Wielding with sinewy arms and savage cries
Their flinty spears and tomahawks of stone. 
Erect old bruin growls upon his foes,
And swings with mighty power his ponderous paws—­
Woe unto him who feels the crushing blow—­
Till, bleeding from an hundred wounds and blind,
With sudden plunge he falls at last, and dies
Amid the shouts of his wild enemies. 
So fought the Spartan few, till one by one,
They fell surrounded by a wall of foes. 
The river boiled beneath the storm of lead;
Weighed down with wounded comrades many sunk,
But more went down with bullets in their heads. 
O! it was pitiful.  The outstretched hands
Of men that erst had faced the battle-storm
Unshaken, grasping now in wild despair,
Wrung cries of pity from us.  Vain our fire—­
The range too long—­it fell upon our friends;
At which the foemen yelled their mad delight. 
A storm of bullets poured upon the boat,
Mangling the mangled on her, till at last,
Shattered and over-laden, suddenly
She made a lurch to leeward and went down.

“A shallow boat lay moored upon the shore;
Our gallant Colonel called for volunteers
In mercy’s name to man it and push out. 
But all could see the peril.  Stout the heart
Would dare to face the raging flood and fire,
And to his call responded not a man—­
Save Paul and one who perished at the helm. 
They went as if at bugle-call to drill;
Their comrades said, ‘They never will return.’ 
Stoutly and steadily Paul rowed the boat
Athwart the turbid river’s sullen tide,
And reached the wounded struggling in the flood. 
Bravely they worked away and lifted in
The helpless till the boat would hold no more;
Others they helped to holds upon the rails,
Then pulled away the over-laden craft. 
We cheered them from the shore.  The maddened foe
With furious volleys answered—­hitting oft
The little craft of mercy—­hands anon
Let go their holds and sunk into the deep. 
And in that storm Paul’s gallant comrade fell. 
Trimming his craft with caution Paul could make
But little headway with a single oar—­
Clutched in despair and madly wrenched away
By drowning souls the other.  Firm and cool
Paul stood unscathed; then fell a sudden shower
That broke his bended oar-stem at the blade. 
Down to the brink we crept and stretched our hands,
And shouted, ‘Overboard, Paul! and save yourself.’

“He stood a moment as if all were lost,
Then caught the rope, and stretching forth his hand,
Waved to the foe and plunged into the flood. 
Slowly he towed the clumsy craft and swam,
Down-drifting with the rapid, rolling stream. 
Cheering him on adown the shore we ran;
The current lent its aid and bore him in
Toward us, and beyond the range at last
Of foemen’s fire he safely came to land,
Mooring his boat amid a storm of cheers.