Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/396

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378

DEATH OF WOODHULL.

Full twenty foes about his head
Their glittering sabres flung,
And down, on his uplifted blade,
Swift blows descending rung!

But soon he ceased such fruitless strife,
And now for quarter cried,
Yet vainly begged a prisoner's life,
For thus the foe replied:

"Who will not say 'God save the King,'
No mercy here shall find;
These are the terms from George we bring;
Art thou to these inclined?

"If thou wilt straight pronounce these words,
We grant thy traitor's prayer,
And, peaceful sheathed, our loyal swords
Thy rebel life shall spare!

"But if this offer thou refuse,
Thy doom is instant death;
Then speak! thy life to save or lose!
It hangs on thy next breath!"

The chief, indignant, answering, spake,
"Your mercy then I spurn,
On such base terms my life to take,
Proud haughty foe I scorn!

"I freely say 'God save us all,'
Those words include your King;
If more ye ask, then must I fall,
Nought else from me ye'll wring."

"No! rebel, no, 'tis not enough,"
On every side he heard;
"And since thou art such stubborn stuff,
Lo! thus we keep our word!"

Then straightway, showering thick as hail,
Their cruel blows they dealt.
Their countless weapons fiercely fell,
And many an edge he felt!

Yet still he held his trusty sword
Upraised above his head,
And feebly strove his life to guard
While he profusely bled!