Ay—now, Old Time, the mystic curtain again rolls upwards. What do I see?—Red-coated soldiers advancing in proud battalia through the forest glades, the sunbeams dancing on their bayonets. I hear the sound of bugles—the clamorous roll of drums, the groaning jar and creak of heavy-wheeled artillery. Spread along the lines, covered with sharp abattis and water moat, I see the impatient Gaul, with savage ally in ambushment, await their coming—they advance with desperate valour,—they ford the ditch, they hew the sharpened trees with axes. In vain—the balls like hail, from unseen foes murderously destroy them—their leader falls—hark! the bugle with melancholy wail sounds their retreat.
Again, Old Time, an interval—again red-coated soldiers! again groaning artillery! Look up!—the drapeau blanc has vanished—the meteor flag streams proudly from the flag-staff.
“Stranger, ’tis the Anglo-Saxon’s rough challenge that gruffly breaks upon thy ear.”
Long peace and silence—Old Father, now obtain—the sentry sleeps upon his post—women and children play upon the ramparts—but, hark! what is it far in the distance that I hear! the sound of battle! the fusilade of musketry—the roar of cannon! I see Bunker’s Hill from light barricade sweep down her thousands—I see hurrying forward the hardy husbandman with hastily caught musket—the robed divine—the youth—the old man—cheered on by mothers—sisters—tender wives,—to strike
“For their altars and their fires,
God, and their native homes.”
I see new Nation’s symbol—Stars and Stripes—and watch, now in the midnight darkness through the fortress moat—how advance that fearless band of men—Lo! in silence they penetrate the fortress’ centre. Hark! what voice rouses the astonished officer, as starting from his slumbers, he meets, close at his throat, the bayonet’s threatening point. “Surrender!” “To whom?” “The Great Jehovah, and the Continental Congress!”
Now floats the spangled banner proudly o’er the citadel—patriotic men assemble—armies make temporary resting place—invalid soldiers breathe the health-restoring air, and age wears on. Ha!—was that a meteor flashing from Defiance Mountain summit? And there, another?—Plunge! plunge! Cannon shot! screaming, yelling, bounding i’ th’ very centre of the fortress.
“’Tis the Englishman with his artillery.”
Quick, quick!—St. Clair, withdraw the army—the position is no longer tenable. Strike not that flag!—palsied be the hand that so degrades the flag of Freedom—let it shake defiance to the last! Quick, the magazine—the train—Ha, hah! Ætna, Vesuvius like, the explosion.