Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 2

round the rampart strode sedately; It was
PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With
the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a
gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the
storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were
forming;
At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;

How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and
listened
To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!
At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),
In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And
the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the
barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:

The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- At last
they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,--
Now the front rank fires a volley,--they have thrown away their shot;
For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our
people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and
tipple), He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war)
before,-- Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,--
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:--
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye 'll
waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;
You may bang the dirt and
welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the
gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"
In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation
Of the dread
approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the
rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up
against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,--nearer,
When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple
shakes-- The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;

Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
Oh 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.
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."
Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: 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 are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They
have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! 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?
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 earth-work 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!
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,
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;