King Philip’s Last Stand Poem by Clinton Scollard

‘T Was Captain Church, bescarred and brown,
And armed cap-a-pie.
Came ambling into Plymouth-town;
And from far riding up and down
A weary man was he.

Now, where is my good wife? he quoth
Before the goodmen all;
And they replied, What of thine oath ?
And he looked on them lorn and loath,
As he were like to fall,

What of thine oath ? to him they cried,
And wilt thou let him slip
Who harrieth fair New England-side
Till every path is slaughter-dyed, —
The murderous King Philip!

His cheek went flush and swelled his girth;
Upon him be God's ban !
His voice ran loud in grisly mirth:
Now, who with me will run to earth
This bloody Indian ?

Then I! and I! the lusty peal
Made thrill the Plymouth air;
And forth with him for woe or weal,
Their hands agrip on musket-steel,
Hied many a godly pair.

They sped them through the summer-land
By ferry and by ford.
Until they saw before them stand
A redman of that cursèd band,
His features ochre-scored.

Would the pale-faces find, he said,
Where lurks their fiercest foe ?
Now, by the spirit of the dead, —
My brother, whose heart's blood he shed, —
Follow, and they shall know I

This Indian brave, they followed him;
In caution crawled and crept;
Till in a marish deep and dim
They came to where the Sachem grim
In leafy hiding slept.

(The quiet August morn's at bud,
King Philip, woe's the day!
And woe that one of thine own blood,
Now that ill-fortune roars to flood,
Should be the man to slay!)

Around him spread a girdling line;
The fatal snare was laid;
And when down aisles of birch and pine
They saw the first slant sun-rays shine,
They sprang their ambuscade.

And did he slink, or did he shrink
From that relentless ring?
Nay, not a coward did he sink.
But leaped across Death's darkling brink
A savage, yet a king!

Then unto him whose bolt of lead .
Had struck King Philip down.
They gave the Sachem's hand and head;
Then back they marched, with triumph tread.
To joyful Plymouth-town.

On Philip's name a bloody blot
The white man's writ has thrown, —
The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot;
And yet what one of us would not
Do battle for his own !