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Ticonderoga a poem by V.B. Wilson

Ticonderoga
a poem by V.B. Wilson

The cold, gray light of the dawning 
On old Carillon falls, 
And dim in the mist of the morning 
Stand the grim old fortress walls. 
No sound disturbs the stillness 
Save the cataract's mellow roar, 
Silent as death is the fortress, 
Silent the misty shore. 

But up from the wakening waters 
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze, 
Lifting the banner of Britain, 
And whispering to the trees 
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters 
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land, 
With the old Green Mountain Lion, 
And his daring patriot band. 

But the sentinel at the postern 
Heard not the whisper low; 
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon 
As he walks on his beat to and fro, 
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin 
That were dim when he marched away, 
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, 
'T is the first for many a day. 

A sound breaks the misty stillness, 
And quickly he glances around; 
Through the mist, forms like towering giants 
Seem rising out of the ground; 
A challenge, the firelock flashes, 
A sword cleaves the quivering air, 
And the sentry lies dead by the postern, 
Blood staining his bright yellow hair. 

Then, with a shout that awakens 
All the echoes of hillside and glen, 
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress, 
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men. 
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison 
Yield up their trust pale with fear; 
And down comes the bright British banner, 
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer. 

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. 

Ticonderoga 
a poem by V.B. Wilson

 

 
Ticonderoga a poem by V.B. Wilson

 

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