The fountain of our story spreads no clouds Of mist above it rich in varied glows, None paint us Gods and Goddesses in crowds Where some Scamander flows.
In hunting shirts, or faded blue and buff, And many clad in simple, rustic stuff, Their ensigns torn but held by Freedom's hand, In long-drawn lines the Continentals stand....
Before this thought the present hour recedes, As from the beach a billow backward rolls, And the great past, rich in heroic deeds Illuminates our souls!
Then sweeping down below Virginia's Capes, From Chesapeake to where Savannah flows, We find the settlers laughing 'mid their grapes And ignorant of snows.
Next came the closing scene: but shall I paint The scarlet column, sullen, slow, and faint, Which marched, with "colors cased" to yonder field, Where Britain threw down corslet, sword and shield? ...
High-perch'd upon the rocky way, Stands a Posada stern and grey; Which from the valley, seems as if, A condor there had paus'd to 'light And rest upon that lonely cliff, From some stupendous flight;...
A yeoman born, with patrimony small, He held the world at large as his estate; Found fit advices in the bugle's call And took his part in iron-tongued debate Where'er one sword another sword blade notched;...
Their sleep is made glorious, And dead they're victorious Over defeat! Never Lethean billows Shall roll o'er their pillows, Red with the feet Of Mars from the wine press So bitterly sweet!...
Nolan halted where the squadrons, Stood impatient of delay, Out he drew his brief dispatches, Which their leader quickly snatches, At a glance their meaning catches; They are ordered to the fray! ...