,
And merely shored a withe in two.
Instanter stalwart Downing broke
The rest asunder at a stroke;
Then seized his gun with hunter sleight
And dared the scalping Pict to fight.

Now came a battle like to those
Of Argive palms and Ilian woes,
When heroes poured a noble flood
Of eloquence o'er fields of blood,
And magnified their godlike skill
And haught ability to kill,
Before they drew their brazen blades
And banged each other through the shades.

XXI

“An fust the creetur cussed my vitals,”
We read in Downing's dialect,
“An' give me forty ugly titles,
As near as I can recollect.
He called me squaw an' yankee doodle,
He called me old an' deaf an' blind,
He called me fox an' hare an' poodle,
With other names that skip my mind.
He swore to have my yaller scallop,
An' pitch my bones to bears an' hounds,
He swore to make my sperrit gallop

142

About Manitto's hunting-grounds.
An' all the time he kep' a' prancin
Around me, through the underscrub,
An' rooted brush, an' sent it dancin'
An grinned the bark off many a shrub,
But purty soon he turned his noddle
With scootin' round so awful prest,
An' got so tired he couldn't waddle,
An had to squat an' ketch a rest.

“Thereon I took my turn at banter
An' braggin' how I meant to slay.
I circled 'round him on a canter,
An' made the breshwood fly like hay.
I sent some hefty bowlders spinnin
About the woods, like skippin' fleas;
I fairly beat the coot at grinnin',
An' scaled the bark off timber trees.
Of course I didn't disappint him
For ugly names an' slander words,
An' furthermore I 'greed to jint him,
An' fling his scraps to beasts an' birds.
I wasn't more than half in arnest,
I never shone in makin' b'lieve;
An' when I tried to scowl my starnest
I nearly sniggered in my sleeve.
At last I thought I'd done my duty,
An' played the Mingo long enough;
An' so I told my copper beauty
To show his liveliest fightin' stuff.

143

XXII

“He bounded forrard, feathers wavin',
An' fetched a yell an' clinched his bow.
He bent it like it was a shavin',
Though stiffer than a walnut hoe.
He pinted up an' belched a holler,
An' then he pinted at the ground;
He got the string behint his collar,
An' nearly hauled himself around.

“At last he let the arrer whistle
(A hickry arrer tipped with stun);
I tell ye, cost me all my gristle
To stop it with my duckin-gun.
It traveled like a rifle bullet,
An' give my lock an awful clip.
The trigger stuck; I couldn't pull it
No more than pull a loaded ship.
I had to scratch around for tinder,
An' strike a light to make her hoot,
But knocked the sachem's bow to flinder
Afore he got another shoot.

“Bymebye we quit our distant scrimmage
An' sidled up for neighbor talk.
I used my sword to spile his image;
He slashed at mine with tomahawk.
I found the creetur warn't a pigmy,
An' had to wrastle like a bear,
Because he scuffled smart to dig me
An' reely meant to have my hair.
We fit like bumblebees in clover,

144

Fust one atop an' then the other;
But purty soon the fuss was over,
An' Downing shet of Injun brother.
I couldn't say jest how it ended,
An' misremember where I clipt;
But there the Mingo lay extended,
The biggest man I ever whipt.”

XXIII

The battle scarce had gotten end
Ere Downing saw a thicket bend
A dozen rods away, and saw
Emerge therefrom a youthful squaw,
A gliding, crouching shape, with meek
And timid gaze and wasted cheek,
And garments travelworn, as though
She came in vigil, stint and woe
Through many days of rain or sun
To find and warn a well-loved one.

This haggard daughter of the wild
Bore on her weary back a child,
And ever, while she stooped along,
She chanted low a forest song,
Nor knew that bloody death was here,
Nor spied the foeman lurking near,
But hasted on to hinder fate,
Unwitting that she came too late.

145

XXIV

But when she saw the fallen chief
She lifted such a keen of grief
That he who harkened there would fain
Have suffered any grievous pain
Rather than hear such wail again.
Next, checking suddenly her moan,
She stooped to search if life were flown;
Then turned her eyes from left to right
To find the victor of the fight.
She fixed him with a settled stare,
A stony gaze of stark despair;
But not another cry was heard,
No mourning nor beseeching word.
She only raised a shaking hand
And pointed to the stranger's brand;
Then drew a finger 'cross her throat,
And made a sign as though she smote;
Submissive, mute, before her foe
And craving death to end her woe.

Our hero gazed, right sore amazed
To see this sylvan creature crazed,
And find that he had thrust the dart
Of battle through a woman's heart.
He held himself a hardened soul,
Inured to warfare's bloody dole;
But all at once he felt a meek
Compassion stealing down his cheek.
He turned away in wild remorse;
Without a word he mounted horse;

146

He fled the living and the dead;
Without a backward glance he fled;
He fled as fast as he could flee,
In horror of his victory.

XXV

But men must work though women greet,
And surely war is labor meet
For brawny heroes fit to save
Their native land from gyve and glaive.
Our chief felt higher duties draw
Than comforting a widowed squaw;
He had a valiant foe to smite,
A vanished child to bring to light.

So, wheeling wide through leafy lands,
He overpassed the scarlet bands,
Nor halted till he saw, before,
The dunes of Narragansett shore,
And, far behind, the alien hive
He meant to slay or take alive.
This done, he scoured the lanskip round
To find a friendly battle-ground,
And, searching wisely, reached a place
Where Britain's ranks would end their race,
If martial lore or Yankee trick
Could make them charge at double-quick.

Anon the red battalions spied
This lonely horseman riding wide,
And, doubting rustic ambuscade,
Deployed their mass in grim parade,

147

But there remained, a torpid swarm,
Nor dared begin the battle's storm,
Because their chief had faced about
And sped a-rear on secret scout.

XXVI

“I thought,” our Yankee Caesar writ,
“They didn't mean to come to battle;
An' so I slunk ahead a bit
To shake 'em up an' make 'em rattle.
Besides, I had my ambush sot,
An' couldn't let the joke miscarry,
Because I thought as like as not
'Twould send 'em all to Ancient Harry.

“I took a canter down the van,
An' squinted 'round, an' looked 'em over.
The grenadiers were spick-an-span
In uniforms as fresh as clover;
With streaks of powder down the locks
An' queues a-sawin' crost the collar,
An' eyes a-pop because their stocks
Were tighter than would let 'em swaller;
All standin' stiff at shoulder-whoop,
Their eyes a-front an' toes a-kimber,
Without a slouch in all the troop,
A solid lot of fightin' timber.
The tories filled the hinder rows,
A helter-skelter lot of skinners,
Exactly fit to frighten crows,
Or plunder pickaninnies' dinners.

148

“Well purty soon they reckonized
My uniform, or else my figger,
An' looked a leetle mite surprised,
But didn't charge nor pull a trigger.
So thereupon I made a speech,
Though not a talkin' son of thunder;
I told 'em they would never reach
Their port, an' might as well knock under.
I guess it got 'em hoppin' mad;
For officers begun to clatter
Around; an' next the drummers had
A lively hint to start their batter.

XXVII

“Then came a roar of British cheers,
Half spiled by Tory yelps an' screamin',
An' then the British grenadiers,
Full trot, with baggonets a-gleamin.
Of course I let 'em seem to beat
At first, to make 'em spry an' bolder,
An' sorter fetched a sham retreat,
Jest keepin' watch acrost my shoulder.
I tell ye 'twas a splendid sight
To see the Johnny Bulls a-comin',
Their ranks in line, their muskets bright,
Their chubby faces full of fight,
Their colors flyin', drummers drummin'.
At last I reached the very spot
Whereon I'd figured out to flail 'em,
They still a-chargin', pipin' hot,
An' bawlin' like the ass of Baalam.

149

“There was a slantin pressapace
Ten times as high as Shiloh steeple,
With zigzag steps adown the face,
Dug out, I spose, by neighbor people.
I jumped the humpty dumpty brink,
An' bumpety-bumpt from top to bottom,
A-laughin' all the way to think
How sure an' sartinly I'd got 'em.
An' so I had; adown the cliff
They fluttered after their bellwether,
Hell-bent, but sojer-like an stiff,
With gaiters swingin' all together.
Of course they perished there an' then,
The very thing on which I reckoned;
I jedge about two thousen' men
Were smashed to jell in half a second.
It was the most decisive squabble
I ever finished single-handed;
It made the British army hobble
From Newport Island, half disbanded.”

XXVIII

If any wight thus far believes
The marvels writ in Downing's leaves,
I hold his credence will not fail
For what remaineth of the tale,
Although it soundeth wondrous like
The yarns a tarry marlinspike
Unfolds to open-mouthed marines
Or younkers fresh from harvest scenes.

150

You all remember how the earl
Who loved our gracious Yankee girl
Had tidings from a Tory hound
Of Downing fast asleep and bound.
By Magog! what a thrill of joy
Bestirred this knightly-minded boy!
He saw a glorious chance to bring
Unmeasured good to land and king,
And win perchance.—But who could tell
If man might win such damozel?
So, bidding Esther, Fare-you-well,
He rode with all his trooper race
To save her sire from evil case
And earn for both the royal grace.

XXIX

Through woodland wide the lover hied
As merrily as man may ride,
And reached in middle afternoon
The spot where Downing rivalled Boone;
But only found a bloody brave,
A squaw who delved a warrior's grave,
An infant giggling 'neath the copse
And broken bonds and shattered hopes.

Then, grieving o'er his fruitless quest,
He scouted leafy vale and crest
Till evening poured her dusky files
Through silent glades and rustling aisles,
And filled the wold with cheating shades,
The paths with seeming ambuscades.

151

At last he knew his errand vain,
And, turning rein, he sought amain
His captive maid and footmen train.

But where were they, and where was he?
He reached the spot where they should be;
He reached it many times that night;
Then sought anew till morning light,
A sore bewildered, woful wight;
For every now and then there came
Athwart the gloom a spit of flame,
And then he heard a hissing ball,
A dying groan, a heavy fall;
And so his troopers one by one
Fell out until he rode alone.

Ah! horrible it was to hear
Death treading on his steps so near,
Nor ever win the piteous grace
To front the monster's savage face,
And fall as gallant men desire
With bloody sabre glinting fire.
Ah! horrible to feel at last
The cruel bullet driven fast
Through palpitating flesh and thought,
And conscious life return to naught.

XXX

The morning wrestled with the moon
Before he wakened from his swoon,
And thought it slumber, but again
Remembered all his troopers slain,

152

And found his breath a feeble sigh,
And knew himself anear to die.

A moment's prayer; again he drowsed,
Or fainted; but anon he roused
Because a shadow veiled the skies;
And, lifting up his glassy eyes,
He saw a giant-moulded man,
Of rustic visage dark with tan,
Attired in careless martial gear,
Who knelt and murmured words of cheer.

He knew the bony face and frame;
He knew the man; he called his name.
He whispered low with painful breath
His love, triumphant over death.
He sighed, “I saved her; is she dead?”
And hearing, “No,” was comforted.

Then came a change upon his face,
A thankful, gladdened, yearning grace,
A look that told of saintly sights
Suddenly seen through morning's lights.
So, gripping fast the foeman's palm,
As though he found its touch a balm,
He died, forgiving, loving, meek,
With Downing's tears upon his cheek.

XXXI

They folded him in Shiloh earth,
Not many steps from Downing's hearth.
Yet never might the father tell
His gentle child how passing well

153

That stranger loved her during life,
Nor who had smitten him in strife.
So, often did the maid recall
The lowly knoll and grassy pall,
And glide within the churchyard gate
To gaze thereon compassionate,
Yet never knew she stood above
A heart that gave her all its love,
And never heard those pulses stir
That beat for her and ceased for her.