[ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.]
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I
stood on Queenston Heights; And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph, From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up, My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts. At length I cried: "O robed with honour and with glory crowned, Tell me again the story of yon pile." And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept, The solemn junipers indued their pall, The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air; The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms; Around me rolled the tide of sudden war. The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell; Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard; Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued. From side to side the surging combat rolled, And as it rolled, passed from my ken. A silence! On the hill an alien flag Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun. Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day Broods dark. But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height Once more the battle's tide bursts on my view. Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag! Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail. Up, up they press, York volunteers and all. Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes In conquering might, quick driving all before him! O brave ensample! O beloved chief! [!-- Begin Page 94 --] Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour. Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours! Ours, noble Brock! Ours? DEATH'S! Death wins; THE DAY IS HIS. Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars, Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds; Indue again your grey funereal pall, Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell, And here he lies,—dust; ashes; nothing. Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept. Nay! I wept not! The hot, indignant thoughts That filled my breast burned up the welling tears Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate Spake rashly. But calm Reflection Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow And whispered, "As up the misty stream The Norseman crept to-day, and signals white Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore; And as ye peered the dusky vista through, To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth, Yet saw it not till I your glance directed,— So high it towered above the common plane;— So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand.— So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er smile. |
October 12, 1881.
[NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.
THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY HALL.]
"The crowd flowed in from every direction and filled the street in a compact mass both above and below the square. They were silent, but angry and threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall, and their force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz passed across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the Mayor's parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have come in obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this building." ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for action. Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until the flag had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and Captain Bell reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp Street gate, Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people, who had hitherto preserved the silence he had asked from them, broke into cheers for their Mayor."
MARION A. BAKER, in July (1886) Century.
| A noble man! a man deserving trust. A man in whom the higher elements Worked freely. A man of dignity; On whom the robes and badge of state sat well Because the majesty of self-control, And all its grace, were his. I see him now— Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart— Descend those steps and take his imminent place Before the deadly piece, as who should say "'Ware ye! these people are my people; such Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed That scarce we can control our kindled blood. [!-- Begin Page 96 --] But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too. 'Ware ye!" O men for whose dear sake he stood An offering and a hostage; on that scroll Old Chronos doth unfold along the years Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors, Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington And White. Did not your fathers know them? And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two, Monroe, stand side by side with them? |