Still from each bush and rock and tree
He poured his fire incessantly.
From a sheltering trunk I glanced around—
Dying and dead bestrewed the ground,
Though some by flight scant safety found.
Ay, flight! as Herkimer had said,
Appalled at blood-drops raining red,
The rear-guard all like dastards fled.
But Herkimer blenched not—clearer, then,
His accents rang throughout the glen,