In Ticonderoga, in Carillon Park, is this plaque with a quote attributed to John Keats.
The plaque is located in Carillon Park, which is within a triangle bounded by roads. The park is on the south side of Route 74. The plaque is on the left side of the park, next to a cannon that sits in an opening of the stone wall.
The plaque is set in the stone wall and has the following text:
"Carillon Park
Dedicatory Plaque
There is a joy in footing slow across a silent plain, where patriot battle has been fought, when glory was the gain. There is a joy in every spot make known by times of old new to the feet, though each tale a hundred times be told.
-Keats"
The park has several memorials related to events related to the wars that took place in the area. Carillon Park is named after Fort Carillon that was built and occupied by the French in the French and Indian War until the British took it over (on their second attempt). Then there is a plaque marking the route that Knox took in transporting cannons from Fort Ticonderoga to Boston, Massachusetts. There are also flag poles on the park. Also, an important route called 'The Portage' where boats were hand carried from Lake Champlain to Lake George runs by here.
So many stories to trace.
The quote is from a much longer work by John Keats - the title is the first couple lines on the plaque. About half of the full work is as follows:
"There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,
Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green;
There is a joy in every spot made known by times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;
There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,
Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, the Sun may hear this lay;
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,
But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;
Blood-red the Sun may set behind the black mountain peaks;
Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks;
Eagles may seem to sleep wing-side upon the air;
Ring-dove may fly convuls’d across to some high-cedar’d lair;
But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
As Palmer’s, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.
At such a time the soul’s a child, in childhood is the brain;
Forgotten is the worldly heart alone, it beats in vain
..."
Source of full work:
(
visit link)