The tidings of that chosen band Flowed in a wave of power Over the shaken, anxious land, To men, to man, a sudden dower. From that stanch, beaming hour History took a fresh higher start; And when the speeding messenger, that bare The news that strengthened every heart, Met near the Delaware Riding to take command, The leader, who had just been named, Who was to be so famed, The steadfast, earnest Washington With hand uplifted cries, His great soul flashing to his eyes, "Our liberties are safe; the cause is won." A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men. GEORGE H. CALVERT. There was, in fact, a difference of opinion among the British generals as to continuing the assault. But Howe insisted that a third attempt be made, and at five o'clock it was ordered. For a moment, the advancing column was again shaken by the American fire, but the last cartridges were soon spent, and, at the bayonet point, the Americans were driven from their works and forced to retreat across Charlestown neck. GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;" When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_, when I tell the _Rebel_ story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door. Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!