The winter sun hung in the sky And frost bound all things fast; As they set forth, from out the north, There blew a bitter blast. The meadow grass was stiff with rime, The frozen brook lay dead; Like stone did sound the frozen ground Beneath the martial tread. All day they marched in bitter cold, And when, as fell the night, They reached the hill and gazed their fill Upon the piteous sight, No need to urge the rapid chase, The cinders did that well, And in the air a woman's hair Told more than words could tell. In stern resolve they lay them down, For rest they needed sore, But long ere dawn the swords were drawn And open stood the door. Out to the gloom of morning passed Full silently those men, And what 'twixt light and fall of night Should come, no soul might ken. III They turned their faces toward the west, The morning air was cold, And softly stepped, while still men slept, With courage high and bold. An Indian they met ere long, 'Twas Peter, whom they knew; They asked their way, naught would he say, To his own comrades true. In anger cried the governor: Then let the man be hung, For he can tell, he knows full well, So let him find his tongue. To save his life that wretched man Agreed to be their guide, As they marched on, the Indian Marched onward by their side. And soon they reached a dreadful swamp, With cedar trees o'ergrown, And thick and dark with dead trees stark And great trunks lying prone. 'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there! They fired as they ran, And with a bound that spurned the ground, The fierce assault began. And then a wonder in the wood,-- A little rising ground, With palisade for shelter made Of timber planted round. And but one place of entrance there Across a watery way, A tall felled tree gave access free, From shore to shore it lay. Full many a gallant man that day His life left at that tree, The bravest men pressed forward then, And there fell captains three. A dreadful day, and of our men Short work would have been made, But that by grace they found a place Weak in the palisade. Then they poured in, within the fort Soon filled with Indians dead, And many a one great deeds had done Within that place of dread. Then with a torch the whole was fired, The wigwams caught the blaze, The fire roared and spread abroad And fed on tubs of maize. The night came on, the governor called, The soldiers gathered round; The fort was theirs, and dying prayers Were rising from the ground. With care they gathered up their dead, The few who had been spared, All through the cold, in pain untold, To Warwick they repaired. So was the Indians' power gone, Avenged were Englishmen, For from the night of that Swamp fight They never rose again.