Chapter 11 No.11

And now 'tis still! no sound to wake

The primal forest's awful shade;

And breathless lies the covert brake,

Where many an ambushed form is laid:

I see the red-man's gleaming eye,

Yet all so hushed the gloom profound,

That summer birds flit heedlessly,

And mocking nature smiles around.

Lunt.

The eventful summer of 1776 had