Battle of Lundy’s Lane Centennial – Main & Lundy’s Lane (Ferry St.), July 25, 1914. Photo Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
moberly
In Lundy‘s Lane the robins sing, ‡‡And blackbirds pipe their merry lay,
The sparrow flits on restless wing, ‡‡The air is sweet with new mown hay.
O‘er the grassy mound by the old church wall ‡‡The summer breezes gently stray,
They stir the leaves of the maples tall, ‡‡And mingle with the sunbeams‘ play.
‘Tis a scene of peace and beauty fair, ‡‡That greets the happy passer-by,
As he breathes the balmy summer air, ‡‡And gladly looks on earth and sky.
But o‘er this fair and peaceful scene ‡‡One hundred years have come and gone,
And where the grass grows rich and green ‡‡The dead lay thick with faces wan.
Up from the mighty river‘s gorge ‡‡In serried ranks the foeman came,
The air grew murky as a forge, ‡‡With cannon smoke and musket flame.
Outnumbered nearly two to one, ‡‡The gallant Drummond stood at bay,
Undaunted he — and with him none — ‡‡Unworthy of that glorious day.
For loyal sons of loyal sires, ‡‡They fought for home and motherland;
No purer love the heart inspires ‡‡Than glow‘d within that patriot band.
Now hast‘ning up the river bank, ‡‡Cheered on by Scott at Brown‘s command,
The foemen form, and rank on rank, ‡‡A threatening army they expand.
The word is given — then, on they rush, ‡‡‘Mid cannon roar and musket flame,
Like avalanche‘s fearful crush, ‡‡Ah! What can balk their deadly aim?
Written after a moonlight ramble on Drummond’s Hill, U.C., the scene of that bloody action, fought July 25, 1814, where New Hampshire valor shone conspicuously.
The 11th U.S. Infantry, 1814, by H. Charles McBarron, Jr. The 11th was Composed of Men from Vermont and New Hampshire
In other days yon fatal hill,
Glittered with arms and waved with plumes,
When the sad sunset on their steel,
Flashed its last splendors; even’s glooms
Rang with the bugles’s martial breath
That called the brave to deeds of death.
Then the dismal cry of slaughter
Broke on midnight’s slumbering hour;
And the parched ground drank blood like water,
As beneath a deadly shower
Of musket and artillery,
With motto calm yet bold, “I’LL TRY,”
The bristling ranks move on,
Mid deafening thunder, sulphurous flash,
And shouts, and groans, and forests’ crash,
Till hark! the sharp, clear bayonet’s clash,
Tells that the work is done.
There deeds of deathless praise proclaim,
How rolled War’s tide when RIPLEY’s name
Swelled the wild shout of victory;
And dauntless Miller and McNeil
Led foremost, in the strife of steel,
The flower of northern chivalry;
While Scott from British brows then tore
The laurels dyed in Gallic gore.
But these terrific scenes are past;
The peasants’ slumbers, the wild blast
Alone shall break them,
And those proud bannered hosts are gone,
Where the shrill trumpet’s charging tone
No more may wake them.
Time in his flight has swept away,
Each vestige of the battle fray,
Save that the traveller views around,
The shattered oak — the grass-grown mound
That shrines a hero’s ashes!
Peace to the brave! around their stone
Shall Freedom twine her rosy wreath,
And, though with moss of year’s o’ergrown,
Fame shall applaud their glorious death,
Long as Niagara dashes!
Source: Charles James Fox, ed. The New Hampshire Book, Being Specimens of the Literature of the Granite State. Nashville: C.T. Gill, 1844.
Caleb Stark was born in Dumbarton, New Hampshire on November 21, 1804 and took up residence in his birthplace. Stark was a lawyer, historian, and member of the New Hampshire State Senate, and died in 1864.
Hut on Goat Island Used By Francis Abbott. the Hermit of Niagara, from 1829-1831. Sketch by C. Breckinridge Porter
It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune, ‡‡With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward Niagara‘s fearful side ‡‡A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, ‡‡While bending o‘er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, ‡‡And heard its thunder-hymn.
His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade;
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there, ‡‡Till winter hurled its dart:
For deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of quenchless love,
That would not let him part. Continue reading “The Hermit of the Falls by Lydia Huntley Sigourney”→
