Roused from their hasty dreams, with brows aghast,
On every hand the soldiers gather fast,
Bind on their armor, seize the glittering sword,
Form in a line, and at a simple word,
With hurried steps advance toward the shore,
With hasty gestures grasp the trembling oar,
Across the river's bosom swiftly glide
And safely land upon the other side.
Drawn up in battle order now they stand,
Waiting in silence for their chief's command;
Then onward move, with firm and stately tread,
With waving plumes and ensigns proudly spread,
With gleaming sword and with uplifted lance,
Where brightly now the glistening sunbeams dance;
But long before those sunbeams shall decline
Streams of dark blood shall tarnish all their shine;
Those beams shall strive to gild the steel in vain,
For human gore the polished steel shall stain.
The sun rose clear that morn; with ardent glow
He shed his beams alike o'er friend and foe.
His golden hues the spreading fields adorn,
Waving in beauty with the ripening corn;
Give richer colors to the lofty trees,
That gently rustle in the morning breeze;
They gild the river's surface, calm and blue,
And shine reflected in the sparkling dew.
Oh, ye, who stand prepared for deadly strife,
Thirsting for blood and for a brother's life,
Behold the glories that around you lie,
The harmony pervading earth and sky!
Behold the wondrous skill and power displayed
In every leaf and every lowly blade;
On every hand behold the wondrous love
Of Him who reigns in majesty above,—
Who bids for man all nature sweetly smile,
And sends his rain upon the just and vile;
His attribute is love; and shall ye dare
To take the life mercy and love would spare?
Shall ye destroy what he has formed to live,
And take away what ye can never give?
Shall puny mortal claim the right his own
Belonging to Omnipotence alone?
Rash man, forbear! and stay the ready dart
That seeks to lodge within thy brother's heart.
But, no; for mercy's voice, now hushed and still,
No longer may the steel-clad bosom thrill;
And hearts that melted once at other's woe—
That kindled once with friendship's fervent glow—
That once had felt and owned the soothing power
Of tender love—are callous in the hour
When savage War makes bare his awful arm
And peals in thunder tones his dread alarm.
But there were some in those devoted bands
O'er whom the blissful scenes of other lands
Came rushing wildly; and with piercing gaze
They looked an instant on their boyhood's days;
Remembered well the hours that flew too fast,
Remembered some with whom those hours were past;
And, 'mid the group of dear companions gay,
Remembered well some whom they saw that day;
But sprang not forward with familiar grasp
And friendly air, the proffered hand to clasp;
But looked away, and with a pang of pain
Regretted that they e'er had met again!
For now they met, not as they met before—
Not as they used to meet in days of yore
Not arm in arm, like brothers fondly tried,
Whom they could trust and in whose love confide;
Met not as once with high and mutual aim,
In classic halls to seek for future fame:
But met as bitter foes, in deadly strife,
Each wildly panting for the other's life;
With armies proud and swelling, like the flood,
To wreath their laurels in each other's blood!
They once were friends; but France and England rose
In sounding arms and they are hostile foes!
They once were friends; but friendship may not shield
The warrior's breast upon the battle-field!
They once were friends; but, hark! the cannon's roar
Loudly proclaims that they are friends no more!
From rank to rank the stunning volley flies,
From rank to rank the groans of anguish rise;
Rank after rank is numbered with the slain;
Rank follows rank, and bleeds upon the plain.
Bravely they fought; with unabated zeal
In human gore they dipped the shining steel;
Pressed o'er the heaps of dying and of dead,
Where warriors groaned, and gallant heroes bled;
While from their lips, in quick and stifled breath
Arose the cry of "Victory, or death."
Louder and louder still the awful roar
Pealed from the heights, and shook the frightened shore.
Thick clouds of smoke enveloped friend and foe;
The volleyed thunder shook the depths below;
Mountain and echoing forest joined the cry,
And distant hills gave back the same reply.
With animating voice and waving hand
The British leader cheered his gallant band,
Pressed firmly forward where one endless tide
Of woe and carnage reigned on every side,—
Where streams of blood in crimson torrents rolled,—
Where death smote down alike the young and old;
And where the thickest poured the deadly shot,
The gallant WOLFE with daring valor fought.
The dead and dying in his pathway lie,
Before him ranks divide and squadrons fly;
With stalwart arm, and with unerring aim,
He adds new glories to his former fame,
Reaps the reward of all his toil: for now
Fresh laurels twine around his youthful brow.
But what avail they? for the fatal dart
Of death has lodged within that hoping heart!
The lofty head that wore the waving crest,
Now sadly droops upon the bleeding breast;
That mighty arm, upraised in power and pride,
Falls feebly down, and casts its sword aside;
The laurel wreath entwines that brow in vain,
For, lo! the hero lies among the slain!
The French fought long with courage and with skill;
With iron arms and with an iron will
Rushed bravely forward 'mid the battle's din,
Resolved to die, or else the victory win;
Like soldiers true, fought firmly and fought well,
And at their post like faithful soldiers fell.
Deeper and deeper now the conflict grows;
Despair nerves these, and victory flushes those.
'Tis the last struggle; hark! "They fly! they fly!"
Pierces the depths, and rends the vaulted sky.
'Tis the last struggle, for the beating drum
Proclaims the conflict o'er, the victory won.
The French in wild dismay and horror yield,
And leave the British masters of the field.