  Fought June 6th, 1813. American Force, 3,000; British, 700. Forward, into the midnight, Silently, stealthily go,— Forward, noble “seven hundred,” Like a storm burst on the foe! Not theirs to falter or murmur, But silently to obey; And they move like phantoms forward Through the shadows dim and gray. Only the signal’s given, Never a spoken word; But their dauntless hearts are burning, By passionate valor stirred. Onward, steadily onward, Moves that heroic line; Softly the night winds murmur, And dimly the pale stars shine. Pauses now the “seven hundred,” Suppressed is even the breath— A pause on the brink of midnight, The fateful hour of death! “Fire!” cried the hero Harvey, “On them a dread volley pour;” And a flash leaped bright and blinding, And burst a deafening roar. Whole ranks were stricken by it Before that withering rain; Then through the tumult ringing Burst Harvey’s cry again: “Forward now the ‘seven hundred’; Close up firm your lines of steel; Sweep the field with the bayonet; Let the foe your fury feel.” Though the guns rained upon them A tempest of shot and shell, And musketry fiercely volleyed, And many a hero fell, They charged with a ringing cheer Through the batteries’ fierce flame, And fell on the reeling ranks Of the foe, who all in vain Attempted to stay the sweep Of that line of deadly steel. With their torn and bloody ranks They stagger, and they reel Backward in broken fragments, Back into headlong retreat. All hail “noble seven hundred”! Your victory was complete. Honor the men of “Stony Creek,” The dauntless, brave “seven hundred”; Long we’ll remember the noble slain. A rescued country wondered At the famous charge they made Under the dome of night, Heroically storming an army, And putting the foe to flight. |
|
