 | The battle of Niagara |  |
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CANTO IV.
Evening continued ..... preparations for battle ..... British occupy an eminence ..... Americans approach ..... battle on the wings ..... Americans carry the British artillery at the point of the bayonet ..... three successive attempts made by the British to dislodge the Americans, and regain the height .....Americans remain in possession ..... Niagara.
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AWAY, away,—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle, in wrath, is coming!
A flock of young vultures are poising their wings
And the untrodden solitude rings,
With voices—and trumpets—and drumming!
From away in the cloudless air,
Where all is so soft and serene—
That never a speck can be seen,
There comes a cry,
As if it were
Some unseen eaglet in the sky,
Stooping down on her shrieking, invisible prey;
And the dim arch of heaven is bright
With the luminous flight,
Of birds—flocking upward—all red
With the bloodiest tint that the sun ever shed:
Swarming out from the mist—where the water rolls white—
And scaling away in the changeable light,
As if warmed into life by the sun-setting ray:
Coming out from the clouds—they emerge—
Like the birds of the sea from the surge,
When they trim their bright wings on the billow verge;
And dashing their plumes in the brilliant foam—
Arch their necks in the sun, as he stoops to his home—
All lovely in light—and sublime in display!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle, in wrath, is coming!
A flock of young vultures are poising their wings
And the untrodden solitude rings,
With voices—and trumpets—and drumming!
From away in the cloudless air,
Where all is so soft and serene—
That never a speck can be seen,
There comes a cry,
As if it were
Some unseen eaglet in the sky,
Stooping down on her shrieking, invisible prey;
And the dim arch of heaven is bright
With the luminous flight,
Of birds—flocking upward—all red
With the bloodiest tint that the sun ever shed:
Swarming out from the mist—where the water rolls white—
And scaling away in the changeable light,
As if warmed into life by the sun-setting ray:
150
Like the birds of the sea from the surge,
When they trim their bright wings on the billow verge;
And dashing their plumes in the brilliant foam—
Arch their necks in the sun, as he stoops to his home—
All lovely in light—and sublime in display!
Now the rising air brings
The faint touching of strings,
From caverns—where harpers have never been heard;
As if—in each green silent place,
Where ancient bards had been interred,
Their spirits rose again to trace,
In low—prophetic murmurings,
Just like the soft approach of wings,
The fate of yonder host, that come—
Unhallowed—to intrude—
With banner—blade—and horn and drum—
Upon their charmed solitude:
The faint touching of strings,
From caverns—where harpers have never been heard;
As if—in each green silent place,
Where ancient bards had been interred,
Their spirits rose again to trace,
In low—prophetic murmurings,
Just like the soft approach of wings,
The fate of yonder host, that come—
Unhallowed—to intrude—
With banner—blade—and horn and drum—
Upon their charmed solitude:
As if—each seated on his tomb,
And stooping o'er his shadowy lyre—
With trembling fingers tore away
The tendrils that ran wild in bloom,
Encumbering each golden wire—
And faultering—touched the awful lay—
All energy, and fire—
That visions of the war inspire:—
When all the heaven is opening round,
And battles dimly seen—
Like clouds—in passing o'er the ground—
Are shadowed on its green.
When all the future trembles—when—
Unseen but by the gifted eye—
Tumultuous air sweeps o'er the sky—
Wheeling like coursers giddily—
When every holy spot on earth,
Is heaving with some awful birth,
And every grot and hermitage,
And every lonely place, again—
Is filled with shapes of armed men—
And echoes to their stormy rage—
Reproachful sounds—while they engage.
And stooping o'er his shadowy lyre—
With trembling fingers tore away
The tendrils that ran wild in bloom,
Encumbering each golden wire—
And faultering—touched the awful lay—
All energy, and fire—
That visions of the war inspire:—
When all the heaven is opening round,
And battles dimly seen—
151
Are shadowed on its green.
When all the future trembles—when—
Unseen but by the gifted eye—
Tumultuous air sweeps o'er the sky—
Wheeling like coursers giddily—
When every holy spot on earth,
Is heaving with some awful birth,
And every grot and hermitage,
And every lonely place, again—
Is filled with shapes of armed men—
And echoes to their stormy rage—
Reproachful sounds—while they engage.
When all their ancient spirits hear
The neigh of steeds encountering near;
The uproar of the battle—and
The sweep of the unsparing brand,
Dealt whistling with immortal force—
Unchannelling the blood of those
That nature never meant for foes—
E'en at the fountain of its course:—
Of men—who if they met at all—
Should meet in places, such as these—
Embracing heart and soul—and fall
In worship on their bended knees—
And speak—not with the battle shout—
As if their souls were bursting out—
But faint—and whispering—as they were
Assembled by their God in prayer:
Oh yes—and they should ever come,
When in such holy spots they meet—
Not with the horn—not with the drum—
And not with mailed—but naked feet!
But if they come in armour—they
Should lose the very wish to slay—
And dash their helmets down, and kneel
Unharnessed to the influence there—
Not stain and crush its spongy green
With crimson tracks, like what are seen,
Where panthers and where wolves have been,
Tainting the cool and holy air—
Not with the warrior step—but tread
Of men—intruding on the dead;
Not helmeted and mailed around—
But with their gallant hair unbound,
And fiery eye upon the ground—
Like pilgrims when they bow—alone
Upon some consecrated stone—
With tufted mossing all overgrown—
And washed with tears of men unknown—
By altars—rocky—hung in green,
With shelly, bright entablatures,
Enduring on, while time endures,
And brightening every hour;
Still thickening—clustering—more and more—
All pillared, and enamelled o'er;
With arched roof and glimmering floor,
Bestrewed with every brilliant flower,
That ever bloomed in secret, where
The sunset shows the golden path
That leads you to the sea-maid's bath,
Where they—all naked—glittering—bright,
With radiant tresses—limbs as white,
As they were shaped of moulded light,
Stand combing out their glorious hair;
Or, on the oily billows play—
And one by one then disappear,
Like creatures vanishing away—
And melting in the hues of day—
When—some dim earthly thing is near.
The neigh of steeds encountering near;
The uproar of the battle—and
The sweep of the unsparing brand,
Dealt whistling with immortal force—
Unchannelling the blood of those
That nature never meant for foes—
E'en at the fountain of its course:—
Of men—who if they met at all—
Should meet in places, such as these—
Embracing heart and soul—and fall
In worship on their bended knees—
And speak—not with the battle shout—
As if their souls were bursting out—
But faint—and whispering—as they were
Assembled by their God in prayer:
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When in such holy spots they meet—
Not with the horn—not with the drum—
And not with mailed—but naked feet!
But if they come in armour—they
Should lose the very wish to slay—
And dash their helmets down, and kneel
Unharnessed to the influence there—
Not stain and crush its spongy green
With crimson tracks, like what are seen,
Where panthers and where wolves have been,
Tainting the cool and holy air—
Not with the warrior step—but tread
Of men—intruding on the dead;
Not helmeted and mailed around—
But with their gallant hair unbound,
And fiery eye upon the ground—
Like pilgrims when they bow—alone
Upon some consecrated stone—
With tufted mossing all overgrown—
And washed with tears of men unknown—
By altars—rocky—hung in green,
With shelly, bright entablatures,
Enduring on, while time endures,
And brightening every hour;
Still thickening—clustering—more and more—
All pillared, and enamelled o'er;
With arched roof and glimmering floor,
Bestrewed with every brilliant flower,
That ever bloomed in secret, where
The sunset shows the golden path
That leads you to the sea-maid's bath,
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With radiant tresses—limbs as white,
As they were shaped of moulded light,
Stand combing out their glorious hair;
Or, on the oily billows play—
And one by one then disappear,
Like creatures vanishing away—
And melting in the hues of day—
When—some dim earthly thing is near.
But away!—away!—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle in wrath is coming!
See how their moving tents arise—
With a snowy gleam, in the purple skies,
Like pavilions of glittering light—
Those tents are struck!—the signal given!
And now—along the verge of heaven
With trumpeting and drumming,
They're harnessing for fight!
And now their opening flags arise,
Unfurling bravely to the skies:
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle in wrath is coming!
See how their moving tents arise—
With a snowy gleam, in the purple skies,
Like pavilions of glittering light—
Those tents are struck!—the signal given!
And now—along the verge of heaven
With trumpeting and drumming,
They're harnessing for fight!
And now their opening flags arise,
Unfurling bravely to the skies:
And now!—against the red orb spreading
Their broad, dark banners—they appear,
All tinged with blood—their distant rear,
Against the light, the sun is shedding,
Along the blue-edged heaven, stand,
In flaming armour—like a band
Of giants, downward treading
While all the moving forest trees,
Upon yon hilly summits seem
Approaching in the misty breeze,—
And o'er the burning clouds that gleam
Away behind—as if they were
A swinging fret-work—rich—and rare
Embroidered on the flaming air;
A light, fantastick edging given
By magick to the clouds of heaven.
Their broad, dark banners—they appear,
All tinged with blood—their distant rear,
Against the light, the sun is shedding,
Along the blue-edged heaven, stand,
In flaming armour—like a band
Of giants, downward treading
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Upon yon hilly summits seem
Approaching in the misty breeze,—
And o'er the burning clouds that gleam
Away behind—as if they were
A swinging fret-work—rich—and rare
Embroidered on the flaming air;
A light, fantastick edging given
By magick to the clouds of heaven.
But away!—away!—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame—in their red display—
The battle in pomp is coming!
The trumpet plays,
And the drums are rolled;
The war-horse neighs,
And the flags unfold;
And the distant hills are bright
With warriors—up in their might—
The crimson mane of their helmets stream,
Like fiery steeds, when their long hairs gleam,
In the fearful light
Of a reddening fight,
In flakes and folds!—like the awful beam
Of broadswords—ground in blood;
They are up!—they are up!—'tis a thrilling sight;
With their chargers reined—
Each muscle strained—
Tossing their foam on the winds away,
As the waves of the ocean fling their spray—
With their heads in air,
Like steeds that bear
Young warriors thro' a flood;
While their voices break—
(And their nostrils shake,
And the loud horns blow,
And the banners flow—)
Like a trumpet heard at night!
With a thrilling neigh—as if to cheer,
The warriors that are thundering near:
With your banners of flame—in their red display—
The battle in pomp is coming!
The trumpet plays,
And the drums are rolled;
The war-horse neighs,
And the flags unfold;
And the distant hills are bright
With warriors—up in their might—
The crimson mane of their helmets stream,
Like fiery steeds, when their long hairs gleam,
In the fearful light
Of a reddening fight,
In flakes and folds!—like the awful beam
Of broadswords—ground in blood;
They are up!—they are up!—'tis a thrilling sight;
With their chargers reined—
Each muscle strained—
Tossing their foam on the winds away,
As the waves of the ocean fling their spray—
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Like steeds that bear
Young warriors thro' a flood;
While their voices break—
(And their nostrils shake,
And the loud horns blow,
And the banners flow—)
Like a trumpet heard at night!
With a thrilling neigh—as if to cheer,
The warriors that are thundering near:
Then away!—away!—to the winds away!
Through the cloud of battle rouse your prey!
Through the cloud of battle rouse your prey!
Fresher and fresher comes the air. The blue
Of yonder high pavilion swims in dew.
The boundless hum that sunset waked in glee;
The dark wood's vesper-hymn to Liberty—
Hath died away. A deep outspreading hush
Is on the air—the heavy watery rush
Of far off lake-tides, and the weighty roll
Of tumbling deeps, that fall upon the soul
Like the strong lulling of the ocean wave,
In dying thunder o'er the sailor's grave;
And now and then a blueish flare is spread
Faint o'er the western heaven, as if 'twere shed
In dreadful omen to the coming dead.
As if—amid the skies, some warrior form
Revealed his armour thro' a robe of storm!
Of yonder high pavilion swims in dew.
The boundless hum that sunset waked in glee;
The dark wood's vesper-hymn to Liberty—
Hath died away. A deep outspreading hush
Is on the air—the heavy watery rush
Of far off lake-tides, and the weighty roll
Of tumbling deeps, that fall upon the soul
Like the strong lulling of the ocean wave,
In dying thunder o'er the sailor's grave;
And now and then a blueish flare is spread
Faint o'er the western heaven, as if 'twere shed
In dreadful omen to the coming dead.
As if—amid the skies, some warrior form
Revealed his armour thro' a robe of storm!
The shadows deepen. Now the leaden tramp
Of stationed sentry—far—and flat—and damp—
Sounds like the measured death-step, when it comes
With the deep minstrelsy of unstrung drums:
In heavy pomp—with pauses—o'er the grave
Where soldiers bury soldiers: where the wave
Of sable plumes—and darkened flags are seen—
And trailing-steeds—with funeral lights between:—
And folded arms—and boding horns—and tread
Of martial feet, descending to the bed,
Where Glory—Fame—Ambition lie in state,
To give the nuptial clasp, and wreath that Fate
Wove in the battle-storm, their brows to decorate.
Of stationed sentry—far—and flat—and damp—
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With the deep minstrelsy of unstrung drums:
In heavy pomp—with pauses—o'er the grave
Where soldiers bury soldiers: where the wave
Of sable plumes—and darkened flags are seen—
And trailing-steeds—with funeral lights between:—
And folded arms—and boding horns—and tread
Of martial feet, descending to the bed,
Where Glory—Fame—Ambition lie in state,
To give the nuptial clasp, and wreath that Fate
Wove in the battle-storm, their brows to decorate.
Listen!—O, listen!—there's a wandering shout,
A sound, as if a challenge passed about:
A gun is heard! O, can it be indeed
That on a night, like this, brave men may bleed!
Now comes,—all rushing—with a fiery start—
The struggling neigh of steeds, as if they part,
Upon the mountain tops, where cloud-tides break,
And rear upon the winds! and plunge, and shake
Their voices proudly o'er a sleeping lake.
A heavy walk is heard. They come, indeed;
They come, the Star-troops! while the Eagle-breed
Flap loudly o'er each helm, and o'er each foaming steed.
A sound, as if a challenge passed about:
A gun is heard! O, can it be indeed
That on a night, like this, brave men may bleed!
Now comes,—all rushing—with a fiery start—
The struggling neigh of steeds, as if they part,
Upon the mountain tops, where cloud-tides break,
And rear upon the winds! and plunge, and shake
Their voices proudly o'er a sleeping lake.
A heavy walk is heard. They come, indeed;
They come, the Star-troops! while the Eagle-breed
Flap loudly o'er each helm, and o'er each foaming steed.
Here, by our side, the red-cross troop is placed:
A lordly banner, never yet disgraced
By that young gallant troop. Beneath its fold
Of blue magnificence, so wide unrolled,
They've bowed, and sworn upon a naked blade,
That banner, there! shall never be betrayed.
They've sworn to bathe it in their heart's best blood:
To loosen 'neath its fold their reddest flood.
No threats escape their lips—that blue flag flies
O'er the dark lowering of young British eyes.
They know the post they hold they know the hour
Is sternly coming that shall try their power:
They know the Eagle troops: they hear their tread:
And each more proudly heaves his youthful head:
They see the starry banner floating wide:
And fiercer shines their meteor in its pride:
Each plants his foot: and each with steady eye
And hard drawn breath—and forehead to the sky—
Looks on the coming host for life or death—
The glittering laurel crown, or weeping cypress wreath.
A lordly banner, never yet disgraced
By that young gallant troop. Beneath its fold
Of blue magnificence, so wide unrolled,
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That banner, there! shall never be betrayed.
They've sworn to bathe it in their heart's best blood:
To loosen 'neath its fold their reddest flood.
No threats escape their lips—that blue flag flies
O'er the dark lowering of young British eyes.
They know the post they hold they know the hour
Is sternly coming that shall try their power:
They know the Eagle troops: they hear their tread:
And each more proudly heaves his youthful head:
They see the starry banner floating wide:
And fiercer shines their meteor in its pride:
Each plants his foot: and each with steady eye
And hard drawn breath—and forehead to the sky—
Looks on the coming host for life or death—
The glittering laurel crown, or weeping cypress wreath.
They come! they come!—the starry flag is bright;
Shaking its splendours in the parting light:
Right martial is their step. Their heads are high.
Their chests heave full. Their look is on the sky.
Before his column with a brow serene,
Upon his stately barb, a chief is seen:
His head uncovered;—while his flashing eye,
And echoed word, along the far ranks fly,
With flash and sound as brief as counted musketry.
Shaking its splendours in the parting light:
Right martial is their step. Their heads are high.
Their chests heave full. Their look is on the sky.
Before his column with a brow serene,
Upon his stately barb, a chief is seen:
His head uncovered;—while his flashing eye,
And echoed word, along the far ranks fly,
With flash and sound as brief as counted musketry.
Now roar the joyous drums! the trumpet-song
Comes swelling—rending—bursting—all along!
Like the dread summons by the Whirlwind cast,
When she sings fiercely in the coming blast.
The leader waves his sword! the standards bow,
And now unrol upon the wind—and now,
Borne silently aloft, they flash away,
Upon the distant wings, like heralds of the day.
Comes swelling—rending—bursting—all along!
Like the dread summons by the Whirlwind cast,
When she sings fiercely in the coming blast.
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And now unrol upon the wind—and now,
Borne silently aloft, they flash away,
Upon the distant wings, like heralds of the day.
Their columns now unfold. Their martial tread
Is firm and steady as they wheel and spread.
Now one deep phalanx in their strength advance;
Silent as death. Dimmed is the banner glance:
The ringing harness and the sabre's swing—
No shouting stirs the blood—no waving plume
Gives Glory's signal in the thickening gloom:
But forward—forward!—with unshaken tread,
With Battle's earthquake march, when shuddering dead
Feel every step that falls above their head.
Is firm and steady as they wheel and spread.
Now one deep phalanx in their strength advance;
Silent as death. Dimmed is the banner glance:
The ringing harness and the sabre's swing—
No shouting stirs the blood—no waving plume
Gives Glory's signal in the thickening gloom:
But forward—forward!—with unshaken tread,
With Battle's earthquake march, when shuddering dead
Feel every step that falls above their head.
The soldiers of the red-cross, on the hill
Wave high their matches!—And they stand as still
As if they knew they stood upon their tomb:
And some deep lips and cheeks now lose their bloom
But not from fear—or if they did—what then?
Their courage is the soul's!—they are the men
That ye may trust to in the hour of need:
Their lips may fade 'tis true, but they will bleed,
Where'er they set their foot, until their souls are freed.
Wave high their matches!—And they stand as still
As if they knew they stood upon their tomb:
And some deep lips and cheeks now lose their bloom
But not from fear—or if they did—what then?
Their courage is the soul's!—they are the men
That ye may trust to in the hour of need:
Their lips may fade 'tis true, but they will bleed,
Where'er they set their foot, until their souls are freed.
Now peals the thronged artillery!—Far and wide,
Beyond the starry flag its thunders ride!
No answer from the foe—
His steady tread
Paused not a moment as that volley sped.
Beyond the starry flag its thunders ride!
No answer from the foe—
His steady tread
Paused not a moment as that volley sped.
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Again the tempest pours! In rushing fire,
Again the thunders roll!
But all the higher
Floats the striped flag—in triumph and in pride;
Like the red rainbow o'er the glimmering tide.
Again the thunders roll!
But all the higher
Floats the striped flag—in triumph and in pride;
Like the red rainbow o'er the glimmering tide.
Still onward come its guards: determined—slow:
Mounting as if to grapple with their foe
Within his cloud: While their battalions spread,
And close, and open with the same strong tread,
Revealed in light. That tempest light!—it strays
In one wide sheet: uninterrupted blaze!
Mounting as if to grapple with their foe
Within his cloud: While their battalions spread,
And close, and open with the same strong tread,
Revealed in light. That tempest light!—it strays
In one wide sheet: uninterrupted blaze!
Still onward come this band. Still no reply:
Withholding all their might till, eye to eye,
They tread the summit of that quaking mount,
To quench that stormy light—that Ætnean fount:
Then will the clouds depart, and ye will see
The Eagle-standard floating far and free;
And gallant warriors, on the naked ground,
In prostrate adoration—to the sound
Of bursting trumpets, and of neighing steeds:
And waving helms, whose reeking plumage bleeds
With life of gallant hearts, that heave around
In agony to hear the brazen trumpet's sound.
Withholding all their might till, eye to eye,
They tread the summit of that quaking mount,
To quench that stormy light—that Ætnean fount:
Then will the clouds depart, and ye will see
The Eagle-standard floating far and free;
And gallant warriors, on the naked ground,
In prostrate adoration—to the sound
Of bursting trumpets, and of neighing steeds:
And waving helms, whose reeking plumage bleeds
With life of gallant hearts, that heave around
In agony to hear the brazen trumpet's sound.
Now comes the bursting strife. The answer peals!
Forth, in a blaze of fire, their squadron wheels!
Now rolls the battle! Fades the lightning sheet!
The charge is given! Bayonets with bayonets meet:
And struggling hearts with hearts: and fiercely rise
Contending shouts and spirits to the skies.
Neighings grow faint. The cannon's thunder dies:
Red Slaughter shakes her storm-plumes o'er the slain,
And flaps her reeking flag—but all in vain—
For standards bow!—and steeds fly o'er the plain!
'Tis done: the strife is o'er. The clouds are gone—
The starry flag is floating there alone.
Forth, in a blaze of fire, their squadron wheels!
Now rolls the battle! Fades the lightning sheet!
The charge is given! Bayonets with bayonets meet:
And struggling hearts with hearts: and fiercely rise
Contending shouts and spirits to the skies.
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Red Slaughter shakes her storm-plumes o'er the slain,
And flaps her reeking flag—but all in vain—
For standards bow!—and steeds fly o'er the plain!
'Tis done: the strife is o'er. The clouds are gone—
The starry flag is floating there alone.
And is the battle won? the struggle o'er?
O, no!—the trumpet song and cannon-roar
Have but begun;—the night shall wear away
E'er banners blazing in their red display,
And flashing plumes, and helmets glancing bright,
Reveal the conquerors to the dazzled sight.
Then ye shall see the shattered warrior-blade—
The banner rent;—quenched plume—and steed, that neighed,
Like the fierce trumpet, when the battle pealed,
With all his furniture upon the field,
Bedimmed in gallant blood! Then ye may know
Who were the conquered;—they will all lie low.
O, no!—the trumpet song and cannon-roar
Have but begun;—the night shall wear away
E'er banners blazing in their red display,
And flashing plumes, and helmets glancing bright,
Reveal the conquerors to the dazzled sight.
Then ye shall see the shattered warrior-blade—
The banner rent;—quenched plume—and steed, that neighed,
Like the fierce trumpet, when the battle pealed,
With all his furniture upon the field,
Bedimmed in gallant blood! Then ye may know
Who were the conquered;—they will all lie low.
Far now the wet folds of the red-cross wave;
Still leaning towards the strife—full, high, and brave;
Still rolls the wide artillery;—still the light
Rushes in boding thickness from that height—
But other hands direct its thunder now;
The rainbow flag is there, with sheeted flow,
And they with silent tread, and cool, determined brow.
Still leaning towards the strife—full, high, and brave;
Still rolls the wide artillery;—still the light
Rushes in boding thickness from that height—
But other hands direct its thunder now;
The rainbow flag is there, with sheeted flow,
And they with silent tread, and cool, determined brow.
Amid the fading light on that red ground,
An aged warrior lies, and pours a sound
That tells of battle yet; and feebly tries
To staunch his ebbing wound; to clear his eyes;
And think once more, distinctly, of his home:
But all in vain! a dark, and darker foam
Comes from his heart; and now his dying hand
Is once more stretched—but not as in command—
No!—not as if it dealt a warrior's brand—
And lightened thro' the war!—but more in prayer—
As if some child, that he would bless, were there:
Convulsive—sudden—grasping!—towards the heaven
'Tis reached—like one—whose last, last stay is riven:
Not waving—no!—but closing as it goes,
As if it sought another's—not a foe's!
And now it feebler drops—and now, again,—
'Tis lifted as in prayer; but all in vain;
He cannot bless his child!—his strength is gone—
The damps of death are on his brow;—his tone
Of murmuring supplication—dies away—
And both his bloody hands are in his locks of grey.
An aged warrior lies, and pours a sound
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To staunch his ebbing wound; to clear his eyes;
And think once more, distinctly, of his home:
But all in vain! a dark, and darker foam
Comes from his heart; and now his dying hand
Is once more stretched—but not as in command—
No!—not as if it dealt a warrior's brand—
And lightened thro' the war!—but more in prayer—
As if some child, that he would bless, were there:
Convulsive—sudden—grasping!—towards the heaven
'Tis reached—like one—whose last, last stay is riven:
Not waving—no!—but closing as it goes,
As if it sought another's—not a foe's!
And now it feebler drops—and now, again,—
'Tis lifted as in prayer; but all in vain;
He cannot bless his child!—his strength is gone—
The damps of death are on his brow;—his tone
Of murmuring supplication—dies away—
And both his bloody hands are in his locks of grey.
And near him—planted—with the glittering eye,
Of sudden madness—rolling awfully,—
A youthful form is seen—with hands that press
Upon his bosom—fixed and motionless!
Now staring on the armour strown around,
As in a trance: now listening to the sound
Of ruffling banners, as they loosely wave,
Like one that rises—armed—from his grave
In fierce rebuke. And now—have mercy heaven!
He staggers—waves his arm—his white brow riven,
And streaming with his blood! And oh, that nod!—
He moves again in light, as if he trod
Upon the battle's verge—and heaves his brow
Of bleeding nakedness, as if e'en now,
It wore the meteor signal for the fight:
The tall plume nodding in its snowy white!
And now he stands as if he would express
Some princely thought, and felt his helplessness:
And hark!—a shout!—a sudden, thrilling cry—
Of fearful energy—‘they fly! they fly!’
Again he waves his arm—and shouts!—again
He stands as if he grasped some charger's mane,
Some struggling barb—and strove to mount in vain:—
Again he shouts!—again he feebly tries
To look once more upon the passing skies—
Clasps his young hands, and reels, and falls, and dies.
Of sudden madness—rolling awfully,—
A youthful form is seen—with hands that press
Upon his bosom—fixed and motionless!
Now staring on the armour strown around,
As in a trance: now listening to the sound
Of ruffling banners, as they loosely wave,
Like one that rises—armed—from his grave
In fierce rebuke. And now—have mercy heaven!
He staggers—waves his arm—his white brow riven,
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He moves again in light, as if he trod
Upon the battle's verge—and heaves his brow
Of bleeding nakedness, as if e'en now,
It wore the meteor signal for the fight:
The tall plume nodding in its snowy white!
And now he stands as if he would express
Some princely thought, and felt his helplessness:
And hark!—a shout!—a sudden, thrilling cry—
Of fearful energy—‘they fly! they fly!’
Again he waves his arm—and shouts!—again
He stands as if he grasped some charger's mane,
Some struggling barb—and strove to mount in vain:—
Again he shouts!—again he feebly tries
To look once more upon the passing skies—
Clasps his young hands, and reels, and falls, and dies.
There flutters round him many a gallant soul—
For the last time too, many dim eyes roll;—
And gasping—swelling—in the sulphurous air
Sobs many a broken cry, and many a prayer.
Soldiers, and great ones—are around him laid,
Who dealt their broad swords, like the gleaming blade
That the Destroyer wields, when heaven is wrapped in shade.
For the last time too, many dim eyes roll;—
And gasping—swelling—in the sulphurous air
Sobs many a broken cry, and many a prayer.
Soldiers, and great ones—are around him laid,
Who dealt their broad swords, like the gleaming blade
That the Destroyer wields, when heaven is wrapped in shade.
The battle comes again. The charging host
Are Britons—chosen ones—their army's boast.
Reddening they come, in martyrdom to Fame;
Shaking their snowy plumes in cloud and flame.
rav ely their banner is abroad outspread—
Alive their meteor, and their shroud when dead.
The tumult deepens. Swell conflicting cries—
Neigh the loud steeds, and hurried sobs arise.
Shakes the dark hill with cataracts of fire:
Up go that army to their blazing pyre!
The cannon's voice is mute. The lightning sheet
Grows dim again. Warriors with warriors meet;
And wrestle fiercely in their rolling cloud.
Again the mountain shakes! again the light
Comes thundering loudly down—the starry flight
Of spotted drapery is abroad again,
And neighing—plunging—o'er the clouded plain,
Goes many a fiery barb with crimson reeking mane:
Again the meteors of the war are bowed:
Again the mountain heaves beneath its shroud:
Gushes with quenchless light, and shakes and storms aloud.
Are Britons—chosen ones—their army's boast.
Reddening they come, in martyrdom to Fame;
Shaking their snowy plumes in cloud and flame.
rav ely their banner is abroad outspread—
Alive their meteor, and their shroud when dead.
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Neigh the loud steeds, and hurried sobs arise.
Shakes the dark hill with cataracts of fire:
Up go that army to their blazing pyre!
The cannon's voice is mute. The lightning sheet
Grows dim again. Warriors with warriors meet;
And wrestle fiercely in their rolling cloud.
Again the mountain shakes! again the light
Comes thundering loudly down—the starry flight
Of spotted drapery is abroad again,
And neighing—plunging—o'er the clouded plain,
Goes many a fiery barb with crimson reeking mane:
Again the meteors of the war are bowed:
Again the mountain heaves beneath its shroud:
Gushes with quenchless light, and shakes and storms aloud.
So darkly clouded was that hill with smoke,
Save when the vast artillery-day-light broke,
It seemed a midnight altar. From its gloom
There came the noise of strife—as from a tomb.
And then, distinct, amid the spreading light,
Were seen the struggling champions of the fight,
In silent—desperate—dreadful bayonet strife;
The midnight slaughter! when the hero's life—
The high—stern summons that he gives his band—
His waving falchion—and extended hand—
His towering plume—his charger's bloody mane—
The battle-anthem and the bugle strain—
Are beamless—lifeless! heard and seen no more:
Thus 'tis when bayonets hush the cannon's roar.
The blazing would be gone! and with it, lo!
These darkly wrestling groups would come and go,
Like wizard shapes at night—upon the snow—
That glitters to the moon, upon some mountain's brow.
Save when the vast artillery-day-light broke,
It seemed a midnight altar. From its gloom
There came the noise of strife—as from a tomb.
And then, distinct, amid the spreading light,
Were seen the struggling champions of the fight,
In silent—desperate—dreadful bayonet strife;
The midnight slaughter! when the hero's life—
The high—stern summons that he gives his band—
His waving falchion—and extended hand—
His towering plume—his charger's bloody mane—
The battle-anthem and the bugle strain—
Are beamless—lifeless! heard and seen no more:
Thus 'tis when bayonets hush the cannon's roar.
164
These darkly wrestling groups would come and go,
Like wizard shapes at night—upon the snow—
That glitters to the moon, upon some mountain's brow.
So stood the battle. Bravely it was fought.
Lions and Eagles met. That hill was bought,
And sold, in desperate combat. Wrapped in flame,
Died these idolaters of bannered Fame.
Three times that meteor hill was bravely lost—
Three times 'twas bravely won; while madly tost,
Encountering red plumes in the dusky air—
While Slaughter shouted in her bloody lair—
And spectres blew their horns, and shook their whistling hair.
Lions and Eagles met. That hill was bought,
And sold, in desperate combat. Wrapped in flame,
Died these idolaters of bannered Fame.
Three times that meteor hill was bravely lost—
Three times 'twas bravely won; while madly tost,
Encountering red plumes in the dusky air—
While Slaughter shouted in her bloody lair—
And spectres blew their horns, and shook their whistling hair.
A long and dreadful pause. No sound is heard
But the fresh rustling of a mighty Bird,
That sat upon the banner of that host:
That Eagle of the strife!—when tempest tost,
The boy, that rides sublime the mountain waves,
Looks on that Bird in prayer. The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipped falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
Or sleeps upon the wing—amid the ray
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch:
Soars wheeling thro' the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play:
Broods with her arrows in the hurricane:
Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain—
And sails around the skies, and o'er the rolling deeps,
With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps.
But the fresh rustling of a mighty Bird,
That sat upon the banner of that host:
That Eagle of the strife!—when tempest tost,
The boy, that rides sublime the mountain waves,
Looks on that Bird in prayer. The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipped falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
165
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch:
Soars wheeling thro' the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play:
Broods with her arrows in the hurricane:
Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain—
And sails around the skies, and o'er the rolling deeps,
With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps.
The rustling of the silk alone is heard,
Where burns that soldier idol—mountain Bird!
And the deep groans of dying men, who heave
Their last sad prayer; of those who bleed and grieve,
In shattered manhood, on the bloody path,
That led where Glory sat in stormy wrath;
The faint, low watchword—and the thronging tramp—
The ringing harness of the distant camp:
And the flood anthem on the night winds blown,
Sullen and heavy as the Thunderer's tone,
When far amid the Alps his chariot rolls,
And the high mountain quakes: and the far poles
Rock in their outspread canopy of cloud—
When seas heave darkly in their tempest shroud,
And everlasting hills are echoing aloud.
Where burns that soldier idol—mountain Bird!
And the deep groans of dying men, who heave
Their last sad prayer; of those who bleed and grieve,
In shattered manhood, on the bloody path,
That led where Glory sat in stormy wrath;
The faint, low watchword—and the thronging tramp—
The ringing harness of the distant camp:
And the flood anthem on the night winds blown,
Sullen and heavy as the Thunderer's tone,
When far amid the Alps his chariot rolls,
And the high mountain quakes: and the far poles
Rock in their outspread canopy of cloud—
When seas heave darkly in their tempest shroud,
And everlasting hills are echoing aloud.
| The battle of Niagara | |