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walls were dumb:

       Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,

       And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR

       HAS COME!

      The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,

       And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons'

       deafening thrill,

       When a figure tall and stately 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;

       Far behind the 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!

      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.

      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:

       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 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!

      So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backward 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:

       I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore this job is done;"

       So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,

       Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.

      All

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