Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written— Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire; For the rest the captives durance, but for me there was assurance Of the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire. Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band, Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes, Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand. Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling; Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came; Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly, I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name. Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe’er they wave their wings, Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer, Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings. Then I heard her voice’s murmur breathing summer, while my spirit Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine; Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her, Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine. Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness; Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest; Mingled tears with hers, and chid her, bade her by our love consider How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master’s breast. I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being, In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend; At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances, While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend. For I heard the firelocks ringing, fiercely flinging forth the whirring, Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode; There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only, When the furious leaden couriers from its loop-holes fastly rode. And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying, Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives; For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding— Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives. Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed; Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring, Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best. [Illustration: “FOR WHILE THEY THE HOUSE WERE HOLDING, BALLS THE WIVES WERE QUICKLY MOULDING.”]