For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty
Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,
And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,
When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.
All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,
Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,
They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,
Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.
As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest
Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;
Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,
Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.
They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,
Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;
So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches,
Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.
By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted,
Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;
And the one to whom they bound me, 'mid the scoffs of those around me,
Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.
As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;
Less intense is lover's musing than a captive's bent on ways
To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;
So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.
There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,
Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;
Then my right hand cautious stealing, o'er my bed-mate's person feeling,
Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.
'Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,
Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber's art;
As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter
Of a snow-bird—ah! 'twas no bird! 'twas the flutter of my heart.
Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,
Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;
Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,
And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.
Thomas Dunn English.