National Lyrics: Battle of Bunker Hill [pp. 561-562]

National Lyrics:Battle of Bunker Hill.
Woe is me! to-day
Hath robbed me of myself, and made me lone.
"(Enone," a clever little production, very
much in Tennyson's vein-a brother poet, whom
Mr. Aytoun delighteth not to honor; and the
"Buried Flower" that reminds us of Longfellow's manner of thinking-come next in order.
The latter contains many charming gems, elaborately polished and strung together by a rather
weak thread, although as a whole it may not
possess any very great merit of poetic originality.
The following is not particularly modern, but is
a prettily told conceit
Like the wanderer of the desert,
When across the dreaand,
Breathes the perfume from the thickets
Bordering on the promised land;
When afar he sees the palm-trees
Cresting o'er the lonely well,
When he hears the pleasant tinkle
Of the distant Camel's bell-etc.
And these lines are very musical-in the tone
of the whole effusion, however.
Early wert thou taken, Mary!
In thy fair and glorious prime,
Ere the bees had ceased to murmur
Through the umbrage of the lime.
Buds were blowing, waters flowing,
Birds were singing on the tree,
Everything was bright and glowing,
When the angels came for thee.
"The Old Camp"-" Danube and the Euxine"
and "Charon's Refusal" are capital, and will be
favorites wherever they are read. But the
"Scheik of Sinai" and the " Epitaph of Constantine Kanaris" are worthless trash, insipid
and peurile to a degree. It is astonishing to
us that any man could confess himself the
parent of such lamentable weaknesses-flatter
by far than the smallest of small table beer. A
schoolboy of the fourth form who brought forward such rhymes as these would richly deserve
to be birched. But in the quantity of wheat garnered in the volume we have just laid down,
why murmur at the presence of a little chaff?
Rarely have we risen from the perusal of a work
that has afforded us a greater intellectual treat than
this, and we hope that those of our readers who
may not have the London edition within their
reach, may soon be gratified by seeing it issue
from an American press.
VoL. XV-71
NATIONAL LYRICS.
BY JAMES W. SIMMONS.
BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.*
In Boston lay the British host,
His banners wrapped in sleep;
Whilst far and near that iron coast
Was guarded from the deep;
But ere went up the morrow's sun,
Lighting the foe to his grave!
The sudden roar of distant gun
Was heard along the wave.t
For sternly over Bunker's height
Rose, rear'd by hands as stout,
The labor of a single night,
Th' American redoubt!
There Freedom sat upon her hills,
And mark'd the foe afar;
His heavy numbers, haughty drills,
His pride and pomp of war!
Now rose, alike from sea and shore,
The flash of opening guns!
That shook the city to its core,
A light that dimmed the sun's!
And rock'd beneath that iron hail
The steep where Warren stood;
No sound return'd upon the gale Th' avengers work'd in blood!
Slowly a long. dark line uprose,
Frowning above the foe!
A light it seem'd to eyes of those
Who watch'd it from below!
For there the hush'd heart's thousand ties
In listening terror lay,
As Freedorm's ranks beneath those skies,
Like lions stood at bay!
* Bunker Hill and Fort Moultrie are remote topics. I
am not aware, however, of any attempt to do justice to
them in numbers. My own attention was accidentally
drawn to the subject by the perusal, a short time since, of
Headley's two volumes, "Washington and his Generals."
t At four o'clock in the morning the people of Boston
and the British officers were waked up by a heavy cannons
ading from an English ship of war, whose commander first
perceived the position which the Americans had taken up
during the night.
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