In the God of battles trust! Die we may,—and die we must; But oh, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell! “THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES” (From an “Ode on the Celebration of the Battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 1825.”) BY GRENVILLE MELLEN The trump hath blown, And now upon that reeking hill Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball; While with terrific signal shrill, The vultures, from their bloody eyries flown, Hang o’er them like a pall. Now deeper roll the maddening drums, And the mingling host like ocean heaves: While from the midst a horrid wailing comes, And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves! THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL (From “Battles of the American Revolution.”) The advance of the British army was like a solemn pageant in its steady headway, and like a parade for inspection in the completeness of its outfit. It moved forward as if by the very force of its closely-knit columns it must sweep away every barrier in its path. Elated, sure of victory, with firm step, already quickened as the space of separation lessens, there is left but a few rods of interval, a few steps only, and the work is done! But right in their way was a calm, intense, and energizing love of liberty, represented by men of the same blood and of equal daring. A few shots impulsively fired, but quickly restrained, drew an innocent fire from the advancing column. But the pale men behind the scant defense, obedient to one will, answered not.... The left wing is near the redoubt. It surely is nothing to surmount a bank of fresh earth but six feet high; and its sands and clods can almost be counted, it is so near, so easy, _sure_! Short, crisp, and earnest, low-toned, but felt as an electric pulse from redoubt to river, are the words of a single man, Prescott. Warren, by his side, repeats them. The word runs quickly along the impatient line. The eager fingers give back from the waiting trigger. “Steady, men! Wait until you see the white of the eye! Not a shot sooner! Aim at the handsome coats! Aim at the waistbands! Pick off the officers! Wait for the word, every man! Steady!” Already those plain men, so patient, can count the buttons, can read the emblems on the belt-plate, can recognize the officers and men whom they have seen at parade on Boston Common. Features grow more and more distinct. The silence is awful! These men seem breathless,—dead! It comes, that word, the word waited for,—“Fire!” That word had waited behind the center and the left wing, where Putnam watched, as it lingered behind breastwork and redoubt. Sharp, clear, and deadly, in tone and essence, it rings forth,—“Fire!”