I. <br /> <br />Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent <br />On the rugged forest ground, <br />And light our fire with the branches rent <br />By winds from the beeches round. <br />Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, <br />But a wilder is at hand, <br />With hail of iron and rain of blood, <br />To sweep and waste the land. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />How the dark wood rings with voices shrill, <br />That startle the sleeping bird; <br />To-morrow eve must the voice be still, <br />And the step must fall unheard. <br />The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, <br />In Ticonderoga's towers, <br />And ere the sun rise twice again, <br />The towers and the lake are ours. <br /> <br />III. <br /> <br />Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides <br />Where the fireflies light the brake; <br />A ruddier juice the Briton hides <br />In his fortress by the lake. <br />Build high the fire, till the panther leap <br />From his lofty perch in flight, <br />And we'll strenghten our weary arms with sleep <br />For the deeds of to-morrow night.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-green-mountain-boys/
