Wayne At Stony Point

This is a tale to tell your sons
Of the craggy steeps that lie
Where the tides of Hudson sweep and swing
South by the Ferry of the King,
And of those who did a dauntless thing
On the noon of a night gone by.

'Twas Washington sat in his tent,
And he scanned a writing well;
And it was thus that the writing ran, —
"I, Anthony Wayne, am ever your man;
If you'll but plot, if you'll but plan,
I'll storm the heights of Hell!"

The General smiled his slow grave smile
That boded the foeman ill;
And, as he bent his head and wrote,.
The lyric trill of the tawny-throat
Kept time, now near and now remote,
To the scratching of his quill.

For it was the heart of the summertime,
And the Highlands surged away,
In gleaming billows of verdure dressed,
Great of girth and broad of breast,
Vale on vale and crest on crest,
Under the golden day.

It was the heart of the summertime,
Suspense filled all the air,
For armed men lurked amid the trees
About Torn Mountain's rugged knees,
And where Dean Forest swayed in the breeze
Back from the Mount of the Bear!

And they were men of the north and south,
Band on resolute band,
Men of the Massachusetts line,
Men who had fought at Brandywine,
Men stanch as the Carolina pine,
And the flower of Maryland.

'Twas Anthony Wayne sat in his tent
With his hand cupped for his chin,
His thoughts afar where an ensign flew
From the rocky peak of a Point he knew,
When a messenger, clad in buff and blue,
From the droop of the dusk strode in.

He gave the leader a swift salute,
As he stood there, heel to heel;
"A letter, sir!" and the eyes of Wayne
Lit as the skies do after rain,
And his heart was tuned to a martial strain
As he broke the letter's seal.

"To-morrow," he read, "at the noon of night,
Be this the day and the hour!"
And his laugh rang out as the laugh of one
Who sees, with the first bright beam of the sun,
The chrismal crown of glory won,
And the dawn of victory flower.

Morn on a sickle beach of sand
That a swerve of the Hudson made;
And line on line, and rank on rank,
Under the dip of the shelving bank,
Powdered and shaven, fore and flank,
The troops upon parade!

"Forward!" then through the stealthy noon
They marched at a measured pace;
The woodland paths at a swinging stride
They trod, and Donderberg's frowning side,
Till they came, at the edge of the twilight-tide,
To the vale of Devil's Race.

Then each man shaped him a white cockade
That the plan might have no flaw,
While the hours crept by, and naught was heard
Save only the breath of a whispered word,
Or the frog's low croak, or the breeze that stirred
O'er the bay of Haverstraw.

No beacon shone in the vast of the vault,
And there was no bugle blown,
When out from the shroud of beech and pine
Onward they moved in a silent line,
And the General gave them the countersign —
"The fort's our own! — our own!"

It was file by left and file by right,
And a narrow file to the fore,
And there was Febiger, gallant Dane,
Fleury and Butler, bold and fain,
And over them all "Mad Anthony Wayne,"
The chief of the fighting corps.

Through the strangling grip of the marsh's mire
With never a pause they pressed,
And though the sound of the foeman's fire
Rang like the strings of a battle-lyre,
Higher they fought their way and higher
Till they won to the cragged crest.

Hand to hand, and brand to brand,
They grappled, with grisly scars,
Till the banner that stood for the king and crown
From the peak of Stony Point came down,
And there floated the flag of new renown, —
Our flag of the Stripes and Stars.

Though smitten sore by a hurtling ball
As they upward charged from the fen,
Through the flame-rent murk of the midnight pall,
And the clamor and stress of the conflict-thrall,
"Bear me on!" was their leader's call;
"I would die at the head of my men!"

But not his to die, and he heard the cry
From bastion and breach back thrown,
A sound that echoes and triumphs still
From the crest of that memory-haunted hill,
The exultant cry, with its olden thrill, —
"The fort's our own! — our own!"

Our own! aye, every league of land
From the east to the western main!
Our own!—and may we never forget,
Till the light of Liberty's sun be set,
His dauntless deed, and our deathless debt
To men like Anthony Wayne!