Two hundred feet away at last—
The anxious heart beats hard and fast.
The British fire, but no report
Makes answer from the silent fort.
One hundred feet away, and still
No thunder from the frowning hill.
A flash! a flame! a cloud rolls high,
And scores of red-coat heroes lie
In windrows piled upon the ground
In mingled life and death around.
The rest are huddled on the beach
Beyond the patriots' muskets reach.
'Tis o'er! they will not come again
To "beard the lion in his den."
But look! their line is forming o'er,
With bayonets set they charge once more,
Determined that the foe shall feel
The thirsty point of British steel.
Where are the guns that spoke before
And drenched the hillside red with gore?
Only a scattered few are heard
And scarce the Briton's line is stirred,
And like a mighty wave the rank
Sweeps up the hill and o'er the bank.
The anxious heart beats hard and fast.
The British fire, but no report
Makes answer from the silent fort.
One hundred feet away, and still
No thunder from the frowning hill.
A flash! a flame! a cloud rolls high,
And scores of red-coat heroes lie
In windrows piled upon the ground
In mingled life and death around.
The rest are huddled on the beach
Beyond the patriots' muskets reach.
'Tis o'er! they will not come again
To "beard the lion in his den."
But look! their line is forming o'er,
With bayonets set they charge once more,
Determined that the foe shall feel
The thirsty point of British steel.
Where are the guns that spoke before
And drenched the hillside red with gore?
Only a scattered few are heard
And scarce the Briton's line is stirred,
And like a mighty wave the rank
Sweeps up the hill and o'er the bank.
Their powder spent, with bar and spade
And musket butt, the patriots made
A stubborn fight to keep them out,
Yet lacked the skill and fled in rout,
And musket butt, the patriots made
A stubborn fight to keep them out,
Yet lacked the skill and fled in rout,
95
