The fire began with awful roar;
At our first flash the artillery tore
From his proud stand, their commodore,
A presage of the victory.
The skies were hid in flame and smoke,
Such thunders from the cannon spoke,
The contest such an aspect took
As if all nature went to wreck!
From isle La Motte to Saranac[A]
[A] A river which rises from several small lakes among the mountains to the westward of Lake Champlain, and after a north easterly course of near seventy-five miles, enters the grand lake in the vicinity of Plattsburg.—Freneau's note.
Amidst his decks, with slaughter strew'd,
Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,
Or waded through a scene of blood,
At every step that round him stream'd:
He stood amidst Columbia's sons,
He stood amidst dismounted guns,
He fought amidst heart-rending groans,
The tatter'd sail, the tottering mast.
Then, round about, his ship he wore,
And charged his guns with vengeance sore,
And more than Etna shook the shore—
The foe confess'd the contest vain.
In vain they fought, in vain they sail'd,
That day; for Britain's fortune fail'd,
And their best efforts nought avail'd
To hold dominion on Champlain.
So, down their colors to the deck
The vanquish'd struck—their ships a wreck—
What dismal tidings for Quebec,
What news for England and her prince!
For, in this fleet, from England won,
A favorite project is undone:
Her sorrows only are begun—
And she may want, and very soon,
Her armies for her own defence.