Vii

Dead leaves and stricken boughs She heaped o'er the fallen form-- Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm Him from his rest should rouse; But first, with solemn vows, Took rifle, pouch, and horn, And the belt that he had worn. Then, onward pressing fast Through the forest rude and vast, Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd, Many bitter days she marched With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain; One thought always throbbing through her brain: "They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'-- They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'"