Long peace and silence—Old Father, now obtain—the sentry sleeps upon his post—women and children play upon the ramparts—but, hark! what is it far in the distance that I hear! the sound of battle! the fusilade of musketry—the roar of cannon! I see Bunker’s Hill from light barricade sweep down her thousands—I see hurrying forward the hardy husbandman with hastily caught musket—the robed divine—the youth—the old man—cheered on by mothers—sisters—tender wives,—to strike “For their altars and their fires, God, and their native homes.” I see new Nation’s symbol—Stars and Stripes—and watch, now in the midnight darkness through the fortress moat—how advance that fearless band of men—Lo! in silence they penetrate the fortress’ centre. Hark! what voice rouses the astonished officer, as starting from his slumbers, he meets, close at his throat, the bayonet’s threatening point. “Surrender!” “To whom?” “The Great Jehovah, and the Continental Congress!” Now floats the spangled banner proudly o’er the citadel—patriotic men assemble—armies make temporary resting place—invalid soldiers breathe the health-restoring air, and age wears on. Ha!—was that a meteor flashing from Defiance Mountain summit? And there, another?—Plunge! plunge! Cannon shot! screaming, yelling, bounding i’ th’ very centre of the fortress. “’Tis the Englishman with his artillery.” Quick, quick!—St. Clair, withdraw the army—the position is no longer tenable. Strike not that flag!—palsied be the hand that so degrades the flag of Freedom—let it shake defiance to the last! Quick, the magazine—the train—Ha, hah! Ætna, Vesuvius like, the explosion. Hallo! Old Time!—Ho! thou of the scythe!—What! hast gone? Am I!—ay, I am alone! Nought but the blackened ruins, and the crumbling ramparts, in silence surrounding me. MONTREAL. Now, in steam palace, we shoot in swift career o’er thy tranquil surface, Lake Champlain—thy rolling mountains, in wavy outline, accompanying us in our rapid progress. Vast primeval forests sleep in stillness along thy borders—their sylvan patriarchs, reigning for centuries, untouched by woodman’s axe, stretch proudly their far-reaching branches, ’till ancient Time, pointing with extended finger the wild spirit of the winds breathes on them as he passes, and they succumb with sullen uproar, long with mock semblance retaining form and length, as if deriding the puny offspring shooting up around them; bestowing sore fall, I ween, and tumble on adventurous hunter, as stumbling through the undergrowth he plunges prostrate o’er them.