Limbs locked in limbs in terrible affray

They writhe-they wrench-they stagger to and froHands grasping hands that aim the fatal blow.

LVI.

Now struggling by the flames they past from sight;
For Williams lingered yet to guard the cave,
And there, enveloped in a deeper night,

Still with more fury did the contest rave—
The blow-the wrench-the pantings of the fight-
The crash of fagots and of thickets gave

A dreadful notice of each effort made,

Where life for life strove in that shuddering shade.

LVII.

Now darting high above the deeper glooms, ·

Hands clinched in hands, their naked arms they strain; Now tost o'er thickets brown, heads, crests and plumes Confusedly shake—stoop-rise—and stoop again— At every effort each fierce champion dooms

His foeman's blood to redden all the plain; And as they storm and tempest o'er the glade, Earth thunders under their resounding tread.

LVIII.

Beside the father sunk the mother pale,
Infantile sympathy her fears partook ;

At times the children raised the fearful wail-
At times all breathless with grim terror shook-
Now Williams glanced along the kindling vale;
No signs of other foe his fears awoke;

Then, with a word that quick return presaged,
He rushed tow'rd where the doubtful contest raged.

LIX.

As he advanced the tumult seemed to swell,

And rapidly approach its awful close;

On every side the crashing thickets fell,

As here and there still strove the panting foes; From flaming breasts oft burst the maddening yell,

And thick and fast resounded blows on blows;

Still undistinguished struggle they in night

Earth shakes-the thickets rend-and wilder storms the

fight.

LX.

He past the flame and paused-for on his ear,

There came with louder crash a heavy soundHe listens still-and silence-sudden-drear

Reigns o'er the glade, and through the glooms profound. Who is the victim? and ill-boding fear

Tells him that Waban gasps upon the ground; One bubbling groan, as if the life-blood gushedA shuddering struggle then-and all was hushed.

LXI.

In dire suspense the anxious father stood,
Yet did he still unmanly terrors quell;
His hand, yet guiltless of a mortal's blood,
Now grasped the axe to meet the victor fell ;
When, 'neath the arches of the dreary wood,
Trilled the far-trembling, death-announcing yell—
So like a demon's, issuing from his pit;

Who but that savage could the sound emit?

LXII.

Then slowly issuing from the gloomy wood—
Doubtful and darkling for the ghostly shade-
A form approached, and as it onward trod,
It came distinct along the open glade ;
And it was Waban, bathed in hostile blood,

And by the lock he held a trunkless head.
He stooped beside the mounting blaze to shew,
Still more distinct, the trophy to his view.

LXIII.

With lips still quivering, and with eyes unglazed,

The reeking fragment seemed as living still, Fierce on the horrid thing the victor gazed; The battle's wrath still did his bosom fill;

His eyes looked fire-another yell he raised;

Rebellowing forests shrieked from hill to hillThen, by the long dark lock swung from the ground, He whirled on high the ghastly ball around.

LXIV.

Around-around-still gathering force it went-
Still on his sinews strained the whirling head-
Till cleaving from the scull the scalp was rent,
And through the air the ponderous body sped;
Deep in the hollow woods its force was spent-

Thrice bounding from the ground-then falling deadHe turned and spoke-" No more the babes shall weep! The grim Pawaw now sleeps! and Waban now can sleep."

LXV.

They passed the turf, as they the cavern sought,

Where fell the body of his earliest slain, And Waban said, as paused he o'er the spot,

"The black Priest's comrade never wakes again;** Then did he seize the body by the foot,

And dragged the bleeding corpse along the plain,
And o'er the rocky steep the burden dashed;
It dropped in night-re-echoing thickets crashed.

LXVI.

Then the rude victor washed the stains away,

Cast him on earth, and soon deep slumber shewed
How lightly in his rugged bosom lay

The horrid memory of that scene of blood i
But Williams watched until the dawning gray,
And Mary's fitful sleep the scenes renewed,
Whilst the young dreamers, in her circling arms,
Oft shrieked and sobbed in slumber's vain alarms.

LXVII.

The morning dawns, and they their march resume,
No perils now annoy their toilsome way;

The night came down and with its sober glooms,
Brought quiet sleep until the morning's ray;

Again they rose, and gained their joyous home. On Seekonk's marge, just at the close of day; And him they blessed, who had in safety led Them through dire perils, to their humble shed.

CANTO EIGHTH.

Through Seekonk's

groves the morning sun once more Flames in his glory. Waving verdant gold

The boundless forest stands. Wild songsters pour,
From every dewy glade and tufted wold,
The melody of joy. From shore to shore,
The tranquil waters dream, and soul-like hold
An imaged world within, of softest hue,
And its far downward bending vault of blue.

II.

And Williams issued from his humble cot,

Not as of late in solitary mood,

With cheerless heart and ill-foreboding thought,
But with light step, and breast of quietude,

Attended by the partner of his lot,

And their young Hopes; who with blithe interlude,
Of prattling speech, softened the graver talk
Of their fond parents in the morning's walk.

III.

In sooth the buoyance of his spirits spread
O'er all his labors their own cheerful flush;
Ne'er was the grass so verdant on the glade,
Ne'er did the fountains sparkle with such gush;
Ne'er had the stream such lovely music made,
Ne'er sung so blithe the robin on the bush,
The woodland flowers far brighter hues displayed,
More sunny smiled the lawn, and deeper frowned the shade.