| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| But with pride the nation remembers | |
| That glorious morning in May. | |
| And the cataracts’ silvery music | |
| Forever the story tells, | |
| Of the capture of old Carillon, | 55 |
| The chime of the silver bells. 1 | |
