Niagara Falls ! stupendous, beautiful, Enduring monument of Power Divine ! Thy white-foam pillars ever moving stand, And ever standing move harmoniously To the rough music of the dashing spray, And roaring tumult of the boiling base. ‡How long has tuned this mystic minstrelsy ? When did thy swift but solemn march begin ? When wast thou first heaved o’er those heights sublime That fringe, with green, Ontario’s mantle blue ? How long hast thou been grinding down that steep That frames the wonder of a wondrous world, And holds thy silvery vestments to the sun ?
Niagara Falls ! stupendous, beautiful, Enduring monument of Power Divine ! Thy white-foam pillars ever moving stand, And ever standing move harmoniously To the rough music of the dashing spray, And roaring tumult of the boiling base. ‡How long has tuned this mystic minstrelsy ? When did thy swift but solemn march begin ? When wast thou first heaved o’er those heights sublime That fringe, with green, Ontario’s mantle blue ? How long hast thou been grinding down that steep That frames the wonder of a wondrous world, And holds thy silvery vestments to the sun ?
The plaque marking the location of the Battle of Lundy’s Lane
Fought July 26, 1814, American forces 5,000; British and Canadian, 2800
The summer sun down the sky fell low,
And soft, cooling winds more gently did blow,
And the stream swept by with resistless flow
On that July eve of the long ago, —
A lovely landscape as ever was seen,
And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.
A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,
And the shadows lengthened softly between.
Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian land
Fell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.
But hark ! on the startled ear there comes
The blaring of trumpets and roll of drums,
And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,
With its rumbling roar and thunder between,
As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,
And the outposts before them quickly fly.
But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,
On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.
On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,
Deployed his infantry, and sternly faced
The menacing foe in battle-array,
As the shades crept out on the dying day.
Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined souls
The heroic Drummond proudly controls.
In contiguous lines the foe now comes,
To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,
With supporting columns to reinforce
And cheer the lines on their onward course.
Drummond’s guns open with deafening roar,
Shaking the trembling river and shore ;
And hundreds go down in the deadly storm :
Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,
Move forward once more with a rush and cry,
Confident that Drummond will turn and fly,
But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,
And his firm infantry volleys and crashes
On the brave advancing lines of the foe
Rushing up from the fire-swept slope below.
Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,
But to capture the guns in vain they tried.
They were met with the steel by Drummond’s men
And hurled confused down the slope again.
They tried it again — rushed forward once more,
But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore !
Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,
All along the lines the infantry poured
A withering, ceaseless and consuming fire :
And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.
The enemy charged and charged again
Till their life-blood crimsoned the shot-torn plain,
And the awful din and the carnage there
Filled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.
At length the long twilight closed around
The smoking cannon and the death-strewn ground,
And the pitying night drew o’er the scene
Of horror a mournful and sable screen.
Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,
And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell !
Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,
Rending the ranks that again reformed,
And rushed to the charge again and again
Through the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.
The guns were won and retaken again
In the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.
Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,
To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore :
Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to stand
To the death for this proud Canadian land.
The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,
Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through ;
And they close in a mad, mad rush again,
And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.
Lurid red flashes illumine the night,
Revealing a moment the dreadful sight
Of the lines struggling there in the gloom,
Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.
But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,
And disheartened, on the verge of dispair,
At the midnight hour they fled from the field, —
Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.
Throwing their baggage in the stream, in fright
They fled away in a desperate plight.
The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,
With her lovely face, all mild and serene,
Lighting up the horror of carnage there,
Revealing the ghastly and upward stare
Of pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,
Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.
Lay them away on the hard-fought field
Where the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed !
War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,
The heroic dead by the river’s shore.
Slumber on, brave hearts ! ye do battle no more
Near Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar !
Oh, dear land of the Maple Leaf so fair,
Breathe even to-day a fervent prayer
For those intrepid souls, who, fighting, fell
For home and country they loved so well.
Canadians ! tell it — repeat it again —
How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,
With the regulars fearlessly side by side —
Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.
To rescue this land from the invader’s tread
That field was piled with immortal dead.
Source: Lieut.-Col. J. R. Wilkinson. Canadian Battlefields and Other Poems. 2nd ed. Toronto, William Briggs, 1901
Reinterment Services Held at Drummond Hill Cemetery, October 17, 1891. Photo courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
(Suggested by the burial, October 17th, 1891, of the remains of
some of the British forces who fought in this memorable battle.)
Three-quarters of a century
Have passed away like snow,
Since Drummond and Riall stood firm
And fought the furious foe;
When round our gallant fellows
The bullets hissed like rain,
And heaped with dead and dying men
The field of Lundy‘s Lane.
The twilight of the summer eve
Was hovering in the sky,
When rose upon the listening air
The British battle-cry;
Then through the trembling heavens surged
The roar of giant strife,
For thrice two thousand armed men
Were battling there for life.
Yet still above that fearful din
Of battle‘s mad career
Was heard from throbbing British throats
The British battle cheer.
All through that night till midnight‘s hour
Was on Time‘s trembling lip,
Our gallant fellows at the cup
Of bitter death did sip.
They cared not if each moment drained
The drops of faltering life,
They fought for home and native land,
For mother, child and wife.
Not theirs the fight for conquest,
Not theirs the fight for gold,
But theirs the fight for freedom‘s right
Their fathers gained of old.
Thus with stern hearts and steady hands
They marched into the fray,
And there our bloodiest battle
Was fought and won that day.
Bloodiest! aye, six thousand men
At dusk stood on the field:
Two thousand dead or dying fell
Before the day was sealed.
Yes, o‘er their grave let banners wave,
Let trumpets moan their funeral note;
God in His might looked down that night —
Looked, and the wrong he smote.
They fought for home and native land,
For mother, child and wife,
And recked not if each moment drained
The dregs of faltering life.
They fought for home and native land,
They held the foe at bay;
They fell, but though they fell, they stand
In honor‘s ranks today.
They gave their blood to save the flag,
To keep the land from shame;
To God be praise for victory,
To them eternal fame!
And though we hope that ne‘er again
Such strife may shake our land,
But pray these sister nations may
Give each a friendly hand;
Yet while one drop of British blood
Swells a Canadian vein,
Our hearts must thrill when we recall
The fight of Lundy‘s Lane.
Source: Kevin McCabe, ed. The Poetry of Old Niagara. St. Catharines, Ont.: Blarney Stone Books, 1999.
Originally published: James Alexander Tucker. Poems. Toronto: Briggs, 1904.
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.
