William Cullen Bryant (1794–1878)

HERE we halt our march and pitch our tent

On the rugged forest ground,

And light our fire with the branches rent

By winds from the beaches round.

Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,

But a wilder is at hand,

With hail of iron and rain of blood,

To sweep and scathe the land.

How the dark waste rings with voices shrill,

That startle the sleeping bird;

To-morrow eve must the voice be still,

And the step must fall unheard.

The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,

In Ticonderoga’s towers,

And ere the sun rise twice again,

The towers and the lake are ours.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides

Where the fireflies light the brake;

A ruddier juice the Briton hides

In his fortress by the lake.

Build high the fire till the panther leap

From his lofty perch in fright,

And we’ll strengthen our weary arms with sleep

For the deeds of to-morrow night.