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THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms
Last Line: The land so hardly won!
Subject(s): Narragansett, Battle Of (1675); Philip, King (native American Chief); Metacomet; King Philip's War (1675-76)


I

OH, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms,
And hear the tale I tell,
From Pettaquamscut town I come,
Now hear what there befell.

The houses stand upon the hill,
Not large, each house is full,
But largest of them all there stood
The house of Justice Bull

'T was there the court sat every year,
The governor came in state,
From there the couriers through the town
Served summons soon and late.

And there, 't is but three years agone,
George Fox preached, you remember;
That was in May when he preached peace,
And now it is December.

Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God,
How can there be true peace,
When war and tumult stalk at night,
And deeds of blood increase?

Revenge, revenge, good captains bold,
Revenge, my people cry;
Where stood the house of Justice Bull
But piled-up ashes lie.

How fared it then, who may dare tell?
The shutters barred the light,
As one by one the windows closed,
And all was black as night.

Strong was the house, and strong brave men
All armed lay down to sleep,
And women fair, and children, too,
They were to guard and keep.

And then a horror in the night,
And shouts, and fire, and knives,
And demons yelling in delight,
As men fought for their lives.

And where there stood that goodly house
And lived those goodly men,
Full seven goodly souls are gone.
Revenge, we cry again!

II

Up, up, ye men of English blood!
The gallant governor cried,
And we shall dare to find their lair,
Where'er it be they hide.

For never men of English blood
Could brook so foul a deed,
For all these sins the fierce redskins
Shall reap their lawful meed.

Up rose the little army then,
All armed as best they could,
With pike and sword and axes broad,
Flint-locks and staves of wood.

And motley was the company,
Recruits from wood and field,
But strong young men were with them then,
Who'd sooner die than yield.

Connecticut had sent her men
With Major Robert Treat;
Each colony in its degree
Sent in its quota meet.

And Massachusetts led the way,
And Plymouth had next post,
Winslow commands the gathered bands,
A thousand men they boast.

The winter sun hung in the sky
And frost bound all things fast;
As they set forth, from out the north,
There blew a bitter blast.

The meadow grass was stiff with rime,
The frozen brook lay dead;
Like stone did sound the frozen ground
Beneath the martial tread.

All day they marched in bitter cold,
And when, as fell the night,
They reached the hill and gazed their fill
Upon the piteous sight,

No need to urge the rapid chase,
The cinders did that well,
And in the air a woman's hair
Told more than words could tell.

In stern resolve they lay them down,
For rest they needed sore,
But long ere dawn the swords were drawn
And open stood the door.

Out to the gloom of morning passed
Full silently those men,
And what 'twixt light and fall of night
Should come, no soul might ken.

III

They turned their faces toward the west,
The morning air was cold,
And softly stepped, while still men slept,
With courage high and bold.

An Indian they met ere long,
'T was Peter, whom they knew;
They asked their way, naught would he say,
To his own comrades true.

In anger cried the governor:
Then let the man be hung,
For he can tell, he knows full well,
So let him find his tongue.

To save his life that wretched man
Agreed to be their guide,
As they marched on, the Indian
Marched onward by their side.

And soon they reached a dreadful swamp,
With cedar trees o'ergrown,
And thick and dark with dead trees stark
And great trunks lying prone.

'T was frozen hard, and Indians there!
They fired as they ran,
And with a bound that spurned the ground
The fierce assault began.

And then a wonder in the wood, --
A little rising ground,
With palisade for shelter made
Of timber planted round.

And but one place of entrance there
Across a watery way,
A tall felled tree gave access free,
From shore to shore it lay.

Full many a gallant man that day
His life left at that tree,
The bravest men pressed forward then,
And there fell captains three.

A dreadful day, and of our men
Short work would have been made,
But that by grace they found a place
Weak in the palisade.

Then they poured in, within the fort
Soon filled with Indians dead,
And many a one great deeds had done
Within that place of dread.

Then with a torch the whole was fired,
The wigwams caught the blaze,
The fire roared and spread abroad
And fed on tubs of maize.

The night came on, the governor called,
The soldiers gathered round;
The fort was theirs, and dying prayers
Were rising from the ground.

With care they gathered up their dead,
The few who had been spared,
All through the cold, in pain untold.
To Warwick they repaired.

So was the Indians' power gone,
Avenged were Englishmen,
For from the night of that Swamp fight
They never rose again.

In Narragansett there was peace,
The soldiers went their way,
All that remains are some few grains
Of corn parched on that day.

Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain,
The Indians, they are gone.
Please God we use, and not abuse
The land so hardly won!





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