They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop-- All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief; They see the braves before them--with a cheer the little group Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief, His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire, The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire. A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout, Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout; But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out. He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed; With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay, Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced; Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope, And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope. With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill, The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill, An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still. But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass: The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes. No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass-- A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close, As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast. Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there! The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair, As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare. There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom; Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force; When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom, Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse! And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight, Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night. Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den, Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men; In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again. We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall: The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command; Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call, And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand; Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent. In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas, The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees, Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.