He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When, with a feeble voice, he called
His weeping son to him:
"Weep not, my boy," the veteran said,
"I bow to heaven's high will;
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill."
The sword was brought; the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me well,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
"'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band;
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened Freedom's will;
For, son, the God of Freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.
"Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,--
A smile--and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.
_William R. Wallace._
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_78_
es' say
buoy' ant
in sip' id
fe quent' ing
scowl' ing ly
sug ges' tion
in tel' li gence
sin' gu lar ly
so lic' i tude
com pet' i tor
phi los' o pher
ve' he ment ly
tre men' dous ly
ex pos tu la' tion
ig no min' i ous ly