We rode expecting death each stride From thicket depth or tree-trunk side, Where some red foe might huddle-- For well we knew that renegade, The blood-stained Girty, had not stayed His fiends from us, who rode for aid,-- The dastard he who had betrayed The pioneers of Ruddle.

And when an arrow grazed my hair I did not turn, I did not spare To spur as men spur warward: A war-whoop rang this side a rock: Then painted faces swarmed, to block Our way, with brandished tomahawk And rifle: then a shout, a shock-- And we again rode forward.

They followed; but 'twas no great while Before from them by some long mile Of forest we were sundered.

We galloped on. I'd lost my gun; And Bell, whose girth had come undone, Rode saddleless. The summer sun Was up when into Lexington Side unto side we thundered.

Too late. For Todd had left that day With many men. Decoyed away To Hoy's by some false story.

And we must after. Bryan's needs Said, "On!" although our gallant steeds Were blown--Enough! we must do deeds!

Must follow where our duty leads, Be it to death or glory.

The way was wild and often barred By trees and rocks; and it was hard To keep our hearts from sinking; But thoughts of those we'd left behind Gave strength to muscle and to mind To help us onward through the blind Deep woods. And often we would find Ourselves of loved ones thinking.

The hot stockade. No water left.

The fierce attack. All hope bereft The powder-grimed defender.

The war-cry and the groan of pain.

All day the slanting arrow-rain Of fire from the corn and cane.

The stern defence, but all in vain.

And then at last--surrender.

But not for Bryan's!--no! too well Must they remember what befell At Ruddle's and take warning.

So thought we as, all dust and sweat, We rode with faces forward set, And came to Station Boone while yet An hour from noon ... We had not let Our horses rest since morning.

Here Ellis met us with his men.

They did not stop nor tarry then.

That little band of lions; But setting out at once with aid, Right well you know how unafraid They charged the Indian ambuscade, And through a storm of bullets made Their entrance into Bryan's.

And that is all I have to tell.

No more the Huron's hideous yell Sounds to a.s.sault and slaughter.-- Perhaps to us some praise is due; But we are men, accustomed to Such dangers, which we often woo.

Much more is due our women who Brought to the Station--water.

On the Jellico Spur of the c.u.mberlands

TO J. FOX, JR.

You remember how the mist, When we climbed to Devil's Den, Pearly in the mountain glen, And above us, amethyst, Throbbed or circled? then away, Through the wildwoods opposite, Torn and scattered, morning-lit, Vanished into dewy gray?-- Vague as in romance we saw, From the fog, one riven trunk, Talon-like with branches shrunk, Thrust a monster dragon claw.

And we climbed for hours through The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, To a wooded rock that shows Undulating leagues of blue Summits; mountain-chains that lie Dark with forests; bar on bar, Ranging their irregular Purple peaks beneath a sky Soft as slumber. Range on range Billow their enormous spines, Where the rocks and priestly pines Sit eternal, without change.

We were sons of Nature then: She had taken us to her, Signalized by brier and burr, Something more to her than men: Pupils of her lofty moods, From her bloom-anointed looks, Wisdom of no man-made books Learned we in those solitudes: How the seed supplied the flower; How the sapling held the oak; How within the vine awoke The wild impulse still to tower; How in fantasy or mirth, Springing from her footsteps there, Curious fungi everywhere Bulged, exuded from the earth; Coral vegetable things, That the underworld exhaled, Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled, Many colored and in rings, Like the Indian-Pipe that grew Pink and white in loamy cracks, Flowers of a natural wax, She had turned her fancy to.-- On that laureled precipice, Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, Sweet with balsam of the firs, First we felt her mother kiss Full of heaven and the wind; While the forests, wood on wood, Murmured like a mult.i.tude Giving praise where none hath sinned.-- Freedom met us there; we saw Freedom giving audience; In her face the eloquence, Lightning-like, of love and law: Round her, with majestic hips, Lay the giant mountains; there Near her, cataracts tossed their hair, G.o.d and thunder on their lips.-- Oft an eagle, or a hawk, Or a scavenger, we knew Winged through alt.i.tudes of blue, By its shadow on the rock.

Or a cloud of templed white Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, Through the sky's pacific swirl, Shot with cool cerulean light.

So we dreamed an hour upon That warm rock the lichens mossed, While around us foliage tossed Coins, gold-minted of the sun: Then arose; and a ravine, Which a torrent once had worn, Made our roadway to the corn, In the valley, deep and green; And the farm house with its bees, Where old-fashioned flowers spun Gay rag-carpets in the sun, Hid among the apple trees.

Here we watched the twilight fall; O'er Wolf-Mountain sunset made A huge rhododendron rayed Round the sun's cloud-centered ball.

Then through scents of herb and soil, To the mining-camp we turned, In the twinkling dusk discerned With its white-washed homes of toil.

Ah, those nights!--We wandered forth On some haunted mountain path, When the moon was late, and rathe The large stars, sowed south and north, Splashed with gold the purple skies; And the milky zodiac, Rolled athwart the belted black, Seemed a path to Paradise.

And we walked or lingered till, In the valley-land beneath, Like the vapor of a breath Breathed in frost, arose the still Architecture of the mist: And the moon-dawn's necromance Touched the mist and made it glance Like a town of amethyst.

Then around us, sharp and brusque, Night's shrill insects strident strung Instruments that buzzed and sung Pixy music of the dusk.

And we seemed to hear soft sighs, And hushed steps of ghostly things, Fluttered feet or rustled wings, Moved before us. Fire-flies, Gleaming in the tangled glade, Seemed the eyes of warriors Stealing under watching stars To some midnight ambuscade; To the Indian village there, Wigwamed with the mist, that slept By the woodland side, whence crept Shadowy Shawnees of the air.

When the moon rose, like a cup Lay the valley, brimmed with wine Of mesmeric shade and shine, To the moon's pale face held up.

As she rose from out the mines Of the eastern darkness, night Met her, clad in dewy light 'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines.

As from clouds in pearly parts Her serene circ.u.mference grew, Home we turned. And all night through Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts.

A Confession

These are the facts:--I was to blame: I brought her here and wrought her shame: She came with me all trustingly.

Lovely and innocent her face: And in her perfect form, the grace Of purity and modesty.

I think I loved her then: 'would dote On her ambrosial breast and throat, Young as a blossom's tenderness: Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.

Three months pa.s.sed by; three moons of fire; When in me sickened all desire: And in its place a devil,--who Filled all my soul with deep disgust, And on the victim of my l.u.s.t Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew.

One night, when by my side she slept, I rose: and leaning, while I kept The dagger hid, I kissed her hair And throat: and, when she smiled asleep, Into her heart I drove it deep: And left her dead, still smiling there.

Lilith

Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power.

Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries may rise Within the heart when 't is its lot To love and realize.

Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream.

That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed, Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed.

Above, below, on every part A crimson shadow lay, As if the red sun streamed athwart And sunset was alway.

I know not how, I know not when, I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair.

Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows no sin or wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song.

And she was clad like the Mother of G.o.d, As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake.

Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure.

Nor why I kissed her soon and late And for her felt desire, While loathing of her pa.s.sion ate Into my soul like fire.

Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of h.e.l.l, That o'er it had no power.

Or was it that your love at last My soul so long had craved, From the sweet sin that held me fast At that last moment saved?