But hark! The bugle echoes o'er the plains And sounds again those merry Celtic strains Which oft have called light feet to lilting dance, But now they mean the order to advance. Along the river's bank, beyond the hill Two thousand foemen lodge, unconquered still. Ere falls night's curtain on this bloody play, The army must proceed, with feint of further fray.

XXXII.

The weary warriors mount their foam-flecked steeds, With flags unfurled the dauntless host proceeds. What though the foe outnumbers two to one? Boldness achieves what strength oft leaves undone; A daring mein will cause brute force to cower, And courage is the secret source of power. As Custer's column wheels upon their sight The frightened red men yield the untried field by flight.

XXXIII.

Yet when these conquering heroes sink to rest, Dissatisfaction gnaws the leader's breast, For far away across vast seas of snows Held prisoners still by hostile Arapahoes And Cheyennes unsubdued, two captives wait. On God and Custer hangs their future fate. May the Great Spirit nerve the mortal's arm To rescue suffering souls from worse than death's alarm.

XXXIV.

But ere they seek to rescue the oppressed, The valiant dead, in state, are laid to rest. Mourned Hamilton, the faithful and the brave, Nine hundred comrades follow to the grave; And close behind the banner-hidden corse All draped in black, walks mournfully his horse; While tears of sound drip through the sunlit day. A soldier may not weep, but drums and bugles may.

XXXV.

Now, Muse, recount, how after long delays And dangerous marches through untrodden ways, Where cold and hunger on each hour attend, At last the army gains the journey's end. An Indian village bursts upon the eye; Two hundred lodges, sleep-encompassed lie, There captives moan their anguished prayers through tears, While in the silent dawn the armied answer nears.

XXXVI.

To snatch two fragile victims from the foe Nine hundred men have traversed leagues of snow. Each woe they suffered in a hostile land The flame of vengeance in their bosoms fanned. They thirst for slaughter, and the signal wait To wrest the captives from their horrid fate. Each warrior's hand upon his rifle falls, Each savage soldier's heart for awful bloodshed calls.

XXXVII.

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