BY V. B. WILSON The cold, gray light of the dawning On old Carillon falls, And dim in the mist of the morning Stand the grim old fortress walls. No sound disturbs the stillness Save the cataract’s mellow roar, Silent as death is the fortress, Silent the misty shore. But up from the wakening waters Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze Lifting the banner of Britain, And whispering to the trees Of the swift gliding boats on the waters That are nearing the fog-shrouded land, With the old Green Mountain Lion, And his daring patriot band. But the sentinel at the postern Heard not the whisper low; He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon As he walks on his beat to and fro, Of the starry eyes in Green Erin That were dim when he marched away, And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, ’Tis the first for many a day. A sound breaks the misty stillness, And quickly he glances around; Through the mist, forms like towering giants Seem rising out of the ground; A challenge, the firelock flashes, A sword cleaves the quivering air, And the sentry lies dead by the postern, Blood staining his bright yellow hair. Then, with a shout that awakens All the echoes of hillside and glen, Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress, Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men. The scarce wakened troops of the garrison Yield up their trust pale with fear; And down comes the bright British banner, And out rings a Green Mountain cheer. Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens With crimson and gold are ablaze; And up springs the sun in his splendor And flings down his arrowy rays, Bathing in sunlight the fortress, Turning to gold the grim walls, While louder and clearer and higher Rings the song of the waterfalls. Since the taking of Ticonderoga A century has rolled away; But with pride the nation remembers That glorious morning in May. And the cataract’s silvery music Forever the story tells, Of the capture of old Carillon, The chime of the silver bells. WARREN’S ADDRESS (At the Battle of Bunker Hill.) BY JOHN PIERPONT Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,—ye who will! Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they’re afire, And, before you, see Who have done it!—From the vale On they come!—and will ye quail?— Leaden rain and leaden hail Let their welcome be!