Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped, Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom; A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread; Where oft the embowelled captive met his doom, And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb, Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd; Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb, With howls the Powow fill'd the dark abode, And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god. But now no awful rites, nor potent spell, To silence charm'd the peals of coming war; Or told the dread recesses of the dell, Where glowing Mason led his bands from far; No spirit, buoyant on his airy car, Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight: Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling star Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light, And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark night. On the drear walls a sudden splendor glow'd, There Mason shone, and there his veterans pour'd. Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood, While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd, And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored. Alone, he burst the gate; the forest round Reëchoed death; the peal of onset roar'd, In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was drown'd; And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground. Not long in dubious fight the host had striven, When, kindled by the musket's potent flame, In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to heaven, And gloom'd the world, with melancholy beam. Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, came; And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd: Nor e'en these ills the savage breast could tame; Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region yell'd, Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste the hostile field. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. Sassacus, the Pequot chief, escaped and sought refuge with the Mohawks, but was slain by them. DEATH SONG [1673] Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores, Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars, For the white men came from the world afar, And their fury burnt like the bison star. His sannops were slain by their thunder's power, And his children fell like the star-eyed flower; His wigwams were burnt by the white man's flame, And the home of his youth has a stranger name-- His ancestor once was our countryman's foe, And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow, The wild deer ranged through the forest free, While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea. But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent, With his hair untied, and his bow unbent, And found not the blood of the wild deer shed, And the calumet lit and the bear-skin bed. But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine, And bid its broad light like his valor to shine; Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps, And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps. ALONZO LEWIS. OUR COUNTRY