Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts, His closing lids he tries to raise; And speak once more before he dies, In supplication and in praise. He prays kind heaven to grant success, Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless, And when they've shed their heart blood true, To raise them all to happiness. Come hither, Farwell, said young Frye, You see that I'm about to die; Now for the love I bear to you, When cold in death my bones shall lie; Go thou and see my parents dear, And tell them you stood by me here; Console them when they cry, Alas! And wipe away the falling tear. Lieutenant Farwell took his hand, His arm around his neck he threw, And said, brave Chaplain, I could wish, That heaven had made me die for you. The Chaplain on kind Farwell's breast, Bloody and languishing he fell; Nor after this said more, but this, "I love thee, soldier, fare thee well." Ah! many a wife shall rend her hair, And many a child cry, "Wo is me!" When messengers the news shall bear, Of Lovewell's dear bought victory. With footsteps slow shall travellers go, Where Lovewell's pond shines clear and bright, And mark the place, where those are laid, Who fell in Lovewell's bloody fight. Old men shall shake their heads, and say, Sad was the hour and terrible, When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus went, With fifty men from Dunstable. The fight near Lovewell's Pond was the ground of still another case of literary priority. Nearly a hundred years after its occurrence, on November 17, 1820, the Portland _Gazette_ printed the first poetical venture of a lad of thirteen years. It bore the title of "The Battle of Lovell's Pond." Its author was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND [May 8, 1725] Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear, Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell Has sunk into silence along the wild dell; The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er, And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.