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JAMES HUTCHINSON.
The river is forded, the frontier is passed,
And they reach the lone village by midnight at last:
Would you gather its fate? In the darkness of night
The forests around it are red in its light.
Its dwellers have fled, in the wild woods to roam;
All roofless and black is the place of their home;
And their daughters, dishonoured, are weeping in vain,
Nor will boast of their pride and their scorning again.
