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steps of earth in the redoubt to take aim, fought according to his own judgment and will; and a close and unremitting fire was continued and returned, till the British staggered,

wavered, and then in disordered masses retreated precipi5 tately to the foot of the hill, and some even to their boats.

The column of the enemy which advanced near the Mystic under the lead of Howe, moved gallantly forward against the rail-fence, and when within eighty or one hun

dred yards, displayed into line, with the precision of troops 10 on parade. Here, too, the Americans, commanded by Stark

and Knowlton, cheered on by Putnam, who like Prescott bade them reserve their fire, restrained themselves as if by universal consent, till at the proper moment, resting their

guns on the rails of the fence, they poured forth a delib15 erate, well-directed, fatal discharge. Here, too, the British

recoiled from the volley, and after a short contest, were thrown into confusion, and fell back till they were covered by the ground.

Then followed moments of joy in that unfinished redoubt, 20 and behind the grassy rampart, where New England hus

bandmen, so often taunted with cowardice, beheld veteran battalions shrink before their arms. Their hearts bounded as they, congratulated each other. The night-watches,

thirst, hunger, danger, whether of captivity or death, 25 forgotten. They promised themselves victory.

As the British soldiers retreated, the officers were seen by the spectators on the opposite shore, running down to them, using passionate gestures, and pushing them forward with

their swords. After an interval of about fifteen minutes, 30 during which Prescott moved round among his men, encour

aging them and cheering them with praise, the British column under Pigot rallied and advanced, though with apparent reluctance, in the same order as before, firing as

they approached within musket shot. This time the Amer35 icans withheld their fire till the enemy were within six

* A small stream entering into Boston Harbor near Bunker Hill.

were

or five rods of the redoubt, when, as the order was given, it seemed more fatal than before. The

enemy

continued to discharge their guns, and pressed forward with spirit.

“ But from the whole American line, there was,” said Pres5 cott, “a continuous stream of fire,” and though the British

officers were seen exposing themselves fearlessly, remonstrating, threatening, and even striking the soldiers to urge them on, they could not reach the redoubt, but in a few

moments gave way in greater disorder than before. The 10 wounded and the dead covered the ground in front of the works, some lying within a few yards of them.

On the flank, also, the British light infantry again marched up its companies against the grass fence, but could

not penetrate it. “ Indeed,” wrote some of the survivors, 15 “how could we penetrate it? Most of our grenadiers and

light infantry, the moment of presenting themselves, lost three fourths, and many, nine tenths of their men. Somo had only eight or nine men in a company left, some only

three, four, or five.” On the ground where but the day 20 before the mowers had swung the scythe in peace, “ the

dead,” relates Stark, “lay as thick as sheep in a fold.” Howe, for a few seconds, was left nearly alone, so many of the officers about him having been killed or wounded ; and

it required the utmost exertion of all, from the generals 25 down to the subalterns, to repair the rout.

At intervals the artillery from the ships and batteries was playing, while the flames were rising over the town of Charlestown, and laying waste the places of the sepulchres

of its fathers, and streets were falling together, and ships 30 at the yards were crashing on the stocks, and the kindred

of the Americans, from the fields and hills around, watched every gallant act of their defenders. - The whole,” wrote Burgoyne, "was a complication of horror and importance

beyond anything it ever came to my lot to be witness 35 to. It was a sight for a young soldier, that the longest

service may not furnish again.”

“ If we drive them back once more," cried Prescott, they cannot rally again.” To the enduring husbandmen about him, the terrible and appalling scene was altogether

new. “We are ready for the red-coats again,” they shouted, 5 cheering their commander, and not one of them shrunk

from duty.

LV. - WARREN'S ADDRESS BEFORE THE BATTI E

OF BUNKER HILL,

PIERPONT.
1 STAND! the ground 's your own, my braves

Will ye give it up to slaves ?
Will ye hope for greener graves ?

Hope ye mercy still ?
What's the mercy despots feel !
Hear it in that battle peal !
Read it on yon bristling steel !

Ask it-ye who will.

2 Fear

ye

foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your

homes retire?
Look behind you! they're afire !

And, before you, see
Who have done it! - From the vale
On they come ! -- and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be !

3 In the God of battles trust!

Die we may — and die we must:
But, 0, where can dust to dust

Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head

Of his deeds to tell ! :

LVI. – GINEVRA.

ROGERS. SAMUEL ROGERS was born at Newington Green, near London, July 30, 1763, and died December 18, 1855. In 1792, he published his “Pleasures of Memory," a poem which gave him an honorable and enduring pla

among the poets of his country. His subsequent productions, which are not very numerous, cannot be said to have added materially to his reputation. His poetry is marked by the careful finish and grace of patient elaboration,

The following extract is from “Italy," a poem published in 1822, consisting of sketches of Italian scenery, manners, and history. Modena is a town in the northern part of Italy. Here is kept an old worm-eaten bucket, said to have been taken from the Bolognese by the Modenese, in a fight in the thirteenth century. This trophy forms the subject of a mock-heroic poem, called “The Rape of the Bucket,” by Tassoni, an Italian poet of the sixteenth century. Zampieri was a celebrated painter of Bologna, (Bo-lon'yä,) more generally known by his first name, Domenichino, (Do-mā-nē-kē'-no,) or Domenico, (Do-mi'nę-co).] 1 Ir ever you should come to Modena,

(Where among other relics you may sec
Tassoni's bucket — but ’t is not the true one,)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you — but, before you go,
Enter the house, — forget it not, I pray you,
And look awhile upon a picture there.

2

’T is of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri † — but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

3

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, “ Beware!” her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot.
* Mõ'dę-nä.

| Dzám-pę-ā'rę.

An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

4

But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

5

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trento
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ,
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestors
That by the way

it may be true or false —
But don't forget the picture ; and you will not,
When

you

have heard the tale they told me there.

6

She was an only child — her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride,of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

7 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,

She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. * Antonio da Trento, a celebrated wood engraver, was born at Trent, In the Venetian States, about 1508.

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