Fall in sparks of fire the dew-drops From the overburdened leaves; Flit from bough to bough the peewees; Hum the mud-wasps at the eaves. Mists that recent wrapped the valley Now are sweeping o’er the hills; And the broad red sun is casting Gold upon the lakes and rills. Deep and brown and sombre shadows Creep the forest trees between; Here and there the shades of crimson Speck the liquidambars’ green. Lo! a horseman swiftly rising From between the river’s banks; Dust is on the rider’s garments, Blood upon his horse’s flanks. At the portal of the tavern Hard he draws the bridle-rein, For a moment, feet in stirrup, One refreshing draught to drain. What can make the village dwellers, In a hushed and breathless group, Gather round that jaded horseman By the village-tavern stoop? To him come the anxious mothers, Bearing babes upon their arms; Close behind them crowd the maidens, Yet unscathed by love’s alarms. Near him gather stalwart farmers, Sturdy, strong, and sun-embrowned; And the curious village children, Play suspending, stand around. Breathless all, until the horseman, Mug in hand, has told his tale; Then around there spreads a murmur Like the warning of the gale. Now it lulls and now it rises, Like the patter of the rain— “Heaven at last has dealt its vengeance! Walter Butler has been slain!” II. Never tongue may tell the horror Of that dark November day, When through startled Cherry Valley Walter Butler took his way— Walter Butler and his Tories, With the savage Brant in train, Marking every rod of progress By the bodies of the slain. Walter Butler! cruel panther, Lapping tongue in human gore; Even Brant, the bloody Mohawk, Had of truth and pity more. His the will to save the helpless From the tomahawk and ball, Had not you with rage forbade him, Saying, “Curse them! kill them all!” Even boyhood’s old companions, Comrades of your later days, Friends who, seeing not your vices, Gave your scanty virtues praise— None of these could gain your mercy On that long-remembered day; For the stranger, friend or foeman, Came one doom relentless—“Slay!” Swiftly at your word the hatchet Crashed into the quivering brain, And the swarthy fiends in fury Tore the scalp-skins from the slain. Gray-haired elders, whom your father Knew as friends in days of yore, You had joy to see their corses Welter in their oozing gore. Mothers lying mangled, dying, In their throes made deeper moans As they saw the skulls of infants Shattered on the ruthless stones.