Poems of American Patriotism - Various

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that made those heroes dare

       To die, or leave their children free,

       Bid Time and Nature gently spare

       The shaft we raise to them and thee.

       Table of Contents

      V. B. WILSON

      [Sidenote: May 10, 1775] After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold, seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of great service. From its chime of bells, the French called Ticonderoga "Carillon."

      The cold, gray light of the dawning

       On old Carillon falls,

       And dim in the mist of the morning

       Stand the grim old fortress walls.

       No sound disturbs the stillness

       Save the cataract's mellow roar,

       Silent as death is the fortress,

       Silent the misty shore.

      But up from the wakening waters

       Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,

       Lifting the banner of Britain,

       And whispering to the trees

       Of the swift gliding boats on the waters

       That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,

       With the old Green Mountain Lion,

       And his daring patriot band.

      But the sentinel at the postern

       Heard not the whisper low;

       He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon

       As he walks on his beat to and fro,

       Of the starry eyes in Green Erin

       That were dim when he marched away,

       And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,

       'T is the first for many a day.

      A sound breaks the misty stillness,

       And quickly he glances around;

       Through the mist, forms like towering giants

       Seem rising out of the ground;

       A challenge, the firelock flashes,

       A sword cleaves the quivering air,

       And the sentry lies dead by the postern,

       Blood staining his bright yellow hair.

      Then, with a shout that awakens

       All the echoes of hillside and glen,

       Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,

       Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.

       The scarce wakened troops of the garrison

       Yield up their trust pale with fear;

       And down comes the bright British banner,

       And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.

      Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens

       With crimson and gold are ablaze;

       And up springs the sun in his splendor

       And flings down his arrowy rays,

       Bathing in sunlight the fortress,

       Turning to gold the grim walls,

       While louder and clearer and higher

       Rings the song of the waterfalls.

      Since the taking of Ticonderoga

       A century has rolled away;

       But with pride the nation remembers

       That glorious morning in May.

       And the cataract's silvery music

       Forever the story tells,

       Of the capture of old Carillon,

       The chime of the silver bells.

       Table of Contents

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [Sidenote: June 17, 1775]

      'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one

       remembers

       All the achings and the quakings of "the times that

       tried men's souls";

       When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

      I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;

       Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;

       But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,

       When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

      'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave

       us warning

       Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:

       "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this

       noise and clatter?

       Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

       Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking

       To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:

       She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,

       When the Mohawks killed her father, with their bullets through

       his door.

      Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,

       For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;

       There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"—

       For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.

      No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;

       Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;

       God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her

       flowing,

       How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!

      In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping

       Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,

       With a knot of women round him—it was lucky I had found

       him—

       So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

      They were making for the steeple—the old soldier and his people;

       The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,

       Just across the narrow river—O, so close it made me shiver!—

       Stood a fortress on the hilltop that but yesterday was bare.

      Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,

       Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the

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