A fleet with flags arrayedSailed from the port of Brest,And the Admiral's ship displayedThe signal: "Steer southwest."For this Admiral D'AnvilleHad sworn by cross and crownTo ravage with fire and steelOur helpless Boston Town.There were rumors in the street,In the houses there was fearOf the coming of the fleet,And the danger hovering near.And while from mouth to mouthSpread the tidings of dismay,I stood in the Old South,Saying humbly: "Let us pray!"O Lord! we would not advise;But if in thy ProvidenceA tempest should ariseTo drive the French Fleet hence,And scatter it far and wide,Or sink it in the sea,We should be satisfied,And thine the glory be."This was the prayer I made,For my soul was all on flame,And even as I prayedThe answering tempest came;It came with a mighty power,Shaking the windows and walls,And tolling the bell in the tower,As it tolls at funerals.The lightning suddenlyUnsheathed its flaming sword,And I cried: "Stand still, and seeThe salvation of the Lord!"The heavens were black with cloud,The sea was white with hail,And ever more fierce and loudBlew the October gale.The fleet it overtook,And the broad sails in the vanLike the tents of Cushan shook,Or the curtains of Midian.Down on the reeling decksCrashed the o'erwhelming seas;Ah, never were there wrecksSo pitiful as these!Like a potter's vessel brokeThe great ships of the line;They were carried away as a smoke,Or sank like lead in the brine.O Lord! before thy pathThey vanished and ceased to be,When thou didst walk in wrathWith thine horses through the sea!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
A fleet with flags arrayedSailed from the port of Brest,And the Admiral's ship displayedThe signal: "Steer southwest."For this Admiral D'AnvilleHad sworn by cross and crownTo ravage with fire and steelOur helpless Boston Town.There were rumors in the street,In the houses there was fearOf the coming of the fleet,And the danger hovering near.And while from mouth to mouthSpread the tidings of dismay,I stood in the Old South,Saying humbly: "Let us pray!"O Lord! we would not advise;But if in thy ProvidenceA tempest should ariseTo drive the French Fleet hence,And scatter it far and wide,Or sink it in the sea,We should be satisfied,And thine the glory be."This was the prayer I made,For my soul was all on flame,And even as I prayedThe answering tempest came;It came with a mighty power,Shaking the windows and walls,And tolling the bell in the tower,As it tolls at funerals.The lightning suddenlyUnsheathed its flaming sword,And I cried: "Stand still, and seeThe salvation of the Lord!"The heavens were black with cloud,The sea was white with hail,And ever more fierce and loudBlew the October gale.The fleet it overtook,And the broad sails in the vanLike the tents of Cushan shook,Or the curtains of Midian.Down on the reeling decksCrashed the o'erwhelming seas;Ah, never were there wrecksSo pitiful as these!Like a potter's vessel brokeThe great ships of the line;They were carried away as a smoke,Or sank like lead in the brine.O Lord! before thy pathThey vanished and ceased to be,When thou didst walk in wrathWith thine horses through the sea!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
A fleet with flags arrayedSailed from the port of Brest,And the Admiral's ship displayedThe signal: "Steer southwest."For this Admiral D'AnvilleHad sworn by cross and crownTo ravage with fire and steelOur helpless Boston Town.
There were rumors in the street,In the houses there was fearOf the coming of the fleet,And the danger hovering near.And while from mouth to mouthSpread the tidings of dismay,I stood in the Old South,Saying humbly: "Let us pray!
"O Lord! we would not advise;But if in thy ProvidenceA tempest should ariseTo drive the French Fleet hence,And scatter it far and wide,Or sink it in the sea,We should be satisfied,And thine the glory be."
This was the prayer I made,For my soul was all on flame,And even as I prayedThe answering tempest came;It came with a mighty power,Shaking the windows and walls,And tolling the bell in the tower,As it tolls at funerals.
The lightning suddenlyUnsheathed its flaming sword,And I cried: "Stand still, and seeThe salvation of the Lord!"The heavens were black with cloud,The sea was white with hail,And ever more fierce and loudBlew the October gale.
The fleet it overtook,And the broad sails in the vanLike the tents of Cushan shook,Or the curtains of Midian.Down on the reeling decksCrashed the o'erwhelming seas;Ah, never were there wrecksSo pitiful as these!
Like a potter's vessel brokeThe great ships of the line;They were carried away as a smoke,Or sank like lead in the brine.O Lord! before thy pathThey vanished and ceased to be,When thou didst walk in wrathWith thine horses through the sea!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North American continent. The French claimed all the country west of the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused."
Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North American continent. The French claimed all the country west of the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused."
THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED
[1755]
Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,To rouse the august lion from his den,Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.Rouse,British Lion, from thy soft repose,And take revenge upon the worst of foes,Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.They always did thy quiet breast annoy,Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',They never did nor would keep faith with youBy popes and priests indulged so to do.All neighboring powers and neutral standers byLook on our cause with an impartial eye,And see their falseness and their perfidy.Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.But by indulgence mightily increase,Killing and scalping us in times of peace.They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,In children's blood for to imbue their hands,Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blowsUpon the heads of your perfidious foes,Who always truth and justice did oppose.Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,A faithful drubbing to their future good.Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;And when the news unto Versailles it comes,Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;To see such hail-stones down among them fall.Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,And others in a vast amazement fled,While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.My roving muse the surface reach again,Search every part of the Atlantic plain,And see if any Gallics yet remain;And if they do, let British cannon roar;And let thy thunders reach the western shore.While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.Stephen Tilden.
Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,To rouse the august lion from his den,Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.Rouse,British Lion, from thy soft repose,And take revenge upon the worst of foes,Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.They always did thy quiet breast annoy,Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',They never did nor would keep faith with youBy popes and priests indulged so to do.All neighboring powers and neutral standers byLook on our cause with an impartial eye,And see their falseness and their perfidy.Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.But by indulgence mightily increase,Killing and scalping us in times of peace.They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,In children's blood for to imbue their hands,Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blowsUpon the heads of your perfidious foes,Who always truth and justice did oppose.Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,A faithful drubbing to their future good.Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;And when the news unto Versailles it comes,Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;To see such hail-stones down among them fall.Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,And others in a vast amazement fled,While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.My roving muse the surface reach again,Search every part of the Atlantic plain,And see if any Gallics yet remain;And if they do, let British cannon roar;And let thy thunders reach the western shore.While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.Stephen Tilden.
Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,To rouse the august lion from his den,Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.
Rouse,British Lion, from thy soft repose,And take revenge upon the worst of foes,Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.
They always did thy quiet breast annoy,Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.
Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',They never did nor would keep faith with youBy popes and priests indulged so to do.
All neighboring powers and neutral standers byLook on our cause with an impartial eye,And see their falseness and their perfidy.
Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.But by indulgence mightily increase,Killing and scalping us in times of peace.
They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,In children's blood for to imbue their hands,Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.
Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blowsUpon the heads of your perfidious foes,Who always truth and justice did oppose.
Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.
Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,A faithful drubbing to their future good.
Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;And when the news unto Versailles it comes,Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.
Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.
While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;To see such hail-stones down among them fall.
Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,And others in a vast amazement fled,While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.
My roving muse the surface reach again,Search every part of the Atlantic plain,And see if any Gallics yet remain;
And if they do, let British cannon roar;And let thy thunders reach the western shore.While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.
Stephen Tilden.
Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne. George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29 the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey across the mountains.
Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne. George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29 the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey across the mountains.
THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN
[May 29, 1755]
To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!Hark, how the drums do roll it along!To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.Let not your courage fail you;Be valiant, stout and bold;And it will soon avail you,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;The battle is begun as you may fairly see.Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.A squadron now appears, my boys;If that they do but stand!Boys, never fear, be sure you mindThe word of command!Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!See how, see how, they break and fly before us!See how they are scattered all over the plain!Now, now—now, now our country will adore us!In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!Then laurels shall our glory crownFor all our actions told:The hills shall echo all around,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!Hark, how the drums do roll it along!To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.Let not your courage fail you;Be valiant, stout and bold;And it will soon avail you,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;The battle is begun as you may fairly see.Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.A squadron now appears, my boys;If that they do but stand!Boys, never fear, be sure you mindThe word of command!Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!See how, see how, they break and fly before us!See how they are scattered all over the plain!Now, now—now, now our country will adore us!In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!Then laurels shall our glory crownFor all our actions told:The hills shall echo all around,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!Hark, how the drums do roll it along!To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.Let not your courage fail you;Be valiant, stout and bold;And it will soon avail you,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;The battle is begun as you may fairly see.Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.A squadron now appears, my boys;If that they do but stand!Boys, never fear, be sure you mindThe word of command!Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
See how, see how, they break and fly before us!See how they are scattered all over the plain!Now, now—now, now our country will adore us!In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!Then laurels shall our glory crownFor all our actions told:The hills shall echo all around,My loyal hearts of gold.Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men, reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and, on the following morning, with colors flying and drums beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under Contrecœur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire, spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush. The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion, but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.
Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men, reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and, on the following morning, with colors flying and drums beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under Contrecœur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire, spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush. The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion, but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.
BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE
[July 9, 1755]
Come all ye sons of Brittany,Assist my muse in tragedy,And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,And spend a mournful day,Upon Monongahela fields,The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;And British blood bedews the hillsOf western Gilboa.July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,They had a bold and bloody fray,Our host was smote with a dismay;Some basely did retire,And left brave Braddock in the field,Who had much rather die than yield,A while his sword he bravely wieldIn clouds of smoke and fire.Some time he bravely stood his ground,A thousand foes did him surround,Till he received a mortal wound,Which forc'd him to retreat.He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,As he was home-ward on his way;Alas! alas! we all must say,A sore and sad defeat.Now to his grave this hero's borne,While savage foes triumph and scorn,And drooping banners dress his urn,And guard him to his tomb.Heralds and monarchs of the dead,You that so many worms have fed,He's coming to your chilly bed,Edge close and give him room.
Come all ye sons of Brittany,Assist my muse in tragedy,And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,And spend a mournful day,Upon Monongahela fields,The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;And British blood bedews the hillsOf western Gilboa.July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,They had a bold and bloody fray,Our host was smote with a dismay;Some basely did retire,And left brave Braddock in the field,Who had much rather die than yield,A while his sword he bravely wieldIn clouds of smoke and fire.Some time he bravely stood his ground,A thousand foes did him surround,Till he received a mortal wound,Which forc'd him to retreat.He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,As he was home-ward on his way;Alas! alas! we all must say,A sore and sad defeat.Now to his grave this hero's borne,While savage foes triumph and scorn,And drooping banners dress his urn,And guard him to his tomb.Heralds and monarchs of the dead,You that so many worms have fed,He's coming to your chilly bed,Edge close and give him room.
Come all ye sons of Brittany,Assist my muse in tragedy,And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,And spend a mournful day,Upon Monongahela fields,The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;And British blood bedews the hillsOf western Gilboa.
July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,They had a bold and bloody fray,Our host was smote with a dismay;Some basely did retire,And left brave Braddock in the field,Who had much rather die than yield,A while his sword he bravely wieldIn clouds of smoke and fire.
Some time he bravely stood his ground,A thousand foes did him surround,Till he received a mortal wound,Which forc'd him to retreat.He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,As he was home-ward on his way;Alas! alas! we all must say,A sore and sad defeat.
Now to his grave this hero's borne,While savage foes triumph and scorn,And drooping banners dress his urn,And guard him to his tomb.Heralds and monarchs of the dead,You that so many worms have fed,He's coming to your chilly bed,Edge close and give him room.
HIS EPITAPH
Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,Who always hated cowardice,But fell a savage sacrificeAmidst his Indian foes.I charge you, heroes, of the ground,To guard his dark pavilion round,And keep off all obtruding sound,And cherish his repose.Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,Bold death, at last, has bid thee standAnd to resign thy great command,And cancel thy commission.Altho' thou didst not much inclineThy post and honors to resign;Now iron slumber doth confine;None envy's thy condition.
Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,Who always hated cowardice,But fell a savage sacrificeAmidst his Indian foes.I charge you, heroes, of the ground,To guard his dark pavilion round,And keep off all obtruding sound,And cherish his repose.Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,Bold death, at last, has bid thee standAnd to resign thy great command,And cancel thy commission.Altho' thou didst not much inclineThy post and honors to resign;Now iron slumber doth confine;None envy's thy condition.
Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,Who always hated cowardice,But fell a savage sacrificeAmidst his Indian foes.I charge you, heroes, of the ground,To guard his dark pavilion round,And keep off all obtruding sound,And cherish his repose.
Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,Bold death, at last, has bid thee standAnd to resign thy great command,And cancel thy commission.Altho' thou didst not much inclineThy post and honors to resign;Now iron slumber doth confine;None envy's thy condition.
A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE
Return my muse unto the field,See what a prospect it doth yield;Ingrateful to the eyes and smellA carnage bath'd in gore,Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,While sanguine rivers fill the dales,And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,The like ne'er here before.And must these sons of BrittanyBe clouded, set in western skies,And fall a savage sacrifice?Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!My blood boils high in every vein,To climb the mountains of the slain,And break the iron jaws in twain,Of savage Gallic power.Our children with their mothers die,While they aloud for mercy cry;They kill, and scalp them instantly,Then fly into the woods,And make a mock of all their cries,And bring their scalps a sacrificeTo their infernal deities,And praise their demon gods.Revenge, revenge the harmless bloodWhich their inhuman dogs have shedIn every frontier neighborhood,For near these hundred years.Their murdering clan in ambush lies,To kill and scalp them by surprize,And free from tender parents' eyesTen hundred thousand tears.Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricksHave so enragedold sixty-six,With legs and arms like withered sticks,And youthful vigor gone;That if he lives another year,Complete in armor he'll appear,And laugh at death and scoff at fear,To right his country's wrong.Let young and old, both high and low,Arm well against this savage foe,Who all around inviron us so,The sons of black delusion.New England's sons you know their way,And how to cross them in their play,And drive these murdering dogs away,Unto their last confusion.One bold effort, oh, let us make,And at one blow behead the snake,And then these savage powers will break,Which long have us oppress'd.And this, brave soldiers, will we doIf Heaven and George shall say so too;And if we drive the matter thro',The land will be at rest.Come every soldier charge your gun,And let your task be killing one;Take aim until the work is done;Don't throw away your fire,For he that fires without an aim,May kill his friend and be to blame,And in the end come off with shame,When forced to retire.O mother land, we think we're sure,Sufficient is thy marine powersTo dissipate all eastern showers:And if our arms be blest,Thy sons inNorth AmericaWill drive these hell-born dogs awayAs far beyond the realms of day,As east is from the west.Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,It is too high and much too strong,The learned won't allow.Much honor should accrue to himWho ne'er was at their AcademCome blot out everytelesem;Get home unto thy plow.Stephen Tilden.Composed August 20, 1755.
Return my muse unto the field,See what a prospect it doth yield;Ingrateful to the eyes and smellA carnage bath'd in gore,Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,While sanguine rivers fill the dales,And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,The like ne'er here before.And must these sons of BrittanyBe clouded, set in western skies,And fall a savage sacrifice?Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!My blood boils high in every vein,To climb the mountains of the slain,And break the iron jaws in twain,Of savage Gallic power.Our children with their mothers die,While they aloud for mercy cry;They kill, and scalp them instantly,Then fly into the woods,And make a mock of all their cries,And bring their scalps a sacrificeTo their infernal deities,And praise their demon gods.Revenge, revenge the harmless bloodWhich their inhuman dogs have shedIn every frontier neighborhood,For near these hundred years.Their murdering clan in ambush lies,To kill and scalp them by surprize,And free from tender parents' eyesTen hundred thousand tears.Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricksHave so enragedold sixty-six,With legs and arms like withered sticks,And youthful vigor gone;That if he lives another year,Complete in armor he'll appear,And laugh at death and scoff at fear,To right his country's wrong.Let young and old, both high and low,Arm well against this savage foe,Who all around inviron us so,The sons of black delusion.New England's sons you know their way,And how to cross them in their play,And drive these murdering dogs away,Unto their last confusion.One bold effort, oh, let us make,And at one blow behead the snake,And then these savage powers will break,Which long have us oppress'd.And this, brave soldiers, will we doIf Heaven and George shall say so too;And if we drive the matter thro',The land will be at rest.Come every soldier charge your gun,And let your task be killing one;Take aim until the work is done;Don't throw away your fire,For he that fires without an aim,May kill his friend and be to blame,And in the end come off with shame,When forced to retire.O mother land, we think we're sure,Sufficient is thy marine powersTo dissipate all eastern showers:And if our arms be blest,Thy sons inNorth AmericaWill drive these hell-born dogs awayAs far beyond the realms of day,As east is from the west.Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,It is too high and much too strong,The learned won't allow.Much honor should accrue to himWho ne'er was at their AcademCome blot out everytelesem;Get home unto thy plow.Stephen Tilden.Composed August 20, 1755.
Return my muse unto the field,See what a prospect it doth yield;Ingrateful to the eyes and smellA carnage bath'd in gore,Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,While sanguine rivers fill the dales,And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,The like ne'er here before.
And must these sons of BrittanyBe clouded, set in western skies,And fall a savage sacrifice?Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!My blood boils high in every vein,To climb the mountains of the slain,And break the iron jaws in twain,Of savage Gallic power.
Our children with their mothers die,While they aloud for mercy cry;They kill, and scalp them instantly,Then fly into the woods,And make a mock of all their cries,And bring their scalps a sacrificeTo their infernal deities,And praise their demon gods.
Revenge, revenge the harmless bloodWhich their inhuman dogs have shedIn every frontier neighborhood,For near these hundred years.Their murdering clan in ambush lies,To kill and scalp them by surprize,And free from tender parents' eyesTen hundred thousand tears.
Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricksHave so enragedold sixty-six,With legs and arms like withered sticks,And youthful vigor gone;That if he lives another year,Complete in armor he'll appear,And laugh at death and scoff at fear,To right his country's wrong.
Let young and old, both high and low,Arm well against this savage foe,Who all around inviron us so,The sons of black delusion.New England's sons you know their way,And how to cross them in their play,And drive these murdering dogs away,Unto their last confusion.
One bold effort, oh, let us make,And at one blow behead the snake,And then these savage powers will break,Which long have us oppress'd.And this, brave soldiers, will we doIf Heaven and George shall say so too;And if we drive the matter thro',The land will be at rest.
Come every soldier charge your gun,And let your task be killing one;Take aim until the work is done;Don't throw away your fire,For he that fires without an aim,May kill his friend and be to blame,And in the end come off with shame,When forced to retire.
O mother land, we think we're sure,Sufficient is thy marine powersTo dissipate all eastern showers:And if our arms be blest,Thy sons inNorth AmericaWill drive these hell-born dogs awayAs far beyond the realms of day,As east is from the west.
Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,It is too high and much too strong,The learned won't allow.Much honor should accrue to himWho ne'er was at their AcademCome blot out everytelesem;Get home unto thy plow.
Stephen Tilden.
Composed August 20, 1755.
NED BRADDOCK
[July 9, 1755]
Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"—"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?Never a broadsword to bar him the way?Never a bush where a Huron may hide,Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"—Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.—'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.—But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."—"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.John Williamson Palmer.
Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"—"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?Never a broadsword to bar him the way?Never a bush where a Huron may hide,Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"—Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.—'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.—But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."—"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.John Williamson Palmer.
Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"—"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.
Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?Never a broadsword to bar him the way?Never a bush where a Huron may hide,Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"—Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!
Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.—'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!
Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.—But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!
Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."—"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?In his own doom building large for the Lord,Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.
John Williamson Palmer.
After Braddock's defeat, the Pennsylvania and Virginia frontiers were left, for a time, to the ravages of the Indians. The colonies were slow to defend themselves, and could get no aid whatever from England, who had her hands full elsewhere.
After Braddock's defeat, the Pennsylvania and Virginia frontiers were left, for a time, to the ravages of the Indians. The colonies were slow to defend themselves, and could get no aid whatever from England, who had her hands full elsewhere.
ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA
[September 30, 1756]
Still shall the tyrant scourge of GaulWith wasteful rage resistless fallOn Britain's slumbering race?Still shall she wave her bloody handAnd threatening banners o'er this land,To Britain's fell disgrace?And not one generous chieftain rise(Who dares the frown of war despise,And treacherous fear disclaim)His country's ruin to oppose,To hurl destruction on her foes,And blast their rising fame?In Britain's cause, with valor fired,Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,And claim'd a nation's tear;Nor could Oswego's bulwarks standThe fury of a savage band,Though Schuyler's arm was there.Still shall this motley, murderous crewTheir deep, destructive arts pursue,And general horror spread?No—see Britannia's genius rise!Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she fliesAnd lifts her laurell'd head!Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,Great Loudon's awful banners fly,In British pomp display'd!Soon shall the gallant chief advance;Before him shrink the sons of France,Confounded and dismay'd.Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,And save your country's shame!Let every hand for Britain arm'd,And every breast with virtue warm'd,Aspire at deathless fame!But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,And on her foes let terrors shake,Their gloomy troops defy;For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,For vengeance louder cry.Why should we seek inglorious rest,Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,While war insults so near?While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!In furious bands appear!Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chaseFrom their deep haunts, the savage race,Till they confess you men.Let other Armstrongs grace the field!Let other slaves before them yield,And tremble round Duquesne.And thou, our chief, and martial guide,Of worth approved, of valor triedIn many a hard campaign,O Denny, warmed with British fire,Our inexperienced troops inspire,And conquest's laurels gain!Pennsylvania Gazette, September 30, 1756.
Still shall the tyrant scourge of GaulWith wasteful rage resistless fallOn Britain's slumbering race?Still shall she wave her bloody handAnd threatening banners o'er this land,To Britain's fell disgrace?And not one generous chieftain rise(Who dares the frown of war despise,And treacherous fear disclaim)His country's ruin to oppose,To hurl destruction on her foes,And blast their rising fame?In Britain's cause, with valor fired,Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,And claim'd a nation's tear;Nor could Oswego's bulwarks standThe fury of a savage band,Though Schuyler's arm was there.Still shall this motley, murderous crewTheir deep, destructive arts pursue,And general horror spread?No—see Britannia's genius rise!Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she fliesAnd lifts her laurell'd head!Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,Great Loudon's awful banners fly,In British pomp display'd!Soon shall the gallant chief advance;Before him shrink the sons of France,Confounded and dismay'd.Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,And save your country's shame!Let every hand for Britain arm'd,And every breast with virtue warm'd,Aspire at deathless fame!But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,And on her foes let terrors shake,Their gloomy troops defy;For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,For vengeance louder cry.Why should we seek inglorious rest,Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,While war insults so near?While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!In furious bands appear!Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chaseFrom their deep haunts, the savage race,Till they confess you men.Let other Armstrongs grace the field!Let other slaves before them yield,And tremble round Duquesne.And thou, our chief, and martial guide,Of worth approved, of valor triedIn many a hard campaign,O Denny, warmed with British fire,Our inexperienced troops inspire,And conquest's laurels gain!Pennsylvania Gazette, September 30, 1756.
Still shall the tyrant scourge of GaulWith wasteful rage resistless fallOn Britain's slumbering race?Still shall she wave her bloody handAnd threatening banners o'er this land,To Britain's fell disgrace?
And not one generous chieftain rise(Who dares the frown of war despise,And treacherous fear disclaim)His country's ruin to oppose,To hurl destruction on her foes,And blast their rising fame?
In Britain's cause, with valor fired,Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,And claim'd a nation's tear;Nor could Oswego's bulwarks standThe fury of a savage band,Though Schuyler's arm was there.
Still shall this motley, murderous crewTheir deep, destructive arts pursue,And general horror spread?No—see Britannia's genius rise!Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she fliesAnd lifts her laurell'd head!
Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,Great Loudon's awful banners fly,In British pomp display'd!Soon shall the gallant chief advance;Before him shrink the sons of France,Confounded and dismay'd.
Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,And save your country's shame!Let every hand for Britain arm'd,And every breast with virtue warm'd,Aspire at deathless fame!
But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,And on her foes let terrors shake,Their gloomy troops defy;For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,For vengeance louder cry.
Why should we seek inglorious rest,Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,While war insults so near?While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!In furious bands appear!
Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chaseFrom their deep haunts, the savage race,Till they confess you men.Let other Armstrongs grace the field!Let other slaves before them yield,And tremble round Duquesne.
And thou, our chief, and martial guide,Of worth approved, of valor triedIn many a hard campaign,O Denny, warmed with British fire,Our inexperienced troops inspire,And conquest's laurels gain!
Pennsylvania Gazette, September 30, 1756.
Meanwhile things were in a troubled condition in Acadia, where the so-called "French neutrals" were discovered to be in arms against England. "Every resource of patience and persuasion" had been used to secure their loyalty to Great Britain, but in vain. At last it was decided to disperse them among the southern provinces, and the deportation began in October. At the end of two months, about six thousand of the Acadians had been sent away, and their homes destroyed.
Meanwhile things were in a troubled condition in Acadia, where the so-called "French neutrals" were discovered to be in arms against England. "Every resource of patience and persuasion" had been used to secure their loyalty to Great Britain, but in vain. At last it was decided to disperse them among the southern provinces, and the deportation began in October. At the end of two months, about six thousand of the Acadians had been sent away, and their homes destroyed.
THE EMBARKATION
From "Evangeline"
[October 8, 1755]
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy processionFollowed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the waysideJoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.*****Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their childrenLeft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.*****Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampmentsFar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.*****Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy processionFollowed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the waysideJoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.*****Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their childrenLeft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.*****Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampmentsFar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.*****Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy processionFollowed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:—"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the waysideJoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
*****
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.
There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their childrenLeft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,—Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.
*****
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.
These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampmentsFar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.
*****
Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
In July, 1758, an army of fifteen thousand, under General James Abercromby and Brigadier Lord Howe, attempted to take Ticonderoga, where Montcalm was stationed at the head of about three thousand men. Lord Howe, the very life of the army, was killed in the first skirmish, and Abercromby handled the army so badly that it was repulsed with a loss of nearly two thousand, and fled in a panic. The French loss was less than four hundred, and the victory was hailed as one of the greatest ever achieved by French arms in America.
In July, 1758, an army of fifteen thousand, under General James Abercromby and Brigadier Lord Howe, attempted to take Ticonderoga, where Montcalm was stationed at the head of about three thousand men. Lord Howe, the very life of the army, was killed in the first skirmish, and Abercromby handled the army so badly that it was repulsed with a loss of nearly two thousand, and fled in a panic. The French loss was less than four hundred, and the victory was hailed as one of the greatest ever achieved by French arms in America.
ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG
[July 8, 1758]
Neglected long had been my useless lyre,And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head(Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,Now spring in vegetative life again,Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevailMurmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;Th' empurpled fields of Carilong surveyRich with the spoils of one disastrous day!Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stoodAnd thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;Silent Britannia's tardy thunder layWhile clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's browO'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoanTheir much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat—And with slow motion sullenly retreat.But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly shareAnd taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confestThe patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'dLike Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fateThy zeal and active virtues emulate,Soon should proud Carilong be humbled lowNor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.London Magazine, 1759.
Neglected long had been my useless lyre,And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head(Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,Now spring in vegetative life again,Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevailMurmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;Th' empurpled fields of Carilong surveyRich with the spoils of one disastrous day!Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stoodAnd thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;Silent Britannia's tardy thunder layWhile clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's browO'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoanTheir much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat—And with slow motion sullenly retreat.But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly shareAnd taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confestThe patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'dLike Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fateThy zeal and active virtues emulate,Soon should proud Carilong be humbled lowNor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.London Magazine, 1759.
Neglected long had been my useless lyre,And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head(Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,Now spring in vegetative life again,Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevailMurmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;Th' empurpled fields of Carilong surveyRich with the spoils of one disastrous day!Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stoodAnd thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;Silent Britannia's tardy thunder layWhile clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's browO'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoanTheir much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat—And with slow motion sullenly retreat.But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly shareAnd taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confestThe patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'dLike Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fateThy zeal and active virtues emulate,Soon should proud Carilong be humbled lowNor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.
London Magazine, 1759.
But at last the tide turned. In 1757 William Pitt forced his way to the leadership of the government in England, and at once formed a comprehensive plan for a combined attack on the French forts in America. The first point of attack was Louisburg, which had been ceded back to France in 1748, and in the spring of 1758 a strong expedition under Lord Amherst was dispatched against it. The siege commenced June 8—the very day of the disaster at Ticonderoga—and after a tremendous bombardment which destroyed the town and badly breached the fortress, the garrison, numbering nearly six thousand, surrendered July 26, 1758.
But at last the tide turned. In 1757 William Pitt forced his way to the leadership of the government in England, and at once formed a comprehensive plan for a combined attack on the French forts in America. The first point of attack was Louisburg, which had been ceded back to France in 1748, and in the spring of 1758 a strong expedition under Lord Amherst was dispatched against it. The siege commenced June 8—the very day of the disaster at Ticonderoga—and after a tremendous bombardment which destroyed the town and badly breached the fortress, the garrison, numbering nearly six thousand, surrendered July 26, 1758.
ON THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG
[July 26, 1758]
At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,And British valor hath the conquest won:Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought—That awful scene where the dread god of warO'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I viewThe pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:With dauntless front advance, and boldly braveThe cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;Britannialonely sitting, from afarWaits the event, and overlooks the war;Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes aboutIn all the dread anxiety of doubt;Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.See! from the realms of everlasting light,A radiant form wings her aerial flight.The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,Plainly denote 'tisVictoryappears;Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,And laurell'd honors gild her azure way—Now she alights—the trumpets cease to sound,Her presence spreads expecting silence round:—And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly faceEffulgent glories brighten all the place—"Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;Thy godlike sons, bythis, their names shall raise,And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaimOfWolfe'sbrave deeds, the never-dying fame,And swell with gloryAmherst's patriot name.Such are the heroes that shall ever bringWealth to their country, honor to their king:Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quellThe native fires that in such bosoms dwell.To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,Smile, smile,Britannia! victory is thine.Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!Rejoice,Britannia! victory is thine."Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;To bless ourGodwith me let all unite,Heguides the conq'ring sword,hegoverns in the fight.Francis Hopkinson.
At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,And British valor hath the conquest won:Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought—That awful scene where the dread god of warO'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I viewThe pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:With dauntless front advance, and boldly braveThe cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;Britannialonely sitting, from afarWaits the event, and overlooks the war;Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes aboutIn all the dread anxiety of doubt;Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.See! from the realms of everlasting light,A radiant form wings her aerial flight.The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,Plainly denote 'tisVictoryappears;Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,And laurell'd honors gild her azure way—Now she alights—the trumpets cease to sound,Her presence spreads expecting silence round:—And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly faceEffulgent glories brighten all the place—"Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;Thy godlike sons, bythis, their names shall raise,And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaimOfWolfe'sbrave deeds, the never-dying fame,And swell with gloryAmherst's patriot name.Such are the heroes that shall ever bringWealth to their country, honor to their king:Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quellThe native fires that in such bosoms dwell.To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,Smile, smile,Britannia! victory is thine.Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!Rejoice,Britannia! victory is thine."Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;To bless ourGodwith me let all unite,Heguides the conq'ring sword,hegoverns in the fight.Francis Hopkinson.
At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,And British valor hath the conquest won:Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought—That awful scene where the dread god of warO'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I viewThe pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:With dauntless front advance, and boldly braveThe cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.
On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;Britannialonely sitting, from afarWaits the event, and overlooks the war;Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes aboutIn all the dread anxiety of doubt;Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.See! from the realms of everlasting light,A radiant form wings her aerial flight.The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,Plainly denote 'tisVictoryappears;Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,And laurell'd honors gild her azure way—Now she alights—the trumpets cease to sound,Her presence spreads expecting silence round:—And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly faceEffulgent glories brighten all the place—
"Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;Thy godlike sons, bythis, their names shall raise,And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaimOfWolfe'sbrave deeds, the never-dying fame,And swell with gloryAmherst's patriot name.Such are the heroes that shall ever bringWealth to their country, honor to their king:Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quellThe native fires that in such bosoms dwell.To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,Smile, smile,Britannia! victory is thine.Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!Rejoice,Britannia! victory is thine."
Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;To bless ourGodwith me let all unite,Heguides the conq'ring sword,hegoverns in the fight.
Francis Hopkinson.
The fall of Louisburg was followed a few months later by the capture of Fort Duquesne (November 25, 1758), by General John Forbes. Forbes, at the head of an excellent army, had proceeded slowly and carefully. As the English approached, the French realized that to remain was simply to be captured, so they deserted the hopeless post, and Forbes marched in unmolested. He named his conquest Fort Pitt, after the great minister.
The fall of Louisburg was followed a few months later by the capture of Fort Duquesne (November 25, 1758), by General John Forbes. Forbes, at the head of an excellent army, had proceeded slowly and carefully. As the English approached, the French realized that to remain was simply to be captured, so they deserted the hopeless post, and Forbes marched in unmolested. He named his conquest Fort Pitt, after the great minister.
FORT DUQUESNE
A HISTORICAL CENTENNIAL BALLAD
[November 25, 1758-1858]