“‘If ’taint to fight, and take his chances?’” Jean Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak. “Go on,” said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek. “Truly I didn’t mean-- There ain’t much more. He says: ‘Goodbye now, little queen; We’re due to sail for Plattsburgh this day week. Meantime I’m hopin’ hard and takin’ stock. Your obedient--Jock.’” The girl’s voice ceased in silence. _Glitter, glitter_, The shy wings flashed through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter. The mother’s heart spurned May’s sweet make-believes, For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming, Guns--guns were booming. III Plattsburgh--and windless beauty on the bay; Autumnal morning and the sun at seven: Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heaven Dwindles, and far away Dim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their prey Lie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin, The war-ships--Eagle, Preble, Saratoga, Ticonderoga. And now a little wind from the northwest Flutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks. A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks, Peers from his cannon’s rest, Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crest Behind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks, Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened wales Of bellying sails. Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view, Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance: Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly Confiance Leading with Downie’s crew The line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to, Whistling their flock of galleys who advance Behind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast, Tack landward, west. Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore; Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffs And blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs. Waiting the cannon’s roar A nation holds its breath for knell of Nevermore Or peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughs Of generations--and one old dame’s joy: Her gunner boy. One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneels Beside his Commodore and fighting squad. Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God-- Toward God, to whom appeals Still rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals. Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.-- They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silently The enemy.