All, all was calm; all, all was bright;
The moon was climbing to yon height,
Of Heaven's blue cone, rough round with stars,
With Venus—but no angry Mars.
THE SONG OF THE SLAIN AT THE BATTLE OF TICONDEROGA.
Farewell to the land which we sought o'er the wave;
We made it our home; it will now be our grave:
Farewell, ye proud mountains, and valleys uneven,