They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware-- The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there; And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun, Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington. O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen, Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen; They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail, From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale. And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way, Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay; The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red, As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled. --Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray, And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day, When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain, 'Twixt laurelled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Duquesne. And there before them was the field of massacre and blood, Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble one Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun. Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame, For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame; "And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain Before to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne." II 'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream; And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees, And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze. The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep, The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep; Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air, But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair. Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on; The forage and provision, too,--so Ormsby said,--were gone. Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say; In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay. Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame! "I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain! I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!" So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.