Scarce had he uttered—when Heaven’s verge extreme Reverberates the bomb’s descending star,— And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,— To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed:— And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. XX. Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung, Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,— As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care— But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade? Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the shade! XXI. Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm, As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines: And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, His plumed host the dark Iberian joins— And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. XXII. And in, the buskined hunters of the deer, To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng:— Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle song, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. XXIII. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, Pale on his venerable brow its rays Of martyr light the conflagration throws; One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways; While, though the battle flash is faster driven,— Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,— Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. XXIV. Short time is now for gratulating speech: And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach, Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran, As round and round their willing ranks they drew, From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grave adieu! XXV.