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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348103" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At the Long Sault: May, 1660</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth <br> In the working earth,<br> And the wonderful moon shines bright <br> Through the soft spring night, <br> The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing <br> Far and away <br> With the sound and the perfume of May, <br> And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging,<br> The waters glitter and leap and play <br> While the grey hawk soars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But far in an open glade of the forest set <br> Where the rapid plunges and roars, <br> Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,--<br> A shelterless pen <br> With its broken palisade, <br> Behind it, musket in hand, <br> Beyond message or aid <br> In this savage heart of the wild, <br> Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men, <br> Grim and alert and arrayed, <br> The comrades of Daulac stand. <br> Ever before them, night and day, <br> The rush and skulk and cry <br> Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey;<br> Behind them the sleepless dream<br> Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream,<br> Of maiden and matron and child, <br> With ruin and murder impending, and none but they <br> To beat back the gathering horror <br> Deal death while they may, <br> And then die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Day and night they have watched while the little plain <br> Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host <br> Broke ever and melted away, with no boast <br> But to number their slain; <br> And now as the days renew <br> Hunger and thirst and care <br> Were they never so stout, so true, <br> Press at their hearts; but none <br> Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word, <br> Though each setting sun <br> Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde, <br> And only to them despair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Silent, white-faced, again and again <br> Charged and hemmed round by furious hands, <br> Each for a moment faces them all and stands <br> In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose <br> Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack, <br> Have chased all night, all day <br> Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose; <br> And he turns at last in his track <br> Against a wall of rock and stands at bay; <br> Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel <br> They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel, <br> Hither and thither over the trampled snow, <br> He tosses them bleeding and torn; <br> Till, driven, and ever to and fro <br> Harried, wounded, and weary grown, <br> His mighty strength gives way <br> And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So Daulac turned him anew<br> With a ringing cry to his men<br> In the little raging forest glen,<br> And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew.<br> And all his comrades stood<br> With their backs to the pales, and fought<br> Till their strength was done;<br> The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke<br> Each struck his last wild stroke,<br> And they fell one by one,<br> And the world that had seemed so good<br> Passed like a dream and was naught.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And then the great night came<br> With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame<br> Of the camp-fires.<br> Out of the dark the soft wind woke,<br> The song of the rapid rose alway<br> And came to the spot where the comrades lay,<br> Beyond help or care,<br> With none but the red men round them<br> To gnash their teeth and stare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> All night by the foot of the mountain<br> The little town lieth at rest,<br> The sentries are peacefully pacing;<br> And neither from East nor from West</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Is there rumour of death or of danger;<br> None dreameth tonight in his bed<br> That ruin was near and the heroes<br> That met it and stemmed it are dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But afar in the ring of the forest,<br> Where the air is so tender with May<br> And the waters are wild in the moonlight,<br> They lie in their silence of clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The numberless stars out of heaven<br> Look down with a pitiful glance;<br> And the lilies asleep in the forest<br> Are closed like the lilies of France.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348103" data-title="At the Long Sault: May, 1660 de Archibald Lampman" data-description="Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth 
 In the working earth,
 And the wonderful moon shines bright 
 Through the soft spring night, 
 The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing 
 Far and away 
 With the sound and the perfu..."></div>
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