'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of the times that tried men's souls;'2 1 The story of Bunker Hill battle is told as literally in accordance with the best authorities as it would have been if it had been written in prose instead of in verse. I have often been asked what steeple it was from which the little group I speak of looked upon the conflict. To this I answer that I am not prepared to speak authoritatively, but that the reader may take his choice among all the steeples standing at that time in the northern part of the city. Christ Church in Salem Street is the one I always think of, but I do not insist upon its claim. As to the personages who made up the small company that followed the old corporal, it would be hard to identify them, but by ascertaining where the portrait by Copley is now to be found, some light may be thrown on their personality. Daniel Malcolm's gravestone, splintered by British bullets, may be seen in the Copp's Hill burial-ground. (HOLMES.) This poem was first published in 1875, in connection with the centenary of the battle of Bunker Hill. The belfry could hardly have been that of Christ Church, since tradition says that General Gage was stationed there watching the battle, and we may make it to be what was known as the New Brick Church, built in 1721, on Hanover, corner of Richmond Street, Boston, rebuilt of stone in 1845, and pulled down at the widening of Hanover Street in 1871. There are many narratives of the battle of Bunker Hill. Frothingham's History of the Siege of Boston is one of the most com No time for bodice-lacing or for lookingglass grimacing; prehensive accounts, and has furnished material for many popular narratives. (Riverside Literature Series.) 2 In December, 1776, Thomas Paine, whose Common Sense had so remarkable a popularity as the first homely expression of public opinion on Independence, began issuing a series of tracts called The Crisis, eighteen numbers of which appeared. The familiar words quoted by the grandmother must often have been heard and used by her. They begin the first number of The Crisis: These are the times that try men's souls: the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it Now deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.' (Riverside Literature Series.) At noon in marching order they were mov ing 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, 50 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. 60 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 !'1 1 The following epitaph is still to be read on a tall gravestone, standing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of the dead in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, one of the three city [Boston] ceme 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! 90 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! 100 How they surged above the breast work, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our wornout men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck ? It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted, On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. And I heard through all the flurry, 'Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry! "T WAS on the famous trotting-ground, Blue are the skies of opening day; ΤΟ 1 The poem was read at a dinner of the editors of the Harvard Advocate, a literary magazine published by undergraduates. The jointed tandem, ticklish team! 'Come on! I'll bet you two to one I'll make him do it!' " Done !' 30 40 Will you? As through the jeering crowd he past, 'A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!' Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose. Slowly, as when the walking-beam 90 First feels the gathering head of steam, 100 With warning cough and threatening wheeze |