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. GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES [Sidenote: June 17, 1775] '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! In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found him,-- So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before. They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair, Just across the narrow river--O, so close it made me shiver!-- Stood a fortress on the hilltop that but yesterday was bare.