De Orville became suspicious
Of the distant, sullen mood
Of the Ojibways, and took counsel
And the usual course pursued;
Facing the impending danger,
Placed sentries on the rounds,
Alert to the slightest movement,
Awake to the faintest sounds.
The fires were allowed to smoulder,
And, fearing no alarms,
Their appointments in good order,
In ranks they lay on their arms.
But Le Jeune, whose tour of duty
Was at the midnight drear,
Was disturbed by sounds peculiar
That fell weirdly on the ear.
The hoot of the owl repeated,
The cry of whippoorwill,
Nearer, and ever nearer,
Through darkness dense and still.
Then swiftly rousing de Orville,
They learn the foe is nigh,
And quietly rouse the voyageurs,
Prepared to win or die.
So coolly they wait the onset,
And just at the dawn’s pale light
Comes a flight of hissing arrows,
And on the fading night
Bursts a yell all fierce and hideous,
As, opening the affray,
By a wild rush to overwhelm
They hope to win the day.
But bursts the crash of arquebuse
And roar of musketoon,
And the fatal stroke of halberd,
And swords that deal death’s doom.
And the Ojibways reel backward
With many a brave laid low,
Close beside the silver waters,
With their gentle ebb and flow.
But the Ojibways, though repellèd,
Are firm and undismayed;
And fiercely they rush down again
From the dense cedar shade.
Preceded by a hail of arrows,
With tomahawk, spear, and knife,
They spring to deadly encounter,
Hand to hand, and life for life!
But again out-crash the arquebuse,
And roar the musketoons;
Delivered is the scathing fire
By sections and platoons.
The brave Ojibways are falling fast,
But they fiercely press the foe,
And shouts and cries are ringing
As they stagger to and fro.
And stern Mitwaos, unflinching,
A lofty soul so brave,
Calmly and proudly directing,
Death-dealing strokes he gave.
And on the right, Leaping Panther,
Gallantly leading the way,
By example to his warriors
Must surely win the day.
Lone Wolf on the left is foremost,
An avalanche in the storm
Of battle, sternly raging there
On that September morn!
Again they are driven backward,
With ranks bloody and torn;
But they rally, and charge again,
Though of many red braves shorn.
Once more for their homes and nation—
They’ll leap on the foe once more,
And wrest from him the victory,
Or die by Pelee’s shore.
Again rose their shout of defiance,
Their bosoms were aflame;
And those fearless, dusky heroes
Rushed to the carnage again.