The Storming of Stony Point.
(July 16, 1779.)
Elaine Goodale.
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,
Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;
These murmur of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,—
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!
The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—
These whisper of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.
The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;
The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;
The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!
Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”
These tell us of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!
The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,
Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—
Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—
“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”
We’ll believe it of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!