THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE.

66

IN that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,

By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs

And the menace of their wrath.

Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
"Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags reëchoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,

In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare

The White Chief with yellow hair

And his three hundred men

Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant band

Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore

The brave heart, that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong?
Sing it, O funeral song,

With a voice that is full of tears,
And say that our broken faith
Wrought all this ruin and scathe,
In the Year of a Hundred Years.

TO THE RIVER YVETTE.

O LOVELY river of Yvette !

O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide.

Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre,
See and salute thee on thy way,
And, with a blessing and a prayer,
Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget.

The valley of Chevreuse in vain

Would hold thee in its fond embrace;
Thou glidest from its arms again
And hurriest on with swifter pace.

Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet,
Pursuing still thine onward flight,

Thou goest as one in haste to meet
Her sole desire, her heart's delight.

O lovely river of Yvette!

O darling stream! on balanced wings
The wood-birds sang the chansonnette
That here a wandering poet sings.

THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE.

"Combien faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur?" A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent. H. W. L.

ON St. Bavon's tower, commanding

Half of Flanders, his domain,

Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing

Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,

With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent ;
As a routed army rallies,

Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went.

"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"
Cried Duke Alva as he gazed ;
"Haunt of traitors and deceivers,
Stronghold of insurgent weavers,
Let it to the ground be razed!"

On the Emperor's cap the feather
Nods, as laughing he replies:
"How many skins of Spanish leather,
Think you, would, if stitched together,
Make a glove of such a size?"

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET.

OCTOBER, 1746.

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur.

Written at the instance of the Rev. E. E. Hale, when efforts were making to save from destruction the Old South Meeting House in Boston. Mr. Hale sent Mr. Longfellow a passage out of Hutchinson's history, and referred him to Prince's Thanksgiving sermon, given at the Old South in 1746.

A FLEET with flags arrayed
Sailed from the port of Brest,

And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray !

"O Lord! we would not advise; But if in thy Providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide,

Or sink it in the sea,
We should be satisfied,
And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,
For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came;
It came with a mighty power,
Shaking the windows and walls,
And tolling the bell in the tower,
As it tolls at funerals.