Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/The Battle of Bunker Hill
THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL
On June seventeenth, in "seventy-five,"
Old Boston's streets were all alive
With those who, waking, heard the gun
That first was fired at Lexington.
Old men and matrons thronged the street
With gallant youths and maidens sweet,
And all the children too were there,
With rosy cheeks and golden hair,
Gay mingling with the shouting throng
That cheered the soldiery along
Old Boston's narrow, winding street,
In rhythm to the drum that beat
And clarion fife that flung afar
The bold, defiant strains of war;
For every settlement and town
From all the colonies around
Had sent its band of minute men
To fight the hated red-coat then.
Like to a day of perfect peace
That morning's sun illumed the east,
Far out upon the tranquil bay
Flung wide the golden gates of day
And hurled its shafts of rosy light
Against the legions of the night;
And June looked down with happy eyes
From out the azure of her skies,
And nature smiled from field and wood—
Alas! to stain such scenes with blood.
Old Boston's streets were all alive
With those who, waking, heard the gun
That first was fired at Lexington.
Old men and matrons thronged the street
With gallant youths and maidens sweet,
And all the children too were there,
With rosy cheeks and golden hair,
Gay mingling with the shouting throng
That cheered the soldiery along
Old Boston's narrow, winding street,
In rhythm to the drum that beat
And clarion fife that flung afar
The bold, defiant strains of war;
For every settlement and town
From all the colonies around
Had sent its band of minute men
To fight the hated red-coat then.
Like to a day of perfect peace
That morning's sun illumed the east,
Far out upon the tranquil bay
Flung wide the golden gates of day
And hurled its shafts of rosy light
Against the legions of the night;
And June looked down with happy eyes
From out the azure of her skies,
And nature smiled from field and wood—
Alas! to stain such scenes with blood.
When General Howe that morning bent
His gaze upon the hill intent,
His swarthy visage wore a frown;
He brought his clinched fist fiercely down
Upon the vessel's rail, and swore
That e'er the breaking day was o'er
He'd blow the rebel works in air
And float the British ensign there.
Within the town, on roofs and towers,
An anxious throng since early hours
Had eager watched the new made fort
And fearful scanned the ships in port.
All through the morn, with irate will,
The cannon thundered at the hill;
They wreathed the vessels in their smoke
And hard and bitter words they spoke;
But half their shots flew wide the mark
And others sank in sand and rock,
So scarce a dozen men were harmed,
Though long and fierce the frigates stormed.
His gaze upon the hill intent,
His swarthy visage wore a frown;
He brought his clinched fist fiercely down
Upon the vessel's rail, and swore
That e'er the breaking day was o'er
He'd blow the rebel works in air
And float the British ensign there.
Within the town, on roofs and towers,
An anxious throng since early hours
Had eager watched the new made fort
And fearful scanned the ships in port.
All through the morn, with irate will,
The cannon thundered at the hill;
They wreathed the vessels in their smoke
And hard and bitter words they spoke;
But half their shots flew wide the mark
And others sank in sand and rock,
So scarce a dozen men were harmed,
Though long and fierce the frigates stormed.
But when the noon-day sun looked down
Upon the harbor and the town,
He saw a score of loaded boats,
Red with the Britons' crimson coats,
Pulled by the sturdy British oar
Up to the hostile Charlestown shore.
Upon the harbor and the town,
He saw a score of loaded boats,
Red with the Britons' crimson coats,
Pulled by the sturdy British oar
Up to the hostile Charlestown shore.
They formed their men in solid ranks.
And slow advanced upon the banks
Where cowering low, the rebels lay,
In doubt and fear, an easy prey;
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.
And slow advanced upon the banks
Where cowering low, the rebels lay,
In doubt and fear, an easy prey;
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 like a helpless, storm-tossed wreck
Swept down the hill and o'er the neck;
Across the isthmus where the blight
Of cannon shot fell left and right,
And from each crowded roof and spire
Went up a groan prolonged and dire.
Ah! do not call this fight defeat,
A victory oft crowns retreat.
'Tis not the battle lost or won,
It is the deed that they have done.
That they have dared to do this thing
Against a kingdom and a king
Is in itself a victory
That shall resound from sea to sea;
A host shall rise when they shall hear
How these have fought and perished here,
And tyranny shall smitten lie
Because these men have dared to die;
And not one atom of the cost
In human life shall e'er be lost.
The birds will tell it to the breeze,
And it will waft it o'er the seas;
In every land, in every tongue,
Where freedom's songs are joyous sung,
Fair eyes will flash and brave hearts thrill
To hear the tale of Bunker Hill.
And musket butt, the patriots made
A stubborn fight to keep them out,
Yet lacked the skill and fled in rout,
And like a helpless, storm-tossed wreck
Swept down the hill and o'er the neck;
Across the isthmus where the blight
Of cannon shot fell left and right,
And from each crowded roof and spire
Went up a groan prolonged and dire.
Ah! do not call this fight defeat,
A victory oft crowns retreat.
'Tis not the battle lost or won,
It is the deed that they have done.
That they have dared to do this thing
Against a kingdom and a king
Is in itself a victory
That shall resound from sea to sea;
A host shall rise when they shall hear
How these have fought and perished here,
And tyranny shall smitten lie
Because these men have dared to die;
And not one atom of the cost
In human life shall e'er be lost.
The birds will tell it to the breeze,
And it will waft it o'er the seas;
In every land, in every tongue,
Where freedom's songs are joyous sung,
Fair eyes will flash and brave hearts thrill
To hear the tale of Bunker Hill.