Forth from a jet of fiery red
Leaped to its mark the deadly lead—
Dirck Bergen fell beside me dead.
To life the sleeping echoes woke,
As from each rock and tree there broke
A flash of fire, a wreath of smoke.
Then rang around us yell on yell,
As though the very fiends of hell
Had risen in that gloomy dell.
And though the foe we scarce could see,