“Sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
CAPT’N —— BROWN,
OF THE
21st Regiment
WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION,
WITH THE ENEMY, ON THE
25TH OF JULY, 1814.”
And this is honour! This is fame! Why, brave man! e’en now, I read the tribute to thy bravery in the bulletin of the action. Thou had’st comrades—father, mother, sisters—to mourn thy loss—and now, the stranger’s foot carelessly spurns thy frail memento; nor father, mother, sisters, nor human hand can point to the spot where rest thy ashes. Peace to thy manes! brave countrymen, where’er they sleep.
See from this point how gently and gracefully undulates the battle-field; the woods bowing to the evening breeze, as the soft sunlight pours through their branches show not the gashes of rude cannon shot—the plain, loaded and bending with the yellow harvest, betrays no human gore—yon hill scathed, scorched and blackened with cannon flame, the very resting place of the deadly battery, shows no relic of the fierce death struggle, as covered with the fragrant clover and wild blue-bell, the bee in monotonous hum banquets o’er it. Nought mars the serenity of nature as she smiles upon us. Yet, burnt in common funeral pyre, the ashes of those brave men, of friend and foe, there mingle in the bosom whence they issued. The frenzied passion passed, the furious conflict o’er, they have lain down in quiet, and like young children, sleep gently, sweetly, in the lap of that common mother who shelters with like protection the little field mouse from its gambols, and the turbaned Sultan sinking amid his prostrate millions. Shades of my gallant countrymen! Shades of their daring foes—farewell. Ne’er had warriors more glorious death-couch,—the eternal Cataracts roar your requiem.
The reader’s attention is requested to the more detailed account of this action in the [Appendix]. The inscription on the tablet is given from recollection, and it is possible that the number of the Regiment may not be the one to which this officer belonged.
LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA.
The Sun of Morning hurls himself in blazing splendour o’er thy crystal waters, beautiful Horicon, as we float upon thy placid bosom, not as of yore, in feathery canoe, but in gaily-coloured bark, drawn by Steam Spirit, as he vainly strives to break his fiery prison. See, how he puffs and pants in the fierce embrace of the glowing element; in furious efforts dragging us onward with frantic swiftness, e’en as the frightened steed, the vehicle wildly bounding after him. As the valve of safety opens, hear the shriek of mad delight, with which exultingly he proclaims his freedom;—now, the iron portal closed, how like Sampson in the Prison Mill, struggling, giant-like, he again applies him to his toil. Imprisoned Spirit! there is no help for thee. Sweat thou must, and pant, and groan, till, like thy fellow-labourer, man, released from fire fetter, as he of earth, resolved to pure ether, thou shalt float again free and delighted in the clear elements above!
Ho! brother spirit, tarry, tarry—wait thou a little ’till I join thee,—then, how gallantly we’ll ride! Couched on summer clouds, lazily we’ll float: or, glancing on sun rays, shoot swift as thought, ’mid the bright worlds rolling in sublimity above us. We’ll bathe in the Moon’s cold splendour, fan in the sultry heat of crimson Mars, slide upon Saturn’s eternal snows, or joyously gambolling along the Milky Way, we’ll chase the starry Serpent to his den. Ho! brother spirit;—but, we must bide our time—madly now in wild career, thou sweep’st the placid lake from under us.
But whom have we here? A sturdy hunter in homespun clad, with his long rifle—his broad-chested hounds in quiet, sleeping at his feet; our fellow-passenger, ’till landed on some mountain side, he follows his sylvan war. Clear animal health and vigour shine from each lineament—with what open, unsuspicious manhood—what boundless freedom he comports himself. Ha! what is it, hound? What is it? Why dost shake thy pendant ears and gaze so keenly in the distance—and why that plaintive howl? Ay, ay, hunter, thy practised eye hath caught it. On yon wooded island to the windward—a noble buck with graceful form and branching antlers. He sees us not, but the dog’s quick senses have caught his scent upon the passing wind. Still, boy, still! Pilot, put her a little more under the island. Hunter, lend me thy rifle—launch the canoe. Come, hunter—peace—peace—keep the dogs on board; paddle for yonder point—now we shoot upon the pebbly beach—now make her fast to this dead log. We’ll steal gently through the woods and come upon him unawares. Softly—press those vines away; whist—avoid the rustling of the branches; here, creep through these bushes—tread lightly on the fallen leaves—you’ll mire upon that swampy bottom. Hush—hush—tread softly—that crackling branch! He lifts his head—he looks uneasily about him—stand quiet. Now he browses again; get a little nearer—we are within distance. I’ll try him—click. Back go the antlers—the cocking of the rifle has alarmed him—he’s off! Here goes, hit or miss—crack—he jumps ten feet in the air. I’ve missed him—he bounds onward—no—yes—by Jove! he’s down—he’s up again—he plunges forward—he falls again—he rises—falls—he struggles to his knees—he——falls. Hurrah! he’s ours—quick—quick—thy couteau de chasse, we’ll make sure of him. Stop—stop. Poor deer! and I have murdered thee, for my sport have murdered thee—have taken from thee the precious boon of life—with cruelty have broken the silver chord, which the beggar’s blunt knife can sever, but not the jewelled fingers of the monarch again rejoin. There—there, thou liest, true to the Great Master’s picture—