The battle of Bunker Hill, or the temple of liberty ::

The battle of Bunker Hill, or the temple of liberty

an historic poem in four cantos

Emmons, Richard (1788-1834)

[section]

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL,

Canto III.

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Canto III.

Argument.

—Gage, from Willard, a refugee, learns the characters of several American chiefs—The conflagration of Charlestown—Pomeroy arrives from Northampton—The English advance to the attack—Some few soldiers prematurely discharging their pieces, calls forth a reprimand from Prescott—Warren addresses the troops—The signal being given by Putnam, the Columbians pour forth a deadly volley—The Britons fall back in great disorder—Howe, recovering from a fit of despair, soon rallies his forces for a second attempt—A part of the reinforcements refuse to cross Charlestown-Neck, in consequence of its being raked by the shipping of the enemy—Putnam is indignant at their conduct—The British make another more desperate effort, but are again compelled to retire.

The scene is laid at Copps Hill, and round the shores, and on the heights of Charlestown.

The time is about two hours.

The mean time Gage conversed with Willard near,
Who ever had his confidence and ear—
A native of the soil, therefore could he
Unlock to Gage the cell of secrecy.
Willard is one, whose conscience avarice sears,
Bringing disgrace upon declining years—

He British rule and British faith reveres.
A priest-craft book the only page he read,
Which petrified his heart—deranged his head.
He thinks it ruin on the land would bring,
E'en with remonstrance to address a king;
But to rebel against his right divine,
Would mar, annul dread Deity's design.
Too narrow is his soul t' imbibe those views
That elevate mankind and light infuse.
His mind is like a stagnant pool where breed
Prejudices, fostering of a grovelling creed.
The dark, rough, foundering path his fathers trod,
He follows, doubting not it leads to God—
Hence with religious bitterness and zeal,
He violates, breaks open every seal,
Which bars a hidden treasure from the foe,
That he more certain may direct his blow—
Yea, should the life of his own son be lost,
He more obstreperous of his king would boast.

Gage jealous with his telescope in hand,
Saw Prescott flourishing his glittering brand,
While balls flew round him, hurling up the sand.
Now known to Willard was each patriot chief,
And Gage thus question'd him in manner brief;

“Art thou acquainted with that character
“Wielding his blade as if he'd singly dare
“To meet my columns in their strength array'd,
“As though his heart of firmest steel were made—
“But think you not when press our bayonets near,
“That he will blanch and show a traitor's fear?”

“Prescott, his name. As for himself, I feel,
“That never he will in submission kneel:
“As for his clan, unmarshall'd and unskill'd,
“They may perhaps without resistance yield;
“But he with Winslow in his youth stood high,
“And still there's flashing lightning in his eye.”

“Pray, who is that surveying of the hill?
“Distant he seems an engineer of skill.
“But who enrich'd with science would descend
“To such a herd, his services to lend?”

Willard rejoins: “'Tis Gridley whom you see—
“His soul till now was from pollution free.
“From Bastide he the art of war acquired,
“Beloved—for knowledge his ambition fired.
“At Lewisburg, at Breton, Abram's plain,
“Where Wolfe embraced in victory's arms was slain,

“He bent the compass and drew forth the lines,
“And aided to achieve those great designs.”

“What deep disgrace to turn a rebel now,
“While float his thin locks hoary on his brow.
“I wish his person blotted from my sight—
“Ingrate! to rob a monarch of his right—
“Most brilliant diamond in his crown to blight!

“Another aged reprobate I mark,
“Kindling a hot rebellion from a spark!
“He near the centre of the mound appears—
“A book of prayers would more become his years,
“Than the huge weapon that his hand sustains,
“As if he'd smite the adamantine chains
“That bind this continent to England's Isle—
“How vain to think they can its links defile!”

Thus Gage. Thus Willard in his turn replies:
“A veteran he your lordship now descries.
“Have you not heard when victory flash'd his eye,
“Winslow proclaim the gallantry of Frye?”

“Hold, Willard, hold!—repeat no more to me.
“I now in them th' effects of dotage see.

“A second childishness pervades their brain
“To think that they will e'er their freedom gain—
“Freedom!—what freedom can the world afford,
“Equal to that which flows from England's lord—
“'Tis real freedom at the throne to bow,
“And hail as truth whatever kings avow.

“But who is that approaching on the rear?
“'Tis Warren—else my vision is not clear;
“A demagogue, whose tongue delights to rail,
“But soon in lasting silence shall it fail.

“Putnam!—I scarce my feelings can describe!
“Him have I strove to purchase with a bribe.
“He spurn'ed my temptings;—vengeance shall he feel—
“The bribe I offer now is deadly steel.”

As this he utter'd, hard he smote his brow,
Just at the instant that the barge of Howe
Struck on the beach, which call'd his mind away,
Farther the different leaders to survey.

He kindles all his leaping fires at once,
Which to the town a fearful doom announce.
A widow's home was first to catch the flame,
And she, alas, a lifeless corse became.

The shriekings of distress ascend the skies—
Now here now there the bickering flashes rise.
On private dwellings—on the public halls—
On poverty's low shed, the ruin falls,
The fierce combustion spreading far and wide—
Thick rolls of smoke upon the whirlwinds ride.
Red flames, like serpent tongues, are seen to flash
Amid the folds, while falling buildings crash.
Swift round the steeples fiery ringlets curl,
And shoot above them with a maddening whirl.
Catching from this to that, the blaze combines,
Till all in one vast conflagration joins.
A sea of flame beneath, from which ascend
Columns of fire that with the heavens contend.

The patriots still pursued their toils intense,
Regardless of the battering violence,
Exploding from the vessels in the stream—
Their only thought their country to redeem!
While through their veins a thrilling impulse run,
They thought of those who fought at Marathon!
They thought of those who in the defile stood,
And wrote their every name in Persian blood—
They thought to die more glorious than to live,
And from a tyrant, clemency receive.

The voice of Prescott ever cheer'd the brave:
“This height have I selected for a grave!
“Could but my bones find rest beneath the mound,
“My last, last slumbers would be sweet—profound.”

This said—a mattock from a youth he took,
Who show'd exhaustion by his languid look—
A peasant-lad was he—yet was his mind
So firm, that he reluctantly resign'd—
Remonstrance was in vain—the undaunted chief,
While laboring, thus accosted him in brief:

“Young comrade, rest thou on yon sloping bank,
“And mark the Britons as they close their rank.
“Your limbs require some respite for repose,
“To be prepared in deadly shock to close.
“And does your eye grow brighter at the thought—
“A flushing ardor in your cheek is wrought.
“Thou I perceive hast dug an ample grave,
“And I intend the same my bones to have.
“Life is a bubble dancing on a stream—
“The valiant apprehend no after dream,
“If that the world from bondage they redeem.”

Th' example of the chief awaked new flame
In every bosom and renew'd the frame.

Pearce, Bridge, McClary, Gridley, Brooks, and Frye,
Show'd that their hearts were diamond jewelry,
On which, no steel of tyrants could engrave
The dastard characters that read—a slave.

Stark still continued laboring at the soil,
But now he takes to more ennobling toil—
To Knowlton at the river he repairs,
Bold to attest what man avenging dares,
When that he wills to break oppression's chain,
And his high destiny of soul attain.

The mean time Putnam with an eye that shone,
As with a beam from vivid lightning thrown,
Traced every thought and movement of the foe,
Planning to crush the country at a blow—
Calm he observed the regal host embark,
To quench, extinguish the redeeming spark—
View'd them in line re-form upon the shore,
And heard unmoved the heavy mortars roar;
Saw Gage from Boston hurl his trains of fire,
To cause the town in ashes to expire—
Heard the big thunders from the navy peal—
Yet did his features not a change reveal.
Th' eruptive scene deliberate he survey'd,
And passion none save life or death betray'd:

As some huge promontory stands unmoved
Amid the sea, to earth's fix'd centre grooved,
Reckless of blackening tempests, lightning, hail,
Combined to crush—audacious to prevail—
Or the vast ocean heaving from its base,
Striving to move the basement from its place—
Still it remains without a fracturing jar,
Though tumult rages on its thundering car:

So Putnam stands deep centred on his mind,
Firm to maintain the purpose he'd design'd,
Though fierce contention gather'd at his feet,
And round him blazed the conflagrating sheet.

Now beat the drums, the fife inspired with breath
Sings, rallying the Britons to the work of death—
Howe on the right to force the line of Stark,
Assumes command, while Pigot, small of mark,
Takes post upon the left to leap the mound,
And bend the spear of freedom in the ground.

While thus the royals ranged themselves severe,
The patriots still toil'd on—
—“My soul is here!”
Pomeroy exclaims, advancing from the rear.

“This glorious scene I've panted to behold—
“A scene so grand, not prophets have foretold!”

“Pomeroy! all hail!—thy hoary locks we greet—
“Thy presence will the myrmidons defeat!”

This salutation to the sage was given,
As if they stood upon the mount of heaven.
He from Connecticut's far stream had flown,
Since from the trumpet the late blast was blown.
He next to Warren stands to urge the fray,
Till through his veins the last warm drop should play.

Now when from Boston Gage discharged the shell,
Which on devoted Charlestown bursting fell,
Howe bade his deepening column to move forth,
Slow like a cloud that overshades the earth,
Conveying on the wings the thunder's car,
Soon on the reeling elements to jar.

Howe by the ardor of his pride impell'd,
Without his aids, advances on the field.
He, daring in the reach of rifle's aim,
Stands—as if shielded by a mighty name.

With calmness he th' opposing works surveys—
He feels his brows already crown'd with bays
With dew of royal bounty sprinkled o'er,
That at a blow he'd crush'd rebellious power.
He waits the heavy squadron on his rear—
Soon they approach in battling distance near.
Instant at signal given, the cube displays,
While o'er their heads a canopy they raise
Of war's combustion, moving in array,
As if to pleasure on a holyday.

When Putnam saw the enemy condensed,
With scorn in every movement—pride incensed,
He bade his warriors to remit their toil,
To be prepared to vindicate the soil.
Scarce they their keen impatience can restrain
T' unbend the lock and draw the sanguine stain.
Some youths involuntary touch'd the spring,
And Prescott's passions rose upon the wing:

“What madness! sacrilege! To heaven I swear,
“Let him who next shall violate—beware!
“He as defilement by this sword shall fall,
“And as he dies shall hear the curse of all!”

Th' assailants halted, hoping to exhaust
The means of the Columbians to their cost,
But stand they silent in reserved defence—
Putnam solicits Warren's eloquence:

“At length hath come the soul-attesting hour,
“To prove that We, the People, have the power!
“Yea, on this hill, a beacon-light we'll raise,
“That unextinguish'd through the world shall blaze!
“We here on Freedom's sacred altar stand
“To offer incense to preserve the land.
“We'll pour our blood in rich oblation forth,
“That Liberty may hail this day her birth.
“My soul perceives an inspiration round—
“Methinks I stand on consecrated ground!
“Each look seems touch'd with something from on high,
“As if that hovering seraphim were nigh!

“Mark! th' enslavers on our bulwarks bear—
“Kneel to the earth as if devout in prayer.
“Heed not their efforts distant on the plain,
“Though balls whiz o'er us thick as frozen rain.
“Small the combustion we possess in store,
“Hence steep your every lead in hostile gore.

“Keep deathful in reserve, till Putnam's sword
“Shall wave and give the consummating word.”

A strange sensation thrill'd through every breast,
As if upborne—translated with the bless'd.
Their feeling such, no utterance was heard,
Yet a small whisper in their bosoms stirr'd,
That seem'd to speak as with the breath of heaven,
That immortality to each was given.

They knelt behind the bulwarks and survey'd
With death-springs bent, the veteran's lifted blade,
While with firm step th' advancing legions press'd,
And all the element with war distress'd;
Near and more near they rise upon the steep—
Yet their fix'd attitude the forted keep.
Silence like judgment dwells upon the height—
No threatening object is exposed to sight,
Save the proud banner floating in the breeze
Redundant, then reclining at its ease—
The stars shot forth an unexpected ray,
Which on each hero burnt like living day;
As when with lightning, Deity, his name,
Scrolls—such its keen transparency of flame:
Of this, th' invaders nothing could discern,
For o'er them hung the shade of death's dark urn.

The patriots felt it—knew it was a sign,
That had its source in agency divine.

By this, so near the summit are the foe,
That their flush'd countenance begins to show;
Where scorn is mingled with imperious pride,
While the rude works they tauntingly deride.
Still they in blazing depths hold progress on,
Thinking already was th' achievement won.
Still Putnam keeps his sword suspended high—
They now so close, he looks them in the eye!—
They caught the rising vengeance of his soul,
Which shock'd them, as keen lightning from the pole.
They paused—so terrible the veteran's ire,
His glance appear'd an arrow tipp'd with fire.
His sword the instant like a meteor fell!—
A shriek of agony convulsed the hill!
Confusion reigns—the squadron is no more—
The fugitives bewilder'd seek the shore.
They drop their arms—on board the barges leap,
Intent to find a rescue on the deep.
The dead in gashful attitudes are seen,
While some yet gasp with death's contracting mien.
So suddenly th' embodied cohorts fell,
It seem'd th' effect of some bewildering spell.

Wide ruin show'd that havoc had been there,
As when destruction lays creation bare:

Thus when the sun through cancer holds his reign,
And the bright harvest waves upon the plain,
The birch, the maple in rich livery dress'd—
The elm, the oak with dignity impress'd.
The flocks, the herds in luscious pastures feed,
While in their nests the birds their young ones breed.
Ready with harvest-hooks the reapers stand
To take the glorious burden from the land.
They hail the prospect of the fields around,
As if fruition had their labors crown'd—
They mark a cloud upon a hill to rest,
But not a shadow passes o'er their breast,
That such a spot, so circumscribed, would bring
A sweeping blast to spoil their harvesting.
Lo, as they wield their glittering sickles forth,
The first gold sheaf to gather from the earth,
Thunders explode tremendous on the hill—
Keen lightnings flash while peal succeeds to peal.
On fiery wings tornadoes rush amain,
And sweep at once the glory of the plain:

The maple, beech, the elms, the oaks, are rent,
And the torn fragments through the forest sent;
The flocks are scatter'd,—deep the frantic herds
Bellow distress. The summer flowers, the birds
Are hurl'd in wild disorder on the gale,
While the fast props of nature seem to fail.
The harvesters in fierce amazement stare—
Their station they retain—yet know not where-
Balanced between delirium and despair:

With like emotions the Britannians rose
The steep—not dreaming of impending woes.
They thought the new-ridged earth would backward shrink,
Soon as their feet should tread upon its brink;
But wo-deceived!—they met a tempest there,
That swept their hopes of golden harvest bare.

Howe cast his sword in anguish on the earth,
And wild with passion, drew his poniard forth.
He made a pass to plunge it in his breast,
And kill the frenzy that his mind distress'd.
Gorden his aid, the instant seized his arm,
And held it firm till reason hush'd th' alarm—
The steel impatient glittering in the air—
His laboring bosom heaving with despair.

“The reeling earth! it sinks beneath my feet!
“See spectres flying on yon fiery sheet!

“Ah, Gordon! is it you? And do you deign
“To live?—With blood, I'll wash away the stain!
“Forbear! and let my dagger have its play—
“Hence!—let me hide me from this hateful day!
“What! would you live t' endure the hiss—the scorn—
“Quick let me die—to compound dust return!
“This royal token from my breast I tear—
“No longer I disgraceful will it wear.
“What! by a herd of peasants be subdued?
“I cannot quench the thought in solitude,
“Except I pour my blood upon the flame,
“Which seems already to consume my frame.”

His voice here fail'd him, trembling, faltering, weak,
And Gordon thus began with accent meek:

“Come, let me wipe these drops from off thy brow—
“Break through this darkness that o'erwhelms thee now.

“The rebels thousands thronging every steep,
“Laugh to behold a lord of England weep!
“Drive—cast these tears of bitterness away,
“And let the vengeance of thy soul have play.
“Let pride and honor in full passion swell,
“And soon will that, these heavy thoughts dispel—
“Regrasp thy sword and desolate the hill!”

Howe soon perceived his sinking heart to rise,
While indignation muster'd in his eyes.
He leap'd his charger—flash'd his brand in air,
And bade his legions to their post repair.
While o'er his brow high-waved his crimson plume,
He felt as if new-risen from the tomb.
Pitcarn and Percy, seized a flag and rode
Bold in advance t' inspire the multitude.
By small degrees the panic fled their breast—
Soon stood they form'd with potency impress'd.
Howe, like a new-forged thunderbolt of war,
Appear'd—His voice vociferates afar:

“What! shall the British soldiery confess,
“That they are puling infants in distress?
“What! are our hearts composed of moulded wax,
“To melt and all our energy relax?

“Ye gods! can such indignity remain
“And brand our dastard foreheads with the stain?
“Never!—with blood we'll wash it, till no trace
“Shall show where written was the vile disgrace.

“Behold, the winds have shifted in their flight,
“Bending the conflagration to the height!
“Beneath the cover of the smoke we'll rise,
“O'erleap the rampart—finish the emprise—
“Tread the stiff necks of the rebellious down,
“Till they shall fear to raise a murmuring frown—
“Bent on the knee shall they adore the crown!

“On! let no echo of the drum be heard,
“Till light shall flash from my commanding sword,
“Then let the music in its madness beat,
“And tread th' opprobrious flag beneath our feet!”

This language like the burning town inflamed,
Pledging to each, the past should be redeem'd.
Firm lock'd, they move a living wall, as though
No mortal arm its strength could overthrow.

Mean time the cannon of the Glasgow rung,
And o'er the defile grape and langrage flung,
Which kept the reinforcements at a bay,
Fearing to pass and join th' impending fray.

Coit, the heroic Chester, Clark, and Ford,
Strove by their eloquence and threatening sword,
To urge their squadrons to advance and prove
That their integrity not death could move.

Putnam beheld the circumstance and flew,
While hot resentment in his bosom grew—
Plying the rowel to his charger's flank,
He soon was present mid the shrinking rank—

“Heavens!”
But speak, he could not. Chagrin and wrath,
Forbade. He wheel'd,—rode back,—recross'd the path.
Thrice he deliberately with loosen'd rein,
Guided his charger o'er the dangerous plain,
While balls assail'd him like a hail-stone shower,
When the dark elements with thunders lower.
At times the torn up earth would hide his form,
So furious from the shipping beat the storm;
Yet still he kept his course serenely calm,
As if he breath'd the air of summer's balm.

At length he found his indignation stay'd,
And this warm language on their souls he laid:

“Hence with the thought of danger to proceed!
“The arm of heaven will shield you in the deed.

“Let your eye gaze upon the standard there,
“And with firm step beneath its folds repair.
“To live this day, or on this day to die,
“Will leave a name that ages will defy.

“We soon or late must slumber on our bier—
“What signifies th' addition of a year?
“Yea, should we live till sear'd be autumn's leaf,
“'Twould pass before us like a vision brief.
“T' exist on yonder height, one hour, will be
“To wed our being to eternity.
“Onward the word—no longer must we pause—
“Let each translate his mind to meet the cause.
“Mark how the hill is crimson'd with their gore?
“Sustain'd by Deity we upward soar!

“Soon will the foe another effort make—
“Come! in the glory of the scene partake!
“We linger—see, their broken ranks condense—
“To them will we fatality evince!
“I'll be your shield to guard you on the way—
“The world's vast freedom we'll achieve this day!”

His sword, the hero brandish'd in his might,
Which threw around him an effulgent light.
The stately Coit, with Chester, Ford, and Clark,
Caught from the falchion inspiration's spark,

And promptly follow'd where the veteran led,
And soon unscathed they pass'd the defile dread.
Yet numbers pall'd with Gridley on the rear,
Whose heart was frozen with the ice of fear,
His father's valor purchased him a blade,
Which he thus recreant on the field betray'd.

Putnam had half the distance clomb the steep,
When he observed him still his station keep,
Not offering to advance! He felt his soul
Rise—which his reason hardly could control.
He rein'd his charger, while with firmer hand,
He grasp'd his sword to make him eat the sand.
A meteor on the wing, he seem'd to fly,
When by its bloody train, man's destiny,
It dire forebodes.—
“No: I will not take
“Thy life—I spare it for thy father's sake.
“O how his heart would sink within him—fail,
“Should I but whisper the disgusting tale!

“Thus will our country ever meet with shame,
“While honors are bestow'd upon a name.
“Because a sire a glorious race has run,
“We think his virtues must inspire the son.

“Thus shall we grovel on with judgment blind,
“Till man enfranchised, shall proclaim—To mind—
“To worth alone distinction shall be given!
“The false pretenders to oblivion driven.

“But to thy father what a blot—a stain!—
“Yet will the state this high instruction gain,
“No more on titles, or on names to trust,
“But in the virtues of the brave and just.

“Too long I've held communion with thee now—
“No foot like thine should ever tread the brow
“Of that immortal steep!—'twould blight the cause,
“And make the car of victory to pause.”

He waved his brand indignant as he spoke,
And at the dastard cast such piercing look,
It cut his heart as if transpierced with steel,
Which from his presence made him backward reel.

Again the veteran leap'd the defile o'er—
Yet heard he not the cannon's deafening roar,
Which bellow'd with a tongue that shook the plain,
While death and desolation seem'd to reign.

As Howe his troops a second time led forth,
The hero stood upon the glorious earth,

And gave his orders not to move a nerve,
Till they around them should begin to curve,
Then would the signal to explode be given,
To prove they battled on the side of heaven.

While thus maintain'd the patriots their reserve,
Unshaken as if steel composed their nerve,
Their passions rose not,—neither were depress'd,
Unmoved—as if that granite wall'd their breast.

What time in solid wedge th' assailants press,
Putnam the cannon levels with address.
Ford whirls the match—applies it to the vent—
A gashful opening through the cube is rent.
They lock at once, by pride and wrath impell'd,
And hold a steady progress on the field.
The chief directs another deadly aim—
As soon they close the fatal breach the same.

Mean time as thus the British strength drew near,
Again the voice of Warren charm'd the ear.

“Heroes! I feel that silence would express
“More strong than words what future years will bless—
“Your brilliant exploits this illustrious day—
“Exploits to live till nature shall decay:

“Yet something struggling in my bosom speaks,
“Which for relief a ventive utterance seeks.
“Another consecration is at hand,
“For lo, approaches th' enslaving band.
“Methinks the chains and manicles I see
“To bind our limbs for daring to be free.
“Just God! before their shackles we'll receive,
“Here on this altar will we cease to live!
“But ere we fall, we'll price our blood so dear,
“That them we'll bankrupt till the final year—
“Not all the wealth of Thames or India's stream,
“Will e'er to them, their loss this day redeem.

“These showering ashes from the burning town,
“Are precious as the manna raining down
“To feed our country with the bread of life,
“Till she through tribulation wins the strife.
“Yea, toils and tribulations will she see—
“But come it will, the year of jubilee!”

He ceased. The Britons suddenly display—
Like pride in madness they renew the fray.
The cutting bullets sing upon the breeze—
Yet few the life of a Columbian seize.
The thigh of aged Buckminster is broke,
Yet still his countenance betrays no look

That felt had he the passing of the ball,
Which caused him backward from his post to fall:

“Stand fast, my youthful comrades! heed me not—
“No: though I die I will not leave the spot.
“With mine own hand the ruptured vein I'll stanch,
“And jealous watch if any cheek shall blanch.”

His age, his manner, waken'd a regard,
That all impressive with his feelings shared.

At length the Albions reach the point desired,
While each stands fix'd with inspiration fired.

Prescott exclaims: “They press the fatal verge—
“To do for death your souls I need not urge.
“The sword of Putnam gleams to mark the time—
“It falls!”
With calmness reaching the sublime,
The patriots pour a centred volley forth,
Causing another layer to seal the earth
Of thickening grume. Williams and Spentlove fall
While numbers shrieking for assistance call.
Though death pursued each consecrated round,
They only gazed to heaven with look profound—
A look it was that show'd their hearts were there,
With every bosom for their country bare.

Th' assailants reel'd as if with blood made drunk,
And with their anguish in convulsion shrunk.
But in the chiefs a desperation rose,
Causing the faltering ranks to stand—to close.
Lo, one by one, these chiefs are seen no more—
The earth is drinking their expiring gore.
Others rush forward to their places soon,
But presently are these observed to swoon.
They show like passing shadows on the eye,
That now are seen, then lost in vacancy.
At this vast cost of life, Howe yet had power,
To hold the dubious conflict of the hour—
Still, still the Britons their position held,
And flame with flame the battle-storm repell'd.
At times a patriot in his glory fell,
Whose spirit's upward flight illumed the hill:

As when air, water, flame, contentious meet,
And with a rushing violence compete;
Pillars of fire from out the ocean burst—
Huge mountains crumble—cities turn to dust:
Such the vast turbulence—the wasting scene—
The sun is darken'd in his course serene.
The flames of Charlestown mingle in the war—
The circling heights with the concussion jar,

Causing the gazing multitudes to reel,
While they a deep—an awful impulse feel,
As if the scales of life and death were there
In equal poise—yet balanced by a hair!
Each breast was corded—every eye was set,
While on their brows stood drops of icy sweat—
Each in himself absorb'd;—no organ stirr'd—
Not e'en the voice of female breath was heard.
Mothers knew not the features of their child—
All seem'd like chisell'd marble rapt and wild.

At length the foe stand leaning on a poise—
And less and less is heard th' embattling noise.
They give—recede!—the hill once more is free,
Which breaks the pang of gazing agony.

University of Virginia Library

Canto III.

Argument.