Whose guns had poured the leaden rain
On storied fields across the main,

And heard the trumpet's martial call
Sound triumph-note for brave old Gaul,
By hundreds landed on a shore
Where sabre never rang before-

By leaders who had freely bled

In wars of mighty Louis, led

Chiefs who on Steenkirk's plain had fought,

And battle's heart at Landen sought.

XII.

De Nonville with an eye of skill
Took measurement of slope and hill,

And tents were pitched, by his command,
On swells of undulating land,

Well guarded on the weaker flanks,
By water and opposing banks;
While open front, or esplanade,
Was wisely left for prompt parade,
If chance the tocsin of alarm

Should call upon the host "to arm!"
The pickets, helmeted and mailed,
For nightly vigil were detailed;
The sentinel was shown the bounds,
Wherein to pace his lonely rounds,
And in advance, the tried vidette,
To guard each pass to camp, was set.

XIII.

Their savage allies plumed for strife,
And armed with hatchet, club and knife,
In dusky groups, beneath the shade,

Their sylvan lodge and watch-fire made,
Or ranged the copse with ready bow,
To spy out trace of lurking foe;
For the fierce Huron of Lorette,

And stern Algonquin of the north,
Whose soil the Seneca had wet

With blood and tears, were going forth To crush the conqueror, and leave No mourner for the slain to grieve, If vengeance could the task achieve.

XIV.

Nose, ear and neck, with jewels hung,
And wild words of their forest tongue;
Rude quivers on the shoulder borne,
From spotted fawn and wild-cat torn ;
The gleaming cincture round the waist,
Prized ornament of savage taste;
Paint on their scowling faces spread,
In horrid streaks of black and red-
Their bucklers of defensive form,
Frail guardians in the battle storm,

Bore strange unlikeness to the dress,
Bright armor, martial haughtiness,

And discipline of soldiers, famed

Whenever "warrior" is named:

Whose charge had strewn the earth with dead While Luxemburgh and Vauban led,

Or in the combat, man to man,

Had seen with hardihood unshrinking

The plume of Conde in the van,

Where Death his reddest draught was drinking.

XV.

Tribes, who with Yonnondio came

Hereditary wrongs to right,

Abandoning pursuit of game
For issues of the doubtful fight,

Were under conduct of D'Lisle,

A man of energy

and wile;

And priest of that strange order known
From clime to clime, and zone to zone-
Whose pilgrims in the world of thought
The secret springs of knowledge sought,
And deemed it feminine to dwell,
Monastic drones, in convent cell :
Whose members, by ambition fired,
Forged fetters of religious thrall,
And tyranny o'er minds acquired

In

savage hut and lordly hall;

Braved, to extend their mystic league,
Dark peril, hunger and fatigue,
Upraised the rod of mystic sway
In distant Ind and Paragua,

Sought with the vesper hymn and psalm
Saint Lawrence and his isles of balm—
Made voluble the wooing air,
Round holy Horicon with prayer,

Nor scrupled with the cross and sword,
To head a wild, barbaric horde.

XVI.

D'Lisle made use of subtle arts
To graft his creed on savage hearts,
And won, by gift and gilded bribe,
Esteem of many a forest tribe.
Like them, he painted face and lip,

And robed his limbs in skin of beast, And sate, in joyous fellowship,

With quivered warriors at the feast;
Dark, floating Rumor linked his name,
Among his countrymen, with shame-
Some even whispered that he fled
In terror from his native clime,
And bore a keen stiletto, red
From point to hilt with crime;

And many hinted that his soul
Was far too proud for priestly stole,

And that his broad and iron hand

Could better clutch the heavy brand,
Than grasp with meek, uplifted eye,

The sacred vase or rosary.

XVII.

Night with her sombre shadows came, And on the waters dark and still, Was flung the ruddy light of flame, By beacon kindled on the hill; The muffled owl, foreboding bird, Complaining on her perch was heard; The wild beast caught the scent of men, And hurried to his brambly den; The whippoorwill beguiled the hours With tender lay in leafy bowers, Rejoicing that the time of dews Had blotted out the sunset hues, While stars, in absence of the sun, Shot forth in beauty, one by one, And bathed in rich, romantic sheen, The tops of pine and hemlock green, And gave a soft, transparent glow, To slumbering Ontario.

XVIII.

The sentry on his lonely post

Moved to and fro with iron tramp;