September bade the sail of Pontgrave
Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation;
October deckt the shores and hills with “gay
Prognostics of approaching desolation.”
Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom,
Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress,
And chill November, sombre as the tomb,
Sank on the vast primeval wilderness.
Inexorable winter's iron vice
Gript hard the land, funereal with snow;
The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice;
A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low
In death, and left the dauntless leader eight
With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate.