[Conclusion in our next.
THE BLOCKHOUSE.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
Upon yon hillock in this valley's midst,
Where the low crimson sun lies sweetly now
On corn-fields—clustered trees—and meadows wide
Scattered with rustic homesteads, once there stood
A blockhouse, with its loop-holes, pointed roof,
Wide jutting stories, and high base of stone.
A hamlet of rough log-built cabins stood
Beside it; here a band of settlers dwelt.
One of the number, a gray stalwort man,
Still lingers on the crumbling shores of Time.
Old age has made him garrulous, and oft
I've listened to his talk of other days
In which his youth bore part. His eye would then
Flash lightning, and his trembling hand would clench
His staff, as if it were a rifle grasped
In readiness for the foe.
"One summer's day,"
Thus he commenced beside a crackling hearth
Whilst the storm roared without, "a fresh bright noon,
Us men were wending homeward from the fields,
Where all the breezy morning we had toiled.
I paused a moment on a grassy knoll
And glanced around. Our scythes had been at work,
And here and there a meadow had been shorn
And looked like velvet; still the grain stood rich;
The brilliant sunshine sparkled on the curves
Of the long drooping corn-leaves, till a veil
Of light seemed quivering o'er the furrowed green.
The herds were grouped within the pasture-fields,
And smokes curled lazily from the cabin-roofs.
'T was a glad scene, and as I looked my heart
Swelled up to Heaven in fervent gratitude.
Ha! from the circling woods what form steals out
Strait in my line of vision, then shrinks back!
'The savage! haste, men, haste! away, away!
The bloody savage!' 'T was that perilous time
When our young country stood in arms for right
And freedom, and, within the forests, each
Worked with his loaded rifle at his back.
We all unslung our weapons, and with hearts
Nerving for trial, flew toward our homes.
We reached them as wild whoopings filled the air,
And dusky forms came bounding from the woods.
We pressed toward the blockhouse, with our wives
And children madly shrieking in our midst.
But ere we reached it, like a torrent dashed
Our tawny foes amongst us. Oh that scene
Of dread and horror! Knives and tomahawks
Darted and flashed. In vain we poured our shots
From our long rifles; breast to breast, in vain,
And eye to eye, we fought. My comrades dropped
Around me, and their scalps were wrenched away
As they lay writhing. From our midst our wives
Were torn and brained; our shrieking infants dashed
Upon the bloody earth, until our steps
Were clogged with their remains. Still on we pressed
With our clubbed rifles, sweeping blow on blow;
But, one by one, my bleeding comrades fell,
Until my brother and myself alone
Remained of all our band. My wife had clung
Close to my side throughout the horrid strife,
I, warding off each blow, and struggling on.
And now we three were near the blockhouse-door,
Closed by a secret spring. My brother first
Its succor reached; it opened at his touch.
Just then an Indian darted to my side
And grasped my trembling wife"—the old man paused
And veiled his eyes, whilst shudderings shook his frame
As the wind shakes the leaf. "I saw her, youth,
Sink with one bitter shriek beneath the edge
Of his red, swooping hatchet. Turned to stone
I stood an instant, but my brother's hand
Dragged me within the blockhouse. As the door
Closed to the spring, and quick my brother thrust
The heavy bars athwart, for I was sick
With horror, piercing whoops of baffled rage
Echoed without. Recovering from my deep,
O'erwhelming stupor, as I heard those sounds
My veins ran liquid flame; with iron grasp
I clenched my rifle. From the loops we poured
Quick shots upon the foe, who, shrinking back,
To the low cabin-roofs applied the brand—
Up with fierce fury flashed the greedy flames.
Just then my brother thrust his head from out
A loop—quick cracked a rifle, and he fell
Dead on the planks. With yells that froze my blood,
A score of warriors at the blockhouse-door
Heaped a great pile of boughs. A streak of fire
Ran like a serpent through it, and then leaped
Broad up the sides. Through every loop-hole poured
Deep smoke, with now and then a fiery flash.
The air grew thick and hot, until I seemed
To breathe but flame. I staggered to a loop.
Dancing around with flourished tomahawks
I saw my horrid foes. But ha! that glimpse!
Again! oh can it be my wavering sight!
No, no, forms break from out the forest depths,
And hurry onward; gleaming arms I see.
Joy, joy, 't is coming succor! Swift they come,
Swift as the wind. The swarthy warriors gaze
Like startled deer. Crash, crash, now peal the shots
Amongst them, and with looks of fierce despair
They group together, aim a scattered fire,
Then seek to break with tomahawk and knife
Through the advancing circle, but in vain,
They fall beneath the stalwort blows of men
Who long had suffered under savage hate.
Hunters and settlers of the valley roused
At length to vengeance. With a rapid hand
The blockhouse-door I opened and rushed out,
Wielding my rifle. Youth, this arm is old
And withered now, but every blow I struck
Then made the blood-drops spatter to my brow,
Until I bathed in crimson. With deep joy
I felt the iron sink within the brain
And clatter on the bone, until the stock
Snapped from the barrel. But the fight soon passed,
And as the last red foe beneath my arm
Dropped dead, I sunk exhausted at the feet
Of my preservers. A wild, murky gloom,
Filled with fierce eyes, fell round me, but kind Heaven
Lifted at length the blackness; on my soul
The keen glare fell no more, and I arose
With the blue sky above me, and the earth
Laughing around in all its glorious beauty.
