“We stop the press to announce the following horrible intelligence which has just been communicated by two gentlemen direct from the bloody scene: “The steamer _Caroline_, which was lying at the landing at Porter’s storehouse, was boarded this morning between the hours of twelve and one by about eighty men, who came in boats from the Canada side. The _Caroline_ had on board from fifteen to twenty of our sleeping and defenceless citizens, who had lodgings on board. They are believed to have been mostly citizens of Buffalo, who came as lookers-on, with the expectation of witnessing the attack upon the island. Every individual was butchered except four, and three of these severely wounded. The engineer, who was thrust through and put on shore, says that after the bloody work was executed a small boy was found in a closet, who begged for mercy but found none. The _Caroline_ was then towed out into the stream and sent over Niagara Falls. Three cheers were given, and at the same time beacon lights were raised at Chippewa. Our informant saw the lifeless body of one person who was shot upon the shore.” For five years the question hung upon a thread whether England and the United States should go to war or not. It is always fair to give two sides of a question, but in the one given by Clio and Melpomene it will be seen their poetic license degenerates into something more than the flowery taradiddle of the average verse-maker: “Oh, what were the dreams, as they sunk to rest, Of that devoted band, Who lay, as a babe on its mother’s breast, On the shores of their native land? Breathed they of fire, or of streaming blood, Or the thundering cataract’s whelming flood? Strong manhood’s godlike form was there, With his bold and open brow, And age, with his wearied look of care, And his floating locks of snow; And the agile form of the stripling boy, With his throbbing pulse of hope and joy. They dreamed of the happy hours of home, Of a blessed mother’s prayer, Of the cherished wife in that sacred dome, Of the lisping prattlers there; And the stripling dreamed of his young love’s smile When he left her bound for the fatal isle. Oh, what was that dim, ominous sound, That struck on the sleeper’s ear, Yet roused him not from his rest profound Till the unsheathed blade was near? And it seemed as the air and the rocks were riven By the slogan of death and the wild shriek given. Oh, vain was the strife of the struggling few With a well-armed murderous band; For the gallant barque, with her blood-drenched crew, Is floating from the strand, And the young boy’s _quarter cry_ it bore To the purple wave, with his own heart’s gore.