O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.80
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we shook so),— "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?"—"Wait a while."
O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:85 They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!90 The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,— The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!
They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?95 Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!100
So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,105 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they'll try it— Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky; I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"110 So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming:115 It's the death-grip that's a-coming,—they will try the works once more."