She starts, with eyes upturn'd and fleeting breath, In their raised axes views her instant death, Spreads her white hands to heaven in frantic prayer, Then runs to grasp their knees, and crouches there. Her hair, half lost along the shrubs she past, Rolls in loose tangles round her lovely waist; Her kerchief torn betrays the globes of snow That heave responsive to her weight of woe. Does all this eloquence suspend the knife? Does no superior bribe contest her life? There does: the scalps by British gold are paid; A long-hair'd scalp adorns that heavenly head; Arid comes the sacred spoil from friend or foe, No marks distinguish, and no man can know. With calculating pause and demon grin, They seize her hands, and thro her face divine Drive the descending ax; the shriek she sent Attain'd her lover's ear; he thither bent With all the speed his wearied limbs could yield, Whirl'd his keen blade, and stretch'd upon the field The yelling fiends; who there disputing stood Her gory scalp, their horrid prize of blood. He sunk delirious on her lifeless clay, And past, in starts of sense, the dreadful day. Are these thy trophies, Carleton! these the swords Thy hand unsheath'd and gave the savage hordes, Thy boasted friends, by treaties brought from far, To aid thy master in his murderous war? But now Britannia's chief, with proud disdain Coop'd in his camp, demands the field again. Back to their fate his splendid host he drew, Swell'd high their rage, and led the charge anew; Again the batteries roar, the lightnings play, Again they fall, again they roll away; For now Columbia, with rebounding might, Foil'd quick their columns, but confined their flight. Her wings, like fierce tornados, gyring ran, Crusht their wide flanks and gain'd their flying van; Here Arnold charged; the hero storm'd and pour'd A thousand thunders where he turn' No pause, no parley; onward far he fray'd, Dispersed whole squadrons every bound he made, Broke thro their rampart, seized theircampand stores And pluck'd the standard from their broken towers. Aghast, confounded in the midway field, They drop their arms; the banded nations yield. When sad Burgoyne, in one disastrous day, Sees future crowns and former wreaths decay, His banners furl'd, his long battalions wheel'd To pile their muskets on the battle field; While two pacific armies shade one plain, The mighty victors and the captive train. Book VII. Argument.