Yet paused half way to fire a volley,
To show the traitor horde its folly.
But from the hill came no report,
And all was silence in the fort.
Now, scarce two hundred feet between,
But not a patriot gun is seen.
What! cowers the free-born English heart
At tyranny without a shot?
But look! the flame, the cloud, the rent!
The peal that lifts the firmament,
As darker grows the cloud and higher
Leaps the fierce avenging fire!
But now it is so dense and dark,
We see not friend or foe—but hark!
The fight is o'er, we hear no gun—
O, heaven grant that we have won.
To show the traitor horde its folly.
But from the hill came no report,
And all was silence in the fort.
Now, scarce two hundred feet between,
But not a patriot gun is seen.
What! cowers the free-born English heart
At tyranny without a shot?
But look! the flame, the cloud, the rent!
The peal that lifts the firmament,
As darker grows the cloud and higher
Leaps the fierce avenging fire!
But now it is so dense and dark,
We see not friend or foe—but hark!
The fight is o'er, we hear no gun—
O, heaven grant that we have won.
The darksome curtain slowly lifts
And shows the red-coats piled in drifts
Adown the hillside to the shore
In mangled heaps and drenched with gore;
The rest in wild confusion stand
About their boats upon the sand.
But see! they form in line again
And swift advance upon our men.
With straining eyes and bated breath
We watch the pageantry of death,
The swift advance, the earthy mound,
And wait to hear the dreaded sound.
And shows the red-coats piled in drifts
Adown the hillside to the shore
In mangled heaps and drenched with gore;
The rest in wild confusion stand
About their boats upon the sand.
But see! they form in line again
And swift advance upon our men.
With straining eyes and bated breath
We watch the pageantry of death,
The swift advance, the earthy mound,
And wait to hear the dreaded sound.
94
