  We were not many,—we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many,—we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey? Charles Fenno Hoffman. |
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