'T was the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,
Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,
Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,
Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.
Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;
Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.

Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fen
File upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?
Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;
Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;
Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,
Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.

Hark, — the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!
Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry, To arms!
Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;
Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:
Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are set
Now at the bastion's base, now on the parapet

Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,
Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;
Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side, —
Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!
Forward, my braves! he cries, and the heroes hearten again;
Bear me into the fort, I 'll die at the head of my men!

Die! — did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?
Answer many a field in the stormy after-time!
Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,
From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;
But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more bright
Than his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.