Читать книгу Poems of American History - Группа авторов - Страница 27

I

Come, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:

By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,

Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,

And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.

For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,

And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;

When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,

And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.

Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,

And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:

Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,

For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!

They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware—

The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;

And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,

Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.

O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,

Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;

They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,

From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.

And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,

Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;

The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red, As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.

—Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,

And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,

When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,

'Twixt laurelled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Duquesne.

And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,

Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood

Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble one

Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.

Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,

For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;

"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain

Before to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."

II

'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam

Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;

And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,

And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.

The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,

The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;

Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,

But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.

Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;

The forage and provision, too,—so Ormsby said,—were gone.

Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;

In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.

Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame

There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!

"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!

I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"

So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,

And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,

And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright

At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.

Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,

As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!

Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven

By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!

O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,

And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,

As came the scouts swift-footed in—"They fly! the foe! they fly!

They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"

III

Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,

And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame;

And through the brown woods on the hills—those altars of the world—

The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.

Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din

Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,

And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,

Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.

Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas

Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,

Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,

And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.

Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,

They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"

There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,

And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.

Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,

Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;

Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecœur's armed batteaux,

And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.

Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,

And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,

The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,

And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.

Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,

And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout—"Long live the King!

Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reign

That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"

Florus B. Plimpton.

Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe, who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.

HOT STUFF

[June, 1759]

Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,

Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;

Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,

Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;

And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:

Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.

Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,

To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.

Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try

At their capital to give them another black eye.

Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,—

Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.

With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,

Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;

And the Indians will come: but the light infantry

Will soon oblige them to betake to a tree. From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff? Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!

When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,

While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,

Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's—I know the lappels."

"You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'! Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff; So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."

Edward Botwood.

About the end of August a place was found where the heights might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?

[September 12, 1759]

How stands the glass around?

For shame ye take no care, my boys,

How stands the glass around?

Let mirth and wine abound,

The trumpets sound,

The colors they are flying, boys,

To fight, kill, or wound,

May we still be found

Content with our hard fate, my boys,

On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys?

Why, soldiers, why?

Whose business 'tis to die!

What, sighing? fie!

Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys! 'Tis he, you or I! Cold, hot, wet or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly!

'Tis but in vain,—

I mean not to upbraid you, boys,—

'Tis but in vain,

For soldiers to complain:

Should next campaign

Send us to him who made us, boys,

We're free from pain!

But if we remain,

A bottle and a kind landlady

Cure all again.

James Wolfe.

Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in line of battle on the Plains of Abraham—they had scaled the cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible resolution reached to abandon the fort without further resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of France.

BRAVE WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Cheer up, my young men all,

Let nothing fright you;

Though oft objections rise,

Let it delight you.

Let not your fancy move

Whene'er it comes to trial;

Nor let your courage fail

At the first denial.

I sat down by my love,

Thinking that I woo'd her;

I sat down by my love,

But sure not to delude her.

But when I got to speak,

My tongue it doth so quiver,

I dare not speak my mind,

Whenever I am with her.

Love, here's a ring of gold,

'Tis long that I have kept it,

My dear, now for my sake,

I pray you to accept it.

When you the posy read,

Pray think upon the giver,

My dear, remember me,

Or I'm undone forever.

Then Wolfe he took his leave, Of his most lovely jewel; Although it seemed to be To him, an act most cruel.

Although it's for a space

I'm forced to leave my love,

My dear, where'er I rove,

I'll ne'er forget my dove.

So then this valiant youth

Embarked on the ocean,

To free America

From faction's dire commotion.

He landed at Quebec,

Being all brave and hearty;

The city to attack,

With his most gallant party.

Then Wolfe drew up his men,

In rank and file so pretty,

On Abraham's lofty heights,

Before this noble city.

A distance from the town

The noble French did meet them,

In double numbers there,

Resolved for to beat them.

A Parley: Wolfe and Montcalm together

Montcalm and this brave youth,

Together they are walking;

So well they do agree,

Like brothers they are talking.

Then each one to his post,

As they do now retire;

Oh, then their numerous hosts

Began their dreadful fire.

Then instant from his horse, Fell this most noble hero, May we lament his loss In words of deepest sorrow.

The French are seen to break,

Their columns all are flying;

Then Wolfe he seems to wake,

Though in the act of dying.

And lifting up his head

(The drums and trumpets rattle),

And to his army said,

"I pray how goes the battle?"

His aide-de-camp replied,

"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,

Quebec and all her pride,

'Tis nothing now can save her.

"She falls into our hands,

With all her wealth and treasure."

"O then," brave Wolfe replied,

"I quit the world with pleasure."

Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes which this or any other age can boast of."

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,

The breathing marble or the muses' lays.

Art is but vain—the force of language weak,

To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.

Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,

Each line to raise, and animate at will—

To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,

Point out its object, or its rage control—

Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find

Of those great virtues that adorned thy mind.

Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,

Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear—

While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,

And placed her safety in ignoble flight.

Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,

And rage and grief alternately impart.

With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,

These were the words that closed the warrior's breath—

"My eyesight fails!—but does the foe retreat?

If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"

A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,

Cried, "Sir, they fly!—their ranks entirely broke:

Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,

And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."

The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,

And from his lips these dying accents stole:—

"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,

Guarded by angels to celestial day.

An awful band!—Britannia's mighty dead,

Receives to glory his immortal shade.

Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief—

Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,

With joyful song conduct their welcome guest

To the bright mansions of eternal rest—

For those prepared who merit just applause

By bravely dying in their country's cause.

Pennsylvania Gazette, November 8, 1759.

The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8, 1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which is related in the following verses.

THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN

(Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764)

The Indian war was over,

And Pennsylvania's towns

Welcomed the blessed calm that comes

When peace a conflict crowns.

Bitter and long had been the strife,

But gallant Colonel Bouquet

Had forced the foe to sue for grace,

And named the joyful day

When Shawnees, Tuscarawas,

Miamis, Delawares,

And every band that roved the land

And called a captive theirs—

From the pathless depths of the forest,

By stream and dark defile,

Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,

In safety to Carlisle;

Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,

Where Conodogwinnet flows,

And the guardian ranges, north and south,

In mountain pride repose.

Like the wind the Colonel's order

To hamlet and clearing flew;

And mourning mothers and wives and sons

From banks where Delaware seaward runs,

From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,

And the vales where the southern hills divide,

Flocked to the town, perchance to view,

At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,

The faces lost, but in memory fair.

How strange the scene on the village green

That morning cold and gray!

To right the Indian tents were set,

And in groups the dusky warriors met,

While their captives clung to the captors yet,

As wild and bronzed as they—

In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,

Some loath to part, some fain to greet

The friends of a vanished day;

And, eagerly watching the tents, to left

Stood mothers and sons and wives bereft,

While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,

And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,

The troops in their brave array.

Now friends and captives mingle,

And cries of joy or woe

Thrill the broad street as loved ones meet,

Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,

And back in anguish go.

Among them lingered a widow—

From the Suabian land was she—

And one fell morning she had lost

Husband and children three,

All slain save the young Regina,

A captive spared to be.

Nine weary years had followed,

But the wilderness was dumb,

And never a word to her aching heart

Through friend or foe had come,

And now, from Tulpehocken,

Full seventy miles away,

She had walked to seek her daughter,

The Lord her only stay.

She scanned the sun-browned maidens;

But the tunic's rough disguise,

The savage tongue, the forest ways,

Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,

And with sobs and streaming eyes

She turned to the Colonel and told him

How hopeless was her quest—

Moaning, "Alas, Regina!

The grave for me is best!"

"Nay, Madam," gently he replied,

"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,

And try some other test.

What pleasant song or story

Did she love from your lips to hear?"

"O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'

And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,

And she said them over and over

While I was spinning near;

And every eve, by her little bed,

When the light was growing dim,

I sung her to sleep, my darling!

With Schmolke's beautiful hymn."

"Then sing it now," said the Colonel, And close to the captive band He brought the mother with her hymn From the far Suabian land; And with faltering voice and quivering lips, While all was hushed, she sung The strain of lofty faith and cheer In her rich German tongue:

"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"

(How near the listeners press!),

Alone, yet not alone am I,

Though all may deem my days go by

In utter dreariness;

The Lord is still my company,

I am with Him, and He with me,

The solitude to bless.

He speaks to me within His word

As if His very voice I heard,

And when I pray, apart,

He meets me in the quiet there

With counsel for each cross and care,

And comfort for my heart.

The world may say my life is lone,

With every joy and blessing flown

Its vision can descry;

I shall not sorrow nor repine,

For glorious company is mine

With God and angels nigh.

As she sung, a maid of the captives

Threw back her tangled hair,

And forward leaned as if to list The lightest murmur there; Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed, Her eyes grew bright and wide As if some spell the song had cast, And, ere the low notes died, With a bound like a deer in the forest She sprang to the singer's side, And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!" Enfolding her, she cried— "My dear, dear, little Mother!"— Then swift before her knelt As in the long, long buried days When by the wood they dwelt; And, "Vater unser, der du bist Im Himmel," chanted she, The sweet "Our Father" she had learned Beside that mother's knee; And then the grand "Apostles' Creed" That in her heart had lain: "Ich glaube an Gott den Vater," Like a child she said again— "I believe in God the Father"— Down to the blest "Amen." Stooping and clasping the maiden Whose soul the song had freed, "Now God be praised!" said the mother, "This is my child indeed!— My own, my darling Regina, Come back in my sorest need, For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,' And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!" Then, while the throng was silent, And the Colonel bowed his head, With tears and glad thanksgivings Her daughter forth she led; And the sky was lit with sunshine, And the cold earth caught its smile For the mother and ransomed maiden, That morning in Carlisle.

Edna Dean Proctor.

A PROPHECY

[1764]

Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,—

If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,

As it has done the last sad passing year,

Made the New World in anger shed the tear,—

Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,

They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,

While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,

And make lost Liberty once more to reign.

But let them live, as they would choose to be,

Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,

They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crown

Which first has raised them, though now pulls them down;

If but the rights of subjects they receive,

'Tis all they ask—or all a crown can give.

Arthur Lee (?).