Though many an arm hung weaponless,
The clenched fingers spake full well
The stern resolve, the fearlessness,
That danger could not quell.
Yet some, with hasty hand,

The rust-encumbered brand

Had snatched from its peaceful sleep, And held it now with a grasp that told A freeman's life should be dearly sold'Twas courage stern and deep!

Proudly, as conquerors come

From a field their arms have won,

With bugle blast and beat of drum,

The Briton host came on!

Their banners unfurled and gayly streaming;
Their burnished arms in the sunlight gleaming;
Fearless of evil, with valor high,

And in reckless glee, they were idly dreaming
Of a bloodless triumph nigh.

The heavy tread of the war-horse prancing,
The lightning gleam of the bayonets glancing,
Broke on the ear and flashed on the eye,
As the columned foe, in their strength advancing,
Pealed their war-notes to the echoing sky!
'Twas a gallant band that marshalled there,
With the dragon-flag upborne in air;
For England gathered then her pride,
The harvest of a warrior land-

Names to heroic deeds allied,

The strong of heart and hand

They came in their panoplied might,

In the pride of their chivalrous name; For music to them were the sounds of the fight, On the red carnage-field was their altar of fame. They came as the ocean-wave comes in its wrath,

When the storm-spirit frowns on the deep;
They came as the mountain-wind comes on its path,
When the tempest has roused it from sleep.

They were met as the rock meets the wave,
And dashes its fury to air;

They were met as the foe should be met by the brave,
With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair!

What power hath stayed that wild career!
Not mercy's voice, nor a thrill of fear-
'Tis the dread recoil of the dooming wave,
Ere it sweeps the bark to its yawning grave;
"Tis the fearful hour of the brooding storm,
Ere the lightning-bolt hath sped.

The shock hath come, and the life-blood warm
Congeals on the breast of the dead!

The strife, the taunt, the death-cry loud,
Are pealing through the sulphurous cloud,
As, hand to hand, each foe engages,
While hearts that ne'er to monarch bowed,
And belted knights to the combat crowd-

A fearless throng the contest wages.
And eye to eye-the meek, the proud-
Meet darkly 'neath the battle-shroud.

"Tis the feast of death where the conflict rages!

Their cherished comes no more! Wo! for the broken-hearted

The lone one by the hearth; Wo! for the bliss departed,

The Pleiad gone from earth! 'Twas a day of changeful fate

For the foe of the bannered line,

And the host that came at morn in state,

Were a broken throng ere the sun's decline;

And many a warrior's heart was cold,
And many a soaring spirit crushed,
Where the crimson tide of battle rolled,
And the avenging legions rushed.

Wreaths for the living conqueror,
And glory's meed for the perished!
No sculptor's art may their forms restore,
But the hero-names are cherished.
When voiced on the wind rose the patriot-call,
They gave no thought to the glory pall,
But pressed to the fight as a festival!
They bared them to the sabre-stroke,
Nor quailed an eye when the fury broke;
They fought like men who dared to die,
For freedom was their battle-cry,

And loud it rang through the conflict smoke!
Up with the nation's banners! They fly

With an eagle-flight,

To the far blue sky;

'Tis a glorious sight,

As they float abroad in the azure light, And their fame shall never die!

When nations search their brightest page
For deeds that gild the olden age,

Shining the meteor lights of story,
England with swelling pride shall hear
Of Cressy's field, and old Poictiers,
And deathless Agincourt;

Fair Gallia point with a kindling eye
To the days of her belted chivalry,
And her gallant troubadour;

Old Scotia, too, with joy shall turn
Where beams the field of Bannockburn,
And Stirling's field of glory!

Land of the free! though young in fame,
Earth may not boast a nobler name;
Platæa's splendor is not thine,
Leuctra, nor Marathon;

Yet look where lives in glory's line,
The day of Lexington!

BUNKER HILL.

GEORGE H. CALVERT.

[The Americans attempted to annoy, and, if possible, to dislodge the British forces in Boston. On the 16th of June, 1775, a breastwork was thrown up on Bunker's Hill, Charlestown, and so silently that it was nearly finished before the British discovered it at daybreak, and began to cannonade the work from the ships. From the failure of ammunition, the Americans were obliged to retreat. Gen. Warren was killed and Charlestown laid in ashes.]

66

"NOT yet, not yet; steady, steady!"

On came the foe in even line,

Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.

We looked into their eyes.

A sheet of flame; a roll of death!

They fell by scores; we held our breath!

Then nearer still they came.

Another sheet of flame;

And brave men fled who never fled before.

Immortal fight!

Foreshadowing flight

Back to the astounded shore.

Quickly they rallied, reënforced,
'Mid louder roar of ships' artillery,
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry,
And shouts and groans anear, afar,

All the new din of dreadful war.

Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood's birthright claiming.

Onward once more they came:
Another sheet of deathful flame!

Another and another still.

They broke, they fled;

Again they sped

Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,

Stormed with commanders' rage.

Into each emptied barge

They crowd fresh men for a new charge

Up that great hill.

Again their gallant blood we spill.

That volley was the last:

Our powder failed.

On three sides fast

The foe pressed in; nor quailed

A man.

Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks

They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,
Till Prescott ordered the retreat.

Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet