1840-50.] GEORGE W. CUTTER. 311 Then swift thy wheels, O'Brien, came As o'er the crackling forest spread Along the deep defile ; Volcanic fires of old. And soon before their lightning flame With flaming steel and bounding tread, Lay many a ghastly pile ! Our ranks upon them roll'd. Then Lincoln of the fiery glance, Then deeper still the cannon peal'd, Bestrode his matchless steed ; And flamed the musketry ; And May, who ever fells a lance And redder blushed the crimson field, As lightning fells a reed ; And darker grew the day ; And veteran Wool the heady, fight But soon before our fiery check As nobly did sustain, The iron storm rolled back. As if the glow of Queenstown Height And left, God ! a mournful wreck Had fired his soul again. Along its fearful track ! There Marshall urged his foaming steeds, With brows in death more gloomy, With spur and flowing rein — Amidst the sanguine dews. And many a lancer flying bleeds. Lay the Guards of Montezuma, And many bite the plain ; And the Knights of Vera Cruz ; And there brave Mississippi stands And many a cloven helmet, Amidst the sheeted flame. And shattered spear around. And rapid fall their ruthless bands, And drum, and crimsoned bayonet, Before her deadly aim. And banner, strewed the ground. The cloud that threatened in the sky. Still our standard in its glory- Has burst upon the plain — Waved o'er the sulphur storm ; g^ But 'neath it, stiff and gory. And channels, that so late were dry. Are swollen, but not with rain ; Lay many a noble form. Young Indiana holds the height. Mingled in death's cold embrace Brave Illinois has charged. There friend and foe appears. And Arkansas within the fight While o'er them bends full many a face Her glory has enlarged. That streams with burnmg tears. Still downward from the dizzy height. Oh God ! who could but weep to see iheir gleaming masses reel. On the red and trampled lawn A Niagara in resistless might — Thy form, impetuous, brave McKee, An avalanche of steel ; And thine, heroic Vaughn, Still on their mighty columns move. As gathered up our little bands The plain is covered o'er — Their comrades where they fell. The sky is black with clouds above. And bore along, with gory hands, The earth is red with gore. A Lincoln, Hardin, Yell ! Then gleamed aloft thy polished brand, And oh ! what language can impart loved and lost McKee ! The sorrow of that day — And we heard thy steady, clear command, The grief that wrung each manly heart "Kentucky, charge with me!" For thee, young Henry Clay !
