And now, around my cottage fire Due care the festive rites require, For oft had bold Clewalla sued Alliance with my ancient blood, And with meet gifts and parlance bland, Implored my Ednee’s timid hand; But ne’er before—that gentle claim Enforced in fame and valour’s name, For now in the same person blend, The swain, deliverer and friend. But still, a cruel fate in this, Pervades, and mars the cup of bliss! And while the gallant warrior stands Expectant—at my willing hands, A sudden tumult wild and high, Rings fearfully along the sky— “A foe—a foe!” the runners shout, And all is hurry, whoop, and rout! Short space there is for look or word— The warriors, with one spirit stirr’d, Seize club and bow, and fusil light, And fly towards the gathering fight; Clewalla leads—along the wood Deep shouts resound, and cries of blood, And soon the distant crack and roar Proclaim another scene of gore. And rumor rife, along the plain, Repeats a tale of lost and slain. From out a wood two hosts advance, With glittering sword and pointed lance, Rank upon rank—our light clad men, Unbooted all, re-sought the glen, There, tree to tree, to ward the blow, And best their forest breeding show; But while they rally, shout and form, Behold athwart—another storm! Fierce, heavy horsemen, sword on high, Gleam through the woods and fill the sky. Environed thus, no hope remains But that a brave man’s hand sustains; Nor this availed, though plied with skill O’er mead and valley, wood and hill, And sixty brave hearts, slain that day, Attest the fury of the fray; Clewalla, known for daring cry, Where bayonets cross and bullets fly, With rampant arm is seen maintain The strife, till sinking with the slain; But whether wounded, or if low, The pulse of life still kept its flow, Spake rumor not; we searched in vain Along the wood, amid the slain; We traced each secret glen and shore, But never saw Clewalla more. Murmur there was of varying sound That he to distant fort was bound, A captive held; yet ever prone To swell and shift, and change her tone, We found it like an evening’s tale, And all our search was doomed to fail: Or if he e’er returned, his tread Was light as ghost of warrior dead. Betrayed, encompassed, beaten, prest! Stem desperation fired each breast; They burn with wild revenge and ire, Re-light again the battle fire; Re-poise the lance—re-plume the dart, And rousing each bold warrior art, Poured on the reckless battle tide, Nor asked the boon which they denied.