BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.
Rise lofty Column! in thine attic grace,
And to the stranger-bark that ploughs the deep,
Show Freedom's land. Beckon the homeward-bound,
Like some good angel, hovering o'er the roof
Where sport his little ones, and where with song,
Whose oft-repeated burden is his name,
The mother lulls to sleep her cradled babe.
—Then the rough sailor, battling with the surge,
Forgets his toil, and he who wandered long
In foreign climes, perchance, with eager eye
The glittering pageant, or for regal pomp,
Owns the electric chain that binds so strong
Unto his native hills, and feels how good
To live and die amid his fathers' graves.
But thou,—around thy base, when early Spring
Tints the first violet, lure those beauteous groups
Who gambol free from care. There should they meet
Some ancient soldier leaning on his staff,
And lost amid the memories of the past,
By their young footsteps roused, he'll haply raise
His wasted hand, and point each fearful change
Of Bunker's battle-day,—where the assault
Kindled to wildest fury,—where the voice
Of Prescott and of Putnam, nerved their troops
To deeds of untold daring,—where the cry
Burst forth when Warren fell,—where the dire flash
Was hottest, and the life-blood of the brave
Gushed reddest, till the kingly crest was bowed
To infant Liberty. Then may they trace,
Those childish listeners, on that furrowed brow
The holy zeal of men of other days,
Who sought no guerdon save their country's weal;
And should that country need, so may they stand,
When time hath knit their sinews, in the might
Of the same heaven-born trust.
And if the hands
That never plucked a laurel in the fields
Of iron warfare, nor the fitful weight
Of empire poised, have lent their humble aid
In woman's weakness, to cement thy stones,
Think it no scorn, oh Column! but uprear
Thy glorious head as proudly toward the cloud!
For these, amid their sheltered, lowly sphere,
Making the hearth-stone beautiful with love,
And in the fountain of a nation's hopes
Mingling sweet drops of purity and peace,
Subserve the cause which thou art bound to praise,
To far posterity.
And when we pass
On, with our generations to the tomb,
When age on age, like tossing bubbles break,
Stand thou, and mark the dim decay of time.
Yea, though the Sun, like wounded Cæsar, fold
His mantle darkly round him, be thou firm,
Even till the last flame wraps the wrinkled Earth.
This noble monument is erected on the spot, where the fortifications were hastily thrown up by the earliest soldiers of the Revolution, June 16th, 1775, the night preceding the battle of Bunker Hill. It is an obelisk two hundred and twenty-one feet in height, having a spiral staircase within, of two hundred and ninety-four steps, and at the top, an elliptical chamber, eleven feet in diameter, lighted by four windows, from whence is a glorious prospect of earth and sea. Its material is the beautiful sienite granite from the quarry at Quincy, and it is constructed with the utmost mathematical precision, and regard to durability. Some hindrance in the progress of the work, arising from the financial depression of the country, allowed the ladies the honor of more immediate cooperation; and the avails of a Fair held in Boston, aided by some liberal donations, were sufficient for the completion of the object.
Not far from the base of the monument, a small portion of the ancient breastwork remains, and must ever be viewed with veneration by those who realize the effect that this rude mound of earth had upon the destinies of their country. A slight column or Tuscan pillar of wood, on a brick pedestal, in memory of General Warren, whose priceless blood was shed at Bunker Hill, was erected on this spot, in 1783, but being much defaced by time, is removed. The inscription was from one of his own eloquent orations.
"None but they who set a just value on the blessings of liberty, are worthy to enjoy her. In vain we toiled; in vain we fought; we bled in vain; if you, our offspring, want valor to repel the assaults of her invaders."
The corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, was laid on the fiftieth anniversary of the battle that it commemorates, by Gen. La Fayette, the soldier of two hemispheres, the friend of our country in adversity, and her honored guest, when she had won a name and a place among the nations. The presence of some of the survivors of that sanguinary conflict gave a strong interest to the scene. The stirring eloquence of Webster, en wrapt the attention of an immense assembled multitude. But what were their emotions in comparison with those which filled the breasts of the hoary, veteran soldiers!
What imagery flashed before them, as the curtain of half a century drew back! A small band go forth from Cambridge, at nine in a summer's evening, beneath the eye of the solemn, watchful stars. Exulting music echoes from the British ships, whose proud flags are floating in the harbor. But they tread in silence, and in earnest thought. Midnight deepens, ere they obtain entrenching tools to begin their secret work. Then, with dauntless spirits, and hands inured to toil, they commence their fortification. Earth, and the spade, and the solemn night, the sexton's companions, are theirs. Yet they labor not for burial, but in glorious hope. Day dawns, but still that patient band labor unrefreshed. And they were of that band.
Morning breaks. Surprise and indignation seize the foe, as an alarm-gun from their own ships announces what the provincials had in a night brought forth. Their council meets. Such contumacy must be chastised. Their soldiers, in rich uniform, muster for battle, where the offending bastion rises. Serried bayonets glisten. Heavy cannon roll up the heights. A band is there to meet them,—the few against the many,—the young children of the wilderness against the force of the sceptred monarch, of the isles. And they were of that band.
The tumult of battle swells. The struggle is fearful. The sun pours down an intense heat. The grass ripe for the scythe is trampled down, that the iron harvest of war may be reaped. The new-mown hay is pressed into the interstices of the breast-work. The earth is saturate with blood. Enthusiasm rises to madness. Devouring flames enwrap the roofs of Charlestown. The enemy, formidable for numbers as well as valor, twice repulsed, ascend the hill a third time, reinforced and resolved on victory. A comparatively small band, led on by intrepid officers, still "jeoparded their lives in the high places of the field." And they were of that band.
Yes. And as their souls rekindle with these memories, they forget the peril, the suffering, their dying comrades, and their own wounds, and their aged voices in one burst of sound, exclaim,—"We are ready, should our country again need our services, ready to shed the last drop of our blood for her." The venerable La Fayette, standing in the midst of those heroic survivors, regretted the honor did not belong to him of having been one of those who in person fought upon that sacred hill-top. Some circumstances connected with the battle of Bunker Hill, and its effect upon the future fortunes of the country, are thus forcibly depicted by the pen of the Rev. Mr. Ellis. "That action was of primary importance from the influence which it exercised upon our fathers, who unknown to themselves had before them a war of protracted length, partaking largely of reverse and discouragement. They learned this day what they might do, in the confidence that God was on their side, and that their cause was good. That work of a summer's night was worth its price to them. They lacked discipline, artillery, bayonets, powder and ball, food, and the greatest want of all, during that fearful conflict, they lacked the delicious draught of pure, cool water, for their labor-worn, and heat-exhausted frames. They found that desperation would supply the place of discipline; that the stock of a musket wielded with true nerves, would deal a blow as deadly as the thrust of a bayonet; that a heavy stone would level an assailant, as well as a charge of powder. As for food and water, the hunger they were compelled to bear unrelieved, and they cooled their brows only by the thick, heavy drops which poured before the sun. It was their opening combat, and it decided the spirit and hope of all their subsequent campaigns. They had freed themselves, during the engagement, from all that natural reluctance, which they had heretofore felt, in turning their offensive weapons against the breasts of former friends, yes, even of their kindred. On that eminence, the first bright image of Liberty, of a free native land, kindled the eyes of those who were expiring in their gore, and the image passed between the living and the dying, to seal the covenant, that the hope of the one, or the fate of the other, should unite them, here, or hereafter. Henceforth, from the village homes, and farm-houses around, amid the encouraging exhortations, as well as the tearful prayers of their families, the yeomen took from their chimney-stacks, the familiar, and well proved weapons of a life in the woods, and felt for the first time, what it was to have a country, and resolved for the first time, that they would save their country, or be mourned by her."
The placing of the last stone upon the Bunker Hill Monument, was on the 23d of July, 1842 and announced to the people by the voice of cannon. On the 17th of June of the following year, the sixty-seventh anniversary of the battle, was another scene of deep national interest. Again, the powerful voice of Webster was heard addressing and electrifying an immense multitude gathered from every part of the Union.
How fraught with change had been these intervening years. The throwing up of earth with the spade, on the same hill, by the fathers, would no longer be counted rebellion. Twenty millions of people now overspread a free and prosperous country, for which they then periled their lives, and which numbers among her countless blessings that of peace with the realm which she was once called to meet in fields of blood.
Some of the veterans of the battles of the revolution were at the celebration of the completion of the Monument on Bunker Hill, but few in number, and wasted in strength. Yet the patriot flame had not gone out in their bosoms, and their fervent prayers were still for the welfare of their beloved Country.
Break forth, break forth, in raptured song,
And bid it pour thy vales along,
Thou pilgrim-planted land!
From fields where ripening harvests bend,
From marts where thronging thousands tend,
Arouse thy tuneful band.
The breeze that curls thy watery deeps,
The strain that o'er thy mountain sweeps,
Is fresh with freedom's breath,
Thine annals boast the great and brave
Thy star-clad banner, tells the wave
Of Liberty or Death.
Rememberest thou those ancient sires,
Who mid the Indian's council fires,
Explored a trackless clime?
The pillar of their God was bright,
His cloud by day, his flame by night,
Impelled their course sublime.
Rememberest thou the men who shed
Their blood upon thy bosom red,
When haughty foes were nigh?
The remnant of that wasted band
Here, mid their buried comrades stand,
Oh! bless them ere they die.
All hail, proud column, strong and fair,
Which to exulting throngs dost bear
High record of the past,
And show them on this glorious morn,
The spot where Freedom first was born
Amid the thunder-blast.
Not like those gloomy mounds that rise
O'er crouching Egypt's sultry skies,
Nor fretted fanes that brave
Old Time, on Rome's imperial soil,
By stern taxation wrung from toil,
The tyrant from the slave;
But the free gift of hands unchained,
And hearts uncrushed and homes unstained,
Thou through the cloud dost peer,
And warn, like morning's blessed star
The watchful mariner from far,
That all he loves draws near.
Still onward o'er the sea of time
Unfold thy chronicle sublime,
And teach a race unborn
The lesson learned on Bunker's height.
To trust in Heaven, uphold the right,
And base oppression scorn;
Point to the skies, and bid them read
Of patriot faith, the hallowed creed,
And guard its ritual bright,
And choose the path their fathers trod,
Those friends of liberty and God,
Who rose to realms of light.