With breath suspended, now the whole command Waits the approach of that equestrian band. Nearer it comes, still nearer, then a cry, Half sob, half shriek, goes piercing God's blue sky, And Brewster, like a nimble-footed doe, Or like an arrow hurrying from a bow, Shoots swiftly through the intervening space And that lost sister clasps, in sorrowing love's embrace.

XLIV.

And men who leaned o'er Hamilton's rude bier And saw his dead dear face without a tear, Strong souls who early learned the manly art Of keeping from the eye what's in the heart, Soldiers who look unmoved on death's pale brow, Avert their eyes, to hide their moisture now. The briny flood forced back from shores of woe, Needs but to touch the strands of joy to overflow.

XLV.

About the captives welcoming warriors crowd, All eyes are wet, and Brewster sobs aloud. Alas, the ravage wrought by toil and woe On faces that were fair twelve moons ago. Bronzed by exposure to the heat and cold, Still young in years, yet prematurely old, By insults humbled and by labor worn, They stand in youth's bright hour, of all youth's graces shorn.

XLVI.

A scanty garment rudely made of sacks Hangs from their loins; bright blankets drape their backs; About their necks are twisted tangled strings Of gaudy beads, while tinkling wire and rings Of yellow brass on wrists and fingers glow. Thus, to assuage the anger of the foe The cunning Indians decked the captive pair Who in one year have known a lifetime of despair.

XLVII.

But love can resurrect from sorrow's tomb The vanished beauty and the faded bloom, As sunlight lifts the bruised flower from the sod, Can lift crushed hearts to hope, for love is God. Already now in freedom's glad release The hunted look of fear gives place to peace, And in their eyes at thought of home appears That rainbow light of joy which brightest shines through tears.

XLVIII.

About the leader thick the warriors crowd; Late loud in censure, now in praises loud, They laud the tactics, and the skill extol Which gained a bloodless yet a glorious goal. Alone and lonely in the path of right Full many a brave soul walks. When gods requite And crown his actions as their worth demands, Among admiring throngs the hero always stands.

XLIX.

 Prev. P 52/60 next