Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town,
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
HYMN
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
(_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the Concord
Monument, April 19, 1836._)
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
A SONG FOR LEXINGTON
BY ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS
The spring came earlier on
Than usual that year;
The shadiest snow was gone,
The slowest brook was clear,
And warming in the sun
Shy flowers began to peer.
’Twas more like middle May,
The earth so seemed to thrive,
That Nineteenth April day
Of Seventeen Seventy-Five;
Winter was well away,
New England was alive!
Alive and sternly glad!
Her doubts were with the snow;
Her courage, long forbade,
Ran full to overflow;
And every hope she had
Began to bud and grow.
She rose betimes that morn,
For there was work to do;
A planting, not of corn,
Of what she hardly knew,—
Blessings for men unborn;
And well she did it, too!
With open hand she stood,
And sowed for all the years,
And watered it with blood,
And watered it with tears,
The seed of quickening food
For both the hemispheres.
This was the planting done
That April morn of fame;
Honor to every one
To that seed-field that came!
Honor to Lexington,
Our first immortal name!
THE REVOLUTIONARY ALARM
BY GEORGE BANCROFT
Darkness closed upon the country and upon the town, but it was no night
for sleep. Heralds on swift relays of horses transmitted the war-message
from hand to hand, till village repeated it to village; the sea to
the backwoods; the plains to the highlands; and it was never suffered
to droop till it had been borne North and South, and East and West,
throughout the land.
It spread over the bays that receive the Saco and the Penobscot. Its loud
reveille broke the rest of the trappers of New Hampshire, and, ringing
like bugle-notes from peak to peak, overleapt the Green Mountains, swept
onward to Montreal, and descended the ocean river, till the responses
were echoed from the cliffs of Quebec. The hills along the Hudson told to
one another the tale.
As the summons hurried to the south, it was one day at New York; in one
more at Philadelphia; the next it lighted a watchfire at Baltimore;
thence it waked an answer at Annapolis. Crossing the Potomac near Mount
Vernon, it was sent forward without a halt to Williamsburg. It traversed
the Dismal Swamp to Nansemond, along the route of the first emigrants to
North Carolina. It moved onwards and still onwards, through boundless
groves of evergreen, to New-Berne and to Wilmington.
“For God’s sake, forward it by night and by day,” wrote Cornelius
Harnett, by the express which sped for Brunswick. Patriots of South
Carolina caught up its tones at the border and despatched it to
Charleston, and through pines and palmettos and moss-clad live-oaks,
farther to the south, till it resounded among the New England settlements
beyond Savannah.
The Blue Ridge took up the voice, and made it heard from one end to the
other of the valley of Virginia. The Alleghanies, as they listened,
opened their barriers, that the “loud call” might pass through to the
hardy riflemen on the Holston, the Watauga, and the French Broad. Ever
renewing its strength, powerful enough even to create a commonwealth,
it breathed its inspiring word to the first settlers of Kentucky; so
that hunters who made their halt in the matchless valley of the Elkhorn
commemorated the 19th day of April, 1775, by naming their encampment
_Lexington_.
With one impulse the colonies sprung to arms; with one spirit they
pledged themselves to each other “to be ready for the extreme event.”
With one heart the continent cried, “Liberty or Death!”
THE VOLUNTEER
BY ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER
“At dawn,” he said, “I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam.”
And with the restless thought asleep he fell,
And glided into dream.
A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread,—
Through it a level river slowly drawn;
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.
There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;
Blood trickled down the river’s reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.
The morn broke in upon his solemn dreams,
And still with steady pulse and deepening eye,
“Where bugles call,” he said, “and rifles gleam,
I follow, though I die!”
Wise youth! By few is glory’s wreath attained;
But death, or late or soon, awaiteth all,
To fight in Freedom’s cause is something gained,—
And nothing lost to fall.
TICONDEROGA
(May 10, 1775.)
BY V. B. WILSON
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract’s mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
’Tis the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
Then, with a shout that awakens
All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.
Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;
And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.
Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataract’s silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.
WARREN’S ADDRESS
(At the Battle of Bunker Hill.)
BY JOHN PIERPONT
Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look 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!
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 leaden hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must;
But oh, 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!
“THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES”
(From an “Ode on the Celebration of the Battle of Bunker Hill, June 17,
1825.”)
BY GRENVILLE MELLEN
The trump hath blown,
And now upon that reeking hill
Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball;
While with terrific signal shrill,
The vultures, from their bloody eyries flown,
Hang o’er them like a pall.
Now deeper roll the maddening drums,
And the mingling host like ocean heaves:
While from the midst a horrid wailing comes,
And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves!
THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL
(From “Battles of the American Revolution.”)
The advance of the British army was like a solemn pageant in its steady
headway, and like a parade for inspection in the completeness of its
outfit. It moved forward as if by the very force of its closely-knit
columns it must sweep away every barrier in its path. Elated, sure of
victory, with firm step, already quickened as the space of separation
lessens, there is left but a few rods of interval, a few steps only,
and the work is done! But right in their way was a calm, intense, and
energizing love of liberty, represented by men of the same blood and of
equal daring.
A few shots impulsively fired, but quickly restrained, drew an innocent
fire from the advancing column. But the pale men behind the scant
defense, obedient to one will, answered not.... The left wing is near
the redoubt. It surely is nothing to surmount a bank of fresh earth but
six feet high; and its sands and clods can almost be counted, it is so
near, so easy, _sure_! Short, crisp, and earnest, low-toned, but felt as
an electric pulse from redoubt to river, are the words of a single man,
Prescott. Warren, by his side, repeats them. The word runs quickly along
the impatient line. The eager fingers give back from the waiting trigger.
“Steady, men! Wait until you see the white of the eye! Not a shot sooner!
Aim at the handsome coats! Aim at the waistbands! Pick off the officers!
Wait for the word, every man! Steady!”
Already those plain men, so patient, can count the buttons, can read
the emblems on the belt-plate, can recognize the officers and men whom
they have seen at parade on Boston Common. Features grow more and more
distinct. The silence is awful! These men seem breathless,—dead! It
comes, that word, the word waited for,—“Fire!” That word had waited
behind the center and the left wing, where Putnam watched, as it lingered
behind breastwork and redoubt. Sharp, clear, and deadly, in tone and
essence, it rings forth,—“Fire!”
From redoubt to river, along the whole sweep of devouring flame,
the forms of men wither as in a furnace heat. The whole front goes
down. For an instant the chirp of the grasshopper and the cricket in
the freshly-cut grass might almost be heard; then the groans of the
suffering; then the shouts of impatient yeomen, who leap over obstacles
to pursue until recalled to silence and to duty.
Staggering but reviving, grand in the glory of their manhood, heroic in
the fortitude which restores self-possession, with a steady step, in the
face of fire and over the bodies of their dead, the remnant dare to renew
battle. Again the deadly volley; and the shattered columns, in spite of
entreaty or command, move back to the place of starting, and the first
shock of battle is over.
A lifetime when it is past seems but as a moment! A moment sometimes is
as a lifetime. Onset and repulse! Three hundred lifetimes ended in twenty
minutes!
THE MARYLAND BATTALION
BY JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;
Blooded, fine gentlemen, proper and tall,
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;
Prancing soldados so martial and bluff,
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff—
But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer,
And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.
There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,
And the bugle sang fanfaron down by the mills;
By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,
And keen cracked the rifles in Martense’s lane;
For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,
And the grenadiers’ tramp marked the roll of the dead.
Three to one, flanked and rear, flashed the files of St. George.
The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.
The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers
Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers—
For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,
And the light of God’s leading gone out in the fray!
Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!
The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!
When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain,
And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;
When at Freeke’s Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,
And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!
“O Stirling, good Stirling! how long must we wait?
Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?
Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,
With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?
Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,
When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?”
Tralara! Tralara! Now praise we the Lord
For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!
Tralara! Tralara! Now forward to die;
For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!
“Four hundred wild lads!” Maybe so. I’ll be bound
’Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.
If we hold the road open, tho’ Death take the toll,
We’ll be missed on parade when the States call the roll—
When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,
And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.
THE BATTLE OF TRENTON
(Dec. 26, 1776.)
ANONYMOUS AND CONTEMPORARY
On Christmas-day in seventy-six,
Our ragged troops with bayonets fixed,
For Trenton march away.
The Delaware see! the boats below!
The light obscured by hail and snow!
But no signs of dismay.
Our object was the Hessian band,
That dared invade fair freedom’s land,
And quarter in that place.
Great Washington he led us on,
Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,
Had never known disgrace.
In silent march we passed the night,
Each soldier panting for the fight,
Though quite benumbed with frost.
Greene, on the left, at six began,
The right was led by Sullivan,
Who ne’er a moment lost.
The pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,
The rebels risen from the dead
Were marching into town.
Some scampered here, some scampered there,
And some for action did prepare;
But soon their arms laid down.
Twelve hundred servile miscreants,
With all their colors, guns, and tents,
Were trophies of the day.
The frolic o’er, the bright canteen
In center, front, and rear was seen
Driving fatigue away.
Now brothers of the patriot bands,
Let’s sing deliverance from the hands
Of arbitrary sway,
And as our life is but a span,
Let’s touch the tankard while we can,
In memory of that day.
COLUMBIA
BY TIMOTHY DWIGHT
(Written during the author’s services as an army chaplain, 1777-78.)
Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;
Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
While ages on ages thy splendor unfold!
Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;
Let the crimes of the East ne’er encrimson thy name,
Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.
To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
And triumph pursue them, and glory attend;
A world is thy realm: for a world be thy laws,
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
On Freedom’s broad basis, that empire shall rise,
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.
Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,
And the east shall with morn hide the beams of her star.
New bards, and new sages, unrivaled shall soar
To fame unextinguished, when time is no more;
To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,
Shall fly, from all nations the best of mankind;
Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring
Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring.
Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,
And genius and beauty in harmony blend;
The graces of form shall awake pure desire,
And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;
Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,
The virtue’s bright image, instamped on the mind,
With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow,
And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.
Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,
The nations admire and the ocean obey;
Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,
And the East and the South yield their spices and gold.
As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,
And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow;
While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,
Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.
Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread,
From war’s dread confusion I pensively strayed,
The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;
The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;
Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along,
And a voice as of angels enchantingly sung:
“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”
THE FIGHTING PARSON[10]
BY HENRY AMES BLOOD
It was brave young Parson Webster,
His father a parson before him,
And here in this town of Temple
The people used to adore him;
And the minute-men from all quarters
That morning had grounded their arms
’Round the meeting-house on the hilltop,
Looking down on Temple farms.
Dear to the Puritan soldier
The food which his meeting-house offered,
And especially dear the fine manna
Which the young Temple minister proffered;
And believe as he might in his firelock,
His bayonet, or his sword,
The minute-man’s heart was hopeless
If not filled with the strength of the Lord.
The minute-man ever and always
Waited the signal of warning,
And he never dreamed in the evening
Where his prayers would ascend the next morning;
And they even said that the parson
Undoubtedly preached his best
When his musket stood in the pulpit
Ready for use with the rest.
Sad was the minister’s message,
And many a heart beat faster,
And many a soft eye glistened,
Whenever the voice of the pastor
Dwelt on the absent dear ones
Who had followed their country’s call
To the distant camp, or the battle,
Or the frowning fortress-wall.
And now when near to “fifteenthly,”
And the urchins thought of their luncheon,
And into the half-curtained windows
Hotter and hotter the sun shone,
And the redbreast dozed in the branches,
And the crow on the pine tree’s top,
And the squirrel was lost in his musings,
The sermon came to a stop.
For sharp on the turnpike the clatter
Of galloping hoofs resounded,
And the granite ring of the roadway
Louder and louder sounded;
And now no longer the redbreast
Was inclined to be dull that day,
And now no longer the sexton
Slept in his usual way.
But all sprang up on the instant,
And the widest of eyes grew wider,
While on towards the porch, like a tempest,
Came sweeping the horse and its rider;
And now from the din of the hoof-beats
A trumpet voice leapt out,
And, tingling to its rafters,
The church was alive with the shout,—
“Burgoyne’s at Ticonderoga:
Would you have the old fort surrender?”
“No, no!” cried the parson; “New Hampshire
Will send the last man to defend her!”
But before he could shoulder his musket
A Tory sang up from below,
“I hear a great voice out of heaven, sir,
Warning us not to go.”
Quick from the pulpit descending,
With the agile step of a lion,—
“The voice you hear is from hell, sir!”
Replied the young servant of Zion.
And out through the open doorway,
And on past the porch he strode,
And the congregation came after,
And gathered beside the road.
Sadly enough the colonel,
The minute-men all arraying,
From the dusty cocked hat of the rider
Drew the lots for going or staying.
Then waving his hat as he took it,
And putting the spurs to his mare,
The stranger rode off to New Ipswich
In a cheering that rent the air.
Worse than the shock of battle,
Now came the sad leave-taking.
And to mothers and maids and matrons
The deepest of grief and heart-aching;
And far on the road through the mountains
Whence the rider had just come,
They followed the minute-men marching
To the sound of the fife and the drum.