De Orville had not been idle,
But detached the brave Le Jeune
To turn their flank by the marshlands,
And, in the onset, soon
To fall on the rear of Mitwaos
With the deadly musketoons—
Two score of valiant Frenchmen,
With volleys by platoons.
The shouts of the enraged combatants,
As on each other they fell,
And the roar of the musketoons
Seemed as a blast from hell!
The air was hissing with arrows,
As they closed in the strife;
Spear, tomahawk, knife, and warclub
Drank many a Frenchman’s life.
But the lance, the sword, and halberd
Do well their deadly work;
Not once do those gallant Frenchmen
The fiery ordeal shirk.
Ha! see, where the fight grows deadly,
Meet de Orville and Mitwaos—
Proudly seeking each other,
Their deadly weapons cross.
And as the red lightning’s flash
They come to the fierce assault,
And mighty blows fall fast like hail;
They spring like panthers, and vault,
To thrust, to guard, and to ward
The crushing blow of the brands,
Followed swift by skilful strokes
Delivered by master hands.
De Orville is cool and collected,
With sinews strong as steel;
Mitwaos he hath sorely wounded—
Ah! see the totter and reel
Of the unyielding chieftain,
Who sinks, aye, sinks and dies!
And the Ojibways’ hearts are broken;
List to their mournful cries!
Just then from the south came crashing
The fire of brave Le Jeune;
And the red men fell thick and fast
To the roar of musketoon.
Assailed from the front and the rear,
And their brave chieftain dead,
A panic seized upon them,
And they turned by the shore and fled!
Fled southward, beyond the hillocks,
Leaving their wounded and slain—
Never again to know freedom,
But degradation and pain!
There was mourning in the wigwams
For the braves that came no more—
Gone to be with Manitou—
And the nation’s heart is sore.
And many an Indian maiden
Pined in the cedar shade,
And the tender Singing Redbird
Soon in her grave was laid;
And many an Indian mother,
Once joyous as the day,
Mourned for her sons death-silenced,
And forever hid away.
And the old men sit in silence
Beside the sobbing shore;
Hushed is the song and laughter,
It resoundeth nevermore
Through cedar and pine glades ever
Rustling to and fro,
Just as the winds caressed them
Three hundred years ago!