CHAPTER I_Poems of American History

POEMS OF AMERICAN HISTORY

AMERICA

_My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the pilgrims' pride,

From every mountain-side

Let freedom ring._

_My native country, thee,

Land of the noble free,

Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,

Thy woods and templed hills;

My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above._

_Let music swell the breeze,

And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song;

Let mortal tongues awake,

Let all that breathe partake,

Let rocks their silence break,--

The sound prolong._

_Our fathers' God, to Thee,

Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing;

Long may our land be bright

With freedom's holy light;

Protect us by Thy might,

Great God, our King._

SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH.

POEMS OF

AMERICAN HISTORY

COLLECTED AND EDITED

BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON

[Illustration]

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

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The Riverside Press Cambridge

The Riverside Press

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PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

All rights on poems in this volume are reserved by the holders of

the copyright. The publishers and others named in the following list

are the proprietors, either in their own right or as agents for the

authors, of the poems of which the authorship and titles are given,

and of which the ownership is thus specifically noted and is hereby

acknowledged.

Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York.--William Cullen Bryant: "The

Green Mountain Boys," "Seventy-Six," "Song of Marion's Men," "Oh

Mother of a Mighty Race," "Our Country's Call," "Abraham Lincoln,"

"Centennial Hymn."

Messrs. Richard D. Badger & Co., Boston.--Edwin Arlington Robinson:

"The Klondike."

The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis.--Charles Edward Russell:

"The Fleet at Santiago," from "Such Stuff as Dreams."

The Century Company, New York.--Richard Watson Gilder: "At the

President's Grave," "Charleston," "The White City," "The Comfort

of the Trees"; Robert Underwood Johnson: "Dewey at Manila";

Silas Weir Mitchell: "Herndon," "How the Cumberland went down,"

"Kearsarge," "Lincoln," "The Song of the Flags." From the Century

Magazine.--William Tuckey Meredith: "Farragut"; Helen F. More:

"What's in a Name"; Will Henry Thompson: "The High Tide at

Gettysburg."

The Robert Clarke Company, Cincinnati.--William Davis Gallagher:

"The Mothers of the West"; William Haines Lytle: "The Siege of

Chapultepec," "The Volunteers."

Messrs. Henry T. Coates & Co., Philadelphia.--Ethel Lynn Beers: "The

Picket-Guard"; Charles Fenno Hoffman: "Rio Bravo," "Monterey."

Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York.--Ernest McGaffey: "Little Big

Horn," "Geronimo"; William Henry Venable: "John Filson," "Johnny

Appleseed," "The Founders of Ohio," "El Emplazado," "Battle-Cry,"

"National Song."

The R. R. Donnelly & Sons Company, Chicago.--Francis Brooks: "Down

the Little Big Horn."

Messrs. Dana Estes & Co., Boston.--Hezekiah Butterworth: "The

Thanksgiving for America," "The Legend of Waukulla," "The Fountain

of Youth," "Verazzano," "Ortiz," "Five Kernels of Corn," "The

Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor," "Roger Williams," "Whitman's Ride for

Oregon," "The Death of Jefferson," "Garfield's Ride at Chickamauga,"

"The Church of the Revolution."

Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls, New York.--Richard Realf: "The Defence of

Lawrence."

Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York.--Wallace Bruce: "Parson Allen's

Ride"; Will Carleton: "The Prize of the Margaretta," "Across the

Delaware," "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel," "Cuba to Columbia," "The

Victory-Wreck"; William Dean Howells: "The Battle in the Clouds";

Herman Melville: "Malvern Hill," "The Victor of Antietam," "The

Cumberland," "Running the Batteries," "A Dirge for McPherson,"

"Sheridan at Cedar Creek," "The Fall of Richmond," "The Surrender

at Appomattox," "At the Cannon's Mouth." From Harper's Magazine and

Harper's Weekly.--Guy Wetmore Carryl: "When the Great Gray Ships come

in"; Joseph B. Gilder: "The Parting of the Ways"; Thomas A. Janvier:

"Santiago"; Thomas Dunn English: "Arnold at Stillwater," "The Charge

by the Ford," "The Fall of Maubila," "The Battle of the Cowpens,"

"The Battle of New Orleans"; John Eliot Bowen: "The Man who rode to

Conemaugh."

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.--Thomas Bailey Aldrich:

"Fredericksburg," "By the Potomac," "The Bells at Midnight," "An Ode

on the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial," "Unguarded Gates"; Phoebe

Cary: "Ready," "Peace"; John White Chadwick: "Mugford's Victory,"

"Full Cycle"; Mrs. Florence Earle Coates: "Columbus," "Buffalo," "By

the Conemaugh"; Christopher Pearse Cranch: "After the Centennial";

Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Concord Hymn," "Boston Hymn"; Annie Fields:

"Cedar Mountain"; Louise Imogen Guiney: "John Brown"; Francis Bret

Harte: "Caldwell of Springfield," "The Reveille," "John Burns of

Gettysburg," "A Second Review of the Grand Army," "An Arctic Vision,"

"Chicago"; John Hay: "Miles Keogh's Horse"; Oliver Wendell Holmes:

"A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party," "Lexington," "Grandmother's

Story of Bunker-Hill Battle," "Old Ironsides," "Daniel Webster,"

"Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline," "Sherman's in

Savannah," "After the Fire," "Welcome to the Nations," "On the

Death of President Garfield," "Additional Verses to Hail Columbia";

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe: "Our Country," "Battle-Hymn of the Republic,"

"Robert E. Lee," "Pardon," "Parricide," "J. A. G."; William Dean

Howells: "The Battle in the Clouds"; Lucy Larcom: "Mistress Hale of

Beverly," "The Nineteenth of April," "The Sinking of the Merrimack";

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "The Skeleton in Armor," "Sir Humphrey

Gilbert," "The War-Token," "The Expedition to Wessagusset,"

"Prologue," "The Proclamation," "Prologue," "The Trial," "The Battle

of Lovell's Pond," "A Ballad of the French Fleet," "The Embarkation,"

"Paul Revere's Ride," "Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem," "The

Wreck of the Hesperus," "Victor Galbraith," "The Cumberland," "The

Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face," "President Garfield," "The Republic";

James Russell Lowell: "Flawless his Heart," "The New-Come Chief,"

"Mr. Hosea Biglow speaks," "What Mr. Robinson thinks," "Jonathan to

John," "The Washers of the Shroud," "Ode recited at the Harvard

Commemoration"; William Vaughn Moody: "On a Soldier fallen in the

Philippines," "An Ode in Time of Hesitation"; Nora Perry: "Running

the Blockade"; Edna Dean Proctor: "Columbus Dying," "The Captive's

Hymn," "The Lost War-Sloop," "Sa-cá-ga-we-a," "John Brown,"

"The Brooklyn Bridge"; Margaret Junkin Preston: "The Mystery of

Cro-a-tàn," "The Last Meeting of Pocahontas and the Great Captain,"

"The First Proclamation of Miles Standish," "The First Thanksgiving

Day," "Dirge for Ashby," "Under the Shade of the Trees," "Virginia

Capta," "Acceptation"; John Godfrey Saxe: "How Cyrus laid the Cable";

Edward Rowland Sill: "The Dead President"; Harriet Prescott Spofford:

"How we became a Nation," "Can't"; Edmund Clarence Stedman: "Peter

Stuyvesant's New Year's Call," "Salem," "Aaron Burr's Wooing," "How

Old Brown took Harper's Ferry," "Sumter," "Wanted--A Man," "Kearny

at Seven Pines," "Treason's Last Device," "Gettysburg," "Abraham

Lincoln," "Israel Freyer's Bid for Gold," "Custer," "Liberty

Enlightening the World," "Cuba," "Hymn of the West"; Bayard Taylor:

"Through Baltimore," "Lincoln at Gettysburg," "The National Ode";

Joseph Russell Taylor: "Breath on the Oat"; Edith M. Thomas: "A

Christopher of the Shenandoah," "To Spain--A Last Word"; Maurice

Thompson: "The Ballad of Chickamauga"; J. T. Trowbridge: "Columbus at

the Convent"; Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward: "Conemaugh"; Mrs. A. D.

T. Whitney: "Peace"; John G. Whittier: "The Norsemen," "Norembega,"

"John Underhill," "Cassandra Southwick," "The King's Missive," "St.

John," "Pentucket," "Lexington," "The Vow of Washington," "Skipper

Ireson's Ride," "Texas," "The Angels of Buena Vista," "The Crisis,"

"To William Lloyd Garrison," "Ichabod," "The Kansas Emigrants,"

"Burial of Barber," "Le Marais du Cygne," "Brown of Ossawatomie,"

"Barbara Frietchie," "The Battle Autumn of 1862," "At Port Royal,"

"To John C. Frémont," "Astræa at the Capitol," "The Proclamation,"

"Laus Deo," "To the Thirty-Ninth Congress," "The Cable Hymn,"

"Chicago," "Centennial Hymn," "On the Big Horn," "The Bartholdi

Statue"; Forceythe Willson: "Boy Brittan"; Constance Fenimore

Woolson: "Kentucky Belle." From the Atlantic Monthly.--George

Houghton: "The Legend of Walbach Tower"; Henry Newbolt: "Craven";

Thomas William Parsons: "Dirge."

Mr. P. J. Kenedy, New York.--Abram J. Ryan: "The Conquered Banner."

The Ladies' Home Journal, Philadelphia.--Virginia Woodward Cloud:

"The Ballad of Sweet P."

The J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.--George Henry Boker:

"Upon the Hill before Centreville," "Dirge for a Soldier," "Zagonyi,"

"On Board the Cumberland," "The Cruise of the Monitor," "The Ballad

of New Orleans," "The Varuna," "Hooker's Across," "Before Vicksburg,"

"The Black Regiment," "The Battle of Lookout Mountain"; William C.

Elam: "The Mecklenburg Declaration"; Robert Loveman: "Hobson and

his Men"; Marion Manville: "The Surrender of New Orleans," "Lee's

Parole"; Henry Peterson: "The Death of Lyon"; Thomas Buchanan Read:

"The Rising," "Valley Forge," "Blennerhassett's Island," "The

Attack," "Sheridan's Ride," "The Eagle and Vulture"; Francis Orrery

Ticknor: "The Virginians of the Valley," "A Battle Ballad," "Our

Left," "Little Giffen."

The Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, Boston.--Richard Burton: "The Old

Santa Fé Trail"; Paul Hamilton Hayne: "Macdonald's Raid," "Beyond

the Potomac," "Vicksburg," "The Battle of Charleston Harbor,"

"Charleston," "The Stricken South to the North," "South Carolina

to the States of the North," "Yorktown Centennial Lyric"; William

Hamilton Hayne: "The Charge at Santiago."

The McClure Company, New York.--Edwin Markham: "Lincoln."

Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago.--Kate Brownlee Sherwood:

"Albert Sidney Johnston," "Thomas at Chickamauga."

The Macmillan Company, New York.--Hamlin Garland: "Logan at Peach

Tree Creek"; George Edward Woodberry: "Our First Century," "Essex

Regiment March," "The Islands of the Sea," "O Land Beloved."

The Mershon Company, New York.--John Boyle O'Reilly:

"Crispus Attucks," "At Fredericksburg," "Chicago," "Boston,"

"Midnight--September 19, 1881," "The Ride of Collins Graves,"

"Mayflower."

The Oliver Ditson Company, New York.--Kate Brownlee Sherwood: "Molly

Pitcher."

Out West, Los Angeles.--Sharlot M. Hall: "Arizona."

Messrs. L. C. Page & Co., Boston.--Charles G. D. Roberts: "Brooklyn

Bridge," "In Apia Bay," "A Ballad of Manila Bay."

Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.--Louis James Block: "The Final

Struggle"; Guy Wetmore Carryl: "When the Great Gray Ships come in."

Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.--William Ernest Henley:

"Romance"; George Parsons Lathrop: "Keenan's Charge"; Sidney

Lanier: "The Story of Vinland," "The Triumph," "Lexington," "Land

of the Wilful Gospel," "The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson," "The

Centennial Meditation of Columbia"; Thomas Nelson Page: "The Dragon

of the Seas"; James Jeffrey Roche: "Panama"; Richard Henry Stoddard:

"Abraham Lincoln," "Men of the North and West," "The Little Drummer."

Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.--Richard Hovey: "The Word

of the Lord from Havana," "The Battle of Manila"; Walt Whitman:

"Ethiopia Saluting the Colors," "O Captain! My Captain!" "The Sobbing

of the Bells."

Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Co., Chicago.--John Williamson Palmer:

"The Fight at San Jacinto."

The Whitaker & Ray Company, San Francisco.--Joaquin Miller:

"Columbus," "The Defence of the Alamo," "Alaska," "Rejoice,"

"Cuba Libre," "San Francisco," "Resurge San Francisco." The

Youth's Companion, Boston.--Mary A. P. Stansbury: "The Surprise at

Ticonderoga"; Thomas Tracy Bouvé: "The Shannon and the Chesapeake."

In addition to the above, the compiler begs to acknowledge express

permission from the following authors for the use of such of their

poems as appear in this volume:

Joel Benton, Louis James Block, Virginia Fraser Boyle, Robert

Bridges, Wallace Bruce, Richard Burton, S. H. M. Byers, Will

Carleton, Madison Cawein, Robert W. Chambers, John Vance Cheney,

Joseph I. C. Clarke, Virginia Woodward Cloud, Florence Earle Coates,

Kinahan Cornwallis, F. Marion Crawford, Mrs. Ernest Crosby (for

Ernest Crosby), Caroline Duer, Barrett Eastman, Francis Miles Finch,

Hamlin Garland, Joseph D. Gilder, Richard Watson Gilder, Arthur

Guiterman, Sharlot M. Hall, Edward Everett Hale, William Hamilton

Hayne (for himself and Paul Hamilton Hayne), Caroline Hazard, Rupert

Hughes, Minna Irving, Thomas A. Janvier, Tudor Jenks, John Howard

Jewett, Robert Underwood Johnson, Walter Learned, Robert Loveman,

Charles F. Lummis, Ernest McGaffey, Edwin Markham, John James Meehan,

Lloyd Mifflin, William Vaughn Moody, Thomas Nelson Page, Mrs. John

W. Palmer (for John Williamson Palmer), John James Piatt, Wallace

Rice, Laura E. Richards, Edwin Arlington Robinson, James Jeffrey

Roche, John Jerome Rooney, Alfred D. Runyon, Charles Edward Russell,

Clinton Scollard, Mrs. Katherine Brownlee Sherwood, Lewis Worthington

Smith, Joseph Russell Taylor, Richard H. Titherington, William Henry

Venable, Robert Burns Wilson.

The Editor is indebted to the following authors and publishers for

permission to use the poems mentioned, all rights in which are

reserved:

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews: "A Call to Arms."

Robert Bridges: "To the United States of America."

Dana Burnet: "Marching Song."

Amelia Josephine Burr: "Pershing at the Tomb of Lafayette."

Witter Bynner (by Anne L. Wellington): "Republic to Republic."

Eleanor Rogers Cox: "The Return."

George H. Doran Company: "The White Ships and the Red," from _Main

John Chipman Farrar: "Brest Left Behind," from _Contemporary Verse_.

Richard Butler Glaenzer: "A Ballad of Redhead's Day."

Daniel Henderson: "The Road to France."

Houghton Mifflin Company: "Victory Bells," from _Wilderness Songs_,

by Grace Hazard Conkling.

Robert Underwood Johnson: "To the Returning Brave."

Aline Kilmer (for Joyce Kilmer): "The White Ships and the Red,"

"Rouge Bouquet."

Richard Le Gallienne: "After the War."

Vachel Lindsay: "Abraham Lincoln walks at Midnight."

J. Corson Miller: "Epicedium."

Randall Parrish: "Your Lad and My Lad."

Clinton Scollard: "The First Three," "The Unreturning."

Charles Scribner's Sons: "A Call to Arms," by Mary Raymond Shipman

Andrews; "Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for

France," by Alan Seeger; "Mare Liberum," by Henry van Dyke.

Marion Couthouy Smith: "The Star," "King of the Belgians."

Henry van Dyke: "Mare Liberum."

Willard Wattles: "The Family of Nations."

George Edward Woodberry: "Sonnets written in the Fall of 1914."

E. B. S.

HELPMATE

One who underrates the significance of our literature, prose or

verse, as both the expression and stimulant of national feeling, as

of import in the past and to the future of America, and therefore

of the world, is deficient in that critical insight which can judge

even of its own day unwarped by personal taste or deference to public

impression. He shuts his eyes to the fact that at times, notably

throughout the years resulting in the Civil War, this literature has

been a "force."--EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

INTRODUCTION

The poetry relating to American history falls naturally into two

classes: that written, so to speak, from the inside, on the spot,

and that written from the outside, long afterwards. Of the first

class, "The Star-Spangled Banner" is the most famous example, as

well as perhaps the best. Even at this distant day, reading it with

a knowledge of the circumstances which produced it, it has a power

of touching the heart and gripping the imagination which goes far

toward proving the genuineness of its art. Of the second class,

"Paul Revere's Ride" is probably the most widely known, though Mr.

Longfellow's own "Ballad of the French Fleet" is a better poem.

It is evident that, in compiling an anthology such as this, different

standards must be used in judging these two classes. The first, aside

from any quality as poetry which it may have, is of value because of

its historical or political interest, because it is an expression

and an interpretation of the hour which gave it birth. With it,

poetic merit is not the first consideration, which is, perhaps, as

well. Yet, however slight their merit as poetry may be, many of the

early ballads possess an admirable energy, directness, and aptness

of phrase, and there is about them a childlike simplicity impossible

of reproduction in this sophisticated age--as where Stephen Tilden,

in his epitaph on Braddock, requests the great commanders who have

preceded that unfortunate soldier to the grave to

"Edge close and give him room."

With the retrospective ballad, on the other hand, poetic merit is a

sine qua non. It has little value historically, however accurate its

facts. It differs from the contemporary ballad in the same way that

the "New Canterbury Tales" differ from Froissart; or as the "Idylls

of the King" differ from "Le Morte Arthur." It is less authentic,

less convincing, less vital. It may have atmosphere, but there is no

infallible way of telling whether the atmosphere is right. Unless

it is something more, then, than mere metrical history, the modern

ballad has little claim to consideration.

These are the two principles which the present compiler has had

constantly in mind. Yet the second principle has been violated more

than once, since, in a collection such as this, one must cut one's

coat according to the cloth; or, rather, one must make sure that

one is decently covered, though the covering may here and there be

somewhat inferior in quality. So it has been necessary, in order to

keep the thread of history unbroken, to admit some strands anything

but silken; and if the choice has sometimes been of ills, rather than

of goods, the compiler can only hope that he chose wisely.

The most difficult and trying portion of his task has been, not

to get his material together, but to compress it into reasonable

limits. Especially in the colonial period was the temptation great to

include more early American verse. Peter Folger's "A Looking-Glass

for the Times," Benjamin Tompson's "New England's Crisis," Michael

Wigglesworth's "God's Controversy with New England," the "Sot-Weed

Factor," and many others, which it is recalling an old sorrow to name

here, were excluded only after long and bitter debate. No doubt other

exclusions will be noticed by nearly every reader of the volume--and

it may interest him to know that the material gathered together would

have made four such books as this.

The thread of narrative upon which the poems have been strung

together has been made as slight as possible, just strong enough

to carry the reader understandingly from one poem to the next. The

notes, too, have been limited to the explanation of such allusions

as are not likely to be found in the ordinary works of reference,

with here and there an account of the circumstances which caused the

lines to be written, or an indication of source, where the source

is unusual. Every available source has been drawn upon--the works

of all the better known and many of the minor American and English

poets, anthologies, newspaper collections, magazines, collections

of Americana and especially of broadsides--in a word, American and

English poetry generally.

In this connection, the compiler wishes to make grateful

acknowledgment of the assistance he has received on every hand,

especially from Mr. Herbert Putnam and Miss Margaret McGuffey, of

the Library of Congress; Mr. N. D. C. Hodges, librarian of the

Cincinnati, Ohio, Public Library; Mr. C. B. Galbreath, librarian

of the Ohio State Library; Mr. Charles F. Lummis, librarian of the

Los Angeles, California, Public Library; Dr. Edward Everett Hale,

Mr. William Henry Venable, Mr. Isaac R. Pennypacker, Mr. Arthur

Guiterman, and Mr. Wallace Rice. He might add that it is a matter of

deep personal gratification to him that in no instance has any author

refused to permit the use of his work in this collection. On the

contrary, many of them have been most helpful in suggestions.

A special effort has been made to secure accuracy of text,--no light

task, especially with the early ballads. Where the text varied, as

was often the case, that has been followed which seemed to have the

greater authority, except that obvious misprints have been corrected.

In this, the compiler has had the coöperation of The Riverside Press,

and has had frequent occasion to admire the care and knowledge of the

corrector and his assistants.

B. E. S.

CHILLICOTHE, OHIO, July 23, 1908.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART I

THE COLONIAL PERIOD

AMERICA, Arthur Cleveland Coxe 2

CHAPTER I

_The Discovery of America_

THE STORY OF VINLAND, Sidney Lanier 3

THE NORSEMEN, John Greenleaf Whittier 4

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 6

PROPHECY, Luigi Pulci 7

THE INSPIRATION, James Montgomery 8

COLUMBUS, Lydia Huntley Sigourney 9

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND, Philip Freneau 9

COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT, John T. Trowbridge 10

THE FINAL STRUGGLE, Louis James Block 11

STEER, BOLD MARINER, ON, Friedrich von Schiller 12

THE TRIUMPH, Sidney Lanier 12

COLUMBUS, Joaquin Miller 14

THE THANKSGIVING FOR AMERICA, Hezekiah Butterworth 15

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS, Philip Freneau 17

COLUMBUS DYING, Edna Dean Proctor 18

COLUMBUS, Edward Everett Hale 18

COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER, Lord Houghton 18

CHAPTER II

_In the Wake of Columbus_

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT, Unknown 19

THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA, Hezekiah Butterworth 19

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, Hezekiah Butterworth 21

PONCE DE LEON, Edith M. Thomas 22

BALBOA, Nora Perry 23

WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO, W. W. Campbell 24

THE LUST OF GOLD, James Montgomery 24

VERAZZANO, Hezekiah Butterworth 25

ORTIZ, Hezekiah Butterworth 26

THE FALL OF MAUBILA, Thomas Dunn English 27

QUIVÍRA, Arthur Guiterman 31

NOREMBEGA, John Greenleaf Whittier 32

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 34

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS, Wallace Rice 34

CHAPTER III

_The Settlement of Virginia_

THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN, Margaret Junkin Preston 36

JOHN SMITH'S APPROACH TO JAMESTOWN, James Barron Hope 38

POCAHONTAS, William Makepeace Thackeray 38

POCAHONTAS, George Pope Morris 39

BERMUDAS, Andrew Marvell 39

NEWES FROM VIRGINIA, Richard Rich 40

TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE, Michael Drayton 42

THE MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS, Mrs. M. M. Webster 43

THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN, Margaret

Junkin Preston 43

THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN, Thomas Dunn English 44

BACON'S EPITAPH, Unknown 45

ODE TO JAMESTOWN, James Kirke Paulding 46

THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY, Benjamin Franklin 48

FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC, Edward Everett Hale 49

CHAPTER IV

_The Dutch at New Amsterdam_

HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST, Burton Egbert Stevenson 50

THE DEATH OF COLMAN, Thomas Frost 50

ADRIAN BLOCK'S SONG, Edward Everett Hale 51

THE PRAISE OF NEW NETHERLAND, Jacob Steendam 52

THE COMPLAINT OF NEW AMSTERDAM, Jacob Steendam 53

PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL, Edmund Clarence Stedman 54

CHAPTER V

_The Settlement of New England_

THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME, Jeremiah Eames Rankin 56

SONG OF THE PILGRIMS, Thomas Cogswell Upham 57

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS, Felicia Hemans 57

THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH, Margaret Junkin

Preston 58

THE MAYFLOWER, Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth 59

THE PEACE MESSAGE, Burton Egbert Stevenson 60

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY, Margaret Junkin Preston 60

THE WAR-TOKEN, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 61

FIVE KERNELS OF CORN, Hezekiah Butterworth 62

THE EXPEDITION TO WESSAGUSSET, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 63

NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES, Unknown 65

THE PILGRIM FATHERS, William Wordsworth 66

THE PILGRIM FATHERS, John Pierpont 66

THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR, Hezekiah Butterworth 67

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING, Clinton Scollard 68

NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH, William Bradford 69

THE ASSAULT ON THE FORTRESS, Timothy Dwight 70

DEATH SONG, Alonzo Lewis 70

OUR COUNTRY, Julia Ward Howe 71

CHAPTER VI

_Religious Persecutions in New England_

PROLOGUE, from "John Endicott," Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 71

ROGER WILLIAMS, Hezekiah Butterworth 72

GOD MAKES A PATH, Roger Williams 72

CANONICUS AND ROGER WILLIAMS, Unknown 73

ANNE HUTCHINSON'S EXILE, Edward Everett Hale 73

JOHN UNDERHILL, John Greenleaf Whittier 74

THE PROCLAMATION, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 76

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK, John Greenleaf Whittier 77

THE KING'S MISSIVE, John Greenleaf Whittier 80

CHAPTER VII

_King Philip's War and the Witchcraft Delusion_

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK, Edward Everett Hale 82

THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT, Caroline Hazard 83

ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN, Benjamin Tompson 85

THE SUDBURY FIGHT, Wallace Rice 85

KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND, Clinton Scollard 88

PROLOGUE, from "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms," Henry Wadsworth

Longfellow 88

SALEM, Edmund Clarence Stedman 89

THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE, Rose Terry Cooke 90

A SALEM WITCH, Ednah Proctor Clarke 91

THE TRIAL, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 92

GILES COREY, Unknown 96

MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY, Lucy Larcom 97

CHAPTER VIII

_The Struggle for the Continent_

ST. JOHN, John Greenleaf Whittier 99

THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE, William Douw Schuyler-Lighthall 101

THE SACK OF DEERFIELD, Thomas Dunn English 102

PENTUCKET, John Greenleaf Whittier 105

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT, Unknown 106

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT, Unknown 108

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 109

LOUISBURG, Unknown 110

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 110

THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED, Stephen Tilden 111

THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN, Unknown 112

BRADDOCK'S FATE, Stephen Tilden 112

NED BRADDOCK, John Williamson Palmer 114

ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA, Unknown 114

THE EMBARKATION, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 115

ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG, Unknown 117

ON THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG, Francis

Hopkinson 118

FORT DUQUESNE, Florus B. Plimpton 119

HOT STUFF, Edward Botwood 121

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND, James Wolfe 121

BRAVE WOLFE, Unknown 122

THE DEATH OF WOLFE, Unknown 123

THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN, Edna Dean Proctor 123

A PROPHECY, Arthur Lee 125

PART II

THE REVOLUTION

FLAWLESS HIS HEART, James Russell Lowell 128

CHAPTER I

_The Coming of Discontent_

THE VIRGINIA SONG, Unknown 129

THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, Unknown 130

A SONG, Unknown 130

THE LIBERTY POLE, Unknown 131

THE BRITISH GRENADIER, Unknown 132

CRISPUS ATTUCKS, John Boyle O'Reilly 132

UNHAPPY BOSTON, Paul Revere 134

ALAMANCE, Seymour W. Whiting 135

A NEW SONG CALLED THE GASPEE, Unknown 135

A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY, Oliver Wendell Holmes 136

A NEW SONG, Unknown 137

HOW WE BECAME A NATION, Harriet Prescott Spofford 138

A PROCLAMATION, Unknown 138

THE BLASTED HERB, Mesech Weare 139

EPIGRAM, Unknown 140

THE DAUGHTER'S REBELLION, Francis Hopkinson 140

ON THE SNAKE DEPICTED AT THE HEAD OF SOME AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS,

Unknown 140

FREE AMERICA, Joseph Warren 140

LIBERTY TREE, Thomas Paine 141

THE MOTHER COUNTRY, Benjamin Franklin 142

PENNSYLVANIA SONG, Unknown 142

MARYLAND RESOLVES, Unknown 142

MASSACHUSETTS SONG OF LIBERTY, Mercy Warren 143

EPIGRAM, Unknown 144

TO THE BOSTON WOMEN, Unknown 144

PROPHECY, Gulian Verplanck 144

CHAPTER II

_The Bursting of the Storm_

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 144

WHAT'S IN A NAME, Helen F. More 146

LEXINGTON, Sidney Lanier 146

LEXINGTON, Oliver Wendell Holmes 147

NEW ENGLAND'S CHEVY CHASE, Edward Everett Hale 148

THE KING'S OWN REGULARS, Unknown 150

MORGAN STANWOOD, Hiram Rich 151

THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO, Wallace Rice 152

LEXINGTON, John Greenleaf Whittier 153

THE RISING, Thomas Buchanan Read 154

THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA, Will Carleton 155

THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION, William C. Elam 156

A SONG, Unknown 157

CHAPTER III

_The Colonists take the Offensive_

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS, William Cullen Bryant 157

THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA, Mary A. P. Stansbury 157

THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP, Edward Bangs 159

TOM GAGE'S PROCLAMATION, Unknown 160

THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL, Clinton Scollard 161

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS, John Pierpont 161

THE BALLAD OF BUNKER HILL, Edward Everett Hale 162

BUNKER HILL, George H. Calvert 162

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE, Oliver Wendell

Holmes 163

THE DEATH OF WARREN, Epes Sargent 166

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, Unknown 167

THE NEW-COME CHIEF, James Russell Lowell 168

THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE, Unknown 169

WAR AND WASHINGTON, Jonathan Mitchell Sewall 170

THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL, Unknown 171

MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC, Clinton Scollard 171

A SONG, Unknown 172

A POEM CONTAINING SOME REMARKS ON THE PRESENT WAR, Unknown 173

MUGFORD'S VICTORY, John White Chadwick 174

OFF FROM BOSTON, Unknown 176

CHAPTER IV

_Independence_

EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE, Philip Freneau 176

RODNEY'S RIDE, Unknown 177

AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE, Francis Hopkinson 178

THE FOURTH OF JULY, John Pierpont 179

INDEPENDENCE DAY, Royall Tyler 179

ON INDEPENDENCE, Jonathan Mitchell Sewall 179

THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S PRAYER, Unknown 180

COLUMBIA, Timothy Dwight 180

CHAPTER V

_The First Campaign_

THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER, Clinton Scollard 181

A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER, Unknown 182

THE MARYLAND BATTALION, John Williamson Palmer 183

HAARLEM HEIGHTS, Arthur Guiterman 183

NATHAN HALE, Unknown 185

NATHAN HALE, Francis Miles Finch 186

THE BALLAD OF SWEET P, Virginia Woodward Cloud 186

ACROSS THE DELAWARE, Will Carleton 188

THE BATTLE OF TRENTON, Unknown 188

TRENTON AND PRINCETON, Unknown 188

ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON, Thomas Dunn English 189

SEVENTY-SIX, William Cullen Bryant 191

BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG, Minna Irving 191

THE AMERICAN FLAG, Joseph Rodman Drake 192

CHAPTER VI

"_The Fate of Sir Jack Brag_"

THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON, Unknown 193

THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN, Edward Everett Hale 193

PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE, Wallace Bruce 194

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON, Thomas P. Rodman 195

BENNINGTON, W. H. Babcock 196

THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY, Charles D. Helmer 198

SAINT LEGER, Clinton Scollard 199

THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG, Unknown 200

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER, Thomas Dunn English 200

THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE, Unknown 202

SARATOGA'S SONG, Unknown 202

CHAPTER VII

_The Second Stage_

LORD NORTH'S RECANTATION, Unknown 204

A NEW BALLAD, Unknown 205

GENERAL HOWE'S LETTER, Unknown 205

CARMEN BELLICOSUM, Guy Humphreys McMaster 206

VALLEY FORGE, Thomas Buchanan Read 207

BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED; OR, THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS, Francis

Hopkinson 208

THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL, Will Carleton 209

THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, Unknown 210

THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, Thomas Dunn English 211

MOLLY PITCHER, Kate Brownlee Sherwood 213

MOLLY PITCHER, Laura E. Richards 213

YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND, Unknown 214

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE, Nora Perry 215

BETTY ZANE, Thomas Dunn English 216

THE WYOMING MASSACRE, Uriah Terry 217

CHAPTER VIII

_The War on the Water_

THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN, Unknown 219

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE, Philip Freneau 220

THE YANKEE PRIVATEER, Arthur Hale 221

PAUL JONES, Unknown 222

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR, Unknown 223

PAUL JONES--A NEW SONG, Unknown 224

PAUL JONES, Unknown 224

THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS, Philip Freneau 225

BARNEY'S INVITATION, Philip Freneau 226

SONG ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY, Philip Freneau 227

THE SOUTH CAROLINA, Unknown 228

CHAPTER IX

_New York and the "Neutral Ground"_

SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES, Philip Freneau 229

THE STORM OF STONY POINT, Arthur Guiterman 230

WAYNE AT STONY POINT, Clinton Scollard 230

AARON BURR'S WOOING, Edmund Clarence Stedman 231

THE MODERN JONAS, Unknown 232

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD, Bret Harte 232

THE COW-CHACE, John André 233

BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY, Unknown 237

ARNOLD THE VILE TRAITOR, Unknown 238

EPIGRAM, Unknown 238

ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON, Nathaniel Parker Willis 238

ANDRÉ, Charlotte Fiske Bates 239

SERGEANT CHAMPE, Unknown 239

A NEW SONG, Joseph Stansbury 240

THE LORDS OF THE MAIN, Joseph Stansbury 241

THE ROYAL ADVENTURER, Philip Freneau 241

THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX, Peter St. John 242

CHAPTER X

_The War in the South_

HYMNS OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, Henry Wadsworth

Longfellow 245

ABOUT SAVANNAH, Unknown 245

A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON, Unknown 246

THE SWAMP FOX, William Gilmore Simms 247

SONG OF MARION'S MEN, William Cullen Bryant 248

MACDONALD'S RAID, Paul Hamilton Hayne 248

SUMTER'S BAND, J. W. Simmons 250

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN, Unknown 251

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS, Thomas Dunn English 252

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW, William Gilmore Simms 254

EUTAW SPRINGS, Philip Freneau 255

THE DANCE, Unknown 256

CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER, Unknown 256

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS, Unknown 257

NEWS FROM YORKTOWN, Lewis Worthington Smith 257

AN ANCIENT PROPHECY, Philip Freneau 258

CHAPTER XI

_Peace_

ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL, Unknown 259

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE BRITISH FROM CHARLESTON, Philip

Freneau 260

ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH, Philip Freneau 261

ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782, Alfred Tennyson 262

ON DISBANDING THE ARMY, David Humphreys 262

EVACUATION OF NEW YORK BY THE BRITISH, Unknown 262

OCCASIONED BY GENERAL WASHINGTON'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA,

ON HIS WAY TO HIS RESIDENCE IN VIRGINIA, Philip Freneau 263

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER'S HYMN, Unknown 264

THANKSGIVING HYMN, Unknown 264

LAND OF THE WILFUL GOSPEL, Sidney Lanier 265

PART III

THE PERIOD OF GROWTH

"OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE," William Cullen Bryant 268

CHAPTER I

_The New Nation_

A RADICAL SONG OF 1786, St. John Honeywood 269

THE FEDERAL CONVENTION, Unknown 269

TO THE FEDERAL CONVENTION, Timothy Dwight 270

THE NEW ROOF, Francis Hopkinson 270

CONVENTION SONG, Unknown 271

THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION, William Milns 272

THE FIRST AMERICAN CONGRESS, Joel Barlow 273

WASHINGTON, James Jeffrey Roche 274

THE VOW OF WASHINGTON, John Greenleaf Whittier 274

ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Philip Freneau 275

GEORGE WASHINGTON, John Hall Ingham 275

WASHINGTON, Lord Byron 276

ADAMS AND LIBERTY, Robert Treat Paine 276

HAIL COLUMBIA, Joseph Hopkinson 277

YE SONS OF COLUMBIA, Thomas Green Fessenden 278

TRUXTON'S VICTORY, Unknown 279

THE CONSTELLATION AND THE INSURGENTE, Unknown 280

WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT, Unknown 280

HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA, Barrett Eastman 281

REUBEN JAMES, James Jeffrey Roche 282

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE, John Greenleaf Whittier 283

A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON, Charles Timothy Brooks 284

CHAPTER II

_The Second War with England_

THE TIMES, Unknown 285

REPARATION OR WAR, Unknown 286

TERRAPIN WAR, Unknown 286

FAREWELL, PEACE, Unknown 287

COME, YE LADS, WHO WISH TO SHINE, Unknown 287

HULL'S SURRENDER, Unknown 287

THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUERRIÈRE, Unknown 288

HALIFAX STATION, Unknown 289

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIÈRE, Philip Freneau 290

FIRSTFRUITS IN 1812, Wallace Rice 291

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTOWN, William Banker, Jr. 292

THE WASP'S FROLIC, Unknown 293

THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN, Unknown 293

THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN, Unknown 294

JACK CREAMER, James Jeffrey Roche 295

YANKEE THUNDERS, Unknown 296

THE GENERAL ARMSTRONG, Unknown 296

CAPTURE OF LITTLE YORK, Unknown 298

THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE, Laughton Osborn 299

OLD FORT MEIGS, Unknown 300

THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE, Thomas Tracy Bouvé 300

CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON, Unknown 301

DEFEAT AND VICTORY, Wallace Rice 302

ENTERPRISE AND BOXER, Unknown 302

PERRY'S VICTORY, Unknown 303

THE BATTLE OF ERIE, Unknown 303

PERRY'S VICTORY--A SONG, Unknown 305

THE FALL OF TECUMSEH, Unknown 305

THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER, George Houghton 306

THE BATTLE OF VALPARAISO, Unknown 307

THE BATTLE OF BRIDGEWATER, Unknown 308

THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER, Charles L. S. Jones 309

THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON, Philip Freneau 309

THE OCEAN-FIGHT, Unknown 310

THE LOST WAR-SLOOP, Edna Dean Proctor 311

ON THE BRITISH INVASION, Philip Freneau 312

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN, Philip Freneau 312

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY, Clinton Scollard 313

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG, Unknown 314

THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE, Unknown 315

FORT MCHENRY, Unknown 316

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER, Francis Scott Key 317

YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND, Unknown 318

THE BOWER OF PEACE, Robert Southey 318

REID AT FAYAL, John Williamson Palmer 319

THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER, James Jeffrey Roche 319

THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL, Wallace Rice 321

FORT BOWYER, Charles L. S. Jones 323

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS, Thomas Dunn English 323

JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS, Wallace Rice 325

TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS, Joseph Rodman Drake 326

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY, Unknown 326

THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT, James Jeffrey Roche 327

SEA AND LAND VICTORIES, Unknown 328

ODE TO PEACE, Unknown 329

CHAPTER III

_The West_

THE SETTLER, Alfred B. Street 329

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST, William Davis Gallagher 330

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, Philip Freneau 331

JOHN FILSON, William Henry Venable 331

SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT, Unknown 332

JOHNNY APPLESEED, William Henry Venable 334

THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO, William Henry Venable 335

BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND, Thomas Buchanan Read 335

THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM, William Harrison Safford 337

TO AARON BURR, UNDER TRIAL FOR HIGH TREASON, Sarah Wentworth

Morton 338

THE BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE, Unknown 339

THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE, Joseph Hutton 339

SA-CÁ-GA-WE-A, Edna Dean Proctor 340

ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS, Joel Barlow 341

WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON, Hezekiah Butterworth 342

DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY, Richard Edward White 343

JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT, Charles F. Lummis 345

"THE DAYS OF 'FORTY-NINE," Unknown 345

THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL, Richard Burton 346

CALIFORNIA, Lydia Huntley Sigourney 346

CHAPTER IV

_Through Five Administrations_

THEODOSIA BURR, John Williamson Palmer 346

ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY, John G. C.

Brainard 347

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, Fitz-Greene Halleck 348

ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT, John

Pierpont 348

LA FAYETTE, Dolly Madison 349

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON, Hezekiah Butterworth 349

OLD IRONSIDES, Oliver Wendell Holmes 351

CONCORD HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson 351

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 351

OLD TIPPECANOE, Unknown 353

THE DEATH OF HARRISON, Nathaniel Parker Willis 353

CHAPTER V

_The War with Mexico_

THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM, Clinton Scollard 354

BEN MILAM, William H. Wharton 355

THE MEN OF THE ALAMO, James Jeffrey Roche 355

THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO, Joaquin Miller 357

THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO, John Williamson Palmer 357

SONG OF TEXAS, William Henry Cuyler Hosmer 358

TEXAS, John Greenleaf Whittier 358

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS, James Russell Lowell 360

THE GUNS IN THE GRASS, Thomas Frost 361

RIO BRAVO--A MEXICAN LAMENT, Charles Fenno Hoffman 362

TO ARMS, Park Benjamin 363

MONTEREY, Charles Fenno Hoffman 363

VICTOR GALBRAITH, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 364

BUENA VISTA, Albert Pike 364

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA, John Greenleaf Whittier 366

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD, Theodore O'Hara 368

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS, James Russell Lowell 369

BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL, Thomas Dunn English 370

THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC, William Haines Lytle 371

ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO, Grace Greenwood 371

THE CRISIS, John Greenleaf Whittier 372

THE VOLUNTEERS, William Haines Lytle 374

CHAPTER VI

_Fourteen Years of Peace_

THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC, Francis

Lieber 374

THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE, Samuel Lover 375

ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY, William Wilberforce Lord 376

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER,

Walter Savage Landor 376

THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE," Unknown 376

DANIEL WEBSTER, Oliver Wendell Holmes 377

THE FLAG, James Jeffrey Roche 378

KANE, Fitz-James O'Brien 379

HERNDON, S. Weir Mitchell 380

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER, Wallace Rice 380

BARON RENFREW'S BALL, Charles Graham Halpine 382

PART IV

THE CIVIL WAR

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Julia Ward Howe 384

CHAPTER I

_The Slavery Question_

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, John Greenleaf Whittier 385

CLERICAL OPPRESSORS, John Greenleaf Whittier 385

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT, James Russell Lowell 386

ICHABOD, John Greenleaf Whittier 388

THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS, John Pierpont 388

THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS, John Greenleaf Whittier 389

BURIAL OF BARBER, John Greenleaf Whittier 389

THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE, Richard Realf 390

THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT, Unknown 391

LE MARAIS DU CYGNE, John Greenleaf Whittier 392

HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY, Edmund Clarence Stedman 393

THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN, Henry Howard Brownell 395

BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE, John Greenleaf Whittier 396

GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY, Charles Sprague Hall 397

JOHN BROWN, Edna Dean Proctor 397

JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX, Louise Imogen Guiney 397

LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE, Charles Graham Halpine 398

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE, Edwin Markham 399

BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE, Oliver Wendell

Holmes 400

JEFFERSON D., H. S. Cornwell 401

THE OLD COVE, Henry Howard Brownell 401

A SPOOL OF THREAD, Sophie E. Eastman 402

GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT, Francis DeHaes Janvier 403

CHAPTER II

_The Gauntlet_

BOB ANDERSON, MY BEAU, Unknown 403

ON FORT SUMTER, Unknown 403

SUMTER, Edmund Clarence Stedman 404

THE BATTLE OF MORRIS' ISLAND, Unknown 404

SUMTER--A BALLAD OF 1861, Unknown 405

THE FIGHT AT SUMTER, Unknown 407

SUMTER, Henry Howard Brownell 408

THE GREAT BELL ROLAND, Theodore Tilton 408

MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST, Richard Henry Stoddard 409

OUT AND FIGHT, Charles Godfrey Leland 409

NO MORE WORDS, Franklin Lushington 410

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL, William Cullen Bryant 410

DIXIE, Albert Pike 411

A CRY TO ARMS, Henry Timrod 411

"WE CONQUER OR DIE," James Pierpont 412

"CALL ALL," Unknown 412

THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG, Annie Chambers Ketchum 413

I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE, Unknown 413

CHAPTER III

_The North gets its Lesson_

THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, Lucy Larcom 414

THROUGH BALTIMORE, Bayard Taylor 414

MY MARYLAND, James Ryder Randall 415

ELLSWORTH, Unknown 416

COLONEL ELLSWORTH, Richard Henry Stoddard 416

ON THE DEATH OF "JACKSON," Unknown 417

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY, Francis Orrery Ticknor 417

BETHEL, A. J. H. Duganne 417

DIRGE, Thomas William Parsons 419

WAIT FOR THE WAGON, Unknown 419

UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE, George Henry Boker 420

MANASSAS, Catherine M. Warfield 423

A BATTLE BALLAD, Francis Orrery Ticknor 424

THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION, Unknown 425

ON TO RICHMOND, John R. Thompson 426

CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED, Unknown 427

SHOP AND FREEDOM, Unknown 428

THE C. S. A. COMMISSIONERS, Unknown 428

DEATH OF THE LINCOLN DESPOTISM, Unknown 429

JONATHAN TO JOHN, James Russell Lowell 430

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE, Unknown 432

CHAPTER IV

_The Grand Army of the Potomac_

CIVIL WAR, Charles Dawson Shanly 432

THE PICKET-GUARD, Ethel Lynn Beers 433

TARDY GEORGE, Unknown 433

HOW MCCLELLAN TOOK MANASSAS, Unknown 434

WANTED--A MAN, Edmund Clarence Stedman 435

THE GALLANT FIGHTING "JOE," James Stevenson 436

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES, Edmund Clarence Stedman 437

THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ, John R. Thompson 437

THE CHARGE BY THE FORD, Thomas Dunn English 438

DIRGE FOR ASHBY, Margaret Junkin Preston 439

MALVERN HILL, Herman Melville 439

A MESSAGE, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 440

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE, James Sloan Gibbons 440

CEDAR MOUNTAIN, Annie Fields 441

"OUR LEFT," Francis Orrery Ticknor 441

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, George Henry Boker 442

THE REVEILLE, Bret Harte 442

BEYOND THE POTOMAC, Paul Hamilton Hayne 443

BARBARA FRIETCHIE, John Greenleaf Whittier 444

MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND, George Parsons Lathrop 445

THE VICTOR OF ANTIETAM, Herman Melville 445

THE CROSSING AT FREDERICKSBURG, George Henry Boker 446

AT FREDERICKSBURG, John Boyle O'Reilly 447

FREDERICKSBURG, Thomas Bailey Aldrich 449

BY THE POTOMAC, Thomas Bailey Aldrich 449

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD, James Russell Lowell 450

CHAPTER V

_The War in the West_

THE LITTLE DRUMMER, Richard Henry Stoddard 451

THE DEATH OF LYON, Henry Peterson 453

ZAGONYI, George Henry Boker 453

BATTLE OF SOMERSET, Cornelius C. Cullen 454

ZOLLICOFFER, Henry Lynden Flash 454

BOY BRITTAN, Forceythe Willson 455

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Kate Brownlee Sherwood 456

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Francis Orrery Ticknor 457

BEAUREGARD, Mrs. C. A. Warfield 457

THE EAGLE OF CORINTH, Henry Howard Brownell 458

THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO, Kinahan Cornwallis 459

LITTLE GIFFEN, Francis Orrery Ticknor 460

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862, John Greenleaf Whittier 460

CHAPTER VI

_The Coast and the River_

AT PORT ROYAL, John Greenleaf Whittier 461

READY, Phoebe Cary 461

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT, Clinton Scollard 462

THE TURTLE, Unknown 462

THE ATTACK, Thomas Buchanan Read 463

THE CUMBERLAND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 464

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, George Henry Boker 464

THE CUMBERLAND, Herman Melville 466

HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN, S. Weir Mitchell 466

THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR, George Henry Boker 467

THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK, Lucy Larcom 468

THE RIVER FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell 468

THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS, George Henry Boker 472

THE VARUNA, George Henry Boker 474

THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS, Marion Manville 475

MUMFORD, Ina M. Porter 476

BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION, Paul Hamilton Hayne 476

CHAPTER VII

_Emancipation_

TO JOHN C. FRÉMONT, John Greenleaf Whittier 477

ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL, John Greenleaf Whittier 478

BOSTON HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson 478

THE PROCLAMATION, John Greenleaf Whittier 480

TREASON'S LAST DEVICE, Edmund Clarence Stedman 480

LAUS DEO, John Greenleaf Whittier 481

CHAPTER VIII

_The "Grand Army's" Second Campaign_

MOSBY AT HAMILTON, Madison Cawein 482

JOHN PELHAM, James Ryder Randall 482

HOOKER'S ACROSS, George Henry Boker 483

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY, John Williamson Palmer 483

KEENAN'S CHARGE, George Parsons Lathrop 484

"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR," Unknown 485

STONEWALL JACKSON, Henry Lynden Flash 486

THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON, Sidney Lanier 486

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES, Margaret Junkin Preston 486

THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY, Unknown 487

RIDING WITH KILPATRICK, Clinton Scollard 488

GETTYSBURG, Edmund Clarence Stedman 489

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG, Will Henry Thompson 491

GETTYSBURG, James Jeffrey Roche 492

THE BATTLE-FIELD, Lloyd Mifflin 492

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG, Bret Harte 493

KENTUCKY BELLE, Constance Fenimore Woolson 494

THE DRAFT RIOT, Charles de Kay 496

LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG, Bayard Taylor 497

CHAPTER IX

_With Grant on the Mississippi_

RUNNING THE BATTERIES, Herman Melville 498

BEFORE VICKSBURG, George Henry Boker 499

VICKSBURG, Paul Hamilton Hayne 499

THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM, George Frederick Root 500

THE BLACK REGIMENT, George Henry Boker 500

THE BALLAD OF CHICKAMAUGA, Maurice Thompson 501

THOMAS AT CHICKAMAUGA, Kate Brownlee Sherwood 502

GARFIELD'S RIDE AT CHICKAMAUGA, Hezekiah Butterworth 503

THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN, George Henry Boker 505

THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS, William Dean Howells 506

CHARLESTON, Henry Timrod 507

THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR, Paul Hamilton Hayne 507

BURY THEM, Henry Howard Brownell 508

TWILIGHT ON SUMTER, Richard Henry Stoddard 509

CHAPTER X

_The Final Struggle_

PUT IT THROUGH, Edward Everett Hale 509

LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK, Hamlin Garland 510

A DIRGE FOR MCPHERSON, Herman Melville 511

WITH CORSE AT ALLATOONA, Samuel H. M. Byers 511

ALLATOONA, Unknown 512

SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA, Samuel H. M. Byers 512

THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY, Charles Graham Halpine 513

MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA, Henry Clay Work 513

ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS, Walt Whitman 514

SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH, Oliver Wendell Holmes 514

SAVANNAH, Alethea S. Burroughs 514

CAROLINA, Henry Timrod 515

CHARLESTON, Paul Hamilton Hayne 515

ROMANCE, William Ernest Henley 516

THE FOE AT THE GATES, John Dickson Bruns 516

ULRIC DAHLGREN, Kate Brownlee Sherwood 517

LEE TO THE REAR, John Randolph Thompson 518

CAN'T, Harriet Prescott Spofford 519

OBSEQUIES OF STUART, John Randolph Thompson 519

A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH, Edith M. Thomas 520

SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK, Herman Melville 521

SHERIDAN'S RIDE, Thomas Buchanan Read 521

THE YEAR OF JUBILEE, Henry Clay Work 522

VIRGINIA CAPTA, Margaret Junkin Preston 523

THE FALL OF RICHMOND, Herman Melville 523

THE SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX, Herman Melville 524

LEE'S PAROLE, Marion Manville 524

ROBERT E. LEE, Julia Ward Howe 524

CHAPTER XI

_Winslow and Farragut_

THE EAGLE AND VULTURE, Thomas Buchanan Read 525

KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA, Unknown 526

KEARSARGE, S. Weir Mitchell 526

THE ALABAMA, Maurice Bell 527

CRAVEN, Henry Newbolt 527

FARRAGUT, William Tuckey Meredith 528

THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY, Unknown 529

THE BAY FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell 530

"ALBEMARLE" CUSHING, James Jeffrey Roche 535

AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH, Herman Melville 537

CHAPTER XII

_The Martyr President_

LINCOLN, S. Weir Mitchell 537

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! Walt Whitman 537

THE DEAD PRESIDENT, Edward Rowland Sill 538

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Edmund Clarence Stedman 538

PARDON, Julia Ward Howe 539

THE DEAR PRESIDENT, John James Piatt 539

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, William Cullen Bryant 540

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Richard Henry Stoddard 540

PARRICIDE, Julia Ward Howe 542

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Tom Taylor 543

CHAPTER XIII

_Peace_

"STACK ARMS," Joseph Blynth Alston 545

JEFFERSON DAVIS, Walker Meriwether Bell 545

IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING, Daniel B. Lucas 546

ACCEPTATION, Margaret Junkin Preston 547

THE CONQUERED BANNER, Abram J. Ryan 547

PEACE, Adeline D. T. Whitney 547

PEACE, Phoebe Cary 548

A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY, Bret Harte 548

WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME, Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore 549

DRIVING HOME THE COWS, Kate Putnam Osgood 550

ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION, James Russell

Lowell 550

PART V

THE PERIOD OF EXPANSION

THE EAGLE'S SONG, Richard Mansfield 558

CHAPTER I

_Reconstruction and After_

TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS, John Greenleaf Whittier 559

"MR. JOHNSON'S POLICY OF RECONSTRUCTION," Charles Graham

Halpine 559

THADDEUS STEVENS, Phoebe Cary 560

SOUTH CAROLINA TO THE STATES OF THE NORTH, Paul Hamilton

Hayne 561

KU-KLUX, Madison Cawein 562

THE REAR GUARD, Irene Fowler Brown 562

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, Francis Miles Finch 563

THE STRICKEN SOUTH TO THE NORTH, Paul Hamilton Hayne 564

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE, John Godfrey Saxe 565

THE CABLE HYMN, John Greenleaf Whittier 565

AN ARCTIC VISION, Bret Harte 566

ALASKA, Joaquin Miller 567

ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD, Edmund Clarence Stedman 567

CHICAGO, John Greenleaf Whittier 568

CHICAGO, Bret Harte 569

CHICAGO, John Boyle O'Reilly 569

BOSTON, John Boyle O'Reilly 570

THE CHURCH OF THE REVOLUTION, Hezekiah Butterworth 570

AFTER THE FIRE, Oliver Wendell Holmes 571

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES, John Boyle O'Reilly 571

CHAPTER II

_The Year of a Hundred Years_

OUR FIRST CENTURY, George Edward Woodberry 572

CENTENNIAL HYMN, John Greenleaf Whittier 573

THE CENTENNIAL MEDITATION OF COLUMBIA, Sidney Lanier 573

CENTENNIAL HYMN, William Cullen Bryant 574

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, Oliver Wendell Holmes 574

THE NATIONAL ODE, Bayard Taylor 575

OUR NATIONAL BANNER, Dexter Smith 578

AFTER THE CENTENNIAL, Christopher Pearse Cranch 578

CHAPTER III

_The Conquest of the Plains_

THE PACIFIC RAILWAY, C. R. Ballard 579

AFTER THE COMANCHES, Unknown 579

DOWN THE LITTLE BIG HORN, Francis Brooks 580

LITTLE BIG HORN, Ernest McGaffey 581

CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE, Frederick Whittaker 582

CUSTER, Edmund Clarence Stedman 583

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 583

MILES KEOGH'S HORSE, John Hay 584

ON THE BIG HORN, John Greenleaf Whittier 585

THE "GREY HORSE TROOP," Robert W. Chambers 585

GERONIMO, Ernest McGaffey 586

THE LAST RESERVATION, Walter Learned 586

INDIAN NAMES, Lydia Huntley Sigourney 587

CHAPTER IV

_The Second Assassination_

REJOICE, Joaquin Miller 587

THE BELLS AT MIDNIGHT, Thomas Bailey Aldrich 588

J. A. G., Julia Ward Howe 589

MIDNIGHT--SEPTEMBER 19, 1881, John Boyle O'Reilly 589

AT THE PRESIDENT'S GRAVE, Richard Watson Gilder 590

ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD, Oliver Wendell Holmes 590

PRESIDENT GARFIELD, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 591

YORKTOWN CENTENNIAL LYRIC, Paul Hamilton Hayne 592

THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE, Edna Dean Proctor 593

BROOKLYN BRIDGE, Charles George Douglas Roberts 593

CHARLESTON, Richard Watson Gilder 594

MAYFLOWER, John Boyle O'Reilly 594

FAIREST OF FREEDOM'S DAUGHTERS, Jeremiah Eames Rankin 594

LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD, Edmund Clarence Stedman 595

THE BARTHOLDI STATUE, John Greenleaf Whittier 595

ADDITIONAL VERSES TO HAIL COLUMBIA, Oliver Wendell Holmes 596

NEW NATIONAL HYMN, Francis Marion Crawford 596

IN APIA BAY, Charles George Douglas Roberts 597

AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE, Caroline T. Duer 598

BY THE CONEMAUGH, Florence Earle Coates 599

THE MAN WHO RODE TO CONEMAUGH, John Eliot Bowen 599

A BALLAD OF THE CONEMAUGH FLOOD, Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley 600

CONEMAUGH, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward 601

"THE WHITE CITY," Richard Watson Gilder 602

THE KEARSARGE, James Jeffrey Roche 602

TENNESSEE, Virginia Fraser Boyle 603

AN ODE ON THE UNVEILING OF THE SHAW MEMORIAL, Thomas Bailey

Aldrich 603

THE KLONDIKE, Edwin Arlington Robinson 604

CHAPTER V

_The War with Spain_

APOSTROPHE TO THE ISLAND OF CUBA, James Gates Percival 606

THE GALLANT FIFTY-ONE, Henry Lynden Flash 606

CUBA, Edmund Clarence Stedman 607

THE GOSPEL OF PEACE, James Jeffrey Roche 607

CUBA, Harvey Rice 608

CUBA TO COLUMBIA, Will Carleton 608

CUBA LIBRE, Joaquin Miller 609

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS, Joseph B. Gilder 609

THE MEN OF THE MAINE, Clinton Scollard 609

THE WORD OF THE LORD FROM HAVANA, Richard Hovey 610

HALF-MAST, Lloyd Mifflin 611

THE FIGHTING RACE, Joseph I. C. Clarke 611

ON THE EVE OF WAR, Danske Dandridge 612

TO SPAIN--A LAST WORD, Edith M. Thomas 612

THE MARTYRS OF THE MAINE, Rupert Hughes 612

EL EMPLAZADO, William Henry Venable 613

BATTLE SONG, Robert Burns Wilson 613

GREETING FROM ENGLAND, Unknown 614

BATTLE CRY, William Henry Venable 614

JUST ONE SIGNAL, Unknown 614

DEWEY AT MANILA, Robert Underwood Johnson 615

DEWEY AND HIS MEN, Wallace Rice 617

"OFF MANILLY," Edmund Vance Cooke 618

MANILA BAY, Arthur Hale 618

A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY, Charles George Douglas Roberts 618

THE BATTLE OF MANILA, Richard Hovey 619

DEWEY IN MANILA BAY, R. V. Risley 620

"MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN," Madison Cawein 620

THE SPIRIT OF THE MAINE, Tudor Jenks 621

THE DRAGON OF THE SEAS, Thomas Nelson Page 621

THE SAILING OF THE FLEET, Unknown 622

"CUT THE CABLES," Robert Burns Wilson 622

THE RACE OF THE OREGON, John James Meehan 624

BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON, Wallace Rice 624

STRIKE THE BLOW, Unknown 625

EIGHT VOLUNTEERS, Lansing C. Bailey 626

THE MEN OF THE MERRIMAC, Clinton Scollard 626

THE VICTORY-WRECK, Will Carleton 627

HOBSON AND HIS MEN, Robert Loveman 627

THE CALL TO THE COLORS, Arthur Guiterman 627

ESSEX REGIMENT MARCH, George Edward Woodberry 628

THE GATHERING, Herbert B. Swett 629

COMRADES, Henry R. Dorr 629

WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO, Wallace Rice 629

DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO, Clinton Scollard 630

THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO, William Hamilton Hayne 630

PRIVATE BLAIR OF THE REGULARS, Clinton Scollard 631

WHEELER AT SANTIAGO, James Lindsay Gordon 631

SPAIN'S LAST ARMADA, Wallace Rice 632

SANTIAGO, Thomas A. Janvier 633

THE FLEET AT SANTIAGO, Charles E. Russell 634

THE DESTROYER OF DESTROYERS, Wallace Rice 635

THE BROOKLYN AT SANTIAGO, Wallace Rice 636

THE RUSH OF THE OREGON, Arthur Guiterman 637

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS, John Jerome Rooney 637

CERVERA, Bertrand Shadwell 638

MCILRATH OF MALATE, John Jerome Rooney 639

WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN, Guy Wetmore Carryl 640

FULL CYCLE, John White Chadwick 640

BREATH ON THE OAT, Joseph Russell Taylor 641

THE ISLANDS OF THE SEA, George Edward Woodberry 641

BALLADE OF EXPANSION, Hilda Johnson 642

"REBELS," Ernest Crosby 643

ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES, William Vaughn Moody 643

THE BALLAD OF PACO TOWN, Clinton Scollard 644

THE DEED OF LIEUTENANT MILES, Clinton Scollard 644

AGUINALDO, Bertrand Shadwell 645

THE FIGHT AT DAJO, Alfred E. Wood 645

AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION, William Vaughn Moody 646

CHAPTER VI

_The New Century_

A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND, Robert Bridges 649

BUFFALO, Florence Earle Coates 649

MCKINLEY, Unknown 649

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, Richard Handfield Titherington 650

THE COMFORT OF THE TREES, Richard Watson Gilder 650

OUTWARD BOUND, Edward Sydney Tylee 650

PANAMA, James Jeffrey Roche 651

DARIEN, Edwin Arnold 651

PANAMA, Amanda T. Jones 652

A SONG OF PANAMA, Alfred Damon Runyon 652

HYMN OF THE WEST, Edmund Clarence Stedman 653

BRITANNIA TO COLUMBIA, Alfred Austin 654

THOSE REBEL FLAGS, John H. Jewett 654

THE SONG OF THE FLAGS, S. Weir Mitchell 655

ARIZONA, Sharlot M. Hall 655

SAN FRANCISCO, Joaquin Miller 657

SAN FRANCISCO, John Vance Cheney 657

TO SAN FRANCISCO, S. J. Alexander 657

RESURGE SAN FRANCISCO, Joaquin Miller 658

GROVER CLEVELAND, Joel Benton 658

UNGUARDED GATES, Thomas Bailey Aldrich 659

NATIONAL SONG, William Henry Venable 659

AD PATRIAM, Clinton Scollard 660

O LAND BELOVED, George Edward Woodberry 660

THE REPUBLIC, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 660

CHAPTER VII

_The World War_

SONNETS WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914, George Edward Woodberry 661

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT, Vachel Lindsay 661

THE "WILLIAM P. FRYE," Jeanne Robert Foster 662

THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED, Joyce Kilmer 663

MARE LIBERUM, Henry van Dyke 664

ODE IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS FALLEN FOR FRANCE,

Alan Seeger 664

REPUBLIC TO REPUBLIC, Witter Bynner 666

TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Robert Bridges 666

THE CAPTIVE SHIPS AT MANILA, Dorothy Paul 666

THE ROAD TO FRANCE, Daniel Henderson 667

PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE, Amelia Josephine Burr 667

YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD, Randall Parrish 668

A CALL TO ARMS, Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 668

THE FIRST THREE, Clinton Scollard 669

TO AMERICA, ON HER FIRST SONS FALLEN IN THE GREAT WAR, E. M.

Walker 670

ROUGE BOUQUET, Joyce Kilmer 670

MARCHING SONG, Dana Burnet 671

OUR MODEST DOUGHBOYS, Charlton Andrews 671

SEICHEPREY 672

A BALLAD OF REDHEAD'S DAY, Richard Butler Glaenzer 672

VICTORY BELLS, Grace Hazard Conkling 673

EPICEDIUM, J. Corson Miller 673

THE DEAD, David Morton 674

THE UNRETURNING, Clinton Scollard 674

THE STAR, Marion Couthouy Smith 674

BREST LEFT BEHIND, John Chipman Farrar 674

TO THE RETURNING BRAVE, Robert Underwood Johnson 675

THE RETURN, Eleanor Rogers Cox 676

KING OF THE BELGIANS, Marion Couthouy Smith 676

THE FAMILY OF NATIONS, Willard Wattles 677

THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS, Mary Siegrist 677

BEYOND WARS, David Morton 678

"WHEN THERE IS PEACE," Austin Dobson 678

AFTER THE WAR, Richard Le Gallienne 678

NOTES 681

INDEX OF AUTHORS 699

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 705

INDEX OF TITLES 713

PART I

THE COLONIAL PERIOD

AMERICA

Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore,

How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore;

How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine,

They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine?

Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive,

Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave,

And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil,

While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil.

And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd,

That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud,

How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reign

Ere came with Columbus those galleys of Spain?

'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,--

By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,--

Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide,

Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride.

Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West,

Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest;

Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe--with his ring,

To wed sweet Matoäka, child of a king.

Undaunted they came, every peril to dare,

Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair;

Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay;

Of their terror by night and their arrow by day.

And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles,

Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals,

Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest,

Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West.

The clime that from ocean to ocean expands,

The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands,

The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain,

Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain.

And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned,

'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned,

'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran;

They held--to be free is the birthright of man.

So oft the old lion, majestic of mane,

Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign;

Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye,

He gave them the spirit his own to defy.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

POEMS OF AMERICAN HISTORY

CHAPTER I

THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA

Bjarni, son of Herjulf, speeding westward from Iceland in 986,

to spend the Yuletide in Greenland with his father, encountered

foggy weather and steered by guesswork for many days. At last

he sighted land, but a land covered with dense woods,--not

at all the land of fiords and glaciers he was seeking. So,

without stopping, he turned his prow to the north, and ten days

later was telling his story to the listening circle before the

blazing logs in his father's house at Brattahlid. The tale

came, in time, to the ears of Leif, the famous son of Red Eric,

and in the year 1000 he set out from Greenland, with a crew of

thirty-five, in search of the strange land to the south. He

reached the barren coast of Labrador and named it Helluland, or

"slate-land;" south of it was a coast so densely wooded that

he named it Markland, or "woodland." At last he ran his ship

ashore at a spot where "a river, issuing from a lake, fell

into the sea." Wild grapes abounded, and he named the country

Vinland.

THE STORY OF VINLAND[1]

From "Psalm of the West"

Far spread, below,

The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flow

All secrets of Atlantis' drownèd woe

Lay bound about with night on every hand,

Save down the eastern brink a shining band

Of day made out a little way from land.

Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:

_Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh why

Dost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?_

But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,

And never a wave doth good for man, or ill,

And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;

And like as grim-beaked pelicans level file

Across the sunset toward their nightly isle

On solemn wings that wave but seldom while,

So leanly sails the day behind the day

To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,

And down its mortal fissures sinks away.

Master, Master, break this ban:

The wave lacks Thee.

Oh, is it not to widen man

Stretches the sea?

Oh, must the sea-bird's idle van

Alone be free?

Into the Sea of the Dark doth creep

Björne's pallid sail,

As the face of a walker in his sleep,

Set rigid and most pale,

About the night doth peer and peep

In a dream of an ancient tale.

Lo, here is made a hasty cry:

_Land, land, upon the west!--

God save such land! Go by, go by:

Here may no mortal rest,

Where this waste hell of slate doth lie

And grind the glacier's breast._

The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!

Round eastward slanteth the mast;

As the sleep-walker waked with pain,

White-clothed in the midnight blast,

Doth stare and quake, and stride again

To houseward all aghast.

Yet as--_A ghost!_ his household cry:

_He hath followed a ghost in flight.

Let us see the ghost_--his household fly

With lamps to search the night--

So Norsemen's sails run out and try

The Sea of the Dark with light.

Stout Are Marson, southward whirled

From out the tempest's hand,

Doth skip the sloping of the world

To Huitramannaland,

Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curled

Wave by the shining strand,

And sway in sighs from Florida's Spring

Or Carolina's Palm--

What time the mocking-bird doth bring

The woods his artist's-balm,

Singing the Song of Everything

Consummate-sweet and calm--

Land of large merciful-hearted skies,

Big bounties, rich increase,

Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,

For o'er-beat brains surcease,

For Love the dear woods' sympathies,

For Grief the wise woods' peace.

For Need rich givings of hid powers

In hills and vales quick-won,

For Greed large exemplary flowers

That ne'er have toiled nor spun,

For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,

For Cold the neighbor sun.

* * * * *

Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,

To the South of the West doth flee--

Past slaty Helluland is sped,

Past Markland's woody lea,

Till round about fair Vinland's head,

Where Taunton helps the sea,

The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,

The mariners hurry a-strand:

They wassail with fore-drunken skals

Where prophet wild grapes stand;

They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls,

They stride about the land--

New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wine

As blood doth stretch each vein,

And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,

Through peril and all pain

To grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,

And, once ahold, remain--

Land where the strenuous-handed Wind

With sarcasm of a friend

Doth smite the man would lag behind

To frontward of his end;

Yea, where the taunting fall and grind

Of Nature's Ill doth send

Such mortal challenge of a clown

Rude-thrust upon the soul,

That men but smile where mountains frown

Or scowling waters roll,

And Nature's front of battle down

Do hurl from pole to pole.

Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers low

With sails from Northland flickering to and fro--

Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,

Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bed

Slain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,

Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,

Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,

Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,

And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;

And leanly sails the day behind the day

To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,

And down its mortal fissures sinks away,

As when the grim-beaked pelicans level file

Across the sunset to their seaward isle

On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.

SIDNEY LANIER.

[1] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.

Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Leif and his crew spent the winter in Vinland, and in the

following spring took back to Greenland news of the pleasant

country they had discovered. Other voyages followed, but the

newcomers became embroiled with the natives, who attacked

them in such numbers that all projects of colonization were

abandoned; and finally, in 1012, the Norsemen sailed away

forever from this land of promise.

THE NORSEMEN

[On a fragment of statue found at Bradford.]

Gift from the cold and silent Past!

A relic to the present cast;

Left on the ever-changing strand

Of shifting and unstable sand,

Which wastes beneath the steady chime

And beating of the waves of Time!

Who from its bed of primal rock

First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?

Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,

Thy rude and savage outline wrought?

The waters of my native stream

Are glancing in the sun's warm beam;

From sail-urged keel and flashing oar

The circles widen to its shore;

And cultured field and peopled town

Slope to its willowed margin down.

Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing

The home-life sound of school-bells ringing,

And rolling wheel, and rapid jar

Of the fire-winged and steedless car,

And voices from the wayside near

Come quick and blended on my ear,--

A spell is in this old gray stone,

My thoughts are with the Past alone!

A change!--The steepled town no more

Stretches along the sail-thronged shore;

Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,

Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:

Spectrally rising where they stood,

I see the old, primeval wood;

Dark, shadow-like, on either hand

I see its solemn waste expand;

It climbs the green and cultured hill,

It arches o'er the valley's rill,

And leans from cliff and crag to throw

Its wild arms o'er the stream below.

Unchanged, alone, the same bright river

Flows on, as it will flow forever!

I listen, and I hear the low

Soft ripple where its waters go;

I hear behind the panther's cry,

The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,

And shyly on the river's brink

The deer is stooping down to drink.

But hark!--from wood and rock flung back,

What sound comes up the Merrimac?

What sea-worn barks are those which throw

The light spray from each rushing prow?

Have they not in the North Sea's blast

Bowed to the waves the straining mast?

Their frozen sails the low, pale sun

Of Thulë's night has shone upon;

Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep

Round icy drift, and headland steep.

Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters

Have watched them fading o'er the waters,

Lessening through driving mist and spray,

Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!

Onward they glide,--and now I view

Their iron-armed and stalwart crew;

Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,

Turned to green earth and summer sky.

Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside

Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide;

Bared to the sun and soft warm air,

Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.

I see the gleam of axe and spear,

A sound of smitten shields I hear,

Keeping a harsh and fitting time

To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;

Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,

His gray and naked isles among;

Or muttered low at midnight hour

Round Odin's mossy stone of power.

The wolf beneath the Arctic moon

Has answered to that startling rune;

The Gael has heard its stormy swell,

The light Frank knows its summons well;

Iona's sable-stoled Culdee

Has heard it sounding o'er the sea,

And swept, with hoary beard and hair,

His altar's foot in trembling prayer!

'Tis past,--the 'wildering vision dies

In darkness on my dreaming eyes!

The forest vanishes in air,

Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;

I hear the common tread of men,

And hum of work-day life again;

The mystic relic seems alone

A broken mass of common stone;

And if it be the chiselled limb

Of Berserker or idol grim,

A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,

The stormy Viking's god of War,

Or Praga of the Runic lay,

Or love-awakening Siona,

I know not,--for no graven line,

Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,

Is left me here, by which to trace

Its name, or origin, or place.

Yet, for this vision of the Past,

This glance upon its darkness cast,

My spirit bows in gratitude

Before the Giver of all good,

Who fashioned so the human mind,

That, from the waste of Time behind,

A simple stone, or mound of earth,

Can summon the departed forth;

Quicken the Past to life again,

The Present lose in what hath been,

And in their primal freshness show

The buried forms of long ago.

As if a portion of that Thought

By which the Eternal will is wrought,

Whose impulse fills anew with breath

The frozen solitude of Death,

To mortal mind were sometimes lent,

To mortal musings sometimes sent,

To whisper--even when it seems

But Memory's fantasy of dreams--

Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,

Of an immortal origin!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

This, in mere outline, is the story of Vinland, as told in the

Icelandic Chronicle. Of its substantial accuracy there can be

little doubt. Many proofs of Norse occupation have been found

on the shores of Massachusetts Bay. The "skeleton in armor,"

however, which was unearthed in 1835 near Fall River, Mass.,

was probably that of an Indian.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

But with thy fleshless palms

Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seemed to rise,

As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow

Under December's snow,

Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

Take heed, that in thy verse

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man's curse;

For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,

By the wild Baltic's strand,

I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the gerfalcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf's bark,

Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,

Joining a corsair's crew,

O'er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led;

Many the souls that sped,

Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long winter out;

Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk's tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning yet tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast,

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall

Shields gleamed upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,

Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,

Loud then the champion laughed,

And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,

Out of those lips unshorn,

From the deep drinking-horn

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew's flight,

Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,

Bearing the maid with me,

Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen!

When on the white sea-strand,

Waving his armèd hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast,

Bent like a reed each mast,

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;

And with a sudden flaw

Came round the gusty Skaw,

So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale

Round veered the flapping sail,

'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,

'Death without quarter!'

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel!

Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden.--

So toward the open main,

Beating to sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o'er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;

There for my lady's bower

Built I the lofty tower,

Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.

"There lived we many years;

Time dried the maiden's tears;

She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;

Death closed her mild blue eyes,

Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,

Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!

In the vast forest here,

Clad in my warlike gear,

Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,

Bursting these prison bars,

Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

_Skoal!_ to the Northland! _skoal!_"

Thus the tale ended.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The centuries passed, and no more of the white-skinned race

came to the New World. But a new era was at hand; the day drew

near when a little fleet was to put out from Spain and turn its

prows westward on the grandest voyage the world has ever known.

PROPHECY

From "Il Morgante Maggiore"

1485

His bark

The daring mariner shall urge far o'er

The Western wave, a smooth and level plain.

Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.

Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,

And Hercules might blush to learn how far

Beyond the limits he had vainly set

The dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.

Man shall descry another hemisphere,

Since to one common centre all things tend.

So earth, by curious mystery divine

Well balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.

At our antipodes are cities, states,

And throngèd empires, ne'er divined of yore.

But see, the sun speeds on his western path

To glad the nations with expected light.

LUIGI PULCI.

About 1436 a son was born to Dominico Colombo, wool-comber, of

Genoa, and in due time christened Cristoforo. Of his boyhood

little is known save that he early went to sea. About 1470

he followed his brother Bartholomew to Lisbon, and in 1474

he was given a map by Toscanelli, the Florentine astronomer,

showing Japan and the Indies directly west of Portugal,

together with a long letter in which Toscanelli explained his

reasons for believing that by sailing west one could reach the

East. Columbus, studying the problem month by month, became

convinced of the feasibility of such a route to the Indies, and

determined himself to traverse it.

THE INSPIRATION

From "The West Indies"

Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd;

Light came from heaven,--the magnet was reveal'd,

A surer star to guide the seaman's eye

Than the pale glory of the northern sky;

Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day,

Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray;

Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll,

Still with strong impulse turning to the pole,

True as the sun is to the morning true,

Though light as film, and trembling as the dew.

Then man no longer plied with timid oar,

And failing heart, along the windward shore;

Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail,

Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale,

Bared to the storm his adamantine breast,

Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest;

While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep,

His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep;

From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam,

The waves his heritage, the world his home.

Then first Columbus, with the mighty hand

Of grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land;

The floods o'erbalanced:--where the tide of light,

Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night,

There seem'd one waste of waters:--long in vain

His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main;

When sudden, as creation burst from nought,

Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought,

Light, order, beauty!--While his mind explored

The unveiling mystery, his heart adored;

Where'er sublime imagination trod,

He heard the voice, he saw the face of God.

Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye,

O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky:

In calm magnificence the sun declined,

And left a paradise of clouds behind:

Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold,

The billows in a sea of glory roll'd.

"--Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail,

Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veil

That hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies,

Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!"

Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone;

Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone,

The eye of evening, brightening through the west

Till the sweet moment when it shut to rest:

"Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled?

Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed;

Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawn

Pursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn;

Thy beauty noon and midnight never see,

The morn and eve divide the year with thee."

Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bow

Crested the furthest wave, then sunk below:

"Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night,

Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight,

What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn,

What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?"

Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all serene

The starry firmament alone was seen;

Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the host

Of midnight suns in western darkness lost,

Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne,

Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the morn

Danced on the mountains:--"Lights of heaven!" he cried,

"Lead on;--I go to win a glorious bride;

Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way,

Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey:

Hope swells my sail;--in spirit I behold

That maiden-world, twin-sister of the old,

By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea,

Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me."

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

In 1484 Columbus laid his plan before King John II, of

Portugal, but became so disgusted with his treachery and

double-dealing, that he left Portugal and entered the service

of Ferdinand and Isabella. The Spanish monarchs listened to him

with attention, and ordered that the greatest astronomers and

cosmographers of the kingdom should assemble at Salamanca and

pass upon the feasibility of the project.

COLUMBUS

[January, 1487]

St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud

In learning's pomp that day,

For there a robed and stately crowd

Pressed on in long array.

A mariner with simple chart

Confronts that conclave high,

While strong ambition stirs his heart,

And burning thoughts of wonder part

From lip and sparkling eye.

What hath he said? With frowning face,

In whispered tones they speak,

And lines upon their tablets trace,

Which flush each ashen cheek;

The Inquisition's mystic doom

Sits on their brows severe,

And bursting forth in visioned gloom,

Sad heresy from burning tomb

Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time

Thy splendid dream shall crown;

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,

Where unshorn forests frown,

The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,

The Indian hunter's bow,

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,

And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou

To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!

In Fate's unfolding scroll,

Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,

That rack the noble soul.

On! on! Creation's secrets probe,

Then drink thy cup of scorn,

And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,

Sleep like that master of the globe,

All glorious,--yet forlorn.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

The council convened at Salamanca and examined Columbus; but

it presented to him an almost impenetrable wall of bigotry and

prejudice. Long delays and adjournments followed; and for three

years the suppliant was put off with excuses and evasions.

At last, worn out with waiting and anxiety, he appealed to

Ferdinand to give him a definite answer.

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND

[January, 1491]

Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,

Too long I wait permission to depart;

Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear--

Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.

While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,

Grant his request to pass the western main:

Reserve this glory for thy native soil,

And what must please thee more--for thy own reign.

Of this huge globe, how small a part we know--

Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?--

How disproportion'd to the mighty deep

The lands that yet in human prospect lie!

Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,

Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,

And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,

The natives dancing on the lightsome green?--

Should the vast circuit of the world contain

Such wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?--

'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,

I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.

Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round

To light the waves and monsters of the seas?--

No--be there must beyond the billowy waste

Islands, and men, and animals, and trees.

An unremitting flame my breast inspires

To seek new lands amidst the barren waves,

Where falling low, the source of day descends,

And the blue sea his evening visage laves.

Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:

"_The time shall come, when numerous years are past,

The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things,

And an extended region rise at last;_

"_And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land

Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;

Nor shall the world's remotest region be

Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore._"

Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,

Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail;

He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;

Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,

Though far from land the reeling galley stray,

And skies above and gulphy seas below

Be the sole objects seen for many a day.

Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain

The mystic magnet to the mortal eye:

So late have we the guiding needle plann'd

Only to sail beneath our native sky?

Ere this was found, the ruling power of all

Found for our use an ocean in the land,

Its breadth so small we could not wander long,

Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand.

Short was the course, and guided by the stars,

But stars no more shall point our daring way;

The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,

And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,

When southward we shall steer--O grant my wish,

Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,

He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,

Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Early in 1491 the council of Salamanca reported that the

proposed enterprise was vain and impossible of execution, and

Ferdinand accepted the decision. Indignant at thought of the

years he had wasted, Columbus started for Paris, to lay his

plan before the King of France. He was accompanied by his son,

Diego, and stopped one night at the convent of La Rabida, near

Palos, to ask for food and shelter. The prior, Juan Perez de

Marchena, became interested in his project, detained him, and

finally secured for him another audience of Isabella.

COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT

[July, 1491]

Dreary and brown the night comes down,

Gloomy, without a star.

On Palos town the night comes down;

The day departs with a stormy frown;

The sad sea moans afar.

A convent-gate is near; 'tis late;

Ting-ling! the bell they ring.

They ring the bell, they ask for bread--

"Just for my child," the father said.

Kind hands the bread will bring.

White was his hair, his mien was fair,

His look was calm and great.

The porter ran and called a friar;

The friar made haste and told the prior;

The prior came to the gate.

He took them in, he gave them food;

The traveller's dreams he heard;

And fast the midnight moments flew,

And fast the good man's wonder grew,

And all his heart was stirred.

The child the while, with soft, sweet smile

Forgetful of all sorrow,

Lay soundly sleeping in his bed.

The good man kissed him then, and said:

"You leave us not to-morrow!

"I pray you rest the convent's guest;

The child shall be our own--

A precious care, while you prepare

Your business with the court, and bear

Your message to the throne."

And so his guest he comforted.

O wise, good prior! to you,

Who cheered the stranger's darkest days,

And helped him on his way, what praise

And gratitude are due!

JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.

Isabella and Ferdinand were with their army before Granada,

and received Columbus well; but his demands for emoluments and

honors in the event of success were pronounced absurd; the

negotiations were broken off, and again Columbus started for

France. The few converts to his theories were in despair, and

one of them, Luis de Santangel, receiver of the ecclesiastical

revenues of Aragon, obtained an audience of the Queen, and

enkindled her patriotic spirit. When Ferdinand still hesitated,

she exclaimed, "I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of

Castile. I will pledge my jewels to raise the money that is

needed!" Santangel assured her that he himself was ready to

provide the money, and advanced seventeen thousand florins from

the coffers of Aragon, so that Ferdinand really paid for the

expedition, after all.

THE FINAL STRUGGLE

From "The New World"

[January 6--April 17, 1492]

Yet had his sun not risen; from his lips

Fell in swift fervid accents his desire,

And Talavera's eyes of smouldering fire

Shone with a myriad doubts, a dark eclipse

Of faith hung round him, and the longed-for ships

Ploughed but the ocean of his star-lit dreams;

Time had not tried his soul enough with whips

And scorns, for so the rigid Master deems

He makes his servants fit

For the hard toils which knit

The perfect garment, firm and without seams,

The world shall wear at last; his hurt brain teems

With indignation and he turns away

Undaunted, and he girds him for the fray

Once more; but first he hears the words of his good friend,

Marchena, strong with trust in the far-shining end.

His wanderings reached at last the lonely door

Of calm La Rabida; there the silence came

Grateful upon his grief's consuming flame;

The simple cloisters gave him peace once more,

And the live ocean rolled up to the shore

In ceaseless voice of promise; through the pines

The sun looked down benignant, and the roar

Of the far world of rivalries declines

Into an inward murmur

With each day growing firmer,

Whose sense is conquest at the last; as shines

A lamp across a rocky path's confines,

Making the outlet clear, Juan Perez' faith

Who heard him and conceived his words no wraith

Of fevered fancy but the very truth, was light

To bring the Queen to know his purposes aright.

O noble priest and friend! you reached the court

And turned the Queen from conquest's mid career

To hearken; other triumphs glittered clear

Before her, and again from Huelva's port

The seeker came; he saw Granada's fort

Open its gates reluctant, and the King,

El Zogoibi, bewail his bitter sort

And loss which made the rich _Te Deums_ ring

When on La Vela's tower

The cross bloomed like a flower

Of heaven's own growing; but the sudden spring,

Loud with birds silent long that strove to sing,

After the winter's weary voiceless reign,

Was overcast with storms of cold disdain;

Haughtily forth he fared and reached Granada's gates

When the clouds lifted and the persecuting fates

Relented from their fury; for the Queen

Listened unto the urgings manifold

Of Santangel, and counsel, wise and bold,

Of the far-seeing Marchioness, whose keen

Divinings pierced the misty ocean's screen

And felt the deed must surely come to pass;

So they recalled him, and his life's changed scene

Grew bright with blooms and smile of thickening grass;

O royal woman then

Your hand received again

The keys of a great realm; in the clear glass

Of actions yet to be whose fires amass

Infinite stores of impulse toward the good,

Your image permanent lies; forth from the wood

Of beasts malicious and the unrelenting dread

You showed the way, but sought not from the gloom to tread.

The wind was fair, the ships lay in the bay,

And the blue sky looked down upon the earth;

Prophetic time laughed toward the nearing birth

Of the strong child with whom should come a day

That dulled all earlier hours. Forth on the way

With holy blessings said, and bellied sails,

And mounting joy that knows not let nor stay!

Lo! the undaunted purpose never fails!

O patient master, seer,

For whom the far is near,

The vision true, and the mere present pales

Its lustre, what mild seas and blossomed vales

Awaited you? haply a paradise

But not the one which drew your swerveless eyes;

Could you have known what lands were there beyond the main,

You surelier would have turned to gladsomeness from pain.

LOUIS JAMES BLOCK.

With the greatest difficulty, Columbus managed to secure three

little vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the Niña, and

to enlist about a hundred and twenty men for the enterprise.

Early in the morning of Friday, August 3, 1492, this tiny

fleet sailed out from Palos and turned their prows to the west.

STEER, BOLD MARINER, ON!

[August 3, 1492]

Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee,

And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm.

Ever and ever to westward! there must the coast be discovered,

If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind.

Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent;

Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood.

Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting;

What is promised by one, surely the other performs.

FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER.

The fleet reached the Canaries without misadventure, but

when the shores of Ferro sank from sight, the sailors gave

themselves up for lost. Their terror increased day by day; the

compass behaved strangely, the boats became entangled in vast

meadows of floating seaweed; and finally the trade-winds wafted

them so steadily westward that they became convinced they could

never return. By October 4 there were ominous signs of mutiny,

and finally, on the 11th, affairs reached a crisis.

THE TRIUMPH[2]

From "Psalm of the West"

[Dawn, October 12, 1492]

Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave,

Thy Pinta far abow, thy Niña nigh astern:

Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave,

Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn.

Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave,

Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn:--

"'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smite

With prickly seconds, or less tolerably

With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me.

Wait, Heart! Time moves.--Thou lithe young Western Night,

Just-crownèd king, slow riding to thy right,

Would God that I might straddle mutiny

Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea,

Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight,

Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls,

Nor dropp'st one coronal star above thy brow

Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn!

Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawls

No damage taking from their If and How,

Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn!

"My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never break?

How if this West by other Wests is pieced,

And these by vacant Wests on Wests increased--

One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on ache

Throbbing and ceasing not for Christ's own sake?--

Big perilous theorem, hard for king and priest:

_Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis East!_

Oh, if this watery world no turning take!

Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams,

Provings of that which is by that which seems,

Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, patiences, droughts, tears,

Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled years,

Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and gain,--

This earth, no sphere, be all one sickening plane!

"Or, haply, how if this contrarious West,

That me by turns hath starved, by turns hath fed,

Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited,

Have no fixed heart of Law within his breast,

Or with some different rhythm doth e'er contest

Nature in the East? Why, 'tis but three weeks fled

I saw my Judas needle shake his head

And flout the Pole that, East, he Lord confessed!

God! if this West should own some other Pole,

And with his tangled ways perplex my soul

Until the maze grow mortal, and I die

Where distraught Nature clean hath gone astray,

On earth some other wit than Time's at play,

Some other God than mine above the sky!

"Now speaks mine other heart with cheerier seeming:

_Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crew

Against thyself, thyself far overfew

To front yon multitudes of rebel scheming?_

Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly dreaming!

Come, ye wild weeks since first this canvas drew

Out of vexed Palos ere the dawn was blue,

O'er milky waves about the bows full-creaming!

Come set me round with many faithful spears

Of confident remembrance--how I crushed

Cat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, hushed

Scared husbands' heart-break cries on distant wives,

Made cowards blush at whining for their lives,

Watered my parching souls, and dried their tears.

"Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried,

_Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead,

From Portugal, to take us: we are dead!_--

_Hold Westward, pilot,_ calmly I replied.

So when the last land down the horizon died,

_Go back, go back!_ they prayed: _our hearts are lead_.--

_Friends, we are bound into the West_, I said.

Then passed the wreck of a mast upon our side.

_See_ (so they wept) _God's Warning! Admiral, turn!_--

_Steersman_, I said, _hold straight into the West_.

Then down the night we saw the meteor burn.

_So do the very heavens in fire protest:

Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear Spain!_--

_Hold straight into the West_, I said again.

"Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea.

_Lo! here beneath_ (another coward cries)

_The cursèd land of sunk Atlantis lies!

This slime will suck us down--turn while thou'rt free!_--

_But no!_ I said, _Freedom bears West for me!_

Yet when the long-time stagnant winds arise,

And day by day the keel to westward flies,

My Good my people's Ill doth come to be:

_Ever the winds into the West do blow;

Never a ship, once turned, might homeward go;

Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome main.

For Christ's sake, parley, Admiral! Turn, before

We sail outside all bounds of help from pain!_--

_Our help is in the West_, I said once more.

"So when there came a mighty cry of _Land!_

And we clomb up and saw, and shouted strong

_Salve Regina!_ all the ropes along,

But knew at morn how that a counterfeit band

Of level clouds had aped a silver strand;

So when we heard the orchard-bird's small song,

And all the people cried, _A hellish throng

To tempt us onward by the Devil planned,

Yea, all from hell--keen heron, fresh green weeds,

Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds,

Lie-telling lands that ever shine and die

In clouds of nothing round the empty sky.

Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, and rest!_--

_Steersman,_ I said, _hold straight into the West_.

"I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night,

From its big circling ever absently

Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee.

_Maria!_ Star? No star: a Light, a Light!

Wouldst leap ashore, Heart? Yonder burns--a Light.

Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me.

I prithee stand and gaze about the sea:

What seest? _Admiral, like as land--a Light!_

Well! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try:

What seest? _Admiral, naught but sea and sky!_

Well! but _I_ saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun!

Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done!

Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand--

God's, East--mine, West: good friends, behold my Land!"

SIDNEY LANIER.

[2] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.

Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

At daybreak of Friday, October 12 (N. S. October 22), the boats

were lowered and Columbus, with a large part of his company,

went ashore, wild with exultation. They found that they were on

a small island, and Columbus named it San Salvador. It was one

of the Bahamas, but which one is not certainly known.

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,

For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"

"Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan, and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day,

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said:

"Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"--

He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:

"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.

He lifts his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word:

What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt like a leaping sword:

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

Of all dark nights! And then a speck--

A light! a light! a light! a light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.

He gained a world; he gave that world

Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

JOAQUIN MILLER.

Columbus reached Spain again on March 15, 1493, and at once

sent word of his arrival to Ferdinand and Isabella, who were

at Barcelona. He was summoned to appear before them and was

received with triumphal honors. The King and Queen arose at his

approach, directed him to seat himself in their presence, and

listened with intense interest to his story of the voyage. When

he had finished, they sank to their knees, as did all present,

and thanked God for this mark of his favor.

THE THANKSGIVING FOR AMERICA

[Barcelona, April, 1493]

'Twas night upon the Darro.

The risen moon above the silvery tower

Of Comares shone, the silver sun of night,

And poured its lustrous splendors through the halls

Of the Alhambra.

The air was breathless,

Yet filled with ceaseless songs of nightingales,

And odors sweet of falling orange blooms;

The misty lamps were burning odorous oil;

The uncurtained balconies were full of life,

And laugh and song, and airy castanets

And gay guitars.

Afar Sierras rose,

Domes, towers, and pinnacles, over royal heights,

Whose crowns were gemmed with stars.

The Generaliffe,

The summer palace of old Moorish kings

In vanished years, stood sentinel afar,

A pile of shade, as brighter grew the moon,

Impearling fountain sprays, and shimmering

On seas of citron orchards cool and green,

And terraces embowered with vernal vines

And breathing flowers.

In shadowy arcades

Were loitering priests, and here and there

A water-carrier passed with tinkling bells.

There came a peal of horns

That woke Granada, city of delights,

From its long moonlight reverie. Again:--

The suave lute ceased to play, the castanet;

The water-bearer stopped, and ceased his song

The wandering troubadour.

Then rent the air

Another joyous peal, and oped the gates

And entered there a train of cavaliers,

Their helmets glittering in the low red moon,

The streets and balconies

All danced with wondering life. The train moved on,

And filled the air again the horns melodious,

And loud the heralds shouted:--

"_Thy name, O Fernando, through all earth shall be sounded,

Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!_"

A silence followed.

Could such tidings be? Men heard and whispered,

Eyes glanced to eyes, feet uncertain moved,

Never on mortal ears had fallen words

Like these. And was the earth a star?

On marched the cavaliers,

And pealed again the horns, and again cried

The heralds:--

"_Thy name, Isabella, through all earth shall be sounded,

Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!_"

All hearts were thrilled.

"Isabella!" That name breathed faith and hope

And lofty aim. Emotion swayed the crowds:

Tears flowed, and acclamations rose, and rushed

The wondering multitudes toward the plaza.

"Isabella! Isabella!" it filled

The air--that one word "Isabella!"

And now

'Tis noon of night. The moon hangs near the earth--

A golden moon in golden air; the peaks

Like silver tents of shadowy sentinels

Glint 'gainst the sky. The plaza gleams and surges

Like a sea. The joyful horns peal forth again,

And falls a hush, and cry the heralds:--

"_Thy name, Isabella, shall be praised by all the living;

Haste, haste to Barcelona, and join the Great Thanksgiving!_"

What nights had seen Granada!

Yet never one like this! The moon went down

And fell the wings of shadow, yet the streets

Still swarmed with people hurrying on and on.

Morn came,

With bursts of nightingales and quivering fires.

The cavaliers rode forth toward Barcelona.

The city followed, throbbing with delight.

The happy troubadour, the muleteer,

The craftsmen all, the boy and girl, and e'en

The mother--'twas a soft spring morn;

The fairest skies of earth those April morns

In Andalusia. Long was the journey,

But the land was flowers and the nights were not,

And birds sang all the hours, and breezes cool

Fanned all the ways along the sea.

The roads were filled

With hurrying multitudes. For well 'twas known

That he, the conqueror, viceroy of the isles,

Was riding from Seville to meet the king.

And what were conquerors before to him whose eye

Had seen the world a star, and found the star a world?

Once he had walked

The self-same ways, roofless and poor and sad,

A beggar at old convent doors, and heard

The very children jeer him in the streets,

And ate his crust and made his roofless bed

Upon the flowers beside his boy, and prayed,

And found in trust a pillow radiant

With dreams immortal. Now?

III

That was a glorious day

That dawned on Barcelona. Banners filled

The thronging towers, the old bells rung, and blasts

Of lordly trumpets seemed to reach the sky

Cerulean. All Spain had gathered there,

And waited there his coming; Castilian knights,

Gay cavaliers, hidalgos young, and e'en the old

Puissant grandees of far Aragon,

With glittering mail, and waving plumes, and all

The peasant multitude with bannerets

And charms and flowers.

Beneath pavilions

Of brocades of gold, the Court had met.

The dual crowns of Leon old and proud Castile

There waited him, the peasant mariner.

The trumpets waited

Near the open gates; the minstrels young and fair

Upon the tapestried and arrased walls,

And everywhere from all the happy provinces

The wandering troubadours.

Afar was heard

A cry, a long acclaim. Afar was seen

A proud and stately steed with nodding plumes,

Bridled with gold, whose rider stately rode,

And still afar a long and sinuous train

Of silvery cavaliers. A shout arose,

And all the city, all the vales and hills,

With silver trumpets rung.

He came, the Genoese,

With reverent look and calm and lofty mien,

And saw the wondering eyes and heard the cries

And trumpet peals, as one who followed still

Some Guide unseen.

Before his steed

Crowned Indians marched with lowly faces,

And wondered at the new world that they saw;

Gay parrots shouted from their gold-bound arms,

And from their crests swept airy plumes.

The sun

Shone full in splendor on the scene, and here

The old and new world met. But--

Hark! the heralds!

How they thrill all hearts and fill all eyes with tears!

The very air seems throbbing with delight;

Hark! hark! they cry, in chorus all they cry:--

"_Á Castilla y á Leon, á Castilla y á Leon,

Nuevo mundo dio Colon!_"

Every heart now beats with his,

The stately rider on whose calm face shines

A heaven-born inspiration. Still the shout:

"_Nuevo mundo dio Colon!_" how it rings!

From wall to wall, from knights and cavaliers,

And from the multitudinous throngs,

A mighty chorus of the vales and hills!

"_Á Castilla y á Leon!_"

And now the golden steed

Draws near the throne; the crowds move back, and rise

The reverent crowns of Leon and Castile;

And stands before the tear-filled eyes of all

The multitudes the form of Isabella.

Semiramis? Zenobia? What were they

To her, as met her eyes again the eyes of him

Into whose hands her love a year before

Emptied its jewels!

He told his tale:

The untried deep, the green Sargasso Sea,

The varying compass, the affrighted crews,

The hymn they sung on every doubtful eve,

The sweet hymn to the Virgin. How there came

The land birds singing, and the drifting weeds,

How broke the morn on fair San Salvador,

How the _Te Deum_ on that isle was sung,

And how the cross was lifted in the name

Of Leon and Castile. And then he turned

His face towards Heaven, "O Queen! O Queen!

There kingdoms wait the triumphs of the cross!"

Then Isabella rose,

With face illumined: then overcome with joy

She sank upon her knees, and king and court

And nobles rose and knelt beside her,

And followed them the sobbing multitude;

Then came a burst of joy, a chorus grand,

And mighty antiphon--

"_We praise thee, Lord, and, Lord, acknowledge thee,

And give thee glory!--Holy, Holy, Holy!_"

Loud and long it swelled and thrilled the air,

That first Thanksgiving for the new-found world!

The twilight roses bloomed

In the far skies o'er Barcelona.

The gentle Indians came and stood before

The throne, and smiled the queen, and said:

"I see my gems again." The shadow fell,

And trilled all night beneath the moon and stars

The happy nightingales.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

Royal favor is capricious and Columbus had his full share of

enemies at court. These, in the end, succeeded in gaining the

King's ear; Columbus was arrested in San Domingo and sent back

to Spain in chains. Isabella ordered them struck off, and

promised him that he should be reimbursed for his losses and

restored to all his dignities; but the promise was never kept.

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS

[August, 1500]

Are these the honors they reserve for me,

Chains for the man who gave new worlds to Spain!

Rest here, my swelling heart!--O kings, O queens,

Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,

Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!

Why was I seated by my prince's side,

Honor'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?

Was it that I might fall most suddenly

From honor's summit to the sink of scandal?

'Tis done, 'tis done!--what madness is ambition!

What is there in that little breath of men,

Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave

To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss

Which is the lot of happy ignorance,

Less glorious aims, and dull humility?--

Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honor,

And on the strength and vigor of the mind

Vainly depending, court a monarch's favor,

Pointing the way to vast extended empire;

First count your pay to be ingratitude,

Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!

Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,

And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,

Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On November 7, 1504, Columbus landed in Spain after a fourth

voyage to America, during which he had endured sufferings and

privations almost beyond description. He was a broken man,

and the last blow was the death of Isabella, nineteen days

after he reached Seville. Her death left him without patron or

protector, and the last eighteen months of his life were spent

in sickness and poverty. He died at Valladolid, May 20, 1506.

COLUMBUS DYING

[May 20, 1506]

Hark! do I hear again the roar

Of the tides by the Indies sweeping down?

Or is it the surge from the viewless shore

That swells to bear me to my crown?

Life is hollow and cold and drear

With smiles that darken and hopes that flee;

And, far from its winds that faint and veer,

I am ready to sail the vaster sea!

Lord, Thou knowest I love Thee best;

And that scorning peril and toil and pain,

I held my way to the mystic West,

Glory for Thee and Thy Church to gain.

And Thou didst lead me, only Thou,

Cheering my heart in cloud and calm,

Till the dawn my glad, victorious prow

Greeted Thine isles of bloom and balm.

And then, O gracious, glorious Lord,

I saw Thy face, and all heaven came nigh

And my soul was lost in that rich reward,

And ravished with hope of the bliss on high,

So, I can meet the sovereign's frown--

My dear Queen gone--with a large disdain;

For the time will come when his chief renown

Will be that I sailed from his realm of Spain.

I have found new Lands--a World, maybe,

Whose splendor will yet the Old outshine;

And life and death are alike to me,

For earth will honor, and heaven is mine

Is mine!--What songs of sweet accord!

What billows that nearer, gentler roll!

Is mine!--Into Thy hands, O Lord,

Into Thy hands I give my soul!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

COLUMBUS

Give me white paper!

This which you use is black and rough with smears

Of sweat and grime and fraud and blood and tears,

Crossed with the story of men's sins and fears,

Of battle and of famine all these years,

When all God's children had forgot their birth,

And drudged and fought and died like beasts of earth.

"Give me white paper!"

One storm-trained seaman listened to the word;

What no man saw he saw; he heard what no man heard.

In answer he compelled the sea

To eager man to tell

The secret she had kept so well!

Left blood and guilt and tyranny behind,--

Sailing still West the hidden shore to find;

For all mankind that unstained scroll unfurled,

Where God might write anew the story of the World.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER

O little fleet! that on thy quest divine

Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn,

Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne

A freight of faith and hope to match with thine?

Say, too, has Heaven's high favor given again

Such consummation of desire as shone

About Columbus when he rested on

The new-found world and married it to Spain?

Answer,--thou refuge of the freeman's need,--

Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out,

Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,--

Thou simple Mayflower of the salt-sea mead!

When thou wert wafted to that distant shore,

Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odors met thee not,

Stern Nature hailed thee to a sterner lot,--

God gave free earth and air, and gave no more.

Thus to men cast in that heroic mould

Came empire such as Spaniard never knew,

Such empire as beseems the just and true;

And at the last, almost unsought, came gold.

But He who rules both calm and stormy days,

Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health,

Safe on the perilous heights of power and wealth,

As in the straitness of the ancient ways.

LORD HOUGHTON.

CHAPTER II

IN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS

The news of Columbus's discoveries soon spread through western

Europe, and in May, 1497, John Cabot sailed from Bristol,

England, in the Matthew, and discovered what he supposed to

be the Chinese coast on June 24. The thrifty Henry VII gave

him the sum of £10 as a reward for this achievement. Cabot was

the first European since the vikings to set foot on the North

American continent.

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT

[1497]

"He chases shadows," sneered the British tars.

"As well fling nets to catch the golden stars

As climb the surges of earth's utmost sea."

But for the Venice pilot, meagre, wan,

His swarthy sons beside him, life began

With that slipt cable, when his dream rode free.

And Henry, on his battle-wrested throne,

The Councils done, would speak in musing tone

Of Cabot, not the cargo he might bring.

"Man's heart, though morsel scant for hungry crow,

Is greater than a world can fill, and so

Fair fall the shadow-seekers!" quoth the king.

Colonies were planted by the Spaniards in Cuba and Hispaniola,

but the New World continued to be for them a land of wonder and

mystery. They were quite ready to believe any marvel,--among

others, that somewhere to the north lay an island named Bimini,

on which was a fountain whose waters gave perpetual youth to

all who bathed therein.

THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA

[1513]

Through darkening pines the cavaliers marched on their sunset way,

While crimson in the trade-winds rolled far Appalachee Bay,

Above the water-levels rose palmetto crowns like ghosts

Of kings primeval; them, behind, the shadowy pines in hosts.

"O cacique, brave and trusty guide,

Are we not near the spring,

The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The fount is fair,

Waukulla!

"But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,

And never youth's departed days come back to age again;

The future in the spirit lies, the earthly life is brief,

'Tis _you_ that say the fount hath life," so said the Indian chief.

"Nay, Indian king; nay, Indian king,

Thou knowest well the spring,

And thou shalt die if thou dost fail our feet to it to bring."

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The spring is bright,

Waukulla!"

Then said the guide, "O men of Spain, a wondrous fountain flows

From deep abodes of gods below, and health on men bestows.

Blue are its deeps and green its walls, and from its waters gleam

The water-stars, and from it runs the pure Waukulla's stream.

But men of Spain, but men of Spain,

'Tis _you_ who say that spring

Eternal youth and happiness to men again will bring."

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The fount is clear,

Waukulla!"

"March on, the land enchanted is; march on, ye men of Spain;

Who would not taste the bliss of youth and all its hopes again.

Enchanted is the land; behold! enchanted is the air;

The very heaven is domed with gold; there's beauty everywhere!"

So said De Leon. "Cavaliers,

We're marching to the spring,

The fountain of eternal youth that health to age will bring!"

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The fount is pure,

Waukulla!"

Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, the deep magnolia shades,

The clear Waukulla swift pursues its way through floral glades;

Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, beneath night's falling shade,

Beneath the low and dusky moon still marched the cavalcade.

"The river widens," said the men;

"Are we not near the spring,

The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The spring is near,

Waukulla!"

"The fount is fair and bright and clear, and pure its waters run;

Waukulla, lovely in the moon and beauteous in the sun.

But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,

And never youth's departed days come back to man again.

O men of Spain! O men of Spain!

'Tis you that say the spring

Eternal youth and happiness to withered years will bring!"

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The fount is deep,

Waukulla!"

The river to a grotto led, as to a god's abode;

There lay the fountain bright with stars; stars in its waters flowed;

The mighty live-oaks round it rose, in ancient mosses clad;

De Leon's heart beat high for joy; the cavaliers were glad,

"O men of Spain! O men of Spain!

This surely is the spring,

The fountain fair that health and joy to faces old doth bring!"

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The spring is old,

Waukulla!"

"Avalla, O my trusty friend that we this day should see!

Strip off thy doublet and descend the glowing fount with me!"

"The saints! I will," Avalla said. "Already young I feel,

And younger than my sons shall I return to old Castile."

Then plunged De Leon in the spring

And then Avalla old,

Then slowly rose each wrinkled face above the waters cold.

The cacique sighed,

And Indian guide,

"The fount is false,

Waukulla!"

O vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,

And never youth's departed days come back to man again;

The crowns Castilian could not bring the withered stalk a leaf,

But came a sabre flash that morn, and fell the Indian chief.

Another sabre flash, and then

The guide beside him lay,

And red the clear Waukulla ran toward Appalachee Bay.

Then from the dead

The Spaniards fled,

And cursed the spring,

Waukulla.

"Like comrades life was left behind, the years shall o'er me roll,

For all the hopes that man can find lies hidden in the soul.

Ye white sails lift, and drift again across the southern main;

There wait for me, there wait us all, the hollow tombs of Spain!"

Beneath the liquid stars the sails

Arose and went their way,

And bore the gray-haired cavaliers from Appalachee Bay.

The young chief slept,

The maiden wept,

Beside the bright

Waukulla.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In 1512 Juan Ponce de Leon received a grant to discover

and settle this fabulous island. He sailed from Porto Rico

in search of it in March, 1513, and found an island but no

fountain. Pushing on, he discovered the mainland March 27, and,

on April 2, landed and took possession of the country for the

King of Spain, calling it Florida.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON

[1513]

A story of Ponce de Leon,

A voyager, withered and old,

Who came to the sunny Antilles,

In quest of a country of gold.

He was wafted past islands of spices,

As bright as the Emerald seas,

Where all the forests seem singing,

So thick were the birds on the trees;

The sea was as clear as the azure,

And so deep and so pure was the sky

That the jasper-walled city seemed shining

Just out of the reach of the eye.

By day his light canvas he shifted,

And rounded strange harbors and bars;

By night, on the full tides he drifted,

'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars.

Near the glimmering gates of the sunset,

In the twilight empurpled and dim,

The sailors uplifted their voices,

And sang to the Virgin a hymn.

"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,

At the close of the rounded refrain;

"Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses

The ocean-swept banner of Spain!

The shadowy world is behind us,

The shining Cèpango, before;

Each morning the sun rises brighter

On ocean, and island, and shore.

And still shall our spirits grow lighter,

As prospects more glowing enfold;

Then on, merry men! to Cèpango,

To the west, and the regions of gold!"

There came to De Leon, the sailor,

Some Indian sages, who told

Of a region so bright that the waters

Were sprinkled with islands of gold.

And they added: "The leafy Bimini,

A fair land of grottos and bowers,

Is there; and a wonderful fountain

Upsprings from its gardens of flowers.

That fountain gives life to the dying,

And youth to the aged restores;

They flourish in beauty eternal,

Who set but their foot on its shores!"

Then answered De Leon, the sailor:

"I am withered, and wrinkled, and old;

I would rather discover that fountain

Than a country of diamonds and gold."

III

Away sailed De Leon, the sailor;

Away with a wonderful glee,

Till the birds were more rare in the azure,

The dolphins more rare in the sea.

Away from the shady Bahamas,

Over waters no sailor had seen,

Till again on his wondering vision,

Rose clustering islands of green.

Still onward he sped till the breezes

Were laden with odors, and lo!

A country embedded with flowers,

A country with rivers aglow!

More bright than the sunny Antilles,

More fair than the shady Azores.

"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor

As feasted his eye on the shores,

"We have come to a region, my brothers,

More lovely than earth, of a truth;

And here is the life-giving fountain,--

The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

Then landed De Leon, the sailor,

Unfurled his old banner, and sung;

But he felt very wrinkled and withered,

All around was so fresh and so young.

The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming,

Their blossoms e'en margined the seas;

O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers

Hung deep from the branches of trees.

"Praise the Lord!" sung De Leon, the sailor;

His heart was with rapture aflame;

And he said: "Be the name of this region

By Florida given to fame.

'Tis a fair, a delectable country.

More lovely than earth, of a truth;

I soon shall partake of the fountain,--

The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"

But wandered De Leon, the sailor,

In search of that fountain in vain;

No waters were there to restore him

To freshness and beauty again.

And his anchor he lifted, and murmured,

As the tears gathered fast in his eye,

"I must leave this fair land of the flowers,

Go back o'er the ocean, and die."

Then back by the dreary Tortugas,

And back by the shady Azores,

He was borne on the storm-smitten waters

To the calm of his own native shores.

And that he grew older and older,

His footsteps enfeebled gave proof,

Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain,

The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

* * * * *

One day the old sailor lay dying

On the shores of a tropical isle,

And his heart was enkindled with rapture,

And his face lighted up with a smile.

He thought of the sunny Antilles,

He thought of the shady Azores,

He thought of the dreamy Bahamas,

He thought of fair Florida's shores.

And, when in his mind he passed over

His wonderful travels of old,

He thought of the heavenly country,

Of the city of jasper and gold.

"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,

"Thank the Lord for the light of the truth,

I now am approaching the fountain,

The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

VII

The cabin was silent: at twilight

They heard the birds singing a psalm,

And the wind of the ocean low sighing

Through groves of the orange and palm.

The sailor still lay on his pallet,

'Neath the low-hanging vines of the roof;

His soul had gone forth to discover

The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In March, 1521, De Leon led a large party to Florida and

attempted to plant a colony there, but they were driven away

by the Indians. De Leon himself was wounded in the thigh by

an arrow. The wound was unskillfully treated, and the old

adventurer died of it in Cuba shortly afterwards.

PONCE DE LEON

[1521]

You that crossed the ocean old,

Not from greed of Inca's gold,

But to search by vale and mount,

Wood and rock, the wizard fount

Where Time's harm is well undone,--

Here's to Ponce de Leon,

And your liegemen every one!

Surely, still beneath the sun,

In some region further west,

You live on and have your rest,

While the world goes spinning round,

And the sky hears the resound

Of a thousand shrill new fames,

Which your jovial silence shames!

Strength and joy your days endow,

Youth's eyes glow beneath your brow;

Wars and vigils are forgot,

And the Scytheman threats you not.

Tell us, of your knightly grace,

Tell us, left you not some trace

Leading to that wellspring true

Where old souls their age renew?

EDITH M. THOMAS.

The Spaniards, meanwhile, had pushed on across the Caribbean

Sea and founded Darien, whither, in 1510, came one Vasco Nuñez

Balboa. He made numerous explorations, and, learning from the

Indians that there was a great sea to the south, determined to

search for it. He started from Darien September 1, 1513, and on

the 25th reached the top of a mountain from which he first saw

the Pacific. He gained the shore four days later, and, wading

into the water, took possession of it for the King of Spain.

BALBOA

[September 25, 1513]

With restless step of discontent,

Day after day he fretting went

Along the old accustomed ways

That led to easeful length of days.

But far beyond the fragrant shade

Of orange groves his glances strayed

To where the white horizon line

Caught from the sea its silvery shine.

He knew the taste of that salt spray,

He knew the wind that blew that way;

Ah, once again to mount and ride

Upon that pulsing ocean tide,--

To find new lands of virgin gold,

To wrest them from the savage hold,

To conquer with the sword and brain

Fresh fields and fair for royal Spain!

This was the dream of wild desire

That set his gallant heart on fire,

And stirred with feverish discontent

That soul for nobler issues meant.

Sometimes his children's laughter brought

A thrill that checked his restless thought;

Sometimes a voice more tender yet

Would soothe the fever and the fret.

Thus day by day, until one day

Came news that in the harbor lay

A ship bound outward to explore

The treasures of that western shore,

Which bold adventurers as yet

Had failed to conquer or forget;

"Yet where they failed, and failing died,

My will shall conquer!" Balboa cried.

But when on Darien's shore he stept,

And fast and far his vision swept,

He saw before him, white and still,

The Andes mocking at his will.

Then like a flint he set his face;

Let others falter from their place,

His hand and foot, his sturdy soul

Should seek and gain that distant goal!

With speech like this he fired the land,

And gathered to his bold command

A troop of twenty score or more,

To follow where he led before.

They followed him day after day

O'er burning lands where ambushed lay

The waiting savage in his lair,

And fever poisoned all the air.

But like a sweeping wind of flame

A conqueror through all he came;

The savage fell beneath his hand,

Or led him on to seek the land

That richer yet for golden gain

Stretched out beyond the mountain chain.

Steep after steep of rough ascent

They followed, followed, worn and spent,

Until at length they came to where

The last peak lifted near and fair;

Then Balboa turned and waved aside

His panting troops. "Rest here," he cried,

"And wait for me." And with a tread

Of trembling haste, he quickly sped

Along the trackless height, alone

To seek, to reach, his mountain throne.

Step after step he mounted swift;

The wind blew down a cloudy drift;

From some strange source he seemed to hear

The music of another sphere.

Step after step; the cloud-winds blew

Their blinding mists, then through and through

Sun-cleft, they broke, and all alone

He stood upon his mountain throne.

Before him spread no paltry lands,

To wrest with spoils from savage hands;

But, fresh and fair, an unknown world

Of mighty sea and shore unfurled

Its wondrous scroll beneath the skies.

Ah, what to this the flimsy prize

Of gold and lands for which he came

With hot ambition's sordid aim!

Silent he stood with streaming eyes

In that first moment of surprise,

Then on the mountain-top he bent,

This conqueror of a continent,

In wordless ecstasy of prayer,--

Forgetting in that moment there,

With Nature's God brought face to face,

All vainer dreams of pomp and place.

Thus to the world a world was given.

Where lesser men had vainly striven,

And striving died,--this gallant soul,

Divinely guided, reached the goal.

NORA PERRY.

In 1518 a great expedition, under Hernando Cortez, sailed from

Cuba in search of a land of marvellous wealth which was said to

exist somewhere north of Darien. The result was the discovery

of Mexico, which the Spaniards subdued with indescribable

cruelties.

WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO

[1519]

"Mater á Dios, preserve us

And give us the Mexican gold,

Viva España forever!"

Light-hearted, treacherous, bold,

With clashing of drums and of cymbals,

With clatter of hoofs and of arms,

Into the Tezcucan city,

Over the Tezcucan farms;

In through the hordes of Aztecs,

Past glitter of city and lake,

Brave for death or for conquest,

And the Mother of God's sweet sake.

Perchance from distant Granada,

Perchance from the Danube's far blue,

He had fought with Moor and Saracen,

Where the death hail of battle-fields flew.

Down through the smoke and the battle,

Trolling an old Moorish song,

Chanting an Ave or Pater,

To whiten the red of his wrong,

Dreaming of Seville, Toledo,

And dark, soft catholic eyes,

Light-hearted, reckless, and daring,

He rides under Mexican skies.

Child of valor and fortune,

Nurtured to ride and to strike,

Fearless in defeat or in conquest,

Of man and of devil alike;

Out through the clamor of battle,

Up through rivers of blood,

"Viva España forever!

God and the bold Brotherhood!

Strike for the memories left us,

Strike for the lives that we keep,

Strike for the present and future,

In the name of our comrades who sleep;

Strike! for Jesus' sweet Mother,

For the arms and the vows that we hold;

Strike for fortune and lover,

God, and the Mexican gold!"

* * * * *

At morning gay, careless in battle,

With love on his lips, in his eyes;

At even stretched pallid and silent,

Out under Mexican skies.

And far in some old Spanish city,

Two dark eyes wait patient and long

For a lover who sailed to the westward,

Trolling an old Moorish song.

W. W. CAMPBELL.

Shortly afterwards, Pizarro completed the conquest of Peru.

Heavily-laden treasure-ships were sent homeward across the

Atlantic, and at last the Spanish lust of gold seemed in a fair

way to be satisfied.

THE LUST OF GOLD

From "The West Indies"

Rapacious Spain

Follow'd her hero's triumphs o'er the main,

Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried,

Where Moor and Christian desperately died.

A rabid race, fanatically bold,

And steel'd to cruelty by lust of gold,

Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored,

The cross their standard, but their faith the sword;

Their steps were graves; o'er prostrate realms they trod;

They worshipp'd Mammon while they vow'd to God.

Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell

How Cortez conquer'd, Montezuma fell;

How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew

The sun's resplendent empire in Peru;

How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood,

And raised his voice against a sea of blood,

Whose chilling waves recoil'd while he foretold

His country's ruin by avenging gold.

--That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell,

That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell,

Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doom'd to shed

Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head;

For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away,--

His gold and he were every nation's prey.

But themes like these would ask an angel-lyre,

Language of light and sentiment of fire;

Give me to sing, in melancholy strains,

Of Charib martyrdoms and Negro chains;

One race by tyrants rooted from the earth,

One doom'd to slavery by the taint of birth!

* * * * *

Dreadful as hurricanes, athwart the main

Rush'd the fell legions of invading Spain;

With fraud and force, with false and fatal breath

(Submission bondage, and resistance death),

They swept the isles. In vain the simple race

Kneel'd to the iron sceptre of their grace,

Or with weak arms their fiery vengeance braved;

They came, they saw, they conquer'd, they enslaved,

And they destroy'd;--the generous heart they broke,

They crush'd the timid neck beneath the yoke;

Where'er to battle march'd their fell array,

The sword of conquest plough'd resistless way;

Where'er from cruel toil they sought repose,

Around the fires of devastation rose.

The Indian, as he turn'd his head in flight,

Beheld his cottage flaming through the night,

And, midst the shrieks of murder on the wind,

Heard the mute bloodhound's death-step close behind.

The conflict o'er, the valiant in their graves,

The wretched remnant dwindled into slaves;

Condemn'd in pestilential cells to pine,

Delving for gold amidst the gloomy mine.

The sufferer, sick of life-protracting breath,

Inhaled with joy the fire-damp blast of death:

--Condemn'd to fell the mountain palm on high,

That cast its shadow from the evening sky,

Ere the tree trembled to his feeble stroke,

The woodman languish'd, and his heart-strings broke;

--Condemn'd in torrid noon, with palsied hand,

To urge the slow plough o'er the obdurate land,

The laborer, smitten by the sun's quick ray,

A corpse along the unfinish'd furrow lay.

O'erwhelm'd at length with ignominious toil,

Mingling their barren ashes with the soil,

Down to the dust the Charib people pass'd,

Like autumn foliage withering in the blast:

The whole race sunk beneath the oppressor's rod,

And left a blank among the works of God.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Although Pope Alexander VI had, in 1493, issued a bull

dividing the New World between Spain and Portugal, neither

France nor England paid any heed to it. One of France's most

active corsairs was Giovanni da Verazzano. In 1524 he crossed

the Atlantic, and, sighting the coast at Cape Fear, turned

northward, discovered the Hudson, landed at Rhode Island, and

kept on, perhaps, as far as Newfoundland.

VERAZZANO

AT RHODES AND RHODE ISLAND

[1524]

In the tides of the warm south wind it lay,

And its grapes turned wine in the fires of noon,

And its roses blossomed from May to May,

And their fragrance lingered from June to June.

There dwelt old heroes at Ilium famed,

There, bards reclusive, of olden odes;

And so fair were the fields of roses, they named

The bright sea-garden the Isle of Rhodes.

Fair temples graced each blossoming field,

And columned halls in gems arrayed;

Night shaded the sea with her jewelled shield,

And sweet the lyres of Orpheus played.

The Helios spanned the sea: its flame

Drew hither the ships of Pelion's pines,

And twice a thousand statues of fame

Stood mute in twice a thousand shrines.

And her mariners went, and her mariners came,

And sang on the seas the olden odes,

And at night they remembered the Helios' flame,

And at morn the sweet fields of the roses of Rhodes.

From the palm land's shade to the land of pines,

A Florentine crossed the Western Sea;

He sought new lands and golden mines,

And he sailed 'neath the flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

He saw at last in the sunset's gold,

A wonderful island so fair to view

That it seemed like the Island of Roses old

That his eyes in his wondering boyhood knew.

'Twas summer time, and the glad birds sung

In the hush of noon in the solitudes;

From the oak's broad arms the green vines hung;

Sweet odors blew from the resinous woods.

He rounded the shores of the summer sea,

And he said as his feet the white sands pressed,

And he planted the flag of the Fleur-de-lis:

"I have come to the Island of Rhodes in the West.

"While the mariners go, and the mariners come,

And sing on lone waters the olden odes

Of the Grecian seas and the ports of Rome,

They will ever think of the roses of Rhodes."

To the isle of the West he gave the name

Of the isle he had loved in the Grecian sea;

And the Florentine went away as he came,

'Neath the silver flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

O fair Rhode Island, thy guest was true,

He felt the spirit of beauteous things;

The sea-wet roses were faint and few,

But memory made them the gardens of kings.

The Florentine corsair sailed once more,

Out into the West o'er a rainy sea,

In search of another wonderful shore

For the crown of France and the Fleur-de-lis.

But returned no more the Florentine brave

To the courtly knights of fair Rochelle;

'Neath the lilies of France he found a grave,

And not 'neath the roses he loved so well.

But the lessons of beauty his fond heart bore

From the gardens of God were never lost;

And the fairest name of the Eastern shore

Bears the fairest isle of the Western coast.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

The Spaniards still dreamed of a great empire somewhere in

Florida, and in 1528 Pánfilo de Narvaez set out with an

expedition in search of it. Only four members of the party got

back to Cuba alive, the others having been killed or captured

by the Indians. Among those captured and enslaved was Juan

Ortiz. He was rescued by De Soto nearly ten years later.

ORTIZ

[1528]

"Go bring the captive, he shall die,"

He said, with faltering breath;

"Him stretch upon a scaffold high,

And light the fire of death!"

The young Creeks danced the captive round,

And sang the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

They brought the fagots for the flame,

The braves and maids together,

When came the princess--sweet her name:

The Red Flamingo Feather.

Then danced the Creeks the scaffold round,

And sang the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

In shaded plumes of silver gray,

The young Creeks danced together,

But she danced not with them that day,

The Red Flamingo Feather.

Wild sped the feet the scaffold round,

Wild rose the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

They stretched the stranger from the sea,

Above the fagots lighted,--

Ortiz,--a courtly man was he,

With deeds heroic knighted.

And sped the feet the scaffold round,

And rose the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

The white smoke rose, the braves were gay,

The war drums beat together,

But sad in heart and face that day

Was Red Flamingo Feather.

They streaked with flames the dusky air,

They streaked the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

"Dance, dance, my girl, the torches gleam,

Dance, dance, the gray plumes gather,

Dance, dance, my girl, the war-hawks scream,

Dance, Red Flamingo Feather!"

More swiftly now the torches sped,

Amid the Dance of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

She knelt upon the green moss there,

And clasped her father's knees:

"My heart is weak, O father, spare

The wanderer from the seas!"

Like madness now swept on the dance,

And rose the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Ye wings of the warrior's plume!"

"Grand were the men who sailed away,

And he is young and brave;

'Tis small in heart the weak to slay,

'Tis great in heart to save."

He saw the torches sweep the air,

He heard the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

"My girl, I know thy heart would spare

The wanderer from the sea."

"The man is fair, and I am fair,

And thou art great," said she.

The dance of fire went on and on,

And on the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

The dark chief felt his pride abate:

"I will the wanderer spare,

My Bird of Peace, since I am great,

And he, like thee, is fair!"

They dropped the torches, stopped the dance,

And died the Song of Doom,--

"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,

_Away_ with the warrior's plume!"

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In 1538 Hernando de Soto was appointed governor of Cuba and

Florida, with orders to explore and settle the latter country.

He landed at Tampa Bay with nearly a thousand men and started

into the interior. He was forced to fight his way across the

country against the tribes of the Creek confederacy, and in

October, 1540, had a desperate battle with them at a palisaded

village called Maubila, at the mouth of the Alabama River.

THE FALL OF MAUBILA

[October 18, 1540]

Hearken the stirring story

The soldier has to tell,

Of fierce and bloody battle,

Contested long and well.

Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,

Before our forces fell.

Now many years have circled

Since that October day,

When proudly to Maubila

De Soto took his way,

With men-at-arms and cavaliers

In terrible array.

Oh, never sight more goodly

In any land was seen;

And never better soldiers

Than those he led have been,

More prompt to handle arquebus,

Or wield their sabres keen.

The sun was at meridian,

His hottest rays fell down

Alike on soldier's corselet

And on the friar's gown;

The breeze was hushed as on we rode

Right proudly to the town.

First came the bold De Soto,

In all his manly pride,

The gallant Don Diego,

His nephew, by his side;

A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,

Interpreter and guide.

Baltasar de Gallegos,

Impetuous, fierce and hot;

Francisco de Figarro,

Since by an arrow shot;

And slender Juan de Guzman, who

In battle faltered not.

Luis Bravo de Xeres,

That gallant cavalier;

Alonzo de Carmono,

Whose spirit knew no fear;

The marquis of Astorga, and

Vasquez, the cannoneer.

Andres de Vasconcellos,

Juan Cales, young and fair,

Roma de Cardenoso,

Him of the yellow hair--

Rode gallant in their bravery,

Straight to the public square.

And there, in sombre garments,

Were monks of Cuba four,

Fray Juan de Gallegos,

And other priests a score,

Who sacramental bread and wine

And holy relics bore.

And next eight hundred soldiers

In closest order come,

Some with Biscayan lances,

With arquebuses some,

Timing their tread to martial notes

Of trump and fife and drum.

Loud sang the gay Mobilians,

Light danced their daughters brown;

Sweet sounded pleasant music

Through all the swarming town;

But 'mid the joy one sullen brow

Was lowering with a frown.

The haughty Tuscaloosa,

The sovereign of the land,

With moody face, and thoughtful,

Rode at our chief's right hand,

And cast from time to time a glance

Of hatred at the band.

And when that gay procession

Made halt to take a rest,

And eagerly the people

To see the strangers prest,

The frowning King, in wrathful tones,

De Soto thus addressed:

"To bonds and to dishonor

By faithless friends trepanned,

For days beside you, Spaniard,

The ruler of the land

Has ridden as a prisoner,

Subject to your command.

"He was not born the fetters

Of baser men to wear,

And tells you this, De Soto,

Hard though it be to bear--

Let those beware the panther's rage

Who follow to his lair.

"Back to your isle of Cuba!

Slink to your den again,

And tell your robber sovereign,

The mighty lord of Spain,

Whoso would strive this land to win

Shall find his efforts vain.

"And, save it be your purpose

Within my realm to die,

Let not your forces linger

Our deadly anger nigh,

Lest food for vultures and for wolves

Your mangled forms should lie."

Then, spurning courtly offers

He left our chieftain's side,

And crossing the enclosure

With quick and lengthened stride,

He passed within his palace gates,

And there our wrath defied.

Now came up Charamilla,

Who led our troop of spies,

And said unto our captain,

With tones that showed surprise,

"A mighty force within the town,

In wait to crush us, lies.

"The babes and elder women

Were sent at break of day

Into the forest yonder,

Five leagues or more away:

Within yon huts ten thousand men

Wait eager for the fray."

"What say ye now, my comrades?"

De Soto asked his men;

"Shall we, before these traitors,

Go backward, baffled, then;

Or, sword in hand, attack the foe

Who crouches in his den?"

Before their loud responses

Had died upon the ear,

A savage stood before them,

Who said, in accents clear,

"Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!

Assassin Spaniards, hear!

"No longer shall our sovereign,

Born noble, great, and free,

Be led beside your master,

A shameful sight to see,

While weapons here to strike you down

Or hands to grasp them be."

As spoke the brawny savage,

Full wroth our comrades grew--

Baltasar de Gallegos

His heavy weapon drew,

And dealt the boaster such a stroke

As clove his body through.

Then rushed the swart Mobilians

Like hornets from their nest;

Against our bristling lances

Was bared each savage breast;

With arrow-head and club and stone,

Upon our band they prest.

"Retreat in steady order!

But slay them as ye go!"

Exclaimed the brave De Soto,

And with each word a blow

That sent a savage soul to doom

He dealt upon the foe.

"Strike well who would our honor

From spot or tarnish save!

Strike down the haughty Pagan,

The infidel and slave!

Saint Mary Mother sits above,

And smiles upon the brave.

"Strike! all my gallant comrades!

Strike! gentlemen of Spain!

Upon the traitor wretches

Your deadly anger rain,

Or never to your native land

Return in pride again!"

Then hosts of angry foemen

We fiercely held at bay,

Through living walls of Pagans

We cut our bloody way;

And though by thousands round they swarmed,

We kept our firm array.

At length they feared to follow;

We stood upon the plain,

And dressed our shattered column;

When, slacking bridle rein,

De Soto, wounded as he was,

Led to the charge again.

For now our gallant horsemen

Their steeds again had found,

That had been fastly tethered

Unto the trees around,

Though some of these, by arrows slain,

Lay stretched upon the ground.

And as the riders mounted,

The foe, in joyous tones,

Gave vent to shouts of triumph,

And hurled a shower of stones;

But soon the shouts were changed to wails,

The cries of joy to moans.

Down on the scared Mobilians

The furious rush was led;

Down fell the howling victims

Beneath the horses' tread;

The angered chargers trod alike

On dying and on dead.

Back to the wooden ramparts,

With cut and thrust and blow,

We drove the panting savage,

The very walls below,

Till those above upon our heads

Huge rocks began to throw.

Whenever we retreated

The swarming foemen came--

Their wild and matchless courage

Put even ours to shame--

Rushing upon our lances' points,

And arquebuses' flame.

Three weary hours we fought them,

And often each gave way;

Three weary hours, uncertain

The fortune of the day;

And ever where they fiercest fought

De Soto led the fray.

Baltasar de Gallegos

Right well displayed his might;

His sword fell ever fatal,

Death rode its flash of light;

And where his horse's head was turned

The foe gave way in fright.

At length before our daring

The Pagans had to yield,

And in their stout enclosure

They sought to find a shield,

And left us, wearied with our toil,

The masters of the field.

Now worn and spent and weary,

Our force was scattered round,

Some seeking for their comrades,

Some seated on the ground,

When sudden fell upon our ears

A single trumpet's sound.

"Up! ready make for storming!"

That speaks Moscoso near;

He comes with stainless sabre,

He comes with spotless spear;

But stains of blood and spots of gore

Await his weapons here.

Soon, formed in four divisions,

Around the order goes--

"To front with battle-axes!

No moment for repose.

At signal of an arquebus,

Rain on the gates your blows."

Not long that fearful crashing,

The gates in splinters fall;

And some, though sorely wounded,

Climb o'er the crowded wall:

No rampart's height can keep them back,

No danger can appall.

Then redly rained the carnage--

None asked for quarter there;

Men fought with all the fury

Born of a wild despair;

And shrieks and groans and yells of hate

Were mingled in the air.

Four times they backward beat us,

Four times our force returned;

We quenched in bloody torrents

The fire that in us burned;

We slew who fought, and those who knelt

With stroke of sword we spurned.

And what are these new forces,

With long, black, streaming hair?

They are the singing maidens

Who met us in the square;

And now they spring upon our ranks

Like she-wolves from their lair.

Their sex no shield to save them,

Their youth no weapon stayed;

De Soto with his falchion

A lane amid them made,

And in the skulls of blooming girls

Sank battle-axe and blade.

Forth came a wingèd arrow,

And struck our leader's thigh;

The man who sent it shouted,

And looked to see him die;

The wound but made the tide of rage

Run twice as fierce and high.

Then came our stout camp-master,

"The night is coming down;

Already twilight darkness

Is casting shadows brown;

We would not lack for light on strife

If once we burned the town."

With that we fired the houses;

The ranks before us broke;

The fugitives we followed,

And dealt them many a stroke,

While round us rose the crackling flame,

And o'er us hung the smoke.

And what with flames around them,

And what with smoke o'erhead,

And what with cuts of sabre,

And what with horses' tread,

And what with lance and arquebus,

The town was filled with dead.

Six thousand of the foemen

Upon that day were slain,

Including those who fought us

Outside upon the plain--

Six thousand of the foemen fell,

And eighty-two of Spain.

Not one of us unwounded

Came from the fearful fray;

And when the fight was over

And scattered round we lay,

Some sixteen hundred wounds we bore

As tokens of the day.

And through that weary darkness,

And all that dreary night,

We lay in bitter anguish,

But never mourned our plight,

Although we watched with eagerness

To see the morning light.

And when the early dawning

Had marked the sky with red,

We saw the Moloch incense

Rise slowly overhead

From smoking ruins and the heaps

Of charred and mangled dead.

I knew the slain were Pagans,

While we in Christ were free,

And yet it seemed that moment

A spirit said to me:

"Henceforth be doomed while life remains

This sight of fear to see."

And ever since that dawning

Which chased the night away,

I wake to see the corses

That thus before me lay:

And this is why in cloistered cell

I wait my latter day.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Early in 1540 a great expedition under Francisco de Coronado

started northward from Mexico in search of the Seven Cities of

Cibola, of whose glories and riches many stories had been told.

The cities were really the pueblos of the Zuñis, and the ballad

tells the story of the march.

QUIVÍRA

[1540-1541]

Francisco Coronado rode forth with all his train,

Eight hundred savage bowmen, three hundred spears of Spain,

To seek the rumored glory that pathless deserts hold--

The city of Quivíra whose walls are rich with gold.

Oh, gay they rode with plume on crest and gilded spur at heel,

With gonfalon of Aragon and banner of Castile!

While High Emprise and Joyous Youth, twin marshals of the throng,

Awoke Sonora's mountain peaks with trumpet-note and song.

Beside that brilliant army, beloved of serf and lord,

There walked as brave a soldier as ever smote with sword,

Though nought of knightly harness his russet gown revealed--

The cross he bore as weapon, the missal was his shield.

But rugged oaths were changed to prayers, and angry hearts grew tame,

And fainting spirits waxed in faith where Fray Padilla came;

And brawny spearmen bowed their heads to kiss the helpful hand

Of him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.

What pen may paint their daring--those doughty cavaliers!

The cities of the Zuñi were humbled by their spears.

Wild Arizona's barrens grew pallid in the glow

Of blades that won Granada and conquered Mexico.

They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blown

Where Colorado rushes down through God-hewn walls of stone;

Still, North and East, where deserts spread, and treeless prairies

rolled,

A Fairy City lured them on with pinnacles of gold.

Through all their weary marches toward that flitting goal

They turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul.

He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made;

He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.

Two thousand miles of war and woe behind their banners lay:

And sadly fever, drought and toil had lessened their array,

When came a message fraught with hope to all the steadfast band:

"Good tidings from the northward, friends! Quivíra lies at hand!"

How joyously they spurred them! How sadly drew the rein!

There shone no golden palace, there blazed no jewelled fane.

Rude tents of hide of bison, dog-guarded, met their view--

A squalid Indian village; the lodges of the Sioux!

Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men:

"Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again.

And would to God that I might give that phantom city's pride

In ransom for the gallant souls that here have sunk and died!"

Back, back to Compostela the wayworn handful bore;

But sturdy Fray Padilla took up the quest once more.

His soul still longed for conquest, though not by lance and sword;

He burned to show the Heathen the pathway to the Lord.

Again he trudged the flinty hills and dazzling desert sands,

And few were they that walked with him, and weaponless their hands--

But and the trusty man-at-arms, Docampo, rode him near

Like Great Heart, guarding Christian's way through wastes of Doubt and

Fear.

Where still in silken harvests the prairie-lilies toss,

Among the dark Quivíras Padilla reared his cross.

Within its sacred shadow the warriors of the Kaw

In wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.

They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's gold

The warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told,

While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children played

And shot their arrows at his shield and rode his guarded blade.

When thrice the silver crescent had filled its curving shell,

The Friar rose at dawning and spake his flock farewell:

"--And if your Brothers northward be cruel, as ye say,

My Master bids me seek them--and dare I answer 'Nay'?"

Again he strode the path of thorns; but ere the evening star

A savage cohort swept the plain in paint and plumes of war.

Then Fray Padilla spake to them whose hearts were most his own:

"My children, bear the tidings home--let me die here alone."

He knelt upon the prairie, begirt by yelling Sioux.--

"Forgive them, oh, my Father! they know not what they do!"

The twanging bow-strings answered. Before his eyes, unrolled

The City of Quivíra whose streets are paved with gold.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

The Spaniards were not the only people who searched in vain for

fabulous cities. South of Cape Breton lay a country which the

early French explorers named Norembega, and there was supposed

to exist, somewhere within its boundaries, a magnificent

city of the same name. Roberval and Jacques Cartier spent a

number of years after 1541 seeking it, and in 1604 Champlain

explored the Penobscot River, on whose banks it was supposed

to be situated, but found no trace of it, nor any evidence of

civilization except a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.

NOREMBEGA

[c. 1543]

The winding way the serpent takes

The mystic water took,

From where, to count its beaded lakes,

The forest sped its brook.

A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore,

For sun or stars to fall,

While evermore, behind, before,

Closed in the forest wall.

The dim wood hiding underneath

Wan flowers without a name;

Life tangled with decay and death,

League after league the same.

Unbroken over swamp and hill

The rounding shadow lay,

Save where the river cut at will

A pathway to the day.

Beside that track of air and light,

Weak as a child unweaned,

At shut of day a Christian knight

Upon his henchman leaned.

The embers of the sunset's fires

Along the clouds burned down;

"I see," he said, "the domes and spires

Of Norembega town."

"Alack! the domes, O master mine,

Are golden clouds on high;

Yon spire is but the branchless pine

That cuts the evening sky."

"Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are these

But chants and holy hymns?"

"Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees

Through all their leafy limbs."

"Is it a chapel bell that fills

The air with its low tone?"

"Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills,

The insect's vesper drone."

"The Christ be praised!--He sets for me

A blessed cross in sight!"

"Now, nay, 'tis but yon blasted tree

With two gaunt arms outright!"

"Be it wind so sad or tree so stark,

It mattereth not, my knave;

Methinks to funeral hymns I hark,

The cross is for my grave!

"My life is sped; I shall not see

My home-set sails again;

The sweetest eyes of Normandie

Shall watch for me in vain.

"Yet onward still to ear and eye

The baffling marvel calls;

I fain would look before I die

On Norembega's walls.

"So, haply, it shall be thy part

At Christian feet to lay

The mystery of the desert's heart

My dead hand plucked away.

"Leave me an hour of rest; go thou

And look from yonder heights;

Perchance the valley even now

Is starred with city lights."

The henchman climbed the nearest hill,

He saw nor tower nor town,

But, through the drear woods, lone and still,

The river rolling down.

He heard the stealthy feet of things

Whose shapes he could not see,

A flutter as of evil wings,

The fall of a dead tree.

The pines stood black against the moon,

A sword of fire beyond;

He heard the wolf howl, and the loon

Laugh from his reedy pond.

He turned him back; "O master dear,

We are but men misled;

And thou hast sought a city here

To find a grave instead."

"As God shall will! what matters where

A true man's cross may stand,

So Heaven be o'er it here as there

In pleasant Norman land?

"These woods, perchance, no secret hide

Of lordly tower and hall;

Yon river in its wanderings wide

Has washed no city wall;

"Yet mirrored in the sullen stream

The holy stars are given:

Is Norembega, then, a dream

Whose waking is in Heaven?

"No builded wonder of these lands

My weary eyes shall see;

A city never made with hands

Alone awaiteth me--

"'_Urbs Syon mystica_;' I see

Its mansions passing fair,

'_Condita coelo_;' let me be,

Dear Lord, a dweller there!"

Above the dying exile hung

The vision of the bard,

As faltered on his failing tongue

The song of good Bernard.

The henchman dug at dawn a grave

Beneath the hemlocks brown,

And to the desert's keeping gave

The lord of fief and town.

Years after, when the Sieur Champlain

Sailed up the unknown stream,

And Norembega proved again

A shadow and a dream,

He found the Norman's nameless grave

Within the hemlock's shade,

And, stretching wide its arms to save,

The sign that God had made,

The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot

And made it holy ground:

He needs the earthly city not

Who hath the heavenly found.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Until the middle of the sixteenth century, Spain was the only

nation which had succeeded in establishing colonies in the

New World. In 1583 Sir Humphrey Gilbert secured permission

from Queen Elizabeth to set out on a voyage of discovery and

colonization, for the glory of England. He landed at St.

John's, Newfoundland, August 5, and established there the first

English colony in North America. Then he sailed away to explore

further, and met the fate described in the poem. The colony

proved a failure.

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

[1583]

Southward with fleet of ice

Sailed the corsair Death;

Wild and fast blew the blast,

And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly ships of ice

Glisten in the sun;

On each side, like pennons wide,

Flashing crystal streamlets run.

His sails of white sea-mist

Dripped with silver rain;

But where he passed there were cast

Leaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from Campobello

Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;

Three days or more seaward he bore,

Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed,

And ice-cold grew the night;

And nevermore, on sea or shore,

Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck,

The Book was in his hand;

"Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"

He said, "by water as by land!"

In the first watch of the night,

Without a signal's sound,

Out of the sea, mysteriously,

The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star

Were hanging in the shrouds;

Every mast, as it passed,

Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

They grappled with their prize,

At midnight black and cold!

As of a rock was the shock;

Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark,

They drift in close embrace,

With mist and rain, o'er the open main;

Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, forever southward,

They drift through dark and day;

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream

Sinking, vanish all away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

With the destruction of the Armada in 1588, Spain's sea power

was so shattered that the Atlantic ceased to be a battleground.

English sailors could come and go with a fair degree of safety,

and before long the American coast was alive with these daring

and adventurous voyagers.

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS

_Five fearless knights of the first renown

In Elizabeth's great array,

From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down--

American sailors they;

Who went to the West,

For they all knew best

Where the silver was gray

As a moonlit night,

And the gold as bright

As a midsummer day--

A-sailing away

Through the salt sea spray,

The first American sailors._

Sir HUMPHREY GILBERT, he was ONE

_And Devon was heaven to him_,

He loved the sea as he loved the sun

_And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--

Hated him up to the brim_:

In Holland the Spanish hide he tanned,

He roughed and routed their braggart band,

And God was with him on sea and land;

Newfoundland knew him, and all that coast

For he was one of America's host--

And now there is nothing but English speech

For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From near the Equator away to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

Sir FRANCIS DRAKE, and he was TWO

_And Devon was heaven to him_,

He loved in his heart the waters blue

_And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--

Hated him up to the brim_!

At Cadiz he singed the King's black beard,

The Armada met him and fled afeard,

Great Philip's golden fleece he sheared;

Oregon knew him, and all that coast,

For he was one of America's host--

And now there is nothing but English speech

For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From California away to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

Sir WALTER RALEIGH, he was THREE

_And Devon was heaven to him_,

There was nothing he loved so well as the sea--

_He hated the Don as the Devil's limb--

Hated him up to the brim_!

He settled full many a Spanish score,

Full many's the banner his bullets tore

On English, American, Spanish shore;

Guiana knew him, and all that coast,

For he was one of America's host--

And now there is nothing but English speech

For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From Guiana northward to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

Sir RICHARD GRENVILLE, he was FOUR

_And Devon was heaven to him_,

He loved the waves and their windy roar

_And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--

Hated him up to the brim_!

He whipped him on land and mocked him at sea,

He laughed to scorn his sovereignty,

And with the Revenge beat his fifty-three;

Virginia knew him, and all that coast,

For he was one of America's host--

And now there is nothing but English speech

For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From the Old Dominion away to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

And Sir JOHN HAWKINS, he was FIVE

_And Devon was heaven to him_,

He worshipped the water while he was alive

_And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--

Hated him up to the brim_!

He chased him over the Spanish Main,

He scoffed and defied the navies of Spain--

His cities he ravished again and again;

The Gulf it knew him, and all that coast,

For he was one of America's host--

And now there is nothing but English speech

For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From the Rio Grandè away to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

_Five fearless knights have filled gallant graves

This many and many a day,

Some under the willows, some under the waves--

American sailors they;

And still in the West

Is their valor blest,

Where a banner bright

With the ocean's blue

And the red wrack's hue

And the spoondrift's white

Is smiling to-day

Through the salt sea spray

Upon American sailors._

WALLACE RICE.

CHAPTER III

THE SETTLEMENT OF VIRGINIA

England laid claim to the continent of North America by virtue

of the discoveries of John Cabot in 1497, but little effort

was made toward colonization until 1584, when an expedition

sent out by Sir Walter Raleigh explored Albemarle Sound and the

adjacent coast, and brought back so glowing a description of

the country that Elizabeth named the whole region Virginia, in

honor of her maidenhood. An abortive attempt to settle Roanoke

Island was made in 1585, and in 1587 another expedition under

John White landed there. White returned to England in the fall

to represent the needs of the settlement, leaving behind him

his daughter and little granddaughter,--Virginia Dare, the

first white child born in America. He promised to return within

a year, but was intercepted by Spaniards, and it was not until

August, 1590, that he again dropped anchor off the island. When

he went ashore next day, not a trace of the colonists could be

found, nor was their fate ever certainly discovered.

THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN

[August 27, 1587]

The home-bound ship stood out to sea,

And on the island's marge,

Sir Richard waited restlessly

To step into the barge.

"The Governor tarrieth long," he chode,

"As he were loth to go:

With food before, and want behind,

There should be haste, I trow."

Even as he spake, the Governor came:--

"Nay, fret not, for the men

Have held me back with frantic let,

To have them home again.

"The women weep;--'Ay, ay, the ship

Will come again' (he saith),

'Before the May;--Before the May

We shall have starved to death!'

"I've sworn return by God's dear leave,

I've vowed by court and crown,

Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou,

Mayhap, canst soothe them down."

Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched

Impatient hands abroad:--

"Have ye no trust in man?" he cried,

"Have ye no faith in God?

"Your Governor goes, as needs he must,

To bear through royal grace,

Hither, such food-supply, that want

May never blench a face.

"Of freest choice ye willed to leave

What so ye had of ease;

For neither stress of liege nor law

Hath forced you over seas.

"Your Governor leaves fair hostages

As costliest pledge of care,--

His daughter yonder, and her child,

The child Virginia Dare!

"Come hither, little sweetheart! Lo!

Thou'lt be the first, I ween,

To bend the knee, and send through me

Thy birthland's virgin fealty

Unto its Virgin Queen.

"And now, good folk, for my commands:

If ye are fain to roam

Beyond this island's narrow bounds,

To seek elsewhere a home,--

"Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk

Score deep the Indian name

Of tribe or village where ye haunt,

That we may read the same.

"And if ye leave your haven here

Through dire distress or loss,

Cut deep within the wood above

The symbol of the cross.

"And now on my good blade, I swear,

And seal it with this sign,

That if the fleet that sails to-day

Return not hither by the May,

The fault shall not be mine!"

[August 15, 1590]

The breath of spring was on the sea;

Anon the Governor stepped

His good ship's deck right merrily,--

His promise had been kept.

"See, see! the coast-line comes in view!"

He heard the mariners shout,--

"We'll drop our anchors in the Sound

Before a star is out!"

"Now God be praised!" he inly breathed,

"Who saves from all that harms;

The morrow morn my pretty ones

Will rest within my arms."

At dawn of day they moored their ship,

And dared the breakers' roar:

What meant it? not a man was there

To welcome them ashore!

They sprang to find the cabins rude;

The quick green sedge had thrown

Its knotted web o'er every door,

And climbed the chimney-stone.

The spring was choked with winter's leaves,

And feebly gurgled on;

And from the pathway, strewn with wrack,

All trace of feet was gone.

Their fingers thrid the matted grass,

If there, perchance, a mound

Unseen might heave the broken turf;

But not a grave was found.

They beat the tangled cypress swamp,

If haply in despair

They might have strayed into its glade:

But found no vestige there.

"The pine! the pine!" the Governor groaned;

And there each staring man

Read in a maze, one single word,

Deep carven,--CRO-A-TÀN!

But cut above, no cross, no sign,

No symbol of distress;

Naught else beside that mystic line

Within the wilderness!

And where and what was "CRO-A-TÀN"?

But not an answer came;

And none of all who read it there

Had ever heard the name.

The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve

Across his misty eyes;

"Some land, maybe, of savagery

Beyond the coast that lies;

"And skulking there the wily foe

In ambush may have lain:

God's mercy! Could such sweetest heads

Lie scalped among the slain?

"O daughter! daughter! with the thought

My harrowed brain is wild!

Up with the anchors! I must find

The mother and the child!"

They scoured the mainland near and far:

The search no tidings brought;

Till mid a forest's dusky tribe

They heard the name they sought.

The kindly natives came with gifts

Of corn and slaughtered deer;

What room for savage treachery

Or foul suspicion here?

Unhindered of a chief or brave,

They searched the wigwam through;

But neither lance nor helm nor spear,

Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear,

Could furnish forth a clue.

How could a hundred souls be caught

Straight out of life, nor find

Device through which to mark their fate,

Or leave some hint behind?

Had winter's ocean inland rolled

An eagre's deadly spray,

That overwhelmed the island's breadth

And swept them all away?

In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search!

No tidings reached them more;

No record save that silent word

Upon that silent shore.

The mystery rests a mystery still,

Unsolved of mortal man:

Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold

The tale of CRO-A-TÀN!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

In April, 1606, James I sanctioned the formation of two

Virginia colonies, and the first colony set sail on the

following New Year's day--three vessels, with one hundred and

five men, under command of Christopher Newport. Twelve weeks

later, they landed at a place they named "Point Comfort," and

proceeded up a great river which they named the King's and

afterwards the James. On May 13, 1607, the colonists landed

on a low peninsula fifty miles up the river, and Captain

Newport selected this, against many protests, as the site for

the settlement. They christened the place Jamestown. Captains

Newport, Gosnold, Smith, and Sickelmore were named as the

resident council for the colony, but time soon proved Smith the

ablest man in the company, and the leadership fell to him.

JOHN SMITH'S APPROACH TO JAMESTOWN

[May 13, 1607]

I pause not now to speak of Raleigh's dreams,

Though they might give a loftier bard fit themes:

I pause not now to tell of Ocracock,

Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock;

Nor of my native river which glides down

Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town;

But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay,

Resume my story in the month of May,

Where England's cross--St. George's ensign--flowed

Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed;

Where English breasts throbbed fast as English eyes

Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise,--

Looked gladly out upon the varied scene

Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green;

Flinging great shadows, beautiful and vast

As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast.

Turn where they would, in what direction rove,

They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove,

On which they coasted through those forests dim,

Wherein they heard the never-ceasing hymn

That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines,--

Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines.

For though no priest their solitudes had trod,

The trees were vocal in their praise of God.

And then, when, capes and jutting headlands past,

The sails were furled against each idle mast,

They saw the sunset in its pomp descend,

And sky and water gloriously contend

For gorgeousness of colors, red and gold,

And tints of amethyst together rolled,

Making a scene of splendor and of rest

As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West.

And when the light grew faint on wave and strand,

New beauties woke in this enchanted land,

For through heaven's lattice-work of crimson bars

Like angels looked the bright eternal stars,

And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown,

A golden sickle, reaping darkness down,

The new moon shone above the lofty trees,

Which made low music in the evening breeze,--

The breeze which floating blandly from the shore

The perfumed breath of flowering jasmine bore;

For smiling Spring had kissed its clustering vines,

And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines.

JAMES BARRON HOPE.

Captain Smith proved himself an energetic and effective leader,

and led numerous expeditions into the country in search of

food. On one of these, in December, 1607, he was taken prisoner

and was conducted to the camp of Powhatan, over-king of the

tribes from the Atlantic coast to the "falls of the river."

According to the story he sent to England a few months later,

he was well treated, and was sent back to Jamestown with an

escort. Eight years afterwards, when writing an account of

Powhatan's younger daughter, Pocahontas, who was then in

England, for the entertainment of Queen Anne, he embellished

this plain and probably truthful tale with the romantic

incidents so long received as history.

POCAHONTAS

[January 5, 1608]

Wearied arm and broken sword

Wage in vain the desperate fight;

Round him press a countless horde,

He is but a single knight.

Hark! a cry of triumph shrill

Through the wilderness resounds,

As, with twenty bleeding wounds,

Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the funeral pyre,

And the torch of death they light;

Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire!

Who will shield the captive knight?

Round the stake with fiendish cry

Wheel and dance the savage crowd,

Cold the victim's mien and proud,

And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade?

From the throng with sudden start

See, there springs an Indian maid.

Quick she stands before the knight:

"Loose the chain, unbind the ring!

I am daughter of the king,

And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife,

Fondly to his heart she clings,

And her bosom guards his life!

In the woods of Powhatan,

Still 'tis told by Indian fires

How a daughter of their sires

Saved a captive Englishman.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

The way in which the Pocahontas incident has been handled by

the poets is an interesting and joyous study. These stanzas of

Morris's are too delicious to be omitted.

POCAHONTAS

Upon the barren sand

A single captive stood;

Around him came, with bow and brand,

The red men of the wood.

Like him of old, his doom he hears,

Rock-bound on ocean's brim--

The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,

And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air

The savage war-club swung:

The frantic girl, in wild despair,

Her arms about him flung.

Then shook the warriors of the shade,

Like leaves on aspen limb,

Subdued by that heroic maid

Who breathed a prayer for him!

"Unbind him!" gasped the chief:

"It is your king's decree!"

He kiss'd away the tears of grief,

And set the captive free!

'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm

Hope's star to man grows dim,

An angel kneels, in woman's form,

And breathes a prayer for him.

GEORGE POPE MORRIS.

The colony did not flourish as had been hoped, and in May,

1609, the King granted a new charter with larger powers and

privileges, and a new company was formed, of which Sir Thomas

Gates, Lord De La Warr, and Sir George Somers were made the

officers. A large expedition sailed from England June 2, 1609,

in charge of Gates, Somers, and Captain Newport, who were on

the Sea Venture. During a violent hurricane, their ship was

separated from the rest of the fleet and cast ashore upon the

Bermudas, whose beauties were so eloquently sung by Andrew

Marvell.

BERMUDAS

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat, that rowed along,

The listening winds received this song:

"What should we do but sing His praise,

That led us through the watery maze,

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,

That lift the deep upon their backs,

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage.

He gave us this eternal Spring

Which here enamels every thing,

And sends the fowls to us in care,

On daily visits through the air;

He hangs in shades the orange bright,

Like golden lamps in a green night,

And does in the pomegranates close

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;

He makes the figs our mouths to meet,

And throws the melons at our feet;

But apples plants of such a price,

No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars chosen by His hand

From Lebanon He stores the land,

And makes the hollow seas that roar

Proclaim the ambergris on shore;

He cast (of which we rather boast)

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,

And in these rocks for us did frame

A temple where to sound His name.

Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,

Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may

Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

Thus sung they, in the English boat,

A holy and a cheerful note:

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

ANDREW MARVELL.

The passengers and crew of the Sea Venture managed to get to

land, and finally built two pinnaces, in which they reached

Virginia May 24, 1610. They found the colonists in a desolate

and miserable condition, and only the timely arrival of Lord

De La Warr in the following month (June 9, 1610), with fresh

supplies and colonists, prevented them from burning the town

and sailing back to England. Among the passengers on the Sea

Venture was one Richard Rich. He shared in all the adventures

and hardships of the voyage, and finally got back to England in

the fall of 1610. On October 1 he published an account of the

voyage, called "Newes from Virginia," the first poem written by

a visitor to America.

NEWES FROM VIRGINIA

[September, 1610]

It is no idle fabulous tale, nor is it fayned newes:

For Truth herself is heere arriv'd, because you should not muse.

With her both Gates and Newport come, to tell Report doth lye,

Which did divulge unto the world, that they at sea did dye.

Tis true that eleaven months and more, these gallant worthy wights

War in the shippe Sea-venture nam'd depriv'd Virginia's sight.

And bravely did they glyde the maine, till Neptune gan to frowne,

As if a courser proudly backt would throwe his ryder downe.

The seas did rage, the windes did blowe, distressèd were they then;

Their ship did leake, her tacklings breake, in daunger were her men.

But heaven was pylotte in this storme, and to an iland nere,

Bermoothawes call'd, conducted then, which did abate their feare.

But yet these worthies forcèd were, opprest with weather againe,

To runne their ship betweene two rockes, where she doth still remaine.

And then on shoare the iland came, inhabited by hogges,

Some foule and tortoyses there were, they only had one dogge.

To kill these swyne, to yeild them foode that little had to eate,

Their store was spent, and all things scant, alas! they wanted meate.

A thousand hogges that dogge did kill, their hunger to sustaine,

And with such foode did in that ile two and forty weekes remaine.

And there two gallant pynases did build of seader-tree;

The brave Deliverance one was call'd; of seaventy tonne was shee.

The other Patience had to name, her burthen thirty tonne;

Two only of their men which there pale death did overcome.

And for the losse of these two soules, which were accounted deere,

A son and daughter then was borne, and were baptizèd there.

The two and forty weekes being past, they hoyst sayle and away;

Their ships with hogges well freighted were, their harts with mickle joy.

And so unto Virginia came, where these brave soldiers finde

The English-men opprest with greife and discontent in minde.

They seem'd distracted and forlorne, for those two worthyes losse,

Yet at their home returne they joy'd, among'st them some were crosse.

And in the mid'st of discontent came noble Delaware;

He heard the greifes on either part, and sett them free from care.

He comforts them and cheeres their hearts, that they abound with joy;

He feedes them full and feedes their souls with Gods word every day.

A discreet counsell he creates of men of worthy fame,

That noble Gates leiftenant was the admirall had to name.

The worthy Sir George Somers knight, and others of commaund;

Maister Georg Pearcy, which is brother unto Northumberland.

Sir Fardinando Wayneman Knight, and others of good fame,

That noble lord his company, which to Virginia came,

And landed there; his number was one hundred seaventy; then

Ad to the rest, and they make full foure hundred able men.

Where they unto their labour fall, as men that meane to thrive;

Let's pray that heaven may blesse them all, and keep them long alive.

Those men that vagrants liv'd with us, have there deserved well;

Their governour writes in their praise, as divers letters tel.

And to th' adventurers thus he writes be not dismayed at all,

For scandall cannot doe us wrong, God will not let us fall.

Let England knowe our willingnesse, for that our worke is goode;

Wee hope to plant a nation, where none before hath stood.

To glorifie the lord tis done; and to no other end;

He that would crosse so good a work, to God can be no friend.

There is no feare of hunger here for corne much store here growes,

Much fish the gallant rivers yeild, tis truth without suppose.

Great store of fowle, of venison, of grapes and mulberries,

Of chestnuts, walnuts, and such like, of fruits and strawberries,

There is indeed no want at all, but some, condiciond ill,

That wish the worke should not goe on with words doe seeme to kill.

And for an instance of their store, the noble Delaware

Hath for the present hither sent, to testify his care

In mannaging so good a worke, to gallant ships, by name,

The Blessing and the Hercules, well fraught, and in the same

Two ships, as these commodities, furres, sturgeon, caviare,

Black walnut-tree, and some deale boards, with such they laden are;

Some pearle, some wainscot and clapboards, with some sassafras wood,

And iron promist, for tis true their mynes are very good.

Then maugre scandall, false report, or any opposition,

Th' adventurers doe thus devulge to men of good condition,

That he that wants shall have reliefe, be he of honest minde,

Apparel, coyne, or any thing, to such they will be kinde.

To such as to Virginia do purpose to repaire;

And when that they shall hither come, each man shall have his share.

Day wages for the laborer, and for his more content,

A house and garden plot shall have; besides, tis further ment

That every man shall have a part, and not thereof denaid,

Of generall profit, as if that he twelve pounds ten shillings paid;

And he that in Virginia shall copper coyne receive,

For hyer or commodities, and will the country leave

Upon delivery of such coyne unto the Governour,

Shall by exchange at his returne be by their treasurer

Paid him in London at first sight, no man shall cause to grieve,

For tis their generall will and wish that every man should live.

The number of adventurers, that are for this plantation,

Are full eight hundred worthy men, some noble, all of fashion.

Good, discreete, their worke is good, and as they have begun,

May Heaven assist them in their worke, and thus our newes is done.

RICHARD RICH.

Lord Delaware's stay in Virginia marked the turning-point in

the fortunes of the colony. New settlements were made, tobacco

culture was begun, and Virginia seemed at last fairly started

on the road to prosperity.

TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE

[1611]

You brave heroic minds,

Worthy your country's name,

That honor still pursue,

Go and subdue,

Whilst loitering hinds

Lurk here at home, with shame.

Britons, you stay too long:

Quickly aboard bestow you,

And with a merry gale

Swell your stretch'd sail,

With vows as strong

As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer,

West and by south forth keep!

Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,

When Eolus scowls,

You need not fear,

So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea,

Success you still entice,

To get the pearl and gold,

And ours to hold

Virginia,

Earth's only paradise.

Where nature hath in store

Fowl, venison, and fish,

And the fruitful'st soil,

Without your toil,

Three harvests more,

All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine

Crowns with his purple mass

The cedar reaching high

To kiss the sky,

The cypress, pine,

And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age

Still nature's laws doth give,

No other cares attend,

But them to defend

From winter's rage,

That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell

Of that delicious land,

Above the seas that flows,

The clear wind throws,

Your hearts to swell

Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore

(Thanks to God first given)

O you the happiest men,

Be frolic then!

Let cannons roar,

Frighting the wide heaven;

And in regions far

Such heroes bring ye forth

As those from whom we came,

And plant our name

Under that star

Not known unto our North;

And as there plenty grows

Of laurel everywhere,--

Apollo's sacred tree,--

You it may see,

A poet's brows

To crown, that may sing there.

Thy _Voyages_ attend

Industrious Hackluit,

Whose reading shall inflame

Men to seek fame,

And much commend

To after-times thy wit.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Among the planters at Jamestown was John Rolfe, a zealous

Christian, who became interested in Pocahontas. Finally, either

captivated by her grace and beauty as the romancists believe,

or in spite of personal scruples and "for the good of the

colony," as Hamor wrote, he proposed marriage. The Princess was

willing, her father consented, though he refused to be present

at the ceremony (April 5, 1614), and the bride was given away

by her uncle Opachisco. They had one son, Thomas Rolfe, whose

descendants are still living in Virginia.

THE MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS

[April 5, 1614]

That balmy eve, within a trellised bower,

Rudely constructed on the sounding shore,

Her plighted troth the forest maiden gave

Ere sought the skiff that bore them o'er the wave

To the dark home-bound ship, whose restless sway

Rocked to the winds and waves, impatient of delay.

* * * * *

Short was the word that pledged triumphant love;

That vow, that claims its registry above.

And low the cadence of that hymn of praise

Whose hallowed incense rose, as rose its lays;

And few the worshippers 'neath that pure cope

Which emblems to the soul eternal hope.

One native maiden waited the command

Of the young Princess of Virginia's strand;

And that dark youth, the Page of Cedar Isle,

Who wept her woes, and shared her sad exile,

With his loved bride, who owned the royal blood,

And near the forest Queen majestically stood.

Some others bent beside the rural shrine

In adoration to the Power divine;

When at the altar knelt, with minds serene,

The gallant Soldier and the dark-browed Queen.

These, for the love they bore her guileless youth,

Paid the high fealty of the warm heart's truth;

And with its homage satisfied, gone o'er

Each vision bright that graced their natal shore.

Those, with forebodings dread and brimful eyes,

Bade holy angels guard the destinies

Of one on whom had fallen the chrism of light

With unction pure; the youthful neophyte

Of that fair clime where millions yet unborn

Shall raise the choral hymn from eve till morn.

MRS. M. M. WEBSTER.

In 1616 Pocahontas was taken to England, where she was received

with marked attention by the Queen and court. She renewed her

acquaintance with Captain John Smith, who was busy weaving

fairy tales about her, had her portrait painted and led a

fashionable life generally. It did not agree with her, she

developed consumption, and died at Gravesend, March 27, 1617.

THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN

[June, 1616]

In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green,

Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen,

For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen.

There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air

All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere,

Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair.

As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command,

Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "_Welcome, welcome, to my land!_"

But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand.

"What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee?

I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea;

On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished _but for thee_.

"Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget!

I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet;

I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet.

"Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man,

Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran

To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan."

With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there,

While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare;

But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair.

All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf,

And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden

grief,

Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief.

At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell,

And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell

Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.

But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head,

Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said:

"White man's tongue is false. It told me--told me--_that my brave was

dead_.

"And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves

(Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice within her

grieves?),

Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves.

"Call me 'child' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean;

Never shadow, _Nenemoosa_, our twain hearts shall come between;

Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen."

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

In 1676 the colony was shaken by a struggle which presaged that

other one which was to occur just a century later. An Indian

war had broken out along the frontier, but Governor Berkeley

disbanded the forces gathered to repress it. Whereupon a young

man named Nathaniel Bacon gathered a force of his own, marched

against the Indians, and was proclaimed a rebel and traitor

by the royal governor, who had collected at Jamestown a force

of nearly a thousand men. Bacon, after a campaign in which

the hostile Indians were practically wiped out of existence,

marched back to Jamestown and besieged the place. After a sally

in which he was repulsed, Berkeley sailed away and left the

town to its fate. Bacon entered it next morning (September 19,

1676), and, deciding that he could not hold it, set fire to it

that evening. It was totally destroyed.

THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN

[September 19, 1676]

Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers,

And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore,

He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears,

And lord it again as he lorded before:

It was--"Traitors, be dumb!"

And--"Surrender, ye scum!"

And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.

A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne;

For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life;

But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan

When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife,

And shrink from the fray,

Was not the man's way--

It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.

On the outer plantations the savages burst,

And scattered around desolation and woe;

And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst,

Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow;

Though when, weapons in hand,

We made our demand,

He sullenly suffered our forces to go.

Then while we were doing our work for the crown,

And risking our lives in the perilous fight,

He sent lying messengers out, up and down,

To denounce us as outlaws--mere malice and spite;

Then from Accomac's shore

Brought a thousand or more,

Who swaggered the country around, day and night.

Returning in triumph, instead of reward

For the marches we made and the battles we won,

There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword--

Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done?

When this madman abhorred

Appealed to the sword,

And our leader said "fight!" did he think we would run?

Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were,

We feared not to combat with lord or with lown,

So we took the old wretch at his word--that was fair;

But he dared not come out from his hold in the town

Where he lay with his men,

Like a wolf in his den;

And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.

He made a fierce sally,--his force was so strong

He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight,--

But we met in close column his ruffianly throng,

And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright;

Then while ready we lay

For the storming next day,

He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.

The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no!

Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return;

But one course was left us to baffle the foe--

The birds would not come if the nest we should burn;

So the red, crackling fire

Climbed to roof-top and spire,

A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.

That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised

On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame?

That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised

The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame?

That we smiled when there lay

Smoking ruins next day,

And nothing was left of the town but its name?

We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died;

The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then;

And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride

To give to the gallows the best of our men;

But while the grass grows

And the clear water flows,

The town shall not rise from its ashes again.

So, you come for your victim! I'm ready; but, pray,

Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring.

Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say

With the last drink I take. Here's a health to the King,

Who reigns o'er a land

Where, against his command,

The rogues rule and ruin, while honest men swing.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Jamestown soon avenged itself. Before Bacon left the place he

was ill with fever, and on the first day of October, at the

house of a friend in Gloucester County, he "surrendered up that

fort he was no longer able to keep, into the hands of the grim

and all-conquering Captain, Death." His death was celebrated in

a poem which is perhaps the most brilliant example of sustained

poetic art produced in Colonial America. It was written "by his

man," of whom absolutely nothing is known.

BACON'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIS MAN

[October 1, 1676]

Death, why so cruel? What! no other way

To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay

Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,

Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fall

To its late chaos? Had thy rigid force

Been dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,

Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,

Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain,

Whose lives and safeties did so much depend

On him their life, with him their lives must end.

If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can be

We must be guilty; say 'twas bribery

Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes,

To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owes

Deservèd plagues, dreading their just desert,

Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art

Him to destroy; whose well-tried courage such,

Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.

Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood

The Heathen made, and drew into a flood?

Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum,

Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumb

And cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong)

Will want the aid of his commanding tongue,

Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew

Only the outward frame; this could subdue

The rugged works of nature. Souls replete

With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat

Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word,

Mars and Minerva both in him concurred

For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike

As Cato's did, may admiration strike

Into his foes; while they confess withal

It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.

Only this difference does from truth proceed:

They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.

While none shall dare his obsequies to sing

In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring

Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free

To sound his praises to posterity.

Here let him rest; while we this truth report,

He's gone from hence unto a higher Court

To plead his cause, where he by this doth know

Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.

Jamestown never recovered from the blow which Bacon dealt it.

The location was so unhealthy that it could not attract new

settlers, and though some of the houses which had been burned

were subsequently rebuilt, the town's day of greatness was

past. The seat of government was removed to Williamsburg, and

the old settlement dropped gradually to decay.

ODE TO JAMESTOWN

Old cradle of an infant world,

In which a nestling empire lay,

Struggling awhile, ere she unfurled

Her gallant wing and soared away;

All hail! thou birthplace of the glowing west,

Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruined nest!

What solemn recollections throng,

What touching visions rise,

As, wandering these old stones among,

I backward turn mine eyes,

And see the shadows of the dead flit round,

Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

The wonders of an age combined

In one short moment memory supplies;

They throng upon my wakened mind,

As time's dark curtains rise.

The volume of a hundred buried years,

Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave,

I see the lonely little bark

Scudding along the crested wave,

Freighted like old Noah's ark,

As o'er the drownèd earth 'twas hurled,

With the forefathers of another world.

I see the train of exiles stand,

Amid the desert, desolate,

The fathers of my native land,

The daring pioneers of fate,

Who braved the perils of the sea and earth,

And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the sovereign Indian range

His woodland empire, free as air;

I see the gloomy forest change,

The shadowy earth laid bare;

And where the red man chased the bounding deer,

The smiling labors of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze

In wonder or in scorn,

As the pale faces sweat to raise

Their scanty fields of corn,

While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,

By sport, or hair-brained rapine, wins his food.

A moment, and the pageant's gone;

The red men are no more;

The pale-faced strangers stand alone

Upon the river's shore;

And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdained,

Finds but a bloody grave where once he reigned.

The forest reels beneath the stroke

Of sturdy woodman's axe;

The earth receives the white man's yoke,

And pays her willing tax

Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,

And all that nature to blithe labor yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads,

And gathering crowds expand,

Far as my fancy's vision spreads,

O'er many a boundless land,

Till what was once a world of savage strife

Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds,

Each happy, great, and free;

One empire still another breeds,

A giant progeny,

Destined their daring race to run,

Each to the regions of yon setting sun.

Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace

The fount whence these rich waters sprung,

I glance towards this lonely place,

And find it these rude stones among.

Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round,

The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long;

The stone, but not a word, remains;

They cannot live in deathless song,

Nor breathe in pious strains.

Yet this sublime obscurity to me

More touching is than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe;

They live in millions yet unborn,

And pious gratitude shall wreathe

As bright a crown as e'er was worn,

And hang it on the green-leaved bough,

That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks,

No one that loves his native land,

No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,

Can mid these lonely ruins stand

Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear

Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round,

Of him whose strange, yet bright career

Is written on this sacred ground

In letters that no time shall sere;

Who in the Old World smote the turbaned crew,

And founded Christian empires in the New.

And she! the glorious Indian maid,

The tutelary of this land,

The angel of the woodland shade,

The miracle of God's own hand,

Who joined man's heart to woman's softest grace,

And thrice redeemed the scourges of her race.

Sister of charity and love,

Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,

Dear goddess of the sylvan grove,

Flower of the forest, nature's pride,

He is no man who does not bend the knee,

And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed rock

To me shall ever sacred be,--

I care not who my themes may mock,

Or sneer at them and me.

I envy not the brute who here can stand

Without a thrill for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth,

Or breathe Virginia's air,

Or in New England claim his birth,

From the old pilgrims there,

He is a bastard if he dare to mock

Old Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.

In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a

thriving trade along the American coast. One of the most

redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as

"Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he

was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together

with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor

Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad

said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.

THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY

[November 22, 1718]

Will you hear of a bloody Battle,

Lately fought upon the Seas?

It will make your Ears to rattle,

And your Admiration cease;

Have you heard of _Teach_ the Rover,

And his Knavery on the Main;

How of Gold he was a Lover,

How he lov'd all ill-got Gain?

When the Act of Grace appeared,

Captain _Teach_, with all his Men,

Unto _Carolina_ steered,

Where they kindly us'd him then;

There he marry'd to a Lady,

And gave her five hundred Pound,

But to her he prov'd unsteady,

For he soon march'd off the Ground.

And returned, as I tell you,

To his Robbery as before,

Burning, sinking Ships of value,

Filling them with Purple Gore;

When he was at _Carolina_,

There the Governor did send

To the Governor of _Virginia_,

That he might assistance lend.

Then the Man-of-War's Commander,

Two small Sloops he fitted out,

Fifty Men he put on board, Sir,

Who resolv'd to stand it out;

The Lieutenant he commanded

Both the Sloops, and you shall hear

How, before he landed,

He suppress'd them without fear.

Valiant _Maynard_ as he sailed,

Soon the Pirate did espy,

With his Trumpet he then hailed,

And to him they did reply:

Captain _Teach_ is our Commander,

_Maynard_ said, he is the Man

Whom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir,

Let him do the best he can.

_Teach_ replyed unto _Maynard_,

You no Quarter here shall see,

But be hang'd on the Mainyard,

You and all your Company;

_Maynard_ said, I none desire

Of such Knaves as thee and thine,

None I'll give, _Teach_ then replyed,

My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.

He took the Glass, and drank Damnation

Unto _Maynard_ and his Crew;

To himself and Generation,

Then the Glass away he threw;

Brave _Maynard_ was resolv'd to have him,

Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten;

_Teach_ a broadside quickly gave him,

Killing sixteen valiant Men.

_Maynard_ boarded him, and to it

They fell with Sword and Pistol too;

They had Courage, and did show it,

Killing of the Pirate's Crew.

_Teach_ and _Maynard_ on the Quarter,

Fought it out most manfully,

_Maynard's_ Sword did cut him shorter,

Losing his head, he there did die.

Every Sailor fought while he, Sir,

Power had to wield the Sword,

Not a Coward could you see, Sir,

Fear was driven from aboard;

Wounded Men on both Sides fell, Sir,

'Twas a doleful Sight to see,

Nothing could their Courage quell, Sir,

O, they fought courageously.

When the bloody Fight was over,

We're informed by a Letter writ,

_Teach's_ Head was made a Cover,

To the Jack Staff of the Ship;

Thus they sailed to _Virginia_,

And when they the Story told,

How they kill'd the Pirates many,

They'd Applause from young and old.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. (?)

On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O.

S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to

Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby was christened

George, and lived to become the most famous personage in

American history.

FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC

[February 11, 1732]

I. POTOMAC SIDE

Do you know how the people of all the land

Knew at last that the time was at hand

When He should be sent to give command

To armies and people, to father and son!

How the glad tidings of joy should run

Which tell of the birth of Washington?

Three women keep watch of the midnight sky

Where Potomac ripples below;

They watch till the light in the window hard by

The birth of the child shall show.

Is it peace? Is it strife?

Is it death? Is it life?

The light in the window shall show!

Weal or woe!

We shall know!

The women have builded a signal pile

For the birthday's welcome flame,

That the light may show for many a mile

To tell when the baby came!

And south and north

The word go forth

That the boy is born

On that blessèd morn;

The boy of deathless fame!

II. SIGNAL FIRES

The watchmen have waited on Capitol Hill

And they light the signal flame;

And at Baltimore Bay they waited till

The welcome tidings came;

And then across the starlit night,

At the head of Elk the joyful light

Told to the Quaker town the story

Of new-born life and coming glory!

To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn Height

They sent the signal clear and bright,

And far away,

Before the day,

To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flame

And everywhere the message came,

As the signal flew

The people knew

That the man of men was born!

III. MERRIMAC SIDE, AND AGIOCHOOK

So it is, they say, that the men in the bay,

In winter's ice and snow,

See the welcome light on Wachusett Height

While the Merrimac rolls below.

The cheery fire

Rose higher and higher,

Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,

And on and on, and on it came,

And as men look

Far away in the north

The word goes forth,

To Agiochook.

The welcome fire

Flashed higher and higher

To our mountain ways,

And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!

So the farmers in the Intervale

See the light that shall never fail,

The beacon light which shines to tell

To all the world to say

That the boy has been born

On that winter's morn

By Potomac far away.

Whose great command

Shall bless that land

Whom the land shall bless

In joy and distress

Forever and a day!

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

CHAPTER IV

THE DUTCH AT NEW AMSTERDAM

On the fourth day of April, 1609, there put out from the port

of Amsterdam a little craft of about eighty tons, called the

Half Moon. It had been chartered by the Dutch East India

Company to search for the Northwest Passage. Its captain was

Henry Hudson, and on September 3 he cast anchor inside Sandy

Hook.

HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST

[1609]

Out from the harbor of Amsterdam

The Half Moon turned her prow to sea;

The coast of Norway dropped behind,

Yet Northward still kept she

Through the drifting fog and the driving snow,

Where never before man dared to go:

"O Pilot, shall we find the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"

"A waste of ice before us lies--we must turn back," said he.

Westward they steered their tiny bark,

Westward through weary weeks they sped,

Till the cold gray strand of a stranger-land

Loomed through the mist ahead.

League after league they hugged the coast,

And their Captain never left his post:

"O Pilot, see you yet the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"

"I see but the rocks and the barren shore; no strait is there," quoth he.

They sailed to the North--they sailed to the South--

And at last they rounded an arm of sand

Which held the sea from a harbor's mouth--

The loveliest in the land;

They kept their course across the bay,

And the shore before them fell away:

"O Pilot, see you not the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"

"Hold the rudder true! Praise Christ Jesu! the strait is here," said he.

Onward they glide with wind and tide,

Past marshes gray and crags sun-kist;

They skirt the sills of green-clad hills,

And meadows white with mist--

But alas! the hope and the brave, brave dream!

For rock and shallow bar the stream:

"O Pilot, can this be the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"

"Nay, Captain, nay; 'tis not this way; turn back we must," said he.

Full sad was Hudson's heart as he turned

The Half Moon's prow to the South once more;

He saw no beauty in crag or hill,

No beauty in curving shore;

For they shut him away from that fabled main

He sought his whole life long, in vain:

"O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"

"God's crypt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time,"

quoth he.

BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.

A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September

6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman

named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small

boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who

sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows

pierced Colman's throat, killing him.

THE DEATH OF COLMAN

[September 6, 1609]

'Twas Juet spoke--the Half Moon's mate

And they who Holland's ship of state

Compass'd with wisdom, listening sate:

Discovery's near-extinguished spark

Flared up into a blaze,

When Man-na-hat-ta's virgin hills,

Enriched by Autumn's days,

First fell on our impatient sight,

And soothed us with a strange delight.

Bidden by fevered trade, our keel

Had ploughed unbeaten deeps;

From many a perfume-laden isle

To the dark land that sleeps

Forever in its winter robe,

Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.

But we, who sought for China's strand

By ocean ways untried,

Forgot our mission when we cast

Our anchor in a tide

That kissed a gem too wondrous fair

For any eastern sea to wear!

Entranced, we saw the golden woods

Slope gently to the sands;

The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfed

Their kin of other lands;

And from the shore the balmy wind

Blew sweeter than the spice of Ind.

As he whose eyes, though opened wide,

Are fixed upon a dream,

So Colman--one who long had held

Our Hudson's warm esteem--

Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,

"Ere even's shades are overspread,

"Proudly our flag on yonder height

Shall tell of Holland's gain;

Proclaiming her to all the earth

The sovereign of the main."

And quickly from the Half Moon's bow

We turned the longboat's yielding prow.

The measured flashing of the oars

Broke harshly on the ear;

And eye asked eye--for lips were mute--

What Holland hearts should fear;

For true it is our hearts were soft,

Save his, who held the flag aloft.

And suddenly our unshaped dread

Took direful form and sound.

For from a near nook's rocky shade,

Swift as pursuing hound,

A savage shallop sped, to hold

From stranger feet that strand of gold.

And rageful cries disturbed the peace

That on the waters slept;

And Echo whispered on the hills,

As though an army crept,

With flinty axe and brutal blade,

Through the imperforate forest shade.

"What! are ye cravens?" Colman said;

For each had shipped his oar.

He waved the flag: "For Netherland,

Pull for yon jutting shore!"

Then prone he fell within the boat,

A flinthead arrow through his throat!

And now full many a stealthy skiff

Shot out into the bay;

And swiftly, sadly, pulled we back

To where the Half Moon lay;

But he was dead--our master wept--

He smiled, brave heart, as though he slept.

Then to the seaward breeze our sail

With woful hearts we threw;

And anchored near a sandy strip

That looks o'er ocean blue:

And there we kissed and buried him,

While surges sang his funeral hymn.

And many a pitying glance we gave,

And many a prayer we said,

As from that grave we turned, and left

The dark sea with her dead;

For--God of Waves!--none could repress

One choking thought--_the loneliness_!

THOMAS FROST.

Hudson ascended the river to a point a little above the present

town of Albany, then turned back and returned to Holland. His

report of the rich country he had discovered was received with

enthusiasm there, and preparations were begun on an extensive

scale to colonize the new country. Dutch voyagers explored all

the adjacent coasts, among the most active being Adrian Block.

ADRIAN BLOCK'S SONG

[July, 1615]

Hard aport! Now close to shore sail!

Starboard now, and drop your foresail!

See, boys, what yon bay discloses,

What yon open bay discloses!

Where the breeze so gently blows is

Heaven's own land of ruddy roses.

Past the Cormorant we sail,

Past the rippling Beaver Tail,

Green with summer, red with flowers,

Green with summer, fresh with showers,

Sweet with song and red with flowers,

Is this new-found land of ours!

Roses close above the sand,

Roses on the trees on land,

I shall take this land for my land,

Rosy beach and rosy highland,

And I name it Roses Island.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

But troubles at home prevented any extensive effort at

colonization until 1621, when the States-General chartered the

Dutch West India Company, which in 1623 sent Captain Cornelius

Jacobsen Mey, with thirty families, to start the colony.

THE PRAISE OF NEW NETHERLAND

With sharpened pen and wit, one tunes his lays,

To sing the vanity of fame and praise;

His moping thoughts, bewildered in a maze,

In darkness wander.

What brings disgrace, what constitutes a wrong,

These form the burden of the tuneful song:

And honor saved, his senses then among

The dark holes ponder.

For me, it is a nobler thing I sing.

New Netherland springs forth my heroine;

Where Amstel's folk did erst their people bring,

And still they flourish.

New Netherland, thou noblest spot of earth,

Where Bounteous Heaven ever poureth forth

The fulness of His gifts, of greatest worth,

Mankind to nourish.

Whoe'er to you a judgment fair applies,

And knowing, comprehends your qualities,

Will justify the man who, to the skies,

Extols your glories.

Who studies well your natural elements,

And with the plumb of science, gains a sense

Of all the four: fails not in their defence,

Before free juries.

Your _Air_, so clear, so sharp to penetrate,

The western breezes softly moderate;

And, tempering the heat, they separate

It from all moisture.

From damp, and mist, and fog, they set it free;

From smells of pools, they give it liberty:

The struggling stenches made to mount on high,

And be at peace there.

No deadly pest its purity assails,

To spread infection o'er your hills and vales,

Save when a guilty race, great sins bewails

In expiating.

Your Sun, th' original of _Fire_ and heat,

The common nutriment of both to eat,

Is warm and pure; in plants most delicate,

Much sap creating.

Nor turf, nor dried manure,--within your doors,

Nor coal, extracted from earth's secret stores,

Nor sods, uplifted from the barren moors,

For fuel given;

Which, with foul stench the brain intoxicate,

And thus, by the foul gas which they create.

The intellects of many, wise and great,

Men are out-driven.

The forests do, with better means, supply

The hearth and house; the stately hickory,

Not planted, does the winter fell defy,--

A valiant warden;

So closely grained, so rich with fragrant oil,

Before its blaze both wet and cold recoil;

And sweetest perfumes float around the while,

Like 'n Eden's garden.

The _Water_ clear and fresh, and pure and sweet,

Springs up continually beneath the feet,

And everywhere the gushing fountains meet,

In brooks o'erflowing,

Which animals refresh, both tame and wild;

And plants conduce to grow on hill and field;

And these to man unnumbered comforts yield,

And quickly growing.

The _Earth_ in soils of different shades appears,

Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bears

Abundant harvests; and, what pleases, spares

Not to surrender.

No bounds exist to their variety.

They nourishment afford most plenteously

To creatures which, in turn, man's wants supply

And health engender.

O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind,

Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,--

Its proper value to each gift assigned,

Will soon discover,

If ever land perfection have attained,

That you in all things have that glory gained;

Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained,

Would pass you over.

In North America, behold your _Seat_,

Where all that heart can wish you satiate,

And where oppressed with wealth inordinate,

You have the power

To bless the people with whate'er they need,

The melancholy, from their sorrows lead,

The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede,

Who never cower.

The _Ocean_ laves secure the outer shore,

Which, like a dyke, is raised your fields before;

And streams, like arteries, all veinèd o'er,

The woods refreshing;

And rolling down from mountains and the hills,

Afford, upon their banks, fit sites for mills;

And furnish, what the heart with transport fills,

The finest fishing.

JACOB STEENDAM.

Other expeditions followed, but though the colony prospered,

the mother country could provide little means of defence, and

it was practically at the mercy of the English--the "swine" of

Steendam's verses.

THE COMPLAINT OF NEW AMSTERDAM

[1659]

I'm a grandchild of the gods

Who on th' Amstel have abodes;

Whence their orders forth are sent,

Swift for aid and punishment.

I, of Amsterdam, was born,

Early of her breasts forlorn;

From her care so quickly weaned

Oft have I my fate bemoaned.

From my youth up left alone,

Naught save hardship have I known;

Dangers have beset my way

From the first I saw the day.

Think you this a cause for marvel?

This will then the thread unravel,

And the circumstances trace,

Which upon my birth took place.

Would you ask for my descent?

Long the time was it I spent

In the loins of warlike Mars.

'T seems my mother, seized with fears,

Prematurely brought me forth.

But I now am very loth

To inform how this befel;

Though 'twas thus, I know full well,

Bacchus, too,--it is no dream,--

First beheld the daylight's beam

From the thigh of Jupiter.

But my reasons go too far.

My own matter must I say,

And not loiter by the way,

E'en though Bacchus oft has proven

Friend to me in my misfortune.

Now the midwife who received me,

Was Bellona; in suspense, she

Long did sit in trembling fear,

For the travail was severe.

From the moment I was born,

Indian neighbors made me mourn.

They pursued me night and day,

While my mother kept away.

But my sponsors did supply

Better my necessity;

They sustained my feeble life;

They procured a bounteous wife

As my nurse, who did not spare

To my lips her paps to bear.

This was Ceres; freely she

Rendered what has nurtured me.

Her most dearly I will prize;

She has made my horns to rise;

Trained my growth through tender years,

'Midst my burdens and my cares.

True both simple 'twas and scant,

What I had to feed my want.

Oft 'twas naught except Sapawn

And the flesh of buck or fawn.

When I thus began to grow,

No more care did they bestow,

Yet my breasts are full and neat,

And my hips are firmly set.

Neptune shows me his good will;

Merc'ry, quick, exerts his skill

Me t' adorn with silk and gold;

Whence I'm sought by suitors bold.

Stricken by my cheek's fresh bloom,

By my beauteous youthful form,

They attempt to seize the treasure

To enjoy their wanton pleasure.

They, my orchards too, would plunder,

Truly 'tis a special wonder,

That a maid with such a portion

Does not suffer more misfortune:

For, I venture to proclaim,

No one can a maiden name

Who with richer land is blessed

Than th' estate by me possessed.

See: two streams my garden bind,

From the East and North they wind,--

Rivers pouring in the sea,

Rich in fish, beyond degree.

Milk and butter: fruits to eat

No one can enumerate;

Ev'ry vegetable known;

Grain the best that e'er was grown.

All the blessings man e'er knew,

Here does Our Great Giver strew

(And a climate ne'er more pure),

But for me,--yet immature,

Fraught with danger, for the swine

Trample down these crops of mine;

Up-root, too, my choicest land;

Still and dumb, the while, I stand,

In the hope, my mother's arm

Will protect me from the harm.

She can succor my distress.

Now my wish, my sole request,--

Is for men to till my land;

So I'll not in silence stand.

I have lab'rors almost none;

Let my household large become;

I'll my mother's kitchen furnish

With my knick-knacks, with my surplus;

With tobacco, furs and grain;

So that Prussia she'll disdain.

JACOB STEENDAM,

noch vaster.

In spite of this neglect, the new town thrived apace. Friendly

relations were established with the settlers at Plymouth, and

the colony seemed to be moving steadily toward a golden future.

In May, 1647, there arrived from Holland the new director,

Peter Stuyvesant. He ruled supreme until 1664, when New

Amsterdam surrendered to an English fleet.

PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL

[I. Jan. A. C. 1661]

Where nowadays the Battery lies,

New York had just begun,

A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,

In Sixteen Sixty-One.

They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,

Those burghers grave and stately,

And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,

Lived out their lives sedately.

Two windmills topped their wooden wall,

On Stadthuys gazing down,

On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all

The quaintly gabled town;

These flapped their wings and shifted backs,

As ancient scrolls determine,

To scare the savage Hackensacks,

Paumanks, and other vermin.

At night the loyal settlers lay

Betwixt their feather-beds;

In hose and breeches walked by day,

And smoked, and wagged their heads.

No changeful fashions came from France,

The freulen to bewilder,

And cost the burgher's purse, perchance,

Its every other guilder.

In petticoats of linsey-red,

And jackets neatly kept,

The vrouws their knitting-needles sped

And deftly spun and swept.

Few modern-school flirtations there

Set wheels of scandal trundling,

But youths and maidens did their share

Of staid, old-fashioned bundling.

--The New Year opened clear and cold;

The snow, a Flemish ell

In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold

And Wolfert's frozen well.

Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,

Drew on his Holland leather,

Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,

Beshrewing all such weather.

But--after herring, ham, and kraut--

To all the gathered town

The Dominie preached the morning out,

In Calvinistic gown;

While tough old Peter Stuyvesant

Sat pewed in foremost station,--

The potent, sage, and valiant

Third Governor of the nation.

Prayer over, at his mansion hall,

With cake and courtly smile,

He met the people, one and all,

In gubernatorial style;

Yet missed, though now the day was old,

An ancient fellow-feaster,--

Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold

Brewer and burgomeester;

Who, in his farmhouse, close without

The picket's eastern end,

Sat growling at the twinge of gout

That kept him from his friend.

But Peter strapped his wooden peg,

When tea and cake were ended

(Meanwhile the sound remaining leg

Its high jack-boot defended),

A woolsey cloak about him threw,

And swore, by wind and limb,

Since Govert kept from Peter's view,

Peter would visit him;

Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,

While many a humbler greeter

Stood wondering whereaway so fast

Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.

Past quay and cowpath, through a lane

Of vats and mounded tans,

He puffed along, with might and main,

To Govert Loockermans;

Once there, his right of entry took,

And hailed his ancient crony:

"Myn Gód! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,

Ve gets more snow as money!"

To which, and after whiffs profound,

With doubtful wink and nod,

There came at last responsive sound:

"Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gód!"

Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest

Beneath the chimney-gable,

And courtesied, bustling at her best

To spread the New Year's table.

She brought the pure and genial schnapps,

That years before had come--

In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps--

To cheer the settlers' home;

The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll

Of pressed and crispy Spanish;

Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,

Nor long delayed to vanish.

Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,

And honors of the day,

The trader mixed the Governor's drink

As evening sped away.

That ancient room! I see it now:

The carven nutwood dresser;

The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw

Begrudged their rich possessor;

The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,

Brass-nailed at every seam;

Six others, ranged in equal pairs;

The bacon hung abeam;

The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;

The hearty wooden fire;

The picture, on the steaming delft,

Of David and Goliah.

I see the two old Dutchmen sit

Like Magog and his mate,

And hear them, when their pipes are lit,

Discuss affairs of state:

The clique that would their sway demean;

The pestilent importation

Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean

And losel Yankee nation.

But when the subtle juniper

Assumed its sure command,

They drank the buxom loves that were,--

They drank the Motherland;

They drank the famous Swedish wars,

Stout Peter's special glory,

While Govert proudly showed the scars

Of Indian contests gory.

Erelong, the berry's power awoke

Some music in their brains,

And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,

Rang long-forgotten strains,--

Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,

Of phantom ships and battle;

And Peter, with his leg of wood,

Made floor and casement rattle.

Then round and round the dresser pranced,

The chairs began to wheel,

And on the board the punch-bowl danced

A Netherlandish reel;

Till midnight o'er the farmhouse spread

Her New Year's skirts of sable,

And inch by inch, each puzzled head

Dropt down upon the table.

But still to Peter, as he dreamed,

The table spread and turned;

The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed

To circle as it burned;

The town into the vision grew

From ending to beginning;

Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,

All widening and spinning.

The cowpaths, leading to the docks,

Grew broader, whirling past,

And checkered into shining blocks,--

A city fair and vast;

Stores, churches, mansions, overspread

The metamorphosed island,

While not a beaver showed his head

From Swamp to Kalchook highland.

Eftsoons the picture passed away;

Hours after, Peter woke

To see a spectral streak of day

Gleam in through fading smoke;

Still slept old Govert, snoring on

In most melodious numbers;

No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One

Commingled with his slumbers.

But Peter, from the farmhouse door,

Gazed doubtfully around,

Rejoiced to find himself once more

On sure and solid ground.

The sky was somewhat dark ahead,

Wind east, the morning lowery;

And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread,

To breakfast at his Bouwery.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

CHAPTER V

THE SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND

The Northern or Plymouth Branch of the Virginia Company, which

had been chartered by James I in 1606, did, to some extent,

for the north what the sister company did for the south. Sir

Ferdinando Gorges was its Raleigh, and sent out a number of

exploring ships, one of which made what is now reckoned the

first permanent settlement in New England. Captain George

Popham was in command, and in August, 1607, three months

after the planting of Jamestown, built Fort Popham, or Fort

St. George, at the mouth of the Kennebec. But it is not this

settlement which has been celebrated in song and story. It is

that made at New Plymouth in the winter of 1620 by a shipload

of Separatists from the Church of England, who have come down

through history as the "Pilgrim Fathers."

Driven from England by religious persecution, the Separatist

congregation from the little town of Scrooby, about a hundred

in number, had fled to Amsterdam, and finally, in 1609, to

Leyden. But they were not in sympathy with the Dutch, and

their thoughts turned to America. The Plymouth company was

approached, but could not guarantee religious freedom. It gave

the suppliants to understand, however, that there was little

likelihood they would be interfered with, and after long debate

and hesitation, they decided to take the risk.

THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME

[August 15 (N. S.), 1620]

The word of God to Leyden came,

Dutch town by Zuyder Zee:

Rise up, my children of no name,

My kings and priests to be.

There is an empire in the West,

Which I will soon unfold;

A thousand harvests in her breast,

Rocks ribbed with iron and gold.

Rise up, my children, time is ripe!

Old things are passed away.

Bishops and kings from earth I wipe;

Too long they've had their day.

A little ship have I prepared

To bear you o'er the seas;

And in your souls my will declared

Shall grow by slow degrees.

Beneath my throne the martyrs cry;

I hear their voice, How long?

It mingles with their praises high,

And with their victor song.

The thing they longed and waited for,

But died without the sight;

So, this shall be! I wrong abhor,

The world I'll now set right.

Leave, then, the hammer and the loom,

You've other work to do;

For Freedom's commonwealth there's room,

And you shall build it too.

I'm tired of bishops and their pride,

I'm tired of kings as well;

Henceforth I take the people's side,

And with the people dwell.

Tear off the mitre from the priest,

And from the king, his crown;

Let all my captives be released;

Lift up, whom men cast down.

Their pastors let the people choose,

And choose their rulers too;

Whom they select, I'll not refuse,

But bless the work they do.

The Pilgrims rose, at this, God's word,

And sailed the wintry seas:

With their own flesh nor blood conferred,

Nor thought of wealth or ease.

They left the towers of Leyden town,

They left the Zuyder Zee;

And where they cast their anchor down,

Rose Freedom's realm to be.

JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN.

A vessel of one hundred and eighty tons, named the Mayflower,

was fitted out, and, on August 5 (N. S. 15), 1620, the

emigrants sailed from Southampton, whither they had gone to

join the ship. There were ninety persons aboard the Mayflower

and thirty aboard a smaller vessel, the Speedwell. But the

Speedwell proved unseaworthy, and after twice putting back

for repairs, twelve of her passengers were crowded into the

Mayflower, which finally, on September 6 (N. S. 16), turned her

prow to the west, and began the most famous voyage in American

history, after that of Columbus.

SONG OF THE PILGRIMS

[September 16 (N. S.), 1620]

The breeze has swelled the whitening sail,

The blue waves curl beneath the gale,

And, bounding with the wave and wind,

We leave Old England's shores behind--

Leave behind our native shore,

Homes, and all we loved before.

The deep may dash, the winds may blow,

The storm spread out its wings of woe,

Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud

Hung in the folds of every cloud;

Still, as long as life shall last,

From that shore we'll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,

Than dwell where mind cannot be free,

But bows beneath a despot's rod

Even where it seeks to worship God.

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!

Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

O see what wonders meet our eyes!

Another land, and other skies!

Columbian hills have met our view!

Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu!

Here, at length, our feet shall rest,

Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.

As long as yonder firs shall spread

Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,--

As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,

Where join the ocean and the land,--

Shall those cliffs and mountains be

Proud retreats for liberty.

Now to the King of kings we'll raise

The pæan loud of sacred praise;

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze,

More loud than speak the rolling seas!

Happier lands have met our view!

England's shores, adieu! adieu!

THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAM.

On November 19 (N. S.), nine weeks after leaving Plymouth,

land was sighted, and in the evening of that day, the "band of

exiles moored their bark" in Cape Cod harbor.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS

[November 19 (N. S.), 1620]

The breaking waves dashed high

On the stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came:

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear,--

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared:

This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band;

Why have they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow, serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--

They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Aye, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstained what there they found--

Freedom to worship God!

FELICIA HEMANS.

Two days later, on Saturday, November 21, the Mayflower dropped

her anchor in what is now the harbor of Provincetown, and a

force of sixteen, "every one his Musket, Sword and Corslet,

under the command of Captaine Myles Standish," went ashore

to explore. The next day, being Sunday, praise service was

held on board, and on the following Monday occurred the first

washing-day.

THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH

[November 23 (N. S.), 1620]

"Ho, Rose!" quoth the stout Miles Standish,

As he stood on the Mayflower's deck,

And gazed on the sandy coast-line

That loomed as a misty speck

On the edge of the distant offing,--

"See! yonder we have in view

Bartholomew Gosnold's 'headlands.'

'Twas in sixteen hundred and two

"That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored

Just there where the beach is broad,

And the merry old captain named it

(Half swamped by the fish)--Cape Cod.

"And so as his mighty 'headlands'

Are scarcely a league away,

What say you to landing, sweetheart,

And having a washing-day?

"For did not the mighty Leader

Who guided the chosen band

Pause under the peaks of Sinai,

And issue his strict command--

"(For even the least assoilment

Of Egypt the spirit loathes)--

Or ever they entered Canaan,

The people should wash their clothes?

"The land we have left is noisome,--

And rank with the smirch of sin;

The land that we seek should find us

Clean-vestured without and within."

"Dear heart"--and the sweet Rose Standish

Looked up with a tear in her eye;

She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen

Where she watched, in the days gone by,

Her mother among her maidens

(She should watch them no more, alas!),

And saw as they stretched the linen

To bleach on the Suffolk grass.

In a moment her brow was cloudless,

As she leaned on the vessel's rail,

And thought of the sea-stained garments,

Of coif and of farthingale;

And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel,

The tuckers and homespun gowns,

And the piles of the hosen knitted

From the wool of the Devon downs.

So the matrons aboard the Mayflower

Made ready with eager hand

To drop from the deck their baskets

As soon as the prow touched land.

And there did the Pilgrim Mothers,

"On a Monday," the record says,

Ordain for their new-found England

The first of her washing-days.

And there did the Pilgrim Fathers,

With matchlock and axe well slung,

Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles

That propt on the crotches hung.

For the trail of the startled savage

Was over the marshy grass,

And the glint of his eyes kept peering

Through cedar and sassafras.

And the children were mad with pleasure

As they gathered the twigs in sheaves,

And piled on the fire the fagots,

And heaped up the autumn leaves.

"Do the thing that is next," saith the proverb,

And a nobler shall yet succeed:--

'Tis the motive exalts the action;

'Tis the doing, and not the deed;

For the earliest act of the heroes

Whose fame has a world-wide sway

Was--to fashion a crane for a kettle,

And order a washing-day!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

A shallop which the Pilgrims had brought with them in the

Mayflower was put together, and in it a party explored the

neighboring shores, in search of a suitable place for the

settlement. They finally selected Plymouth Harbor, and on

Monday, December 21 (O. S. 11), they "marched into the land and

found divers corn-fields and little running brooks,--a place

(as they supposed) fit for situation; at least it was the best

they could find."

THE MAYFLOWER

Down in the bleak December bay

The ghostly vessel stands away;

Her spars and halyards white with ice,

Under the dark December skies.

A hundred souls, in company,

Have left the vessel pensively,--

Have reached the frosty desert there,

And touched it with the knees of prayer.

And now the day begins to dip,

The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower.

Neither the desert nor the sea

Imposes rites: their prayers are free;

Danger and toil the wild imposes,

And thorns must grow before the roses.

And who are these?--and what distress

The savage-acred wilderness

On mother, maid, and child may bring,

Beseems them for a fearful thing;

For now the day begins to dip,

The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower.

But Carver leads (in heart and health

A hero of the commonwealth)

The axes that the camp requires,

To build the lodge and heap the fires,

And Standish from his warlike store

Arrays his men along the shore,

Distributes weapons resonant,

And dons his harness militant;

For now the day begins to dip,

The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower;

And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest--

She sees a Book, in vellum drest,

She drops a tear and kisses the tome,

Thinking of England and of home:

Might they--the Pilgrims, there and then

Ordained to do the work of men--

Have seen, in visions of the air,

While pillowed on the breast of prayer

(When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower),

The Canaan of their wilderness

A boundless empire of success;

And seen the years of future nights

Jewelled with myriad household lights;

And seen the honey fill the hive;

And seen a thousand ships arrive;

And heard the wheels of travel go;

It would have cheered a thought of woe,

When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower.

ERASTUS WOLCOTT ELLSWORTH.

On March 16 an Indian came into the hamlet, and in broken

English bade the strangers "Welcome." He said his name was

Samoset, that he came from Monhegan, distant five days' journey

toward the southeast, where he had learned something of the

language from the crews of fishing-boats, and that he was an

envoy from "the greatest commander in the country," a sachem

named Massasoit. Massasoit himself appeared a few days later

(March 21), and a treaty offensive and defensive was entered

into, which remained in force for fifty-four years.

THE PEACE MESSAGE

[March 16, 1621]

At the door of his hut sat Massasoit,

And his face was lined with care,

For the Yellow Pest had stalked from the West

And swept his wigwams bare;

Mother and child had it stricken down,

And the warrior in his pride,

Till for one that lived when the plague was past,

A full half-score had died.

Now from the Eastern Shore there came

Word of a white-skinned race

Who had risen from out the mighty deep

In search of a dwelling-place.

Houses they fashioned of tree and stone,

Turkey and deer they slew

With a breath of flame like the lightning-flash

Of the great God, Manitu.

Was it war or peace? The Chief looked round

On the wreck of his mighty band.

His heart was sad as he rose from the ground

And held on high his hand.

"We must treat with the stranger, my children," he said,

And he called to him Samoset:

"You will go to the men on the Eastern Shore

With wampum and calumet."

Warm was the welcome he received,

For the Pilgrims' hearts did thrill

At the message he brought from Massasoit,

With its earnest of good-will.

They bade him eat and they bade him drink,

Gave bracelet, knife, and ring,

And sent him again to Monhegan

To lay them before his king.

So the treaty was made, and the treaty was kept

For fifty years and four;

The white men wrought, and waked, and slept

Secure on the Eastern Shore;

From the door of his hut, old Massasoit

Noted their swift increase,

And blessed the day he had sent that way

His messenger of peace.

BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.

The colonists set about the work of planting their fields as

soon as spring opened. The harvest proved a good one; "there

was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many,

besides venison," the fowlers having been sent out by the

governor, "that so they might, after a special manner, rejoice

together after they had gathered the fruit of their labors."

This festival was New England's "First Thanksgiving Day." For

three days a great feast was spread not only for the colonists,

but for Massasoit and some ninety of his people, who had

contributed five deer to the larder.

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY

[November, 1621]

"And now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store

Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er,

"'Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain;

'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain.

"And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace of God to-day,

And the franchise of this good people), Governor of Plymouth, say,

Through virtue of vested power--ye shall gather with one accord,

And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord.

"He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long;

He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong;

And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden, that he may know

We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow.

"So shoulder your matchlocks, masters: there is hunting of all degrees;

And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas;

And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ

To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of joy!

"We fail of the fruits and dainties--we fail of the old home cheer;

Ah, these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us here;

But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie;

Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!"

So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn feast;

The deer and the bear were slaughtered; wild game from the greatest to

least

Was heaped in the colony cabins; brown home-brew served for wine,

And the plum and the grape of the forest, for orange and peach and pine.

At length came the day appointed: the snow had begun to fall,

But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily over all,

And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord

To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord.

In his seat sate Governor Bradford; men, matrons, and maidens fair;

Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there;

And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway,

For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving Day.

And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves,

And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves,

And looked on the granaried harvest,--with a blow on his brawny chest,

He muttered, "The good Great Spirit loves His white children best!"

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

The colonists, through the friendship of Massasoit, had

had little trouble with the Indians, but in April, 1622, a

messenger from the Narragansetts brought to Plymouth a sheaf of

arrows tied round with a rattlesnake skin, which the Indians

there interpreted as a declaration of war. Governor Bradford,

at the advice of the doughty Standish, stuffed the skin with

powder and ball, and sent it back to the Narragansetts. Their

chief, Canonicus, was so alarmed at the look of this missive

that he refused to receive it, and it finally found its way

back to Plymouth.

THE WAR-TOKEN

From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"

[April 1, 1622]

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,

Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;

Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,

Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,

Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,

Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;

So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!

Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;

While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,

And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare,

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating

What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,

Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,

Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!

Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,

Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,

"What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted

There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils?

Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage

Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!"

Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth,

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:

"Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;

Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!"

But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,

Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:

"Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,

Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!"

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets

Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,

Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!"

Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,

Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,

Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The period of prosperity, which had been marked by the first

Thanksgiving, was short-lived. Through nearly the whole of the

next two years, the colony was pinched with famine. A crisis

was reached in the month of April, 1622, when, so tradition

says, the daily ration for each person was reduced to five

kernels of corn.

FIVE KERNELS OF CORN

[April, 1622]

'Twas the year of the famine in Plymouth of old,

The ice and the snow from the thatched roofs had rolled;

Through the warm purple skies steered the geese o'er the seas,

And the woodpeckers tapped in the clocks of the trees;

And the boughs on the slopes to the south winds lay bare,

And dreaming of summer, the buds swelled in the air.

The pale Pilgrims welcomed each reddening morn;

There were left but for rations Five Kernels of Corn.

Five Kernels of Corn!

But to Bradford a feast were Five Kernels of Corn!

"Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn!

Ye people, be glad for Five Kernels of Corn!"

So Bradford cried out on bleak Burial Hill,

And the thin women stood in their doors, white and still.

"Lo, the harbor of Plymouth rolls bright in the Spring,

The maples grow red, and the wood robins sing,

The west wind is blowing, and fading the snow,

And the pleasant pines sing, and the arbutuses blow.

Five Kernels of Corn!

To each one be given Five Kernels of Corn!"

III

O Bradford of Austerfield haste on thy way.

The west winds are blowing o'er Provincetown Bay,

The white avens bloom, but the pine domes are chill,

And new graves have furrowed Precisioners' Hill!

"Give thanks, all ye people, the warm skies have come,

The hilltops are sunny, and green grows the holm,

And the trumpets of winds, and the white March is gone,

And ye still have left you Five Kernels of Corn.

Five Kernels of Corn!

Ye have for Thanksgiving Five Kernels of Corn!"

"The raven's gift eat and be humble and pray,

A new light is breaking, and Truth leads your way;

One taper a thousand shall kindle: rejoice

That to you has been given the wilderness voice!"

O Bradford of Austerfield, daring the wave,

And safe through the sounding blasts leading the brave,

Of deeds such as thine was the free nation born,

And the festal world sings the "Five Kernels of Corn."

Five Kernels of Corn!

The nation gives thanks for Five Kernels of Corn!

To the Thanksgiving Feast bring Five Kernels of Corn!

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In June, 1622, a colony of adventurers from England settled at

Wessagusset, now Weymouth, and when their supplies ran short,

the following winter, broke open and robbed some of the Indian

granaries. The Indians were naturally enraged, and formed a

plot for the extirpation of the whites. Warned by Massasoit,

the Plymouth settlers determined to strike the first blow,

and on March 23, 1623, Standish and eight men were dispatched

to Wessagusset. The poem tells the story of the events which

followed.

THE EXPEDITION TO WESSAGUSSET

From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"

[March, 1623]

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows,

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, "Forward!"

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence.

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village.

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army,

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,--

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward,

Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore.

* * * * *

After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment

Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;

Women at work by the tents, and warriors, horrid with war-paint,

Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;

Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,

Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket,

Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing,

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present;

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred.

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature,

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat.

Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum,

Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle.

Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty.

"Welcome, English!" they said,--these words they had learned from the

traders

Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries.

Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish,

Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man,

Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder,

Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his

cellars,

Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!

But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible,

Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:

"Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,

Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat

Is not afraid of the sight. He was not born of a woman,

But on a mountain at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,

Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?'"

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand,

Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle;

Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:

"I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;

By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!"

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish:

While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom,

Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered,

"By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not!

This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us!

He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!"

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians

Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,

Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings,

Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush.

But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly;

So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers.

But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,

All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish,

Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.

Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its

scabbard,

Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage

Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.

Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop.

And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December,

Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.

Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning,

Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it.

Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket,

Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat,

Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet

Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the

greensward,

Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them,

Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man.

Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:--

"Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his

stature,--

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now

Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!"

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles

Standish.

When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth,

And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat

Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a

fortress,

All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

By the end of 1624 Plymouth was in a thriving condition.

Its inhabitants numbered nearly two hundred, and it boasted

thirty-two dwelling-houses. Other colonies soon sprang up about

the Bay--Piscataqua (Portsmouth), Naumkeag (Salem), Nantasket

(Hull), and Winnisimmet (Chelsea). The trials and pleasures of

life in New England at about this time are humorously described

in what are perhaps the first verses written by an American

colonist.

NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES

[1630]

New England's annoyances, you that would know them,

Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth shew them.

The Place where we live is a wilderness Wood,

Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good:

Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below

Being commonly cover'd with Ice and with Snow;

And when the North-west Wind with violence blows,

Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose:

But if any's so hardy and will it withstand,

He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand.

But when the Spring opens, we then take the Hoe,

And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow;

Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown,

The Worms destroy much before it is grown;

And when it is growing, some spoil there is made

By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade;

And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear,

It is often destroy'd by Raccoon and by Deer.

And now do our Garments begin to grow thin,

And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin;

If we can get a Garment to cover without,

Our other In-Garments are Clout upon Clout:

Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn,

They need to be clouted soon after they're worn;

But clouting our Garments they hinder us nothing:

Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing.

If fresh Meat be wanting, to fill up our Dish,

We have Carrots and Turnips as much as we wish;

And is there a mind for a delicate Dish,

We repair to the Clam-banks, and there we catch Fish.

For Pottage and Puddings, and Custards and Pies,

Our Pumpkins and Parsnips are common supplies;

We have Pumpkins at morning, and Pumpkins at noon;

If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone.

If Barley be wanting to make into Malt,

We must be contented, and think it no fault;

For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips

Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and Walnut-Tree Chips.

* * * * *

Now while some are going let others be coming,

For while Liquor's boiling it must have a scumming;

But I will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather,

By seeking their Fellows, are flocking together.

But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring,

Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting;

But bring both a quiet and contented Mind,

And all needful Blessings you surely will find.

The Old Colony's palmy days were of short duration, for it was

soon overshadowed by a more wealthy and vigorous neighbor,

founded by the powerful Puritan party.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

Well worthy to be magnified are they

Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took

A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook,

And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay;

Then to the new-found World explored their way,

That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook

Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook

Her Lord might worship and his word obey

In freedom. Men they were who could not bend;

Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide

A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified;

Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend

Along a Galaxy that knows no end,

But in His glory who for Sinners died.

From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled

To Wilds where both were utterly unknown;

But not to them had Providence foreshown

What benefits are missed, what evils bred,

In worship neither raised nor limited

Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore,

For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led

Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore,

Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love

By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.--

Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace,

Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve.

Transcendent over time, unbound by place,

Concord and Charity in circles move.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

When Charles I came to the throne, in 1625, with the expressed

determination to harry the Puritans out of England, the latter

decided to seek an asylum in the New World. In 1628 John

Endicott and a few others secured a patent from the New England

Council for a trading-company, the grant including a strip of

land across the continent from a line three miles north of the

Merrimac to another three miles south of the Charles. It was

into this colony, known as Massachusetts, that the older colony

of Plymouth was finally absorbed.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

The Pilgrim Fathers,--where are they?

The waves that brought them o'er

Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray

As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day

When the Mayflower moored below;

When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep

Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep

To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale,

When the heavens looked dark, is gone,--

As an angel's wing through an opening cloud

Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile,--sainted name!

The hill whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night

On the hillside and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head,--

But the Pilgrim! where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest:

When summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,

Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And still guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

JOHN PIERPONT.

King Charles, little suspecting that he was providing an asylum

for the Puritans, confirmed the patent by a royal charter to

"The Governor and Company of the Massachusetts Bay in New

England." No place for the meetings of the company had been

named in the charter, and the audacious plan was formed to

remove it, patents, charter, and all, to New England. Secret

meetings were held, the old officers were finally got rid of,

and John Winthrop was elected governor. Winthrop sailed for

America on April 7, 1630, and arrived at Salem June 12. It was

the beginning of a great emigration, for, in the four months

that followed, seventeen ships arrived, with nearly a thousand

passengers.

THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR

[June 12, 1630]

"Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day

Still rises on our ears,

Borne from the hills of Boston Bay

Through five times fifty years,

When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept

Out to the open main,

And through the widening waters swept,

In April sun and rain.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"

The leader shouted, "pray;"

And prayer arose from all the ships

As faded Yarmouth Bay.

They passed the Scilly Isles that day,

And May-days came, and June,

And thrice upon the ocean lay

The full orb of the moon.

And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,

Ere England sunk from view,

While yet the rippling Solent lay

In April skies of blue,

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"

Each morn was shouted, "pray;"

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay;

Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas,

Through Maytime morns, and June,

Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,

Low 'neath the summer moon;

And as Cape Ann arose to view,

And Norman's Woe they passed,

The wood-doves came the white mists through,

And circled round each mast.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"

Then called the leader, "pray;"

And prayer arose from all the ships,

As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Above the sea the hill-tops fair--

God's towers--began to rise,

And odors rare breathe through the air,

Like balms of Paradise.

Through burning skies the ospreys flew,

And near the pine-cooled shores

Danced airy boat and thin canoe,

To flash of sunlit oars.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"

The leader shouted, "pray!"

Then prayer arose, and all the ships

Sailed into Boston Bay.

The white wings folded, anchors down,

The sea-worn fleet in line,

Fair rose the hills where Boston town

Should rise from clouds of pine;

Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,

And placid lay the sea.

"Praise ye the Lord," the leader called;

"Praise ye the Lord," spake he.

"Give thanks to God with fervent lips,

Give thanks to God to-day,"

The anthem rose from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

"Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods

First heard the ancient song,

And summer hills and solitudes

The echoes rolled along.

The Red Cross flag of England blew

Above the fleet that day,

While Shawmut's triple peaks in view

In amber hazes lay.

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,

Praise ye the Lord to-day,"

The anthem rose from all the ships

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

The Arabella leads the song--

The Mayflower sings below,

That erst the Pilgrims bore along

The Plymouth reefs of snow.

Oh! never be that psalm forgot

That rose o'er Boston Bay,

When Winthrop sang, and Endicott,

And Saltonstall, that day:

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,

Praise ye the Lord to-day;"

And praise arose from all the ships,

Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

That psalm our fathers sang we sing,

That psalm of peace and wars,

While o'er our heads unfolds its wing

The flag of forty stars.

And while the nation finds a tongue

For nobler gifts to pray,

'Twill ever sing the song they sung

That first Thanksgiving Day:

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,

Praise ye the Lord to-day;"

So rose the song from all the ships,

Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms,

As David's treasures old

Turned, on the Temple's giant arms,

To lily-work of gold.

Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide,

Ho! ships of Boston Bay,

Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide

To this Thanksgiving Day!

We pray to God with fervent lips,

We praise the Lord to-day,

As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,

But psalms from Boston Bay.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

But the condition of the colonists was for the most part

pitiful, and food was so scarce that shell-fish served for

meat and acorns for bread. Winthrop had foreseen this and

had engaged Captain William Pierce, of the ship Lion, to go

in all haste to the nearest port in Ireland for provisions.

Food-stuffs were nearly as scarce there as in America, and

Pierce was forced to go on to London, where he was again

delayed. A fast was appointed throughout the settlements for

February 22, 1631, to implore divine succor. On the 21st, as

Winthrop "was distributing the last handful of meal in the

barrel unto a poor man distressed by the wolf at the door,

at that instant they spied a ship arrived at the harbour's

mouth, laden with provisions for them all." The ship was the

Lion, and the fast day was changed into a day of feasting and

thanksgiving.

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING

[February 22, 1631]

It was Captain Pierce of the Lion who strode the streets of London,

Who stalked the streets in the blear of morn and growled in his grisly

beard;

_By Neptune!_ quoth this grim sea-dog, _I fear that my master's undone!

'Tis a bitter thing if all for naught through the drench of the deep

I've steered_!

He had come from out of the ultimate West through the spinning drift and

the smother,

Come for a guerdon of golden grain for a hungry land afar;

And he thought of many a wasting maid, and of many a sad-eyed mother,

And how their gaze would turn and turn for a sail at the harbor bar.

But famine lay on the English isle, and grain was a hoarded treasure,

So ruddy the coin must gleam to loose the lock of the store-house door;

And under his breath the Captain groaned because of his meagre measure,

And the grasping souls of those that held the keys to the precious

store.

But he flung a laugh and a fleer at doubt, and braving the roaring city

He faced them out--those moiling men whose greed had grown to a curse--

Till at last he found in the strenuous press a heart that was moved to

pity,

And he gave the Governor's bond and word for what he lacked in his

purse.

So the Lion put her prow to the West in the wild and windy weather,

Her sails all set, though her decks were wet with the driving scud and

the foam;

Never an hour would the Captain hold his staunch little craft in tether,

For the haunting thought of hungry eyes was the lure that called him

home.

Sooth, in the streets of Boston-town was the heavy sound of sorrow,

For an iron frost had bound the wold, and the sky hung bleak and dread;

Despair sat dark on the face of him who dared to think of the morrow,

When not a crust could the goodwife give if the children moaned for

bread.

But hark, from the wintry waterside a loud and lusty cheering,

That sweeps the sullen streets of the town as a wave the level strand!

_A sail! a sail!_ upswelled the cry, speeding the vessel steering

Out of the vast of the misty sea in to the waiting land.

Turn the dimming page of the past that the dust of the years is dry on.

And see the tears in the eyes of Joy as the ship draws in to the shore,

And see the genial glow on the face of Captain Pierce of the Lion,

As the Governor grips his faithful hand and blesses him o'er and o'er!

Oh, the rapture of that release! Feasting instead of fasting!

Happiness in the heart of the home, and hope with its silver ray!

Oh, the songs of prayer and praise to the Lord God everlasting

That mounted morn and noon and eve on that first Thanksgiving Day!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

In the four years that followed, the worst hardships of the new

plantation were outlived, and between three and four thousand

Englishmen were distributed among the twenty hamlets along and

near the sea-shore. The fight for a foothold had been won.

NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH

From a fragmentary poem on "New England"

Famine once we had,

But other things God gave us in full store,

As fish and ground-nuts to supply our strait,

That we might learn on Providence to wait;

And know, by bread man lives not in his need.

But by each word that doth from God proceed.

But a while after plenty did come in,

From His hand only who doth pardon sin,

And all did flourish like the pleasant green,

Which in the joyful spring is to be seen.

Almost ten years we lived here alone,

In other places there were few or none;

For Salem was the next of any fame,

That began to augment New England's name;

But after multitudes began to flow,

More than well knew themselves where to bestow;

Boston then began her roots to spread,

And quickly soon she grew to be the head,

Not only of the Massachusetts Bay,

But all trade and commerce fell in her way.

And truly it was admirable to know,

How greatly all things here began to grow.

New plantations were in each place begun,

And with inhabitants were filled soon.

All sorts of grain which our own land doth yield,

Was hither brought and sown in every field:

As wheat and rye, barley, oats, beans and pease,

Here all thrive, and they profit from them raise.

All sorts of roots and herbs in gardens grow,

Parsnips, carrots, turnips, or what you'll sow.

Onions, melons, cucumbers, radishes,

Skirets, beets, coleworts, and fair cabbages.

Here grow fine flowers many, and 'mongst those,

The fair white lily and sweet fragrant rose.

Many good wholesome berries here you'll find,

Fit for man's use, almost of every kind,

Pears, apples, cherries, plumbs, quinces, and peach,

Are _now_ no dainties; you may have of each.

Nuts and grapes of several sorts are here,

If you will take the pains them to seek for.

WILLIAM BRADFORD.

There remained but one danger, the Indians; and most feared of

all were the Pequots, who dwelt just west of what is now Rhode

Island, and in 1637 began open hostilities. A force of about a

hundred men marched against the principal Pequot stronghold, a

palisaded village which stood on a hilltop near the Mystic. The

attack was made on the night of May 25, 1637, the Indians were

taken by surprise, their thatched houses were set on fire, and

of the six or seven hundred persons in the village, scarcely

one escaped.

THE ASSAULT ON THE FORTRESS

From "The Destruction of the Pequods"

[May 25, 1637]

Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide,

Long held the Pequods an extensive sway;

Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride,

And bidding all the circling realms obey.

Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the sea,

Plant in their climes; and towns, and cities, rise;

Ascending castles foreign flags display;

Mysterious art new scenes of life devise;

And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies.

The rising clouds the savage chief descried,

And, round the forest, bade his heroes arm;

To arms the painted warriors proudly hied,

And through surrounding nations rung the alarm.

The nations heard; but smiled, to see the storm,

With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven

And felt infernal joy the bosom warm,

To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even,

And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven.

Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped,

Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom;

A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread;

Where oft the embowelled captive met his doom,

And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb,

Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd;

Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb,

With howls the Powow fill'd the dark abode,

And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god.

But now no awful rites, nor potent spell,

To silence charm'd the peals of coming war;

Or told the dread recesses of the dell,

Where glowing Mason led his bands from far;

No spirit, buoyant on his airy car,

Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight:

Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling star

Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light,

And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark night.

On the drear walls a sudden splendor glow'd,

There Mason shone, and there his veterans pour'd.

Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood,

While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd,

And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored.

Alone, he burst the gate; the forest round

Reëchoed death; the peal of onset roar'd,

In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was drown'd;

And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground.

Not long in dubious fight the host had striven,

When, kindled by the musket's potent flame,

In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to heaven,

And gloom'd the world, with melancholy beam.

Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, came;

And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd:

Nor e'en these ills the savage breast could tame;

Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region yell'd,

Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste the hostile field.

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

Sassacus, the Pequot chief, escaped and sought refuge with the

Mohawks, but was slain by them.

DEATH SONG

[1673]

Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores,

Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars,

For the white men came from the world afar,

And their fury burnt like the bison star.

His sannops were slain by their thunder's power,

And his children fell like the star-eyed flower;

His wigwams were burnt by the white man's flame,

And the home of his youth has a stranger name--

His ancestor once was our countryman's foe,

And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow,

The wild deer ranged through the forest free,

While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea.

But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent,

With his hair untied, and his bow unbent,

And found not the blood of the wild deer shed,

And the calumet lit and the bear-skin bed.

But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine,

And bid its broad light like his valor to shine;

Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps,

And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps.

ALONZO LEWIS.

OUR COUNTRY

On primal rocks she wrote her name;

Her towers were reared on holy graves;

The golden seed that bore her came

Swift-winged with prayer o'er ocean waves.

The Forest bowed his solemn crest,

And open flung his sylvan doors;

Meek Rivers led the appointed guest

To clasp the wide-embracing shores;

Till, fold by fold, the broidered land

To swell her virgin vestments grew,

While sages, strong in heart and hand,

Her virtue's fiery girdle drew.

O Exile of the wrath of kings!

O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty!

The refuge of divinest things,

Their record must abide in thee!

First in the glories of thy front

Let the crown-jewel, Truth, be found;

Thy right hand fling, with generous wont,

Love's happy chain to farthest bound!

Let Justice, with the faultless scales,

Hold fast the worship of thy sons;

Thy Commerce spread her shining sails

Where no dark tide of rapine runs!

So link thy ways to those of God,

So follow firm the heavenly laws,

That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed,

And storm-sped angels hail thy cause!

O Lord, the measure of our prayers,

Hope of the world in grief and wrong,

Be thine the tribute of the years,

The gift of Faith, the crown of Song!

JULIA WARD HOWE.

CHAPTER VI

RELIGIOUS PERSECUTIONS IN NEW ENGLAND

The Puritans, who had come to New England to escape a religious

despotism, lost no time in establishing one of their own.

At the first meeting of the General Council, in the autumn

of 1630, it was agreed that no one should be admitted to

membership in the company who was not a member of some church

approved by it, and a religious oligarchy was thus established

which kept itself in power for over thirty years.

PROLOGUE

From "John Endicott"

To-night we strive to read, as we may best,

This city, like an ancient palimpsest;

And bring to light, upon the blotted page,

The mournful record of an earlier age,

That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away

Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.

Rise, then, O buried city that hast been;

Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene,

And let our curious eyes behold once more

The pointed gable and the pent-house door,

The meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes,

The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!

Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past,

Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last;

Let us behold your faces, let us hear

The words ye uttered in those days of fear!

Revisit your familiar haunts again,--

The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain,

And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet

Once more upon the pavement of the street!

Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here,

If he perchance misdate the day or year,

And group events together, by his art,

That in the Chronicles lie far apart;

For as the double stars, though sundered far,

Seem to the naked eye a single star,

So facts of history, at a distance seen,

Into one common point of light convene.

"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend

May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end?

Why drag again into the light of day

The errors of an age long passed away?"

I answer: "For the lesson that they teach:

The tolerance of opinion and of speech.

Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three;

And greatest of them all is Charity."

Let us remember, if these words be true,

That unto all men Charity is due;

Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame,

Lest we become copartners in the shame,

Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake,

And persecute the dead for conscience' sake.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

One of the earliest to feel the displeasure of the ruling

powers of the Colony was Roger Williams, who came to Boston in

1631. He made himself obnoxious to the government by denying

the right of the magistrates to punish Sabbath breaking; and

continued to occasion so much excitement that it was decided to

send him back to England. Williams got wind of this, and took

to the woods in January, 1636.

ROGER WILLIAMS

[January, 1636]

Why do I sleep amid the snows,

Why do the pine boughs cover me,

While dark the wind of winter blows

Across the Narragansett's sea?

O sense of right! O sense of right,

Whate'er my lot in life may be,

Thou art to me God's inner light,

And these tired feet must follow thee.

Yes, still my feet must onward go,

With nothing for my hope but prayer,

Amid the winds, amid the snow,

And trust the ravens of the air.

But though alone, and grieved at heart,

Bereft of human brotherhood,

I trust the whole and not the part,

And know that Providence is good.

Self-sacrifice is never lost,

But bears the seed of its reward;

They who for others leave the most,

For others gain the most from God.

O sense of right! I must obey,

And hope and trust, whate'er betide;

I cannot always know my way,

But I can always know my Guide.

And so for me the winter blows

Across the Narragansett's sea.

And so I sleep beneath the snows,

And so the pine boughs cover me.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

Williams had a hard time of it. Thirty years later, he related

how he was "sorely tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter winter

season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean."

GOD MAKES A PATH

God makes a path, provides a guide,

And feeds in wilderness!

His glorious name while breath remains,

O that I may confess.

Lost many a time, I have had no guide,

No house, but hollow tree!

In stormy winter night no fire,

No food, no company:

In him I found a house, a bed,

A table, company:

No cup so bitter, but's made sweet,

When God shall sweetning be.

ROGER WILLIAMS.

Williams went to Narragansett Bay, where he bargained with

Canonicus for the land he wanted, and laid the foundations of

the present city of Providence.

CANONICUS AND ROGER WILLIAMS

[1636]

Content within his wigwam warm,

Canonicus sate by the fire;

Without, the voices of the storm

Shrieked ever high and higher.

Eager and wild, the spiteful wind

Tore at the thatch with fingers strong;

The Sachem fed the fire within

And hummed a hunting-song.

Sudden upon the crusted snow

He caught a sound not of the storm--

A sound of footsteps dragging slow

Towards his shelter warm.

He drew aside the flap of skin;

A stranger at the threshold stood;

Canonicus bade him enter in,

And gave him drink and food.

His hand he gave in friendship true,

Land for a home gave he;

And he learned of the love of Christ Jesu,

Who died upon the tree.

To the stranger guest sweet life he gave;

For a State he saved its Sire;

Yea, and his own soul did he save

From burning in hell-fire.

Scarcely were the Massachusetts magistrates rid of Williams,

when they found themselves engaged in a much more threatening

controversy with Mrs. Anne Hutchinson and her adherents, who

believed in various "dangerous errors," and carried their

contempt for the constituted ministry to the point of rising

and marching out of the Boston church when its respected

pastor, John Wilson, arose to speak. The other ministers of the

colony rallied to Wilson's support, the General Court summoned

Mrs. Hutchinson before it in November, 1637, and pronounced

sentence of banishment, which was put into effect March 28,

1638.

ANNE HUTCHINSON'S EXILE

[March 28, 1638]

"Home, home--where's my baby's home?

Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find.

Come, come, come, my baby, come!

We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind.

Come, my baby, come!

Find my baby's home!"

The baby clings; the mother sings; the pony stumbles on;

The father leads the beast along the tangled, muddy way;

The boys and girls trail on behind; the sun will soon be gone,

And starlight bright will take again the place of sunny day.

"Home, home--where's my baby's home?

Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find.

Come, come, come, my baby, come!

We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind.

Come, my baby, come!

Find my baby's home!"

The sun goes down behind the lake; the night fogs gather chill,

The children's clothes are torn; and the children's feet are sore.

"Keep on, my boys, keep on, my girls, till all have passed the hill;

Then ho, my girls, and ho, my boys, for fire and sleep once more!"

And all the time she sings to the baby on her breast,

"Home, my darling, sleep, my darling, find a place for rest;

Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird a nest.

Come, my baby, come!

Find my baby's home!"

He lifts the mother from the beast; the hemlock boughs they spread,

And make the baby's cradle sweet with fern-leaves and with bays.

The baby and her mother are resting on their bed;

He strikes the flint, he blows the spark, and sets the twigs ablaze.

"Sleep, my child; sleep, my child!

Baby, find her rest,

Here beneath the gracious skies, upon her father's breast;

Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird her nest.

Come, come, with her mother, come!

Home, home, find my baby's home!"

The guardian stars above the trees their loving vigil keep;

The cricket sings her lullaby, the whippoorwill his cheer.

The father knows his Father's arms are round them as they sleep;

The mother knows that in His arms her darling need not fear.

"Home, home, my baby's home is here;

With God we seek, with God we find the place for baby's rest.

Hist, my child, list, my child; angels guard us here.

The God of heaven is here to make and keep my birdie's nest.

Home, home, here's my baby's home!"

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

Among the converts made by Mrs. Hutchinson during her stay in

Boston was John Underhill, commander of the colony's troops.

He became involved in the controversy that followed, and as

a result was disarmed, disfranchised, and finally banished.

In September, 1638, he betook himself to Cocheco (Dover), on

the Piscataqua, where some of Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents had

started a settlement, and where he afterwards held various

offices.

JOHN UNDERHILL

[September, 1638]

A score of years had come and gone

Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone,

When Captain Underhill, bearing scars

From Indian ambush and Flemish wars,

Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down,

East by north, to Cocheco town.

With Vane the younger, in council sweet,

He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet,

And, when the bolt of banishment fell

On the head of his saintly oracle,

He had shared her ill as her good report,

And braved the wrath of the General Court.

He shook from his feet as he rode away

The dust of the Massachusetts Bay.

The world might bless and the world might ban,

What did it matter the perfect man,

To whom the freedom of earth was given,

Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?

He cheered his heart as he rode along

With screed of Scripture and holy song,

Or thought how he rode with his lances free

By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee,

Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road,

And Hilton Point in the distance showed.

He saw the church with the block-house nigh,

The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby,

And, tacking to windward, low and crank,

The little shallop from Strawberry Bank;

And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad

Over land and water, and praised the Lord.

Goodly and stately and grave to see,

Into the clearing's space rode he,

With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath,

And his silver buckles and spurs beneath,

And the settlers welcomed him, one and all,

From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.

And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come

As the way seemed open to seek a home.

Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands

In the Narragansett and Netherlands,

And if here ye have work for a Christian man,

I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.

"I boast not of gifts, but fain would own

The wonderful favor God hath shown,

The special mercy vouchsafed one day

On the shore of Narragansett Bay,

As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside,

And mused like Isaac at eventide.

"A sudden sweetness of peace I found,

A garment of gladness wrapped me round;

I felt from the law of works released,

The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased,

My faith to a full assurance grew,

And all I had hoped for myself I knew.

"Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way,

I shall not stumble, I shall not stray;

He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress,

I wear the robe of His righteousness;

And the shafts of Satan no more avail

Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."

"Tarry with us," the settlers cried,

"Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide."

And Captain Underhill bowed his head,

"The will of the Lord be done!" he said.

And the morrow beheld him sitting down

In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.

And he judged therein as a just man should;

His words were wise and his rule was good;

He coveted not his neighbor's land,

From the holding of bribes he shook his hand;

And through the camps of the heathen ran

A wholesome fear of the valiant man.

But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith,

And life hath ever a savor of death.

Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls,

And whoso thinketh he standeth falls.

Alas! ere their round the seasons ran,

There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.

The tempter's arrows that rarely fail

Had found the joints of his spiritual mail;

And men took note of his gloomy air,

The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer,

The signs of a battle lost within,

The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.

Then a whisper of scandal linked his name

With broken vows and a life of blame;

And the people looked askance on him

As he walked among them sullen and grim,

Ill at ease, and bitter of word,

And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.

None knew how, with prayer and fasting still,

He strove in the bonds of his evil will;

But he shook himself like Samson at length,

And girded anew his loins of strength,

And bade the crier go up and down

And call together the wondering town.

Jeer and murmur and shaking of head

Ceased as he rose in his place and said:

"Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know

How I came among you a year ago,

Strong in the faith that my soul was freed

From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.

"I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame,

But not with a lie on my lips I came.

In my blindness I verily thought my heart

Swept and garnished in every part.

He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees

The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?

"I urge no plea. At your feet I lay

The trust you gave me, and go my way.

Hate me or pity me, as you will,

The Lord will have mercy on sinners still;

And I, who am chiefest, say to all,

Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."

No voice made answer: a sob so low

That only his quickened ear could know

Smote his heart with a bitter pain,

As into the forest he rode again,

And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down

On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.

Crystal-clear on the man of sin

The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in;

On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew,

The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew,

And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise

Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.

Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze

Sang in their saddest of minor keys?

What was it the mournful wood-thrush said?

What whispered the pine-trees overhead?

Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way

That Adam heard in the cool of day?

Into the desert alone rode he,

Alone with the Infinite Purity;

And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke,

As Peter did to the Master's look,

He measured his path with prayers of pain

For peace with God and nature again.

And in after years to Cocheco came

The bruit of a once familiar name;

How among the Dutch of New Netherlands,

From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands,

A penitent soldier preached the Word,

And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!

And the heart of Boston was glad to hear

How he harried the foe on the long frontier.

And heaped on the land against him barred

The coals of his generous watch and ward.

Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still

Counts with her worthies John Underhill.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

In 1656 a new danger threatened, for in July the first Quakers

landed in New England. The preachers of this sect were

generally believed to be either Franciscan monks in disguise,

or publishers of irreligious fancies, and in an evil hour

the authorities resolved to keep them out of Massachusetts.

When the General Court met in October, it passed the law of

which Mr. Longfellow gives an accurate résumé. This law was

"forthwith published, in several places of Boston, by beat of

drum," October 21, 1656.

THE PROCLAMATION

From "John Endicott"

[October 21, 1656]

COLE

Here comes the Marshal.

MERRY (_within_)

Make room for the Marshal.

KEMPTHORN

How pompous and imposing he appears!

His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail,

And all his streamers fluttering in the wind.

What holds he in his hand?

COLE

A proclamation.

_Enter the_ MARSHAL, _with a proclamation; and_ MERRY, _with a

halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the

hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among

whom are_ UPSALL _and_ JOHN ENDICOTT. _A pile is made of the

books._

MERRY

Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend

To the new laws enacted by the Court.

MARSHAL (_reads_)

"Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics

Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers,

Who take upon themselves to be commissioned

Immediately of God, and furthermore

Infallibly assisted by the Spirit

To write and utter blasphemous opinions,

Despising Government and the order of God

In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil

Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling

The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking

To turn the people from their faith, and thus

Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;--

This Court, considering the premises,

And to prevent like mischief as is wrought

By their means in our land, doth hereby order,

That whatsoever master or commander

Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring

To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove

Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers,

Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay

Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth

One hundred pounds, and for default thereof

Be put in prison, and continue there

Till the said sum be satisfied and paid."

COLE

Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that?

KEMPTHORN

I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds!

MARSHAL (_reads_)

"If any one within this Jurisdiction

Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal

Quakers, or other blasphemous Heretics,

Knowing them so to be, every such person

Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings

For each hour's entertainment or concealment,

And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid,

Until the forfeiture be wholly paid."

_Murmurs in the crowd._

KEMPTHORN

Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come!

COLE

Knowing them so to be!

KEMPTHORN

At forty shillings

The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds!

COLE

Knowing them so to be! That is the law.

MARSHAL (_reads_)

"And it is further ordered and enacted,

If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume

To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction,

Every male Quaker for the first offence

Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept

At labor in the Workhouse, till such time

As he be sent away at his own charge.

And for the repetition of the offence

Shall have his other ear cut off, and then

Be branded in the palm of his right hand.

And every woman Quaker shall be whipt

Severely in three towns; and every Quaker,

Or he or she, that shall for a third time

Herein again offend, shall have their tongues

Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be

Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death."

_Loud murmurs. The voice of_ CHRISTISON _in the crowd_

O patience of the Lord! How long, how long,

Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect?

MERRY

Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace!

MARSHAL (_reads_)

"Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction

Who shall defend the horrible opinions

Of Quakers, by denying due respect

To equals and superiors, and withdrawing

From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving

The abusive and destructive practices

Of this accursed sect, in opposition

To all the orthodox received opinions

Of godly men, shall be forthwith committed

Unto close prison for one month; and then

Refusing to retract and to reform

The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be

Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death.

By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary."

Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books.

_Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted._

UPSALL

I testify against these cruel laws!

Forerunners are they of some judgment on us;

And, in the love and tenderness I bear

Unto this town and people, I beseech you,

O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found

As fighters against God!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The law was soon to be enforced, and among the earliest to

endure its penalties were Christopher Holden and John Copeland,

who were whipped and imprisoned, while Lawrence and Cassandra

Southwick, of Salem, were also imprisoned for having harbored

them. The Southwicks were in advanced years, and had three

grown children--Provided, Josiah, and Daniel. The whole family

had united with the Society of Friends, and the parents were

banished from the colony upon pain of death. While they and one

son, Josiah, were in prison, Provided and Daniel were fined ten

pounds for not attending public worship at Salem. They refused

to pay, and were ordered to be sold into slavery in Virginia or

Barbadoes, but no master of a vessel could be found to carry

out the sentence.

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK

[1658]

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day,

From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away;

Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three,

And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free!

Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars,

Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars;

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time,

My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime.

Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by;

Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky;

No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be

The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow

The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow,

Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold,

Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold!

Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there,--the shrinking and the shame;

And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came:

"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said,

"Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet,

Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street?

Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through,

Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?

"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?--Bethink thee with what mirth

Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm, bright hearth;

How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair,

On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.

"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are

spoken,

Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken;

No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid,

For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.

"O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies led,

With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread;

To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound,

And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound,--

"Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine,

Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine;

Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame,

Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.

"And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling slave,

Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave!

Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall,

The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"

Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears

Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears,

I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer,

To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there!

I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell,

And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell,

Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white,

And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.

Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace and love I felt,

Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt;

When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart,

And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell,

Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell;

The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street

Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast,

And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed;

I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see,

How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek,

Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak:

"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out

The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt."

Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze,

And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these:

"Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall,

Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all."

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke

On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock;

The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high,

Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky.

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold,

And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old,

And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand,

Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land.

And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear,

The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer;

It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke,

As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.

I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek,

Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak!

Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn the prison lock

Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!"

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red

O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread;

"Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so

wild,

Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns his child!"

But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read

That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made,

Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring

No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.

Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said,--

"Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid?

In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore,

You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor."

Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried,

"Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no sign replied;

But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,--

"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!"

A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,--

I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye;

And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me,

Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,--

"Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold,

From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold,

By the living God who made me!--I would sooner in your bay

Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!"

"Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!"

Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause.

"Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old,

Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?"

I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn,

Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn;

Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back,

And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track.

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul;

Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll.

"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest,

Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released."

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay,

As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way;

For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen,

And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.

Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye,

A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky,

A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay,

And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.

Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be,

Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free;

All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid,

Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid!

Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm

Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm;

Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old,

When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told.

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong,

The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand upon the strong.

Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!

Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour!

But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad,

And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad.

For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave,

And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

In September, 1661, Edward Burrough, a prominent Quaker of

England, obtained an audience of King Charles II and laid the

grievances of the New England Quakers before him. That careless

King, who always found it more easy to grant a request than

to refuse it, so long as it cost him nothing, directed that a

letter be written to Endicott and the governors of the other

New England colonies, commanding that "if there were any of

those people called Quakers amongst them, now already condemned

to suffer death, or other corporal punishment, or that were

imprisoned, and obnoxious to the like condemnation, they were

to forbear to proceed any further therein," and to send such

persons to England for trial. This letter was given in charge

to Samuel Shattuck, a Quaker of Salem, then in England under

sentence of banishment, with the usual condition of being

hanged should he return. He reached Boston in November, 1661,

and presented himself with all haste at the governor's door.

The ballad very accurately describes the interview which

followed.

THE KING'S MISSIVE

[November, 1661]

Under the great hill sloping bare

To cove and meadow and Common lot,

In his council chamber and oaken chair,

Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.

A grave, strong man, who knew no peer

In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear

Of God, not man, and for good or ill

Held his trust with an iron will.

He had shorn with his sword the cross from out

The flag, and cloven the May-pole down,

Harried the heathen round about,

And whipped the Quakers from town to town.

Earnest and honest, a man at need

To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed,

He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal

The gate of the holy common weal.

His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,

With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath;

"Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn

The pestilent Quakers are in my path!

Some we have scourged, and banished some,

Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come,

Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,

Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.

"Did we count on this? Did we leave behind

The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease

Of our English hearths and homes, to find

Troublers of Israel such as these?

Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid!

I will do as the prophet to Agag did:

They come to poison the wells of the Word,

I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"

The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk

Entered, and whispered under breath,

"There waits below for the hangman's work

A fellow banished on pain of death--

Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,

Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship

At anchor here in a Christian port,

With freight of the devil and all his sort!"

Twice and thrice on the chamber floor

Striding fiercely from wall to wall,

"The Lord do so to me and more,"

The Governor cried, "if I hang not all!

Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate,

With the look of a man at ease with fate,

Into that presence grim and dread

Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand

Smote down the offence; but the wearer said,

With a quiet smile, "By the king's command

I bear his message and stand in his stead."

In the Governor's hand a missive he laid

With the royal arms on its seal displayed,

And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat,

Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,--

"The king commandeth your friends' release;

Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although

To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase.

What he here enjoineth, John Endicott,

His loyal servant, questioneth not.

You are free! God grant the spirit you own

May take you from us to parts unknown."

So the door of the jail was open cast,

And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den

Tender youth and girlhood passed,

With age-bowed women and gray-locked men.

And the voice of one appointed to die

Was lifted in praise and thanks on high,

And the little maid from New Netherlands

Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands

And one, whose call was to minister

To the souls in prison, beside him went,

An ancient woman, bearing with her

The linen shroud for his burial meant.

For she, not counting her own life dear,

In the strength of a love that cast out fear,

Had watched and served where her brethren died,

Like those who waited the cross beside.

One moment they paused on their way to look

On the martyr graves by the Common side.

And much scourged Wharton of Salem took

His burden of prophecy up and cried:

"Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain

Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain;

Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned,

With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

The autumn haze lay soft and still

On wood and meadow and upland farms;

On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill

Slowly and lazily swung its arms;

Broad in the sunshine stretched away,

With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay;

And over water and dusk of pines

Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed,

The sumach added its crimson fleck,

And double in air and water showed

The tinted maples along the Neck;

Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist,

And gentian fringes of amethyst,

And royal plumes of golden-rod,

The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw

The world about them; they only thought

With deep thanksgiving and pious awe

On the great deliverance God had wrought.

Through lane and alley the gazing town

Noisily followed them up and down;

Some with scoffing and brutal jeer,

Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din.

Upsall, gray with his length of days,

Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn:

"Men of Boston, give God the praise!

No more shall innocent blood call down

The bolts of wrath on your guilty town.

The freedom of worship, dear to you,

Is dear to all, and to all is due.

"I see the vision of days to come,

When your beautiful City of the Bay

Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home,

And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay.

The varying notes of worship shall blend

And as one great prayer to God ascend,

And hands of mutual charity raise

Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston town,

Whose painful ministers sighed to see

The walls of their sheep-fold falling down,

And wolves of heresy prowling free.

But the years went on, and brought no wrong;

With milder counsels the State grew strong,

As outward Letter and inward Light

Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit perishing not,

To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,

And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot

That severed the chains of a continent.

With its gentler mission of peace and good-will

The thought of the Quaker is living still,

And the freedom of soul he prophesied

Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

CHAPTER VII

KING PHILIP'S WAR AND THE WITCHCRAFT DELUSION

Metacomet, or Philip, had succeeded his father, Massasoit, as

chief of the Wampanoags, and endeavored to maintain friendly

relations with the English, but in June, 1675, some of his

young men attacked the village of Swansea, and started the

desperate struggle known as King Philip's War. For months

the Indians ravaged the frontier, and on September 18 all

but annihilated a picked force of eighty men, the "Flower of

Essex," under Captain Thomas Lathrop, which had been sent to

Deerfield to save a quantity of grain which had been abandoned

there. Only nine of the eighty survived.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK

[September 18, 1675]

Come listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,--

How they fought, how they died,

When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then

How they fell, in their pride,

By Pocumtuck Side.

"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?"

Said old Mosely to his men in Array.

"Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again;

But be sure that no Man stray

All the Day, on the Way."

Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head,

Wise and brave, bold and true.

He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said,

"Be there Many, be there Few,

I will bring the Grain to you."

They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way

Through the Woods which blazed like Fire.

No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray,

Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire,

And the Beasts began to tire.

The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows,

And then the Rear-Guard stays

To pick the Purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs,

When, crack!--to their Amaze,

A hundred Fire-locks blaze!

Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried,

"Each Man to his Tree," said he,

"Let no one yield an Inch;" and so the Soldier died;

And not a Man of all can see

Where the Foe can be.

And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast,

From behind and before,

That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last.

Every Man lies dead in his Gore

To fight no more,--no more!

Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,--

The Flower of Essex they!

The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side,

But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide,

And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride,

From that dark and cruel Day,--cruel Day!

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the

Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a

decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the

morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett

stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst

of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they

forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and

after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three

hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed

their store of winter provisions.

THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT

[December 19, 1675]

Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms,

And hear the tale I tell,

From Pettaquamscut town I come,

Now hear what there befell.

The houses stand upon the hill,

Not large, each house is full,

But largest of them all there stood

The house of Justice Bull.

'Twas there the court sat every year,

The governor came in state,

From there the couriers through the town

Served summons soon and late.

And there, 'tis but three years agone,

George Fox preached, you remember;

That was in May when he preached peace,

And now it is December.

Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God,

How can there be true peace,

When war and tumult stalk at night,

And deeds of blood increase?

Revenge, revenge, good captains bold,

Revenge, my people cry;

Where stood the house of Justice Bull

But piled-up ashes lie.

How fared it then, who may dare tell?

The shutters barred the light,

As one by one the windows closed,

And all was black as night.

Strong was the house, and strong brave men

All armed lay down to sleep,

And women fair, and children, too,

They were to guard and keep.

And then a horror in the night,

And shouts, and fire, and knives,

And demons yelling in delight,

As men fought for their lives.

And where there stood that goodly house

And lived those goodly men,

Full seven goodly souls are gone.

Revenge, we cry again!

Up, up, ye men of English blood!

The gallant governor cried,

And we shall dare to find their lair,

Where'er it be they hide.

For never men of English blood

Could brook so foul a deed,

For all these sins the fierce redskins

Shall reap their lawful meed.

Up rose the little army then,

All armed as best they could,

With pike and sword and axes broad,

Flint-locks and staves of wood.

And motley was the company,

Recruits from wood and field,

But strong young men were with them then,

Who'd sooner die than yield.

Connecticut had sent her men

With Major Robert Treat;

Each colony in its degree

Sent in its quota meet.

And Massachusetts led the way,

And Plymouth had next post,

Winslow commands the gathered bands,

A thousand men they boast.

The winter sun hung in the sky

And frost bound all things fast;

As they set forth, from out the north,

There blew a bitter blast.

The meadow grass was stiff with rime,

The frozen brook lay dead;

Like stone did sound the frozen ground

Beneath the martial tread.

All day they marched in bitter cold,

And when, as fell the night,

They reached the hill and gazed their fill

Upon the piteous sight,

No need to urge the rapid chase,

The cinders did that well,

And in the air a woman's hair

Told more than words could tell.

In stern resolve they lay them down,

For rest they needed sore,

But long ere dawn the swords were drawn

And open stood the door.

Out to the gloom of morning passed

Full silently those men,

And what 'twixt light and fall of night

Should come, no soul might ken.

III

They turned their faces toward the west,

The morning air was cold,

And softly stepped, while still men slept,

With courage high and bold.

An Indian they met ere long,

'Twas Peter, whom they knew;

They asked their way, naught would he say,

To his own comrades true.

In anger cried the governor:

Then let the man be hung,

For he can tell, he knows full well,

So let him find his tongue.

To save his life that wretched man

Agreed to be their guide,

As they marched on, the Indian

Marched onward by their side.

And soon they reached a dreadful swamp,

With cedar trees o'ergrown,

And thick and dark with dead trees stark

And great trunks lying prone.

'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there!

They fired as they ran,

And with a bound that spurned the ground,

The fierce assault began.

And then a wonder in the wood,--

A little rising ground,

With palisade for shelter made

Of timber planted round.

And but one place of entrance there

Across a watery way,

A tall felled tree gave access free,

From shore to shore it lay.

Full many a gallant man that day

His life left at that tree,

The bravest men pressed forward then,

And there fell captains three.

A dreadful day, and of our men

Short work would have been made,

But that by grace they found a place

Weak in the palisade.

Then they poured in, within the fort

Soon filled with Indians dead,

And many a one great deeds had done

Within that place of dread.

Then with a torch the whole was fired,

The wigwams caught the blaze,

The fire roared and spread abroad

And fed on tubs of maize.

The night came on, the governor called,

The soldiers gathered round;

The fort was theirs, and dying prayers

Were rising from the ground.

With care they gathered up their dead,

The few who had been spared,

All through the cold, in pain untold,

To Warwick they repaired.

So was the Indians' power gone,

Avenged were Englishmen,

For from the night of that Swamp fight

They never rose again.

In Narragansett there was peace,

The soldiers went their way,

All that remains are some few grains

Of corn parched on that day.

Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain,

The Indians, they are gone.

Please God we use, and not abuse

The land so hardly won!

CAROLINE HAZARD.

This assault by the colonists drove the Narragansetts, who had

hitherto taken no active part in the war, into alliance with

Philip, and two months later, on February 21, 1676, Medfield,

less than twenty miles from Boston, was attacked and partially

burned. Groton soon suffered a similar fate, and the leaders

of the savages boasted that they would march on Cambridge,

Concord, Roxbury, and Boston itself. It was at this juncture

that the "Amazonian Dames" mentioned in the poem became so

frightened at the prospect that they resolved to fortify Boston

neck.

ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN

DUX FOEMINA FACTI

[March, 1676]

A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames

Contrive whereby to glorify their names,

A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe,

Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf,

Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes,

Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.

The wheel at home counts it an holiday,

Since while the mistress worketh it may play.

A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts,

Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts,

To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,

Their undulating silks they closely furl.

The pick-axe one as a commandress holds,

While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds.

One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why

Can't you promove your work so fast as I?

Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel

The little waggon's weight with single wheel.

And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize,

They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.

These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands,

More like to dawbers than to marshal bands;

These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise,

But the beginners well deserve the praise.

BENJAMIN TOMPSON.

On April 21 an attack was made on Sudbury; a portion of the

town was burned, and a relief party of over fifty which hurried

up was lured into an ambush and all but annihilated. The

Indians in this battle were bolder than they had ever been

before, and their strategy was unusually effective.

THE SUDBURY FIGHT

[April 21, 1676]

Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name,

Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame,

Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a day of death and flame!

The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep

Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain;

We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep,

And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane:

_Come hastily or never when the wild beast lusts for gore,

And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more!_

The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills,

Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills

From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills.

But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words,

Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all;

They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds,

They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball;

Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste

With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced.

A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring

The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring

Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening.

The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand,

And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town;

Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned

Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown;

At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load,

The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode.

By night, through generations, have the eager children come

Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum

Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb.

The burning hours stretch slowly--then a welcome sight appears!

Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard

From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years;

Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard,

They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side,

And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide.

There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood;

In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood:

Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood!

But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde

Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near,

To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford,

A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear

As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail:

One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale.

Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn,

Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn,

And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn.

They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop--

All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief;

They see the braves before them--with a cheer the little group

Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief,

His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire,

The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire.

A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout,

Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout;

But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out.

He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way

Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed;

With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay,

Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced;

Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope,

And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope.

With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill,

The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill,

An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still.

But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass:

The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes.

No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass--

A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close,

As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past

And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast.

Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there!

The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair,

As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare.

There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom;

Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force;

When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom,

Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse!

And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight,

Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night.

Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den,

Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men;

In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again.

We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall:

The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command;

Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call,

And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand;

Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent

And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent.

In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas,

The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees,

Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.

Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams

Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped;

Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams,

And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led;

How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away,

And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day!

Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade,

We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said,

That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made.

WALLACE RICE.

The victory at Sudbury was the last considerable success the

Indians gained in the war. Jealousies broke out among them,

many deserted to the whites, and the final blow was struck

when, at daybreak of August 12, 1676, Captain Church surprised

Philip's camp at Mt. Hope, and Philip himself was shot by an

Indian while trying to escape. His head was cut off, sent to

Plymouth, and fixed upon a pole, where it remained for twenty

years. His wife and son, a boy of nine, were taken prisoners

and sold into slavery. With them, the race of Massasoit, that

true and tried friend of the early settlers, vanishes from the

pages of history.

KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND

[August 12, 1676]

'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown,

And armèd cap-a-pie.

Came ambling into Plymouth-town;

And from far riding up and down

A weary man was he.

_Now, where is my good wife?_ he quoth

Before the goodmen all;

And they replied, _What of thine oath?_

And he looked on them lorn and loath,

As he were like to fall.

_What of thine oath?_ to him they cried,

_And wilt thou let him slip

Who harrieth fair New England-side

Till every path is slaughter-dyed,--

The murderous King Philip!_

His cheek went flush and swelled his girth;

_Upon him be God's ban!_

His voice ran loud in grisly mirth:

_Now, who with me will run to earth

This bloody Indiàn?_

Then _I!_ and _I!_ the lusty peal

Made thrill the Plymouth air;

And forth with him for woe or weal,

Their hands agrip on musket-steel,

Hied many a godly pair.

They sped them through the summer-land

By ferry and by ford,

Until they saw before them stand

A redman of that cursèd band,

His features ochre-scored.

_Would the pale-faces find_, he said,

_Where lurks their fiercest foe?

Now, by the spirit of the dead,--

My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,--

Follow, and they shall know!_

This Indian brave, they followed him;

In caution crawled and crept;

Till in a marish deep and dim

They came to where the Sachem grim

In leafy hiding slept.

(The quiet August morn's at bud,

King Philip, woe's the day!

And woe that one of thine own blood,

Now that ill-fortune roars to flood,

Should be the man to slay!)

Around him spread a girdling line;

The fatal snare was laid;

And when down aisles of birch and pine

They saw the first slant sun-rays shine,

They sprang their ambuscade.

And did he slink, or did he shrink

From that relentless ring?

Nay, not a coward did he sink,

But leaped across Death's darkling brink

A savage, yet a king!

Then unto him whose bolt of lead

Had struck King Philip down,

They gave the Sachem's hand and head;

Then back they marched, with triumph tread,

To joyful Plymouth-town.

On Philip's name a bloody blot

The white man's writ has thrown,--

The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot;

_And yet what one of us would not

Do battle for his own!_

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set

themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm

believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness,

and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been

prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that

the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear

occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history.

PROLOGUE

From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

Delusions of the days that once have been,

Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen,

Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts

That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,--

These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here,

Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere,

We draw the outlines of weird figures cast

In shadow on the background of the Past.

Who would believe that in the quiet town

Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown

The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms

That fold it safe in their paternal arms,--

Who would believe that in those peaceful streets,

Where the great elms shut out the summer heats,

Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast

The benediction of unbroken rest,--

Who would believe such deeds could find a place

As these whose tragic history we retrace?

'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed

His ample acres under sun or cloud;

The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,

And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun;

The only men of dignity and state

Were then the Minister and the Magistrate,

Who ruled their little realm with iron rod,

Less in the love than in the fear of God;

And who believed devoutly in the Powers

Of Darkness, working in this world of ours,

In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread,

And shrouded apparitions of the dead.

Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame,"

Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came;

Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts,

To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts!

And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host,

There most he rages where he hateth most,

And is most hated; so on us he brings

All these stupendous and portentous things!"

Something of this our scene to-night will show;

And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe,

Be not too swift in casting the first stone,

Nor think New England bears the guilt alone.

This sudden burst of wickedness and crime

Was but the common madness of the time,

When in all lands, that lie within the sound

Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem

Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought

about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched

and who "cried out" against various persons. They were

countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the

minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he

used them to gratify his private enmities.

SALEM

[A.D. 1692]

Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne,

How rides a witch when night-winds blowe?

Folk say that you are none too goode

To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,

When one you wot of gives the signe:

Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.

In meetinge-time I watched you well,

Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:

Your folded hands laye on your booke;

But Richard answered to a looke

That fain would tempt him unto hell,

Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.

You looke into my Richard's eyes

With evill glances shamelesse growne;

I found about his wriste a hair,

And guesse what fingers tyed it there!

He shall not lightly be your prize--

Your Master first shall take his owne.

'Tis not in nature he should be

(Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)

A childe, to hange upon your gowne!

He loved me well in Salem towne

Until this wanton witcherie

His heart and myne crept dark betweene.

Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,

Your goodman missed you from his side.

He had no strength to move, until

Agen, as if in slumber still,

Beside him at the dawne you laye.

Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.

Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete

As drifts the Bay fogg overhead--

Or over yonder hill-topp, where

There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear

When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet

The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work

without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and

condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court

sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed

soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse,

seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent

character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to

convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who

had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and

on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill

and hanged.

THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE

[July 19, 1692]

The chill New England sunshine

Lay on the kitchen floor;

The wild New England north wind

Came rattling at the door.

And by the wide old fire-place,

Deep in her cushioned chair,

Lay back an ancient woman,

With shining snow-white hair.

The peace of God was on her face,

Her eyes were sweet and calm,

And when you heard her earnest voice

It sounded like a psalm.

In all the land they loved her well;

From country and from town

Came many a heart for counsel,

And many a soul cast down.

Her hands had fed the hungry poor

With blessing and with bread;

Her face was like a comforting

From out the Gospel read.

So weak and silent as she lay,

Her warm hands clasped in prayer,

A sudden knocking at the door

Came on her unaware.

And as she turned her hoary head,

Beside her chair there stood

Four grim and grisly Puritans--

No visitants for good.

They came upon her like a host,

And bade her speak and tell

Why she had sworn a wicked oath

To serve the powers of hell;

To work the works of darkness

On children of the light,

A witch they might not suffer here

Who read the Word aright.

Like one who sees her fireside yawn,

A pit of black despair,

Or one who wakes from quiet dreams

Within a lion's lair,

She glared at them with starting eyes,

Her voice essayed no sound;

She gasped like any hunted deer

The eager dogs surround.

"Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry;

She looked from side to side--

No human help--"Oh, gracious God!"

In agony she cried.

Then, calling back her feeble life,

The white lips uttered slow,

"I am as pure as babe unborn

From this foul thing, ye know.

"If God doth visit me for sin,

Beneath His rod I bend,"

But pitiless and wroth were they,

And bent upon their end.

They tortured her with taunt and jeer,

They vexed her night and day--

No husband's arm nor sister's tears

Availed their rage to stay.

Before the church they haled her then;

The minister arose

And poured upon her patient head

The worst of all its woes:

He bade her be accursed of God

Forever here and there;

He cursed her with a heavy curse

No mortal man may bear.

She stood among the cowering crowd

As calm as saints in heaven,

Her eyes as sweet as summer skies,

Her face like summer's even.

The devils wrought their wicked will

On matron and on maid.

"Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all,

But not a word she said.

They fastened chains about her feet,

And carried her away;

For many days in Salem jail

Alone and ill she lay

She heard the scythe along the field

Ring through the fragrant air,

She smelt the wild-rose on the wind

That bloweth everywhere.

Reviled and hated and bereft,

The soul had plenteous rest,

Though sorrow like a frantic flood

Beat sore upon her breast.

At last the prison door stood wide,

They led the saint abroad;

By many an old familiar place

Her trembling footsteps trod.

Till faint with weakness and distress,

She climbed a hillside bleak,

And faced the gallows built thereon,

Still undisturbed and meek.

They hanged this weary woman there,

Like any felon stout;

Her white hairs on the cruel rope

Were scattered all about.

The body swung upon the tree

In every flitting wind,

Reviled and mocked by passengers

And folk of evil mind.

A woman old and innocent,

To die a death of shame,

With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,

And none to utter blame.

Oh, God, that such a thing should be

On earth which Thou hast made!

A voice from heaven answered me,

"Father forgive," He said.

ROSE TERRY COOKE.

At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course,

condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former

had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her

defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August

5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor

was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy.

Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution

was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a

reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.

A SALEM WITCH

[August 19, 1692]

The wind blows east,--the wind blows west,--

It blows upon the gallows tree:

Oh, little babe beneath my breast,

He died for thee!--he died for me!

The judges came,--the children came

(Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),

They set their black lies on my name:--

"A God-accursèd witch who learned

"Each night (they said) the Devil's art,

Through Salem wood by devils drawn."--

I, whose heart beat against his heart

From dark till dawn!--from dark till dawn!

He faced them in his fearless scorn

(The sun was on him as he stood):

"No purer is her babe unborn;

I prove her sinless with my blood."

They spared the babe beneath my breast,--

They bound his hands,--they set me free,--

Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;

He died for thee!--he died for me!

They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill

(I saw the flowers among the grass);

The women came,--I hear them still,--

They held their babes to see him pass.

God curse them!--Nay,--Oh God forgive!

He said it while their lips reviled;

He kissed my lips,--he whispered: "Live!

The father loves thee in the child."

Then earth and sky grew black,--I fell--

I lay as stone beside their stone.

They did their work. They earned their Hell.

I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.

Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,

Shield him upon the gallows tree!

O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,

He died for thee!--he died for me!

EDNAH PROCTOR CLARKE.

The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this

hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court,

he refused to plead--"stood mute," as the law termed it. The

penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of

the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and

there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be

placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear,

and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles

Corey suffered.

THE TRIAL

From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

[September 7, 1692]

SCENE II.--_Interior of the Meeting-house._ MATHER _and the

Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a

raised platform._ MARTHA _in chains_. COREY _near her_. MARY

WALCOT _in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them_ GLOYD.

_Confusion and murmurs during the scene._

HATHORNE

CALL Martha Corey.

MARTHA

I am here.

HATHORNE

Come forward.

_She ascends the platform._

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady

The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you

Of having on the tenth of June last past,

And divers other times before and after,

Wickedly used and practised certain arts

Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,

Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,

Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts

The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,

Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,

Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady

The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute

Made and provided in that case. What say you?

MARTHA

Before I answer, give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE

We have not sent for you, nor are we here,

To hear you pray, but to examine you

In whatsoever is alleged against you

Why do you hurt this person?

MARTHA

I do not.

I am not guilty of the charge against me.

MARY

Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!

Avoid, avoid, Witch!

MARTHA

I am innocent.

I never had to do with any Witchcraft

Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.

MARY

You are a gospel Witch!

MARTHA (_clasping her hands_)

Ah me! ah me!

Oh, give me leave to pray!

MARY (_stretching out her hands_)

She hurts me now.

See, she has pinched my hands!

HATHORNE

Who made these marks

Upon her hands?

MARTHA

I do not know. I stand

Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.

HATHORNE

Who hurt her then?

MARTHA

I know not.

HATHORNE

Do you think

She is bewitched?

MARTHA

Indeed I do not think so.

I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.

HATHORNE

Then answer me: When certain persons came

To see you yesterday, how did you know

Beforehand why they came?

MARTHA

I had had speech;

The children said I hurt them, and I thought

These people came to question me about it.

HATHORNE

How did you know the children had been told

To note the clothes you wore?

MARTHA

My husband told me

What others said about it.

HATHORNE

Goodman Corey,

Say, did you tell her?

COREY

I must speak the truth;

I did not tell her. It was some one else.

HATHORNE

Did you not say your husband told you so?

How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?

Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.

MARTHA _bites her lips, and is silent_.

You bite your lips, but do not answer me!

MARY

Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!

HATHORNE

You said your husband told you.

MARTHA

Yes, he told me

The children said I troubled them.

HATHORNE

Then tell me,

Why do you trouble them?

MARTHA

I have denied it.

MARY

She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;

And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,

He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.

Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.

_Shows them._

HATHORNE

And there are persons here who know the truth

Of what has now been said. What answer make you?

MARTHA

I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.

HATHORNE

Whom would you pray to?

MARTHA

To my God and Father.

HATHORNE

Who is your God and Father?

MARTHA

The Almighty!

HATHORNE

Doth he you pray to say that he is God?

It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.

MARY

There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.

HATHORNE

What does it say to you?

MARTHA

I see no shape.

HATHORNE

Did you not hear it whisper?

MARTHA

I heard nothing.

MARY

What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!

_Falls into a swoon._

HATHORNE

You see this woman cannot stand before you.

If you would look for mercy, you must look

In God's way, by confession of your guilt.

Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?

MARTHA

I do not know. He who appeared of old

In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,

May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.

I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!

COREY

O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.

HATHORNE

No; stand aside, old man.

MARY (_starting up_)

Look there! Look there!

I see a little bird, a yellow bird,

Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.

Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!

MARTHA

I see nothing.

HATHORNE

'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.

MARY

Now it has flown away. It sits up there

Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.

MARTHA

Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.

Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.

_She leans against the railing._

MARY

Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!

HATHORNE

Did you not carry once the Devil's Book

To this young woman?

MARTHA

Never.

HATHORNE

Have you signed it,

Or touched it?

MARTHA

No; I never saw it.

HATHORNE

Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?

MARTHA

No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit

Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds,

I cannot help it. I am innocent.

HATHORNE

Did you not say the Magistrates were blind?

That you would open their eyes?

MARTHA (_with a scornful laugh_)

Yes, I said that;

If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!

If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!

Can the innocent be guilty?

HATHORNE

Did you not

On one occasion hide your husband's saddle

To hinder him from coming to the Sessions?

MARTHA

I thought it was a folly in a farmer

To waste his time pursuing such illusions.

HATHORNE

What was the bird that this young woman saw

Just now upon your hand?

MARTHA

I know no bird.

HATHORNE

Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?

MARTHA

No, never, never!

HATHORNE

What then was the Book

You showed to this young woman, and besought her

To write in it?

MARTHA

Where should I have a book?

I showed her none, nor have none.

MARY

The next Sabbath

Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey

Will not be there!

MARTHA

Ah, you are all against me.

What can I do or say?

HATHORNE

You can confess.

MARTHA

No, I cannot, for I am innocent.

HATHORNE

We have the proof of many witnesses

That you are guilty.

MARTHA

Give me leave to speak.

Will you condemn me on such evidence,--

You who have known me for so many years?

Will you condemn me in this house of God,

Where I so long have worshipped with you all?

Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine

So many times at our Lord's Table with you?

Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know

That I have led a blameless life among you,

That never any whisper of suspicion

Was breathed against me till this accusation.

And shall this count for nothing? Will you take

My life away from me, because this girl,

Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,

Accuses me of things I blush to name?

HATHORNE

What! is it not enough? Would you hear more?

Giles Corey!

COREY

I am here.

HATHORNE

Come forward, then.

COREY _ascends the platform_.

Is it not true, that on a certain night

You were impeded strangely in your prayers?

That something hindered you? and that you left

This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone

Upon the hearth?

COREY

Yes; I cannot deny it.

HATHORNE

Did you not say the Devil hindered you?

COREY

I think I said some words to that effect.

HATHORNE

Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,

To you belonging, broke from their enclosure

And leaped into the river, and were drowned?

COREY

It is most true.

HATHORNE

And did you not then say

That they were overlooked?

COREY

So much I said.

I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,

A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!

(_Aside._)

HATHORNE

Who did these things?

COREY

I do not know who did them.

HATHORNE

Then I will tell you. It is some one near you;

You see her now; this woman, your own wife.

COREY

I call the heavens to witness, it is false!

She never harmed me, never hindered me

In anything but what I should not do.

And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,

And in God's house here, that I never knew her

As otherwise than patient, brave, and true,

Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,

A virtuous and industrious and good wife!

HATHORNE

Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;

You are a witness, not an advocate!

Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.

MARTHA

O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!

MARY

Go, go and join the Witches at the door.

Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?

Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late!

[_Exit_ MARTHA; COREY _following_.

COREY

The dream! the dream! the dream!

HATHORNE

What does he say?

Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself

Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery

By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?

COREY

I know my death is foreordained by you,--

Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.

_During the rest of the scene he remains silent._

HATHORNE

Do you refuse to plead?--'Twere better for you

To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.--

Do you not hear me?--Answer, are you guilty?

Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,

If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?

Where is John Gloyd?

GLOYD (_coming forward_)

Here am I.

HATHORNE

Tell the Court;

Have you not seen the supernatural power

Of this old man? Have you not seen him do

Strange feats of strength?

GLOYD

I've seen him lead the field,

On a hot day, in mowing, and against

Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.

He threw me like a feather. I have seen him

Lift up a barrel with his single hands,

Which two strong men could hardly lift together,

And, holding it above his head, drink from it.

HATHORNE

That is enough; we need not question further.

What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?

MARY

See there! See there!

HATHORNE

What is it? I see nothing.

MARY

Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,

Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder

By stamping on his body! In his shroud

He comes here to bear witness to the crime!

_The crowd shrinks back from_ COREY _in horror_.

HATHORNE

Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living

Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die!

It might have been an easier death. Your doom

Will be on your own head, and not on ours.

Twice more will you be questioned of these things;

Twice more have room to plead or to confess.

If you are contumacious to the Court,

And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,

Then by the Statute you will be condemned

To the _peine forte et dure_! To have your body

Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead!

And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

GILES COREY

[September 19, 1692]

Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,

A stubborn wretch was he;

And fitt was he to hang on high

Upon the Locust-tree.

So when before the magistrates

For triall he did come,

He would no true confession make,

But was compleatlie dumbe.

"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,

"What hast thou heare to pleade

To these that now accuse thy soule

Of crimes and horrid deed?"

Giles Corey, he said not a worde,

No single worde spoke he.

"Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,

"We'll press it out of thee."

They got them then a heavy beam,

They laid it on his breast;

They loaded it with heavy stones,

And hard upon him prest.

"More weight!" now said this wretched man;

"More weight!" again he cried;

And he did no confession make,

But wickedly he dyed.

One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John

Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the

accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for

generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence

and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm

he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced

that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured

themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."

MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY

[October, 1692]

The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;

The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;

Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;

Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.

No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awoke

The silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,

Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,--and why?

Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.

His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him now

A weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.

A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,

Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.

She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,

And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:

And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,

"For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail.

"The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;

The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,

Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, beware

Of touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!

"The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,

Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,

Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,

And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?

"Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not say

She was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.

Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,--a swaggerer, it is true,--

Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too.

"And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,

What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wide

Her scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;

How dared they take away the life they could not give again?

"Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,

Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?

Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,

It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer.

"They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,

The vagrant's child--but four years old!--who says that baby could

To Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,

As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind.

"Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,

Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?

Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:

Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!

"God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,

To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.

If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I plead

Than those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?

"I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!

My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!

Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,

In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.

The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:

He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,

Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,

A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.

It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;

Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;

The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;

The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.

And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,

As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.--

"Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,

And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.

The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,

Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.

We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;

I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:

"And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."

Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,

As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,

Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall.

"Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,

Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no word

Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze

Each fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.

But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,

One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:

For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;

Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.

The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;

His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast.

"Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;

"Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"

Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,

Until across the ferry came a messenger with news

That the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;

The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.

The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped down

Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:

In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed

The nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.

Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;

From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;

The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;

The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.

The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grieved

That he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;

Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,

And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.

Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we know

How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow

Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore

To lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.

As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,

So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.

Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:

Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"

Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,

Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;

Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,

And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.

The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;

The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.

Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,

Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!

LUCY LARCOM.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STRUGGLE FOR THE CONTINENT

While England was colonizing the Atlantic seaboard, France

was firmly establishing herself to the north along the St.

Lawrence. It was inevitable that war should follow; and as

early as 1613 the English had destroyed the French settlements

in Nova Scotia. The country had scarcely rallied from the blow,

when it was torn asunder by the contest between Charles la

Tour and the Chevalier D'Aulnay--a contest which, after twelve

years, resulted in victory for the latter.

ST. JOHN

[April, 1647]

"To the winds give our banner!

Bear homeward again!"

Cried the Lord of Acadia,

Cried Charles of Estienne!

From the prow of his shallop

He gazed, as the sun

From its bed in the ocean,

Streamed up the St. John.

O'er the blue western waters

That shallop had passed,

Where the mists of Penobscot

Clung damp on her mast.

St. Saviour had looked

On the heretic sail,

As the songs of the Huguenot

Rose on the gale.

The pale, ghostly fathers

Remembered her well,

And had cursed her while passing,

With taper and bell;

But the men of Monhegan,

Of Papists abhorred,

Had welcomed and feasted

The heretic Lord.

They had loaded his shallop

With dun-fish and ball,

With stores for his larder,

And steel for his wall.

Pemaquid, from her bastions

And turrets of stone,

Had welcomed his coming

With banner and gun.

And the prayers of the elders

Had followed his way,

As homeward he glided,

Down Pentecost Bay.

Oh, well sped La Tour!

For, in peril and pain,

His lady kept watch,

For his coming again.

O'er the Isle of the Pheasant

The morning sun shone,

On the plane-trees which shaded

The shores of St. John.

"Now, why from yon battlements

Speaks not my love!

Why waves there no banner

My fortress above?"

Dark and wild, from his deck

St. Estienne gazed about,

On fire-wasted dwellings,

And silent redoubt;

From the low, shattered walls

Which the flame had o'errun,

There floated no banner,

There thundered no gun!

But beneath the low arch

Of its doorway there stood

A pale priest of Rome,

In his cloak and his hood.

With the bound of a lion,

La Tour sprang to land,

On the throat of the Papist

He fastened his hand.

"Speak, son of the Woman

Of scarlet and sin!

What wolf has been prowling

My castle within?"

From the grasp of the soldier

The Jesuit broke,

Half in scorn, half in sorrow,

He smiled as he spoke:

"No wolf, Lord of Estienne,

Has ravaged thy hall,

But thy red-handed rival,

With fire, steel, and ball!

On an errand of mercy

I hitherward came,

While the walls of thy castle

Yet spouted with flame.

"Pentagoet's dark vessels

Were moored in the bay,

Grim sea-lions, roaring

Aloud for their prey."

"But what of my lady?"

Cried Charles of Estienne.

"On the shot-crumbled turret

Thy lady was seen:

"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,

Her hand grasped thy pennon,

While her dark tresses swayed

In the hot breath of cannon!

But woe to the heretic,

Evermore woe!

When the son of the church

And the cross is his foe!

"In the track of the shell,

In the path of the ball,

Pentagoet swept over

The breach of the wall!

Steel to steel, gun to gun,

One moment,--and then

Alone stood the victor,

Alone with his men!

"Of its sturdy defenders,

Thy lady alone

Saw the cross-blazoned banner

Float over St. John."

"Let the dastard look to it!"

Cried fiery Estienne,

"Were D'Aulnay King Louis,

I'd free her again!"

"Alas for thy lady!

No service from thee

Is needed by her

Whom the Lord hath set free;

Nine days, in stern silence,

Her thraldom she bore,

But the tenth morning came,

And Death opened her door!"

As if suddenly smitten

La Tour staggered back;

His hand grasped his sword-hilt,

His forehead grew black.

He sprang on the deck

Of his shallop again.

"We cruise now for vengeance!

Give away!" cried Estienne.

"Massachusetts shall hear

Of the Huguenot's wrong,

And from island and creekside

Her fishers shall throng!

Pentagoet shall rue

What his Papists have done,

When his palisades echo

The Puritan's gun!"

Oh, the loveliest of heavens

Hung tenderly o'er him,

There were waves in the sunshine,

And green isles before him;

But a pale hand was beckoning

The Huguenot on;

And in blackness and ashes

Behind was St. John!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The rivalry between the colonists for the fur trade grew

steadily more bitter, and in 1690 (King William's War) Canada

undertook the conquest of New York and destroyed a number of

frontier towns. The English made some reprisals; Sir William

Phips capturing Acadia and Major Peter Schuyler leading a

raid into the country south of Montreal, where he defeated a

considerable body of French and Indians under Valrennes, in a

spirited fight at La Prairie.

THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE

[1691]

That was a brave old epoch,

Our age of chivalry,

When the Briton met the Frenchman

At the fight of La Prairie;

And the manhood of New England,

And the Netherlanders true

And Mohawks sworn, gave battle

To the Bourbon's lilied blue.

That was a brave old governor

Who gathered his array,

And stood to meet, he knew not what,

On that alarming day.

Eight hundred, amid rumors vast

That filled the wild wood's gloom,

With all New England's flower of youth,

Fierce for New France's doom.

And the brave old half five hundred!

Theirs should in truth be fame;

Borne down the savage Richelieu,

On what emprise they came!

Your hearts are great enough, O few:

Only your numbers fail,--

New France asks more for conquerors,

All glorious though your tale.

It was a brave old battle

That surged around the fort,

When D'Hosta fell in charging,

And 'twas deadly strife and short;

When in the very quarters

They contested face and hand,

And many a goodly fellow

Crimsoned yon La Prairie sand.

And those were brave old orders

The colonel gave to meet

That forest force with trees entrenched

Opposing the retreat:

"De Callière's strength's behind us,

And in front your Richelieu;

We must go straightforth at them;

There is nothing else to do."

And then the brave old story comes,

Of Schuyler and Valrennes,

When "Fight" the British colonel called,

Encouraging his men,

"For the Protestant Religion

And the honor of our King!"--

"Sir, I am here to answer you!"

Valrennes cried, forthstepping.

Were not those brave old races?

Well, here they still abide;

And yours is one or other,

And the second's at your side;

So when you hear your brother say,

"Some loyal deed I'll do,"

Like old Valrennes, be ready with

"I'm here to answer you!"

WILLIAM DOUW SCHUYLER-LIGHTHALL.

Peace was declared in 1697, but hostilities began again

five years later, and early in 1704 Vaudreuil, governor of

Canada, dispatched a force of three hundred, under Hertel de

Rouville, against Deerfield, on the northwestern frontier of

Massachusetts. They reached their destination a little before

daylight of February 29, and, finding the sentinels asleep and

the snow drifted over the palisades, rushed the place, and

carried it, with the exception of one block-house, which held

out successfully.

THE SACK OF DEERFIELD

[February 29, 1704]

Of the onset, fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage

Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell,

When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning,

With no token shown or spoken, came the foeman, hear me tell.

High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,

At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;

And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,

That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.

We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre

Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;

But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,

'Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.

Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,

Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;

But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,

And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.

Fell the shining hatchets quickly 'mid the thickly crowded women,

Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;

Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly

With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.

I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,

With amazement saw the foemen enter quickly where I lay;

Heard my wife and children's screaming, as the hatchets woke their

dreaming,

Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.

'Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleading

Of my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;

'Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,

Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.

At the spot to which they bore me, no one o'er me watched or warded;

There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;

Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloody,

Slew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.

And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streaming

O'er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,

That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,

Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.

Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the

shrieking,

Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;

For a knife lay there--I spied it, and a tomahawk beside it

Glittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.

Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me then

If the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;

Quickly drawn o'er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,

Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.

Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,

Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;

'Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,

Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.

Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;

Fury braced me, for I knew him--he my pleading wife had slain.

Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,

And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain--

Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.

As I brained him rose their calling, "Lo! appalling from yon meadow

The Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!"

As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,

Till their shattered forces scattered widely o'er the snowy plain.

Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing,

Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn;

Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me;

Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn.

Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written--

Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;

For the rest the captive's durance, but for me there was assurance

Of the tortures known to martyrs--of the terrible death by fire.

Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy

Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,

Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,

Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.

Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;

Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;

Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,

I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.

Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a

Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe'er they move their wings,

Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,

Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.

Then I heard her voice's murmur breathing summer, while my spirit

Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;

Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her;

Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.

Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;

Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;

Mingled tears with hers and chid her, bade her by our love consider

How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master's breast.

I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,

In my seeing--I, unable to protect her or defend;

At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,

While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.

For I heard the firelocks ringing fiercely flinging forth the whirring,

Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;

There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,

When the furious leaden couriers from its loopholes fastly rode.

And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,

Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their

wives;

For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly

moulding--

Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.

Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven

Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;

Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,

Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.

Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his

brightness

On the whiteness of the snowdrifts and the ruins of the town--

On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended

Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and

brown.

Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early

With the pearly light and glistering of the March's snowy morn;

Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,

As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.

Then we heard De Rouville's orders, "To the borders!" and the dismal,

Dark abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;

But we heard a shout in distance--into fluttering existence,

Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.

'Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor'ward,

Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came--

Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, "Is't our captives you are seeking?

Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.

"With the toil of blood we won them, we've undone them with our bravery;

Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.

Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers' blood to squander

'Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.

"Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,

To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;

Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?

If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day."

How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!

Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,

When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,

Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.

For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty

Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,

And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,

When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.

All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,

Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,

They retreated--well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,

Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.

As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest

Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;

Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,

Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.

They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,

Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;

So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out

trenches,

Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.

By the wrist--and by no light hand--to the right hand of a painted,

Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;

And the one to whom they bound me, 'mid the scoffs of those around me,

Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.

As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;

Less intense is lover's musing than a captive's bent on ways

To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;

So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.

There I lay--no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,

Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;

Then my right hand cautious stealing, o'er my bed-mate's person feeling,

Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.

'Twas his knife--the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,

Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber's art;

As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter

Of a snow-bird--ah! 'twas _no_ bird! 'twas the flutter of my heart.

Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,

Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;

Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,

And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Under French officers and priests, the war continued to be

conducted with a cruelty as aimless as it was brutal. Isolated

hamlets were burned, and their inhabitants tortured or taken

prisoners, only, for the most part, to be butchered on the way

to Canada. On August 29, 1708, a party of French and Indians,

under De Chaillons and the infamous De Rouville, surprised

the town of Haverhill. Rushing upon it, as their custom was,

just before daylight, they fired several houses, plundered

others, and killed some thirty or forty of the inhabitants. The

townspeople rallied, and after an hour's fighting drove away

the assailants, killing nearly thirty, among them De Rouville

himself.

PENTUCKET

[August 29, 1708]

How sweetly on the wood-girt town

The mellow light of sunset shone!

Each small, bright lake, whose waters still

Mirror the forest and the hill,

Reflected from its waveless breast

The beauty of a cloudless west,

Glorious as if a glimpse were given

Within the western gates of heaven,

Left, by the spirit of the star

Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river's tranquil flood

The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,

Where many a rood of open land

Stretched up and down on either hand,

With corn-leaves waving freshly green

The thick and blackened stumps between

Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,

The wild, untravelled forest spread,

Back to those mountains, white and cold,

Of which the Indian trapper told,

Upon whose summits never yet

Was mortal foot in safety set.

Quiet and calm without a fear

Of danger darkly lurking near,

The weary laborer left his plough,

The milkmaid carolled by her cow;

From cottage door and household hearth

Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.

At length the murmur died away,

And silence on that village lay.

--So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,

Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,

Undreaming of the fiery fate

Which made its dwellings desolate!

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped

The Merrimac along his bed.

Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood

Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,

Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,

As the hushed grouping of a dream.

Yet on the still air crept a sound,

No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,

No stir of wings, nor waters flowing,

Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

Was that the tread of many feet,

Which downward from the hillside beat?

What forms were those which darkly stood

Just on the margin of the wood?

Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,

Or paling rude, or leafless limb?

No,--through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,

Dark human forms in moonshine showed,

Wild from their native wilderness,

With painted limbs and battle-dress!

A yell the dead might wake to hear

Swelled on the night air, far and clear;

Then smote the Indian tomahawk

On crashing door and shattering lock;

Then rang the rifle-shot, and then

The shrill death-scream of stricken men,--

Sank the red axe in woman's brain,

And childhood's cry arose in vain.

Bursting through roof and window came,

Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,

And blended fire and moonlight glared

On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.

The morning sun looked brightly through

The river willows, wet with dew.

No sound of combat filled the air,

No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;

Yet still the thick and sullen smoke

From smouldering ruins slowly broke;

And on the greensward many a stain,

And, here and there, the mangled slain,

Told how that midnight bolt had sped,

Pentucket, on thy fated head!

Even now the villager can tell

Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,

Still show the door of wasting oak,

Through which the fatal death-stroke broke,

And point the curious stranger where

De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;

Whose hideous head, in death still feared,

Bore not a trace of hair or beard;

And still, within the churchyard ground,

Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,

Whose grass-grown surface overlies

The victims of that sacrifice.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Though the Peace of Utrecht (1714) closed the war, desultory

raids continued. In April, 1725, John Lovewell, of Dunstable,

with forty-six men, marched against the Indian town of

Pigwacket, or Pequawket (now Fryeburg). On the morning of May

8 they were suddenly attacked by a large force of Indians who

had formed an ambuscade. Twelve men fell at the first fire,

among them Lovewell himself. The survivors fought against heavy

odds until sunset, when the Indians drew off without having

been able to scalp the dead. It was this battle, in its day

"as famous in New England as was Chevy Chase on the Scottish

border," which inspired the earliest military ballad, still

extant, composed in America. Its author is unknown, but it was

for many years "the best beloved song in all New England."

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT

[May 8, 1725]

Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing,

How valiantly he served his country and his King;

He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,

And hardships they endured to quell the Indian's pride.

'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May,

They spied a rebel Indian soon after break of day;

He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land,

Which leads into a pond as we're made to understand.

Our men resolv'd to have him, and travell'd two miles round,

Until they met the Indian, who boldly stood his ground;

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, "Take you good heed," says he,

"This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see.

"The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand,

In order to surround us upon this neck of land;

Therefore we'll march in order, and each man leave his pack

That we may briskly fight them, when they make their attack."

They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy,

As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly,

Which wounded Captain Lovewell, and likewise one man more,

But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore.

Then having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot

Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not,

For the Indians having spy'd them, when they them down did lay,

Did seize them for their plunder, and carry them away.

These rebels lay in ambush, this very place hard by,

So that an English soldier did one of them espy,

And cried out, "Here's an Indian," with that they started out,

As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout.

With that our valiant English all gave a loud huzza,

To show the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a straw:

So now the fight began, and as fiercely as could be,

The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forced to flee.

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began:

"Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain."

For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick

A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit.

Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround,

But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond,

To which our men retreated, and covered all the rear,

The rogues were forc'd to face them, altho' they skulked for fear.

Two logs there were behind them that close together lay,

Without being discovered, they could not get away;

Therefore our valiant English they travell'd in a row,

And at a handsome distance, as they were wont to go.

'Twas ten o'clock in the morning when first the fight begun,

And fiercely did continue until the setting sun;

Excepting that the Indians some hours before 'twas night

Drew off into the bushes and ceas'd awhile to fight,

But soon again returned, in fierce and furious mood,

Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud;

For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,

Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well.

And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay,

To see whether the rebels would have another fray;

But they no more returning, they made off towards their home,

And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.

Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four,

And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore.

And sixteen of our English did safely home return,

The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn.

Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die,

They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,

Who was our English Chaplain; he many Indians slew,

And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.

Young Fullam, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well,

Endeavoring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell:

But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,

But still they kept their motion, and Wymans Captain made,

Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat,

Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;

And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,

They safe arriv'd at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.

The story of Lovewell's fight is told in another ballad printed

in Farmer and Moore's Historical Collections in 1824. It is an

excellent example of ballad literature, describing the struggle

in great detail and with unusual accuracy.

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT

[May 8, 1725]

What time the noble Lovewell came,

With fifty men from Dunstable,

The cruel Pequa'tt tribe to tame,

With arms and bloodshed terrible,

Then did the crimson streams, that flowed,

Seem like the waters of the brook,

That brightly shine, that loudly dash

Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.

With Lovewell brave, John Harwood came;

From wife and babes 'twas hard to part,

Young Harwood took her by the hand,

And bound the weeper to his heart.

Repress that tear, my Mary, dear,

Said Harwood to his loving wife,

It tries me hard to leave thee here,

And seek in distant woods the strife.

When gone, my Mary, think of me,

And pray to God, that I may be,

Such as one ought that lives for thee,

And come at last in victory.

Thus left young Harwood babe and wife,

With accent wild she bade adieu;

It grieved those lovers much to part,

So fond and fair, so kind and true.

Seth Wyman, who in Woburn lived

(A marksman he of courage true),

Shot the first Indian whom they saw,

Sheer through his heart the bullet flew.

The savage had been seeking game,

Two guns and eke a knife he bore,

And two black ducks were in his hand,

He shrieked, and fell, to rise no more.

Anon, there eighty Indians rose,

Who'd hid themselves in ambush dread;

Their knives they shook, their guns they aimed,

The famous Paugus at their head.

Good heavens! they dance the Powow dance,

What horrid yells the forest fill?

The grim bear crouches in his den,

The eagle seeks the distant hill.

What means this dance, this Powow dance?

Stern Wyman said; with wonderous art,

He crept full near, his rifle aimed,

And shot the leader through the heart.

John Lovewell, captain of the band,

His sword he waved, that glittered bright,

For the last time he cheered his men,

And led them onward to the fight.

Fight on, fight on, brave Lovewell said,

Fight on, while heaven shall give you breath

An Indian ball then pierced him through,

And Lovewell closed his eyes in death.

John Harwood died all bathed in blood,

When he had fought, till set of day;

And many more we may not name,

Fell in that bloody battle fray.

When news did come to Harwood's wife,

That he with Lovewell fought and died,

Far in the wilds had given his life,

Nor more would in their home abide,

Such grief did seize upon her mind,

Such sorrow filled her faithful breast;

On earth, she ne'er found peace again,

But followed Harwood to his rest.

'Twas Paugus led the Pequa'tt tribe;--

As runs the Fox, would Paugus run;

As howls the wild wolf, would he howl,

A large bear skin had Paugus on.

But Chamberlain, of Dunstable

(One whom a savage ne'er shall slay),

Met Paugus by the water side,

And shot him dead upon that day.

Good heavens! Is this a time for pray'r?

Is this a time to worship God?

When Lovewell's men are dying fast,

And Paugus' tribe hath felt the rod?

The Chaplain's name was Jonathan Frye;

In Andover his father dwelt,

And oft with Lovewell's men he'd prayed,

Before the mortal wound he felt.

A man was he of comely form,

Polished and brave, well learnt and kind;

Old Harvard's learned halls he left,

Far in the wilds a grave to find.

Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts,

His closing lids he tries to raise;

And speak once more before he dies,

In supplication and in praise.

He prays kind heaven to grant success,

Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless,

And when they've shed their heart blood true,

To raise them all to happiness.

Come hither, Farwell, said young Frye,

You see that I'm about to die;

Now for the love I bear to you,

When cold in death my bones shall lie;

Go thou and see my parents dear,

And tell them you stood by me here;

Console them when they cry, Alas!

And wipe away the falling tear.

Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,

His arm around his neck he threw,

And said, brave Chaplain, I could wish,

That heaven had made me die for you.

The Chaplain on kind Farwell's breast,

Bloody and languishing he fell;

Nor after this said more, but this,

"I love thee, soldier, fare thee well."

Ah! many a wife shall rend her hair,

And many a child cry, "Wo is me!"

When messengers the news shall bear,

Of Lovewell's dear bought victory.

With footsteps slow shall travellers go,

Where Lovewell's pond shines clear and bright,

And mark the place, where those are laid,

Who fell in Lovewell's bloody fight.

Old men shall shake their heads, and say,

Sad was the hour and terrible,

When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus went,

With fifty men from Dunstable.

The fight near Lovewell's Pond was the ground of still another

case of literary priority. Nearly a hundred years after its

occurrence, on November 17, 1820, the Portland _Gazette_

printed the first poetical venture of a lad of thirteen years.

It bore the title of "The Battle of Lovell's Pond." Its author

was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND

[May 8, 1725]

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast

That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,

As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,

Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;

The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,

And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,

Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;

No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,

Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,

And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;

They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,

And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The English gained a notable victory in the summer of 1745 when

they captured the formidable fortress of Louisburg, which had

been built by the French on the eastern coast of Cape Breton

Island. News of the victory created the greatest joy throughout

the colonies.

LOUISBURG

[June 17, 1745]

Neptune and Mars in Council sate

To humble France's pride,

Whose vain unbridled insolence

All other Powers defied.

The gods having sat in deep debate

Upon the puzzling theme,

Broke up perplexed and both agreed

Shirley should form the scheme.

Shirley, with Britain's glory fired,

Heaven's favoring smile implored:

"Let Louisburg return,"--he said,

"Unto its ancient Lord."

At once the Camp and Fleet were filled

With Britain's loyal sons,

Whose hearts are filled with generous strife

T' avenge their Country's wrongs.

With Liberty their breasts are filled,

Fair Liberty's their shield;

'Tis Liberty their banner waves

And hovers o'er their field.

Louis!--behold the unequal strife,

Thy slaves in walls immured!

While George's sons laugh at those walls--

Of victory assured.

One key to your oppressive pride

Your Western Dunkirk's gone;

So Pepperell and Warren bade

And what they bade was done!

Forbear, proud Prince, your gasconades,

Te Deums cease to sing,--

When Britains fight the _Grand Monarque_

Must yield to Britain's King.

BOSTON, December, 1745.

Louis XV felt the loss of Louisburg keenly, and in 1746, to

avenge its fall, sent a strong fleet, under Admiral D'Anville,

against Boston. The town was terror-stricken; but after many

mishaps the fleet was finally dispersed by a great storm off

Cape Sable, on October 15, 1746, and such of the ships as lived

through it were forced to make their way back to France.

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET

[October 15, 1746]

MR. THOMAS PRINCE, _loquitur_

A fleet with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest,

And the Admiral's ship displayed

The signal: "Steer southwest."

For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown

To ravage with fire and steel

Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,

In the houses there was fear

Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.

And while from mouth to mouth

Spread the tidings of dismay,

I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise;

But if in thy Providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence,

And scatter it far and wide,

Or sink it in the sea,

We should be satisfied,

And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,

For my soul was all on flame,

And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came;

It came with a mighty power,

Shaking the windows and walls,

And tolling the bell in the tower,

As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword,

And I cried: "Stand still, and see

The salvation of the Lord!"

The heavens were black with cloud,

The sea was white with hail,

And ever more fierce and loud

Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van

Like the tents of Cushan shook,

Or the curtains of Midian.

Down on the reeling decks

Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;

Ah, never were there wrecks

So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke

The great ships of the line;

They were carried away as a smoke,

Or sank like lead in the brine.

O Lord! before thy path

They vanished and ceased to be,

When thou didst walk in wrath

With thine horses through the sea!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really

only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at

peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North

American continent. The French claimed all the country west of

the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string

of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At

last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused."

THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED

[1755]

Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,

To rouse the august lion from his den,

Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.

Rouse, _British Lion_, from thy soft repose,

And take revenge upon the worst of foes,

Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.

They always did thy quiet breast annoy,

Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,

Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.

Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',

They never did nor would keep faith with you

By popes and priests indulged so to do.

All neighboring powers and neutral standers by

Look on our cause with an impartial eye,

And see their falseness and their perfidy.

Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.

But by indulgence mightily increase,

Killing and scalping us in times of peace.

They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,

In children's blood for to imbue their hands,

Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.

Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blows

Upon the heads of your perfidious foes,

Who always truth and justice did oppose.

Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,

And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,

And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.

Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,

And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,

A faithful drubbing to their future good.

Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;

And when the news unto Versailles it comes,

Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.

Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,

And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,

And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.

While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,

Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;

To see such hail-stones down among them fall.

Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,

And others in a vast amazement fled,

While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.

My roving muse the surface reach again,

Search every part of the Atlantic plain,

And see if any Gallics yet remain;

And if they do, let British cannon roar;

And let thy thunders reach the western shore.

While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.

STEPHEN TILDEN.

Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General

Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once

to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne.

George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience

with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29

the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey

across the mountains.

THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN

[May 29, 1755]

To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!

Hark, how the drums do roll it along!

To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;

We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.

Let not your courage fail you;

Be valiant, stout and bold;

And it will soon avail you,

My loyal hearts of gold.

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!

'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;

The battle is begun as you may fairly see.

Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;

We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.

A squadron now appears, my boys;

If that they do but stand!

Boys, never fear, be sure you mind

The word of command!

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!

'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

See how, see how, they break and fly before us!

See how they are scattered all over the plain!

Now, now--now, now our country will adore us!

In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!

Then laurels shall our glory crown

For all our actions told:

The hills shall echo all around,

My loyal hearts of gold.

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!

'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men,

reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and,

on the following morning, with colors flying and drums

beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under

Contrecoeur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young

captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained

permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass

the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven

miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow

road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire,

spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush.

The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see

their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild

with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion,

but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet

struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.

BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE

[July 9, 1755]

Come all ye sons of Brittany,

Assist my muse in tragedy,

And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,

And spend a mournful day,

Upon Monongahela fields,

The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;

And British blood bedews the hills

Of western Gilboa.

July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,

They had a bold and bloody fray,

Our host was smote with a dismay;

Some basely did retire,

And left brave Braddock in the field,

Who had much rather die than yield,

A while his sword he bravely wield

In clouds of smoke and fire.

Some time he bravely stood his ground,

A thousand foes did him surround,

Till he received a mortal wound,

Which forc'd him to retreat.

He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,

As he was home-ward on his way;

Alas! alas! we all must say,

A sore and sad defeat.

Now to his grave this hero's borne,

While savage foes triumph and scorn,

And drooping banners dress his urn,

And guard him to his tomb.

Heralds and monarchs of the dead,

You that so many worms have fed,

He's coming to your chilly bed,

Edge close and give him room.

HIS EPITAPH

Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,

Who always hated cowardice,

But fell a savage sacrifice

Amidst his Indian foes.

I charge you, heroes, of the ground,

To guard his dark pavilion round,

And keep off all obtruding sound,

And cherish his repose.

Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,

Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand

And to resign thy great command,

And cancel thy commission.

Altho' thou didst not much incline

Thy post and honors to resign;

Now iron slumber doth confine;

None envy's thy condition.

A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE

Return my muse unto the field,

See what a prospect it doth yield;

Ingrateful to the eyes and smell

A carnage bath'd in gore,

Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,

While sanguine rivers fill the dales,

And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,

The like ne'er here before.

And must these sons of Brittany

Be clouded, set in western skies,

And fall a savage sacrifice?

Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!

My blood boils high in every vein,

To climb the mountains of the slain,

And break the iron jaws in twain,

Of savage Gallic power.

Our children with their mothers die,

While they aloud for mercy cry;

They kill, and scalp them instantly,

Then fly into the woods,

And make a mock of all their cries,

And bring their scalps a sacrifice

To their infernal deities,

And praise their demon gods.

Revenge, revenge the harmless blood

Which their inhuman dogs have shed

In every frontier neighborhood,

For near these hundred years.

Their murdering clan in ambush lies,

To kill and scalp them by surprize,

And free from tender parents' eyes

Ten hundred thousand tears.

Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks

Have so enraged old sixty-six,

With legs and arms like withered sticks,

And youthful vigor gone;

That if he lives another year,

Complete in armor he'll appear,

And laugh at death and scoff at fear,

To right his country's wrong.

Let young and old, both high and low,

Arm well against this savage foe,

Who all around inviron us so,

The sons of black delusion.

New England's sons you know their way,

And how to cross them in their play,

And drive these murdering dogs away,

Unto their last confusion.

One bold effort, oh, let us make,

And at one blow behead the snake,

And then these savage powers will break,

Which long have us oppress'd.

And this, brave soldiers, will we do

If Heaven and George shall say so too;

And if we drive the matter thro',

The land will be at rest.

Come every soldier charge your gun,

And let your task be killing one;

Take aim until the work is done;

Don't throw away your fire,

For he that fires without an aim,

May kill his friend and be to blame,

And in the end come off with shame,

When forced to retire.

O mother land, we think we're sure,

Sufficient is thy marine powers

To dissipate all eastern showers:

And if our arms be blest,

Thy sons in _North America_

Will drive these hell-born dogs away

As far beyond the realms of day,

As east is from the west.

Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,

Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,

It is too high and much too strong,

The learned won't allow.

Much honor should accrue to him

Who ne'er was at their Academ

Come blot out every telesem;

Get home unto thy plow.

STEPHEN TILDEN.

Composed August 20, 1755.

NED BRADDOCK

[July 9, 1755]

Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,

"Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?

Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,

Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"

--"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,

Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;

In his own doom building large for the Lord,

Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.

Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?

Never a broadsword to bar him the way?

Never a bush where a Huron may hide,

Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"

--Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,

Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:

Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;

Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!

Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,

Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;

Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,

For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.

--'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,

Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,

Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;

Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!

Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!

Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.

Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,

Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.

Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,

And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.

--But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,

And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!

Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?

Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.

And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,

In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."

--"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,

Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?

In his own doom building large for the Lord,

Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

After Braddock's defeat, the Pennsylvania and Virginia

frontiers were left, for a time, to the ravages of the Indians.

The colonies were slow to defend themselves, and could get no

aid whatever from England, who had her hands full elsewhere.

ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA

[September 30, 1756]

Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul

With wasteful rage resistless fall

On Britain's slumbering race?

Still shall she wave her bloody hand

And threatening banners o'er this land,

To Britain's fell disgrace?

And not one generous chieftain rise

(Who dares the frown of war despise,

And treacherous fear disclaim)

His country's ruin to oppose,

To hurl destruction on her foes,

And blast their rising fame?

In Britain's cause, with valor fired,

Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,

And claim'd a nation's tear;

Nor could Oswego's bulwarks stand

The fury of a savage band,

Though Schuyler's arm was there.

Still shall this motley, murderous crew

Their deep, destructive arts pursue,

And general horror spread?

No--see Britannia's genius rise!

Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she flies

And lifts her laurell'd head!

Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,

Great Loudon's awful banners fly,

In British pomp display'd!

Soon shall the gallant chief advance;

Before him shrink the sons of France,

Confounded and dismay'd.

Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!

Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,

And save your country's shame!

Let every hand for Britain arm'd,

And every breast with virtue warm'd,

Aspire at deathless fame!

But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,

And on her foes let terrors shake,

Their gloomy troops defy;

For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,

Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,

For vengeance louder cry.

Why should we seek inglorious rest,

Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,

While war insults so near?

While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,

Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!

In furious bands appear!

Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chase

From their deep haunts, the savage race,

Till they confess you men.

Let other Armstrongs grace the field!

Let other slaves before them yield,

And tremble round Duquesne.

And thou, our chief, and martial guide,

Of worth approved, of valor tried

In many a hard campaign,

O Denny, warmed with British fire,

Our inexperienced troops inspire,

And conquest's laurels gain!

_Pennsylvania Gazette_, September 30, 1756.

Meanwhile things were in a troubled condition in Acadia, where

the so-called "French neutrals" were discovered to be in arms

against England. "Every resource of patience and persuasion"

had been used to secure their loyalty to Great Britain, but

in vain. At last it was decided to disperse them among the

southern provinces, and the deportation began in October. At

the end of two months, about six thousand of the Acadians had

been sent away, and their homes destroyed.

THE EMBARKATION

From "Evangeline"

[October 8, 1755]

Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day

Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,

Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,

Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,

While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach

Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.

All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;

All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,

Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.

Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors

Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.

Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--

"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the

wayside

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.

* * * * *

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.

Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their

children

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight

Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,

All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.

Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.

* * * * *

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,

Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,

Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a

martyr.

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,

uplifting,

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.

Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,

"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,

Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments

Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

* * * * *

Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.

'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

In July, 1758, an army of fifteen thousand, under General

James Abercromby and Brigadier Lord Howe, attempted to take

Ticonderoga, where Montcalm was stationed at the head of about

three thousand men. Lord Howe, the very life of the army,

was killed in the first skirmish, and Abercromby handled the

army so badly that it was repulsed with a loss of nearly two

thousand, and fled in a panic. The French loss was less than

four hundred, and the victory was hailed as one of the greatest

ever achieved by French arms in America.

ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG

[July 8, 1758]

Neglected long had been my useless lyre,

And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;

But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,

Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,

And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.

Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;

Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:

Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,

When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:

Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head

(Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)

On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,

Now spring in vegetative life again,

Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevail

Murmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;

Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.

Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;

Th' empurpled fields of Carilong survey

Rich with the spoils of one disastrous day!

Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stood

And thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,

Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,

Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,

See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;

Silent Britannia's tardy thunder lay

While clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.

Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's brow

O'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;

Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoan

Their much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;

Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat--

And with slow motion sullenly retreat.

But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,

Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,

Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly share

And taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?

Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confest

The patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:

Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,

Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,

Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'd

Like Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;

Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,

May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;

Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,

And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;

Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fate

Thy zeal and active virtues emulate,

Soon should proud Carilong be humbled low

Nor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.

_London Magazine_, 1759.

But at last the tide turned. In 1757 William Pitt forced his

way to the leadership of the government in England, and at once

formed a comprehensive plan for a combined attack on the French

forts in America. The first point of attack was Louisburg,

which had been ceded back to France in 1748, and in the spring

of 1758 a strong expedition under Lord Amherst was dispatched

against it. The siege commenced June 8--the very day of the

disaster at Ticonderoga--and after a tremendous bombardment

which destroyed the town and badly breached the fortress, the

garrison, numbering nearly six thousand, surrendered July 26,

1758.

ON THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG

[July 26, 1758]

At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,

And British valor hath the conquest won:

Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,

And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!

Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,

Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought--

That awful scene where the dread god of war

O'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:

There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I view

The pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:

With dauntless front advance, and boldly brave

The cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.

On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,

Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;

_Britannia_ lonely sitting, from afar

Waits the event, and overlooks the war;

Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes about

In all the dread anxiety of doubt;

Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,

Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.

Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,

And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.

See! from the realms of everlasting light,

A radiant form wings her aerial flight.

The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,

Plainly denote 'tis _Victory_ appears;

Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,

The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:

Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,

And laurell'd honors gild her azure way--

Now she alights--the trumpets cease to sound,

Her presence spreads expecting silence round:--

And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly face

Effulgent glories brighten all the place--

"Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,

And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;

Thy godlike sons, by _this_, their names shall raise,

And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.

I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaim

Of _Wolfe's_ brave deeds, the never-dying fame,

And swell with glory Amherst's patriot name.

Such are the heroes that shall ever bring

Wealth to their country, honor to their king:

Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quell

The native fires that in such bosoms dwell.

To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,

Smile, smile, _Britannia_! victory is thine.

Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!

Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!

See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!

Rejoice, _Britannia_! victory is thine."

Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,

Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:

Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,

And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:

Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,

In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:

Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,

While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.

But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,

With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:

Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.

Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;

To bless our _God_ with me let all unite,

_He_ guides the conq'ring sword, _he_ governs in the fight.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

The fall of Louisburg was followed a few months later by the

capture of Fort Duquesne (November 25, 1758), by General John

Forbes. Forbes, at the head of an excellent army, had proceeded

slowly and carefully. As the English approached, the French

realized that to remain was simply to be captured, so they

deserted the hopeless post, and Forbes marched in unmolested.

He named his conquest Fort Pitt, after the great minister.

FORT DUQUESNE

A HISTORICAL CENTENNIAL BALLAD

[November 25, 1758-1858]

Come, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:

By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,

Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,

And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.

For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,

And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;

When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,

And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.

Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,

And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:

Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,

For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!

They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware--

The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;

And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,

Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.

O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,

Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;

They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,

From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.

And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,

Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;

The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red,

As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.

--Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,

And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,

When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,

'Twixt laurelled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Duquesne.

And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,

Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood

Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble one

Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.

Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,

For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;

"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain

Before to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."

'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam

Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;

And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,

And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.

The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,

The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;

Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,

But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.

Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;

The forage and provision, too,--so Ormsby said,--were gone.

Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;

In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.

Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame

There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!

"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!

I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"

So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,

And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,

And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright

At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire

light.

Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,

As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!

Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven

By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!

O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,

And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,

As came the scouts swift-footed in--"They fly! the foe! they fly!

They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"

III

Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,

And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with

flame;

And through the brown woods on the hills--those altars of the world--

The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.

Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din

Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,

And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,

Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.

Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas

Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,

Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,

And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.

Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,

They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"

There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,

And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.

Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,

Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;

Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecoeur's armed batteaux,

And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.

Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,

And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,

The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,

And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.

Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,

And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout--"Long live the King!

Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reign

That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"

FLORUS B. PLIMPTON.

Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French

power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two

ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports

carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In

command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe,

who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg

the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.

HOT STUFF

[June, 1759]

Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,

Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;

Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,

Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;

And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:

Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.

Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,

To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.

Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try

At their capital to give them another black eye.

Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,--

Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.

With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,

Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;

And the Indians will come: but the light infantry

Will soon oblige _them_ to betake to a tree.

From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?

Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!

When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,

While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,

Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's--I know the lappels."

"You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!

Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;

So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."

EDWARD BOTWOOD.

About the end of August a place was found where the heights

might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of

Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation

had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait

the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship

Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said

to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?

[September 12, 1759]

How stands the glass around?

For shame ye take no care, my boys,

How stands the glass around?

Let mirth and wine abound,

The trumpets sound,

The colors they are flying, boys,

To fight, kill, or wound,

May we still be found

Content with our hard fate, my boys,

On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys?

Why, soldiers, why?

Whose business 'tis to die!

What, sighing? fie!

Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!

'Tis he, you or I!

Cold, hot, wet or dry,

We're always bound to follow, boys,

And scorn to fly!

'Tis but in vain,--

I mean not to upbraid you, boys,--

'Tis but in vain,

For soldiers to complain:

Should next campaign

Send us to him who made us, boys,

We're free from pain!

But if we remain,

A bottle and a kind landlady

Cure all again.

JAMES WOLFE.

Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of

Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in

line of battle on the Plains of Abraham--they had scaled the

cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops

were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back

to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and

Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French

were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible

resolution reached to abandon the fort without further

resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left

to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of

France.

BRAVE WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Cheer up, my young men all,

Let nothing fright you;

Though oft objections rise,

Let it delight you.

Let not your fancy move

Whene'er it comes to trial;

Nor let your courage fail

At the first denial.

I sat down by my love,

Thinking that I woo'd her;

I sat down by my love,

But sure not to delude her.

But when I got to speak,

My tongue it doth so quiver,

I dare not speak my mind,

Whenever I am with her.

Love, here's a ring of gold,

'Tis long that I have kept it,

My dear, now for my sake,

I pray you to accept it.

When you the posy read,

Pray think upon the giver,

My dear, remember me,

Or I'm undone forever.

Then Wolfe he took his leave,

Of his most lovely jewel;

Although it seemed to be

To him, an act most cruel.

Although it's for a space

I'm forced to leave my love,

My dear, where'er I rove,

I'll ne'er forget my dove.

So then this valiant youth

Embarked on the ocean,

To free America

From faction's dire commotion.

He landed at Quebec,

Being all brave and hearty;

The city to attack,

With his most gallant party.

Then Wolfe drew up his men,

In rank and file so pretty,

On Abraham's lofty heights,

Before this noble city.

A distance from the town

The noble French did meet them,

In double numbers there,

Resolved for to beat them.

_A Parley_: WOLFE _and_ MONTCALM _together_

Montcalm and this brave youth,

Together they are walking;

So well they do agree,

Like brothers they are talking.

Then each one to his post,

As they do now retire;

Oh, then their numerous hosts

Began their dreadful fire.

Then instant from his horse,

Fell this most noble hero,

May we lament his loss

In words of deepest sorrow.

The French are seen to break,

Their columns all are flying;

Then Wolfe he seems to wake,

Though in the act of dying.

And lifting up his head

(The drums and trumpets rattle),

And to his army said,

"I pray how goes the battle?"

His aide-de-camp replied,

"Brave general, 'tis in our favor,

Quebec and all her pride,

'Tis nothing now can save her.

"She falls into our hands,

With all her wealth and treasure."

"O then," brave Wolfe replied,

"I quit the world with pleasure."

Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in

his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly

damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes

which this or any other age can boast of."

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

[September 13, 1759]

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,

The breathing marble or the muses' lays.

Art is but vain--the force of language weak,

To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.

Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,

Each line to raise, and animate at will--

To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,

Point out its object, or its rage control--

Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find

Of those great virtues that adorned thy mind.

Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,

Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear--

While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,

And placed her safety in ignoble flight.

Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,

And rage and grief alternately impart.

With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,

These were the words that closed the warrior's breath--

"My eyesight fails!--but does the foe retreat?

If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"

A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,

Cried, "Sir, they fly!--their ranks entirely broke:

Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,

And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."

The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,

And from his lips these dying accents stole:--

"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,

Guarded by angels to celestial day.

An awful band!--Britannia's mighty dead,

Receives to glory his immortal shade.

Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief--

Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,

With joyful song conduct their welcome guest

To the bright mansions of eternal rest--

For those prepared who merit just applause

By bravely dying in their country's cause.

_Pennsylvania Gazette_, November 8, 1759.

The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8,

1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force

under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all

its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for

the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some

years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made

with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives

taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa.,

December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which

is related in the following verses.

THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN

(Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764)

The Indian war was over,

And Pennsylvania's towns

Welcomed the blessed calm that comes

When peace a conflict crowns.

Bitter and long had been the strife,

But gallant Colonel Bouquet

Had forced the foe to sue for grace,

And named the joyful day

When Shawnees, Tuscarawas,

Miamis, Delawares,

And every band that roved the land

And called a captive theirs--

From the pathless depths of the forest,

By stream and dark defile,

Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,

In safety to Carlisle;

Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,

Where Conodogwinnet flows,

And the guardian ranges, north and south,

In mountain pride repose.

Like the wind the Colonel's order

To hamlet and clearing flew;

And mourning mothers and wives and sons

From banks where Delaware seaward runs,

From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,

And the vales where the southern hills divide,

Flocked to the town, perchance to view,

At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,

The faces lost, but in memory fair.

How strange the scene on the village green

That morning cold and gray!

To right the Indian tents were set,

And in groups the dusky warriors met,

While their captives clung to the captors yet,

As wild and bronzed as they--

In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,

Some loath to part, some fain to greet

The friends of a vanished day;

And, eagerly watching the tents, to left

Stood mothers and sons and wives bereft,

While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,

And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,

The troops in their brave array.

Now friends and captives mingle,

And cries of joy or woe

Thrill the broad street as loved ones meet,

Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,

And back in anguish go.

Among them lingered a widow--

From the Suabian land was she--

And one fell morning she had lost

Husband and children three,

All slain save the young Regina,

A captive spared to be.

Nine weary years had followed,

But the wilderness was dumb,

And never a word to her aching heart

Through friend or foe had come,

And now, from Tulpehocken,

Full seventy miles away,

She had walked to seek her daughter,

The Lord her only stay.

She scanned the sun-browned maidens;

But the tunic's rough disguise,

The savage tongue, the forest ways,

Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,

And with sobs and streaming eyes

She turned to the Colonel and told him

How hopeless was her quest--

Moaning, "Alas, Regina!

The grave for me is best!"

"Nay, Madam," gently he replied,

"Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,

And try some other test.

What pleasant song or story

Did she love from your lips to hear?"

"O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'

And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,

And she said them over and over

While I was spinning near;

And every eve, by her little bed,

When the light was growing dim,

I sung her to sleep, my darling!

With Schmolke's beautiful hymn."

"Then sing it _now_," said the Colonel,

And close to the captive band

He brought the mother with her hymn

From the far Suabian land;

And with faltering voice and quivering lips,

While all was hushed, she sung

The strain of lofty faith and cheer

In her rich German tongue:

"Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"

(How near the listeners press!),

Alone, yet not alone am I,

Though all may deem my days go by

In utter dreariness;

The Lord is still my company,

I am with Him, and He with me,

The solitude to bless.

He speaks to me within His word

As if His very voice I heard,

And when I pray, apart,

He meets me in the quiet there

With counsel for each cross and care,

And comfort for my heart.

The world may say my life is lone,

With every joy and blessing flown

Its vision can descry;

I shall not sorrow nor repine,

For glorious company is mine

With God and angels nigh.

As she sung, a maid of the captives

Threw back her tangled hair,

And forward leaned as if to list

The lightest murmur there;

Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,

Her eyes grew bright and wide

As if some spell the song had cast,

And, ere the low notes died,

With a bound like a deer in the forest

She sprang to the singer's side,

And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"

Enfolding her, she cried--

"My dear, dear, little Mother!"--

Then swift before her knelt

As in the long, long buried days

When by the wood they dwelt;

And, "Vater unser, der du bist

Im Himmel," chanted she,

The sweet "Our Father" she had learned

Beside that mother's knee;

And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"

That in her heart had lain:

"Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"

Like a child she said again--

"I believe in God the Father"--

Down to the blest "Amen."

Stooping and clasping the maiden

Whose soul the song had freed,

"Now God be praised!" said the mother,

"This is my child indeed!--

My own, my darling Regina,

Come back in my sorest need,

For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'

And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"

Then, while the throng was silent,

And the Colonel bowed his head,

With tears and glad thanksgivings

Her daughter forth she led;

And the sky was lit with sunshine,

And the cold earth caught its smile

For the mother and ransomed maiden,

That morning in Carlisle.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

A PROPHECY

[1764]

Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,--

If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,

As it has done the last sad passing year,

Made the New World in anger shed the tear,--

Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,

They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,

While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,

And make lost Liberty once more to reign.

But let them live, as they would choose to be,

Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,

They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crown

Which first has raised them, though now pulls them down;

If but the rights of subjects they receive,

'Tis all they ask--or all a crown can give.

ARTHUR LEE (?).

PART II

THE REVOLUTION

FLAWLESS HIS HEART

Flawless his heart and tempered to the core

Who, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave,

First left behind him the firm-footed shore,

And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar,

Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave,

Of thought and action the mysterious door,

Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave:

Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun,

And strange stars from beneath the horizon won,

And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave:

High-hearted surely he;

But bolder they who first off-cast

Their moorings from the habitable Past

And ventured chartless on the sea

Of storm-engendering Liberty:

For all earth's width of waters is a span,

And their convulsed existence mere repose,

Matched with the unstable heart of man,

Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows,

Open to every wind of sect or clan,

And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

CHAPTER I

THE COMING OF DISCONTENT

The close of the struggle with the French for the possession

of the continent may be fairly said to mark the beginning of

that series of aggressions on the part of England which ended

in the revolt of her colonies. True there had been before that

arbitrary and tyrannical royal governors, and absurdly perverse

enactments on the part of the Lords of Trade; but not until the

French troubles had been disposed of did the British government

bend its energies seriously to regulating the affairs of a

people which it considered fractious and turbulent. In the

_Virginia Gazette_ for May 2, 1766, appeared one of the first

of those songs, afterwards so numerous, which expressed the

discontent of the colonies under this régime.

THE VIRGINIA SONG

[May 2, 1766]

Sure never was picture drawn more to the life,

Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife,

Than America copies and loves Britain's sons,

Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns,

"Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those men

Who always are ready, steady, boys, steady,

To fight for their freedom again and again."

Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil,

Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle;

And who's so absurd to deny us the name,

Since true British blood flows in every vein?

"Hearts of Oak," etc.

Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm,

Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm;

Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see,

Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words are _be free_!

"Hearts of Oak," etc.

To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down,

But hope we may call Magna Charta our own.

Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree,

Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free.

"Hearts of Oak," etc.

Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe,

Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe;

Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess,

Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S.

"Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those men

Who fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon,

To stop all oppression, again and again."

On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear,

What Englishmen ought we Americans dare;

Though tempests and terrors around us we see,

Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free.

"Hearts of Oak," etc.

With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine,

Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine;

Let us set an example, what all men should be,

And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free."

"Hearts of Oak," etc.

In 1766 William Pitt, perhaps the most enlightened friend

America had in England, became Prime Minister, and adopted

toward the colonies a policy so conciliatory that it occasioned

much disgust in England--as is evident from the following

verses which appeared originally in the _Gentleman's Magazine_.

THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

OR, THE OLD WOMAN TAUGHT WISDOM

[1767]

Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out,

Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a ---- rout,

But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told,

Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold.

The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head,

That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread:

Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance;

But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.

For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed,

Nor should people reckon without their good host;

The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to,

And pray, what in this case could the old woman do?

In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause,

That the young one was able; her duty, the laws;

Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse;

But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse.

Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty,

She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty,

That other folks' children were kept by their friends,

And that some folks loved people but for their own ends.

"Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter?

A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;"

"Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work,

The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk."

"She be ----," says the farmer, and to her he goes,

First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose,

"Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say;

I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray.

"Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here!

You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear;

Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon,

You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden."

"Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply?

But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;"

"Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree,

You must surely be right, _if you're guided by me_."

Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down,

While the absolute farmer went on with a frown,

"Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends!

There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends."

"No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied:

"But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."

But Pitt was soon incapacitated by illness from taking

any active part in the government, and Charles Townshend,

chancellor of the exchequer, was able to pass his "port bills,"

and other oppressive measures. Many prominent Americans,

among them Samuel Adams, decided that the colonies must be

independent.

A SONG

[January 26, 1769]

Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band,

In the cause of our country who join heart and hand;

Fair Freedom invites--she cries out, "Agree!

And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me."

Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain:

We always are ready--

Steady, boys, steady--

To give them our voices again and again.

With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree,

Unite all the good--and united are we:

But still be the lot of the villains disgrace,

Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face.

Hearts of oak, etc.

See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws!

His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws--

As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk,

My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk.

Hearts of oak, etc.

First--the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause,

Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause--

Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name,

And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame.

Hearts of oak, etc.

To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound!

With health and success may his goodness be crown'd:

May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er--

For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor!

Hearts of oak, etc.

What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free,

But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey?

"Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here!

Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere."

Hearts of oak, etc.

For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd,

Let the name and applauses of Walton go round:

His prudence attracts--but his free, honest soul

Gives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole.

Hearts of oak, etc.

Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried--

Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride:

Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue,

With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true.

Hearts of oak, etc.

_New York Journal_, January 26, 1769.

Associations known as Sons of Liberty were organized in the

larger cities, and in February, 1770, the first Liberty Pole in

America was raised at New York city, in what is now City Hall

Park. A struggle ensued with the British troops, during which

the pole was twice cut down, but it was hooped with iron and

set up a third time. A Tory versifier celebrated the event in a

burlesque cantata, from which the following description of the

pole is taken.

THE LIBERTY POLE

[February, 1770]

Come listen, good neighbors of every degree,

Whose hearts, like your purses, are open and free,

Let this pole a monument ever remain,

Of the folly and arts of the time-serving train.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground,

Resembles their scheming, so low and profound;

The dark underminings, and base dirty ends,

On which the success of the faction depends.

Derry down, etc.

The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put us in mind,

As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with the wind,

That no faith can be plac'd in the words of our foes,

Who change as the wind of their interest blows.

Derry down, etc.

The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and so neat,

Resembles too closely their fraud and deceit,

If the outside's but guarded, they care not a pin

How rotten and hollow the heart is within.

Derry down, etc.

Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, away,

Who strive to cajole us in hopes to betray;

Leave the pole for the stroke of the lightning to sever,

And, huzzah for King George and our country forever!

Derry down, etc.

Two regiments of British troops arrived at Boston on March

5, 1768, and annoyed the people in many ways. Brawls were

frequent, and by the beginning of 1770 the tension of feeling

had reached the snapping point. The "Massachusetts Liberty

Song" and "The British Grenadier" did not go well together.

THE BRITISH GRENADIER

Come, come fill up your glasses,

And drink a health to those

Who carry caps and pouches,

And wear their looped clothes.

For be you Whig or Tory,

Or any mortal thing,

Be sure that you give glory

To George, our gracious King.

For if you prove rebellious,

He'll thunder in your ears

Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!

For the British Grenadiers!

And when the wars are over,

We'll march by beat of drum,

The ladies cry "So, Ho girls,

The Grenadiers have come!

The Grenadiers who always

With love our hearts do cheer.

Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!

For the British Grenadier!"

On the evening of March 5 a crowd collected near the barracks

and some blows were exchanged; a sentinel in King Street

knocked down a boy, and was about to be mobbed, when Captain

Preston and seven privates came to his assistance. The crowd

pressed upon their levelled pieces, which were suddenly

discharged, killing four men and wounding seven. Crispus

Attucks, a mulatto slave, was the first to fall.

CRISPUS ATTUCKS

[March 5, 1770]

Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story?

Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory.

But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride,

If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died.

Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name--

With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in

flame?

Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny;

We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die--

As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made;

That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid!

When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their

aim;

Men see what the royal hirelings saw--a multitude and a flame;

But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street,

While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet!

O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race!

Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place;

The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas;

Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies;

Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul--

Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all!

One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken,

There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men!

But alien is one--of class, not race--he has drawn the line for himself;

His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf;

His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed his

life-stream's hue;

He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue:

Patrician, aristocrat, Tory--whatever his age or name,

To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.

The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;

The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime.

Wherever the race, the law, the land,--whatever the time or throne,

The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.

Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks

apart;

Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart;

Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are

bled,

That the bluest blood is putrid blood--that the people's blood is red!

And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day;

The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray.

Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown;

His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down;

His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow;

For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low.

Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may,

Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for

aye.

They were lawless hinds to the lackeys--but martyrs to Paul Revere;

And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear.

Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock;

When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock;

When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse;

When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse;

When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde--

Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword?

Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here!

By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere!

Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight!

By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate!

By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still!

By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill!

Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread;

The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead.

There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet,

The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete;

There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives--

The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves!

There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good?

There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood;

There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows;

There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows;

There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster,

The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master!

Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved,

And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved?

His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's

years,

Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears.

He lived with men like a soul condemned--derided, defamed, and mute;

Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute.

His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward;

His love!--O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord;

Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave;

For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave!

And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled?

Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage

stilled?

And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's

soul?

Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole?

That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed?

That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed?

Has he learned--the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were

sold--has he,

With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!"

Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks

knew--

When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two?

Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand years

In blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and

tears

Were heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to stand

From the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land?

That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human van

Which others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong

began?

For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn,

Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his

turn;

For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night;

For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light;

For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right.

And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day;

The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way;

God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought;

And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

This insignificant street riot was the famous "Boston

Massacre." It created a great stir, and the victims were buried

with military honors on March 8, the bodies being deposited

in a single vault. A few days later, Paul Revere engraved

and printed a large hand-bill giving a picture of the scene,

accompanied by the following lines:

UNHAPPY BOSTON

[March 8, 1770]

Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deplore

Thy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore.

While faithless Preston and his savage bands,

With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands;

Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey,

Approve the carnage and enjoy the day.

If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung,

If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue,

Or if a weeping world can aught appease

The plaintive ghosts of victims such as these;

The patriot's copious tears for each are shed,

A glorious tribute which embalms the dead.

But know, Fate summons to that awful goal,

Where justice strips the murderer of his soul:

Should venal C----ts, the scandal of the land,

Snatch the relentless villain from her hand,

Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'd

Shall reach a judge who never can be bribed.

PAUL REVERE.

A conflict of a much more serious nature took place at

Alamance, N. C., on May 7, 1771, between a body of colonists,

goaded to rebellion by repeated acts of extortion, and a force

of British regulars under Governor Tryon. The colonists were

totally defeated and left two hundred dead and wounded on the

field.

ALAMANCE

[May 7, 1771]

No stately column marks the hallowed place

Where silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust:

The first free martyrs of a glorious race,

Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust.

The rustic ploughman at the early morn

The yielding furrow turns with heedless tread,

Or tends with frugal care the springing corn,

Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled.

Above their rest the golden harvest waves,

The glorious stars stand sentinels on high,

While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves,

The winding river murmurs, mourning, by.

No stern ambition moved them to the deed:

In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die.

The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,

"God and their country's right" their battle cry.

But holier watchers here their vigils keep

Than storied urn or monumental stone;

For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,

And Plenty smiles above their bloody home.

Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame;

And as their country's glories shall advance,

Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name,

Thou first-fought field of Freedom--Alamance.

SEYMOUR W. WHITING.

The first American "victory" occurred on the night of June 9,

1772, when the British eight-gun schooner Gaspee was captured

and burned to the water's edge. For some months the crew

of the Gaspee, commissioned to enforce the revenue acts in

Narragansett Bay, had been stopping vessels, seizing goods,

stealing sheep and hogs, and committing other depredations

along the shore. On June 9, while pursuing the Providence

Packet, the schooner ran aground, and that night was boarded by

a party of Rhode Islanders, the crew overpowered, and the boat

burned.

A NEW SONG CALLED THE GASPEE

[June 9-10, 1772]

'Twas in the reign of George the Third

The public peace was much disturb'd

By ships of war, that came and laid

Within our ports to stop our trade.

In seventeen hundred seventy-two,

In Newport harbor lay a crew

That play'd the parts of pirates there,

The sons of Freedom could not bear.

Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase--

Such actions, sure, were very base;

No honest coasters could pass by

But what they would let some shot fly.

Which did provoke to high degree

Those true-born sons of Liberty,

So that they could no longer bear

Those sons of Belial staying there.

But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out,

That William Doddington so stout,

Commander of the Gaspee tender,

Which he had reason to remember--

Because, as people do assert,

He almost had his just desert

Here, on the tenth day of last June,

Between the hours of twelve and one--

Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah,

Of whom one Linsey was commander;

They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound,

And there the rascal got aground.

The news of it flew, that very day,

That they on Nanquit Point did lay,

That night, about half after ten,

Some Narragansett Indian-men--

Being sixty-four, if I remember,

Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender:

And what was best of all their tricks,

They in his breech a ball did fix.

They set the men upon the land,

And burn'd her up, we understand;

Which thing provoked the king so high,

He said, "those men should surely die."

So, if he can but find them out,

The hangman he'll employ, no doubt:

For he has declared, in his passion,

"He'll have them tried in a new fashion."

Now for to find those people out,

King George has offered, very stout,

One thousand pounds to find out one

That wounded William Doddington.

One thousand more he says he'll spare,

For those who say they sheriffs were:

One thousand more there doth remain

For to find out the leader's name.

Likewise, one hundred pounds per man,

For any one of all the clan.

But let him try his utmost skill,

I'm apt to think he never will

Find out any of those hearts of gold,

Though he should offer fifty fold.

The duty on tea, imposed five years before by Townshend,

had been retained by the British government as a matter of

principle, and in the autumn of 1773 the King determined to

assert the obnoxious principle which the tax involved. Several

ships loaded with tea were accordingly started for America.

On Sunday, November 28, the first of these arrived at Boston,

and two others came in a few days later. The town went wild,

meeting after meeting was held, and on the night of Tuesday,

December 16, 1773, a band of about twenty, disguised as

Indians, boarded the ships, cut open the tea-chests and flung

the contents into the water.

A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

[December 16, 1773]

No! never such a draught was poured

Since Hebe served with nectar

The bright Olympians and their Lord,

Her over-kind protector,--

Since Father Noah squeezed the grape

And took to such behaving

As would have shamed our grandsire ape

Before the days of shaving,--

No! ne'er was mingled such a draught

In palace, hall, or arbor,

As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed

That night in Boston Harbor!

It kept King George so long awake

His brain at last got addled,

It made the nerves of Britain shake,

With sevenscore millions saddled;

Before that bitter cup was drained

Amid the roar of cannon,

The Western war-cloud's crimson stained

The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;

Full many a six-foot grenadier

The flattened grass had measured,

And many a mother many a year

Her tearful memories treasured;

Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,

The mighty realms were troubled,

The storm broke loose, but first of all

The Boston teapot bubbled!

An evening party,--only that,

No formal invitation,

No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,

No feast in contemplation,

No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,

No flowers, no songs, no dancing,--

A tribe of red men, axe in hand,--

Behold the guests advancing!

How fast the stragglers join the throng,

From stall and workshop gathered!

The lively barber skips along

And leaves a chin half-lathered;

The smith has flung his hammer down,--

The horseshoe still is glowing;

The truant tapster at the Crown

Has left a beer-cask flowing;

The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,

And trot behind their master;

Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,--

The crowd is hurrying faster,--

Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush

The streams of white-faced millers,

And down their slippery alleys rush

The lusty young Fort-Hillers;

The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,--

The tories seize the omen:

"Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do

For England's rebel foemen,

'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,

That fire the mob with treason,--

When these we shoot and those we hang

The town will come to reason."

On--on to where the tea-ships ride!

And now their ranks are forming,--

A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side

The Mohawk band is swarming!

See the fierce natives! What a glimpse

Of paint and fur and feather,

As all at once the full-grown imps

Light on the deck together!

A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,

A blanket hides the breeches,--

And out the cursèd cargo leaps,

And overboard it pitches!

O woman, at the evening board

So gracious, sweet, and purring,

So happy while the tea is poured,

So blest while spoons are stirring,

What martyr can compare with thee,

The mother, wife, or daughter,

That night, instead of best Bohea,

Condemned to milk and water!

Ah, little dreams the quiet dame

Who plies with rock and spindle

The patient flax, how great a flame

Yon little spark shall kindle!

The lurid morning shall reveal

A fire no king can smother

Where British flint and Boston steel

Have clashed against each other!

Old charters shrivel in its track,

His Worship's bench has crumbled,

It climbs and clasps the union-jack,

Its blazoned pomp is humbled,

The flags go down on land and sea

Like corn before the reapers;

So burned the fire that brewed the tea

That Boston served her keepers!

The waves that wrought a century's wreck

Have rolled o'er whig and tory;

The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck

Still live in song and story;

The waters in the rebel bay

Have kept the tea-leaf savor;

Our old North-Enders in their spray

Still taste a Hyson flavor;

And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows

With ever fresh libations,

To cheat of slumber all her foes

And cheer the wakening nations!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Next morning, Paul Revere, booted and spurred, started for

Philadelphia with the news that Boston had at last thrown down

the gauntlet. The following song appeared in the _Pennsylvania

Packet_ a few days after Revere reached Philadelphia.

A NEW SONG

[December 16, 1773]

As near beauteous Boston lying,

On the gently swelling flood,

Without jack or pendant flying,

Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.

Just as glorious Sol was setting,

On the wharf, a numerous crew,

Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,

Suddenly appeared in view.

Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,

Weapons new for warlike deed,

Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,

They approached with dreadful speed.

O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,

Three bright angel forms were seen;

This was Hampden, that was Sidney,

With fair Liberty between.

"Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish,

Soon the triumph shall be won;

Scarce shall setting Phoebus vanish,

Ere the deathless deed be done."

Quick as thought the ships were boarded,

Hatches burst and chests displayed;

Axes, hammers help afforded;

What a glorious crash they made.

Squash into the deep descended,

Cursed weed of China's coast;

Thus at once our fears were ended;

British rights shall ne'er be lost.

Captains! once more hoist your streamers,

Spread your sails, and plough the wave;

Tell your masters they were dreamers,

When they thought to cheat the brave.

News of the insurrection was received in England with the

greatest indignation, and measures of reprisal were at once

undertaken. No ships were to be allowed to enter the port

of Boston until the rebellious town should have repaid the

East India Company for the loss of its tea; the charter of

Massachusetts was annulled and her free government destroyed;

and General Gage was sent over with four regiments to take

possession of the town.

HOW WE BECAME A NATION

[April 15, 1774]

When George the King would punish folk

Who dared resist his angry will--

Resist him with their hearts of oak

That neither King nor Council broke--

He told Lord North to mend his quill,

And sent his Parliament a Bill.

The Boston Port Bill was the thing

He flourished in his royal hand;

A subtle lash with scorpion sting,

Across the seas he made it swing,

And with its cruel thong he planned

To quell the disobedient land.

His minions heard it sing, and bare

The port of Boston felt his wrath;

They let no ship cast anchor there,

They summoned Hunger and Despair,--

And curses in an aftermath

Followed their desolating path.

No coal might enter there, nor wood,

Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;

No drugs for dying pangs, no food

For any mother's little brood.

"Now," said the King, "we have our chance,

We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."

No other flags lit up the bay,

Like full-blown blossoms in the air,

Than where the British war-ships lay;

The wharves were idle; all the day

The idle men, grown gaunt and spare,

Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.

Then in across the meadow land,

From lonely farm and hunter's tent,

From fertile field and fallow strand,

Pouring it out with lavish hand,

The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,

And laughed at King and Parliament.

To bring them succor, Marblehead

Joyous her deep-sea fishing sought.

Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,

Old many-rivered Newbury sped,

And Groton in her granaries wrought,

And generous flocks old Windham brought.

Rice from the Carolinas came,

Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,

And, with a spirit all aflame,

Tobacco-leaf and corn and game

The Midlands sent; and in his gorge

The Colonies defied King George!

And Hartford hung, in black array,

Her town-house, and at half-mast there

The flags flowed, and the bells all day

Tolled heavily; and far away

In great Virginia's solemn air

The House of Burgesses held prayer.

Down long glades of the forest floor

The same thrill ran through every vein,

And down the long Atlantic's shore;

Its heat the tyrant's fetters tore

And welded them through stress and strain

Of long years to a mightier chain.

That mighty chain with links of steel

Bound all the Old Thirteen at last,

Through one electric pulse to feel

The common woe, the common weal.

And that great day the Port Bill passed

Made us a nation hard and fast.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Gage arrived at Boston in May, 1774, and at once issued a

proclamation calling upon the inhabitants to be loyal, and

warning them of his intention to maintain the authority of the

King at any cost.

A PROCLAMATION

[May, 1774]

America! thou fractious nation,

Attend thy master's proclamation!

Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage,

Determin'd come the war to wage.

With the united powers sent forth,

Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North;

To scourge your insolence, my choice,

While England mourns and Scots rejoice!

Bostonia first shall feel my power,

And gasping midst the dreadful shower

Of ministerial rage, shall cry,

Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die.

Then shall my thundering cannons rattle,

My hardy veterans march to battle,

Against Virginia's hostile land,

To humble that rebellious band.

At my approach her trembling swains

Shall quit well-cultivated plains,

To seek the inhospitable wood;

Or try, like swine of old, the flood.

Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice!

Your voice lift up, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness on each tongue,

The mighty praise of Bute be sung.

The praise of Mansfield, and of North,

Let next your hymns of joy set forth,

Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage,

Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage.

Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on.

Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won!

Your Gage has won Virginia's shore,

And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more.

Hail, Middlesex! oh happy county!

Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty,

Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear,

Thy wives and widows drop no tear.

Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feel

The force of unrelenting steel;

What brute would give the ox a stroke

Who bends his neck to meet the yoke?

To Murray bend the humble knee;

He shall protect you under me;

His generous pen shall not be mute,

But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute.

By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught,

By all your country Scotchmen thought;

Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me,

And be as blest as slaves can be.

_The Virginia Gazette_, 1774.

The colonies rallied nobly to Boston's support; provisions of

all sorts were sent over-land to the devoted city; the 1st of

June, the day on which the Port Bill went into effect, was

observed as a day of fasting and prayer throughout the country,

and it became a point of honor with all good patriots to

refrain from indulgence in "the blasted herb."

THE BLASTED HERB

[1774]

Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind,

The rising danger flee,

If you would lasting freedom find,

Now then abandon tea.

Scorn to be bound with golden chains,

Though they allure the sight;

Bid them defiance, if they claim

Our freedom and birthright.

Shall we our freedom give away,

And all our comfort place,

In drinking of outlandish tea,

Only to please our taste?

Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise,

And seek our country's good;

Nor ever let a thought arise

That tea should be our food.

Since we so great a plenty have,

Of all that's for our health,

Shall we that blasted herb receive,

Impoverishing our wealth?

When we survey the breathless corpse,

With putrid matter filled,

For crawling worms a sweet resort,

By us reputed ill.

Noxious effluvia sending out

From its pernicious store,

Not only from the foaming mouth,

But every lifeless pore.

To view the same enrolled in tea,

Besmeared with such perfumes,

And then the herb sent o'er the sea,

To us it tainted comes--

Some of it tinctured with a filth

Of carcasses embalmed;

Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt!

Sure me it cannot charm.

Adieu! away, oh tea! begone!

Salute our taste no more;

Though thou art coveted by some,

Who're destined to be poor.

MESECH WEARE.

Fowle's _Gazette_, July 22, 1774.

EPIGRAM

ON THE POOR OF BOSTON BEING EMPLOYED IN PAVING THE STREETS, 1774

In spite of _Rice_, in spite of _Wheat_,

Sent for the Boston Poor--to eat:

In spite of _Brandy_, one would think,

Sent for the Boston Poor--to drink:

Poor are the Boston Poor, indeed,

And needy, tho' there is no Need:

They cry for Bread; the mighty Ones

Instead of _Bread_, give only _Stones_.

Rivington's _New York Gazetteer_, September 2, 1774.

It was plain that, in this crisis, the colonies must stick

together, and the proposal for a Continental Congress, first

made by the Sons of Liberty in New York, was approved by colony

after colony, and the Congress was finally called to meet at

Philadelphia, September 1.

THE DAUGHTER'S REBELLION

When fair Columbia was a child,

And mother Britain on her smil'd

With kind regard, and strok'd her head,

And gave her dolls and gingerbread,

And sugar plumbs, and many a toy,

Which prompted gratitude and joy--

Then a more duteous maid, I ween,

Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green;

Whate'er the mother said, approv'd,

And with sincere affection lov'd--

With reverence listen'd to her dreams,

And bowed obsequious to her schemes--

Barter'd the products of her garden,

For trinkets, worth more than a farthing--

And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd,

She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd,

Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath,

Betoken'd her approaching death.

But when at puberty arriv'd,

Forgot the power in whom she liv'd,

And 'gan to make preposterous splutter,

'Bout spreading her own bread and butter,

And stubbornly refus'd t' agree,

In form, to drink her bohea-tea,

And like a base, ungrateful daughter,

Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water--

'Bout writing paper made a pother,

And dared to argue with her mother--

Contended pertly, that the nurse,

Should not be keeper of the purse;

But that herself, now older grown,

Would have a pocket of her own,

In which the purse she would deposit,

As safely as in nurse's closet.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

The Whig papers generally at this time adopted for a headpiece

a snake broken into parts representing the several colonies,

with the motto, "Unite or Die."

ON THE SNAKE

DEPICTED AT THE HEAD OF SOME AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS

Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to pass

That America's typ'd by a Snake--in the grass?

Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection,

That merits the soundest, severest correction?

New-England's the Head, too;--New-England's abus'd,

For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.

From Rivington's _New York Gazetteer_, August 25, 1774.

The feeling of the entire country was aptly voiced in "Free

America," which appeared at that time, and which was ascribed

to Dr. Joseph Warren.

FREE AMERICA

[1774]

That seat of Science, Athens,

And earth's proud mistress, Rome;

Where now are all their glories?

We scarce can find a tomb.

Then guard your rights, Americans,

Nor stoop to lawless sway;

Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose,

For North America.

We led fair Freedom hither,

And lo, the desert smiled!

A paradise of pleasure

Was opened in the wild!

Your harvest, bold Americans,

No power shall snatch away!

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,

For free America.

Torn from a world of tyrants,

Beneath this western sky,

We formed a new dominion,

A land of liberty:

The world shall own we're masters here;

Then hasten on the day:

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,

For free America.

Proud Albion bowed to Cæsar,

And numerous lords before;

To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,

And many masters more:

But we can boast, Americans,

We've never fallen a prey;

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,

For free America.

God bless this maiden climate,

And through its vast domain

May hosts of heroes cluster,

Who scorn to wear a chain:

And blast the venal sycophant

That dares our rights betray;

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,

For free America.

Lift up your hands, ye heroes,

And swear with proud disdain,

The wretch that would ensnare you,

Shall lay his snares in vain:

Should Europe empty all her force,

We'll meet her in array,

And fight and shout, and shout and fight

For North America.

Some future day shall crown us,

The masters of the main,

Our fleets shall speak in thunder

To England, France, and Spain;

And the nations over the ocean spread

Shall tremble and obey

The sons, the sons, the sons, the sons

Of brave America.

JOSEPH WARREN.

The Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia, September

5, 1774, and, after four weeks' deliberation, agreed upon a

declaration of rights, claiming for the American people the

right of free legislation and calling for the repeal of eleven

acts of Parliament.

LIBERTY TREE

In a chariot of light from the regions of day,

The Goddess of Liberty came;

Ten thousand celestials directed the way

And hither conducted the dame.

A fair budding branch from the gardens above,

Where millions with millions agree,

She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,

And the plant she named _Liberty Tree_.

The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,

Like a native it flourished and bore;

The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,

To seek out this peaceable shore.

Unmindful of names or distinction they came,

For freemen like brothers agree;

With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,

And their temple was _Liberty Tree_.

Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,

Their bread in contentment they ate,

Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,

The cares of the grand and the great.

With timber and tar they Old England supplied,

And supported her power on the sea;

Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,

For the honor of _Liberty Tree_.

But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,

How all the tyrannical powers,

Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain,

To cut down this guardian of ours;

From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms

Through the land let the sound of it flee,

Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,

In defence of our _Liberty Tree_.

THOMAS PAINE.

_Pennsylvania Magazine_, 1775.

The duty of presenting to the British government the

Declaration of Rights prepared by the Congress devolved upon

Benjamin Franklin, who was in England at the time. Lord

Dartmouth received the document, but permission was refused

Franklin to present the case for the Continental Congress, and

to defend it, before the House of Commons.

THE MOTHER COUNTRY

[1775]

We have an old mother that peevish is grown;

She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;

She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own;

Which nobody can deny, deny,

Which nobody can deny.

If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,

She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-

Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;

Which nobody, etc.

Her orders so odd are, we often suspect

That age has impaired her sound intellect;

But still an old mother should have due respect;

Which nobody, etc.

Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;

But why should we bear the abuse of her man?

When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;

Which nobody, etc.

Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divide

The sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;

And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;

Which nobody, etc.

We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all those

Who, to get what she has, will be often her foes;

For we know it must all be our own, when she goes;

Which nobody can deny, deny,

Which nobody can deny.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

Very few Englishmen believed that the Americans would fight.

Lord Sandwich said that they were a lot of undisciplined

cowards, who would take to their heels at the first sound of

a cannon, and that it would be easy to frighten them into

submission. The "Pennsylvania Song" was evidently written to

answer this assertion.

PENNSYLVANIA SONG

We are the troop that ne'er will stoop

To wretched slavery,

Nor shall our seed, by our base deed,

Despisèd vassals be;

Freedom we will bequeath to them,

Or we will bravely die;

Our greatest foe, ere long shall know,

How much did Sandwich lie.

And all the world shall know,

Americans are free;

Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove,

Great Britain soon shall see.

We'll not give up our birthright,

Our foes shall find us men;

As good as they, in any shape,

The British troops shall ken.

Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat them

On any hostile plain;

For Freedom, wives, and children dear,

The battle we'll maintain.

And all the world, etc.

What! can those British tyrants think,

Our fathers cross'd the main,

And savage foes, and dangers met,

To be enslav'd by them?

If so, they are mistaken,

For we will rather die;

And since they have become our foes,

Their forces we defy.

And all the world, etc.

Dunlap's _Packet_, 1775.

About the middle of December, 1774, deputies appointed by the

freemen of Maryland met at Annapolis, and unanimously resolved

to resist the attempts of Parliament to tax the colonies and

to support the acts of the Continental Congress. They also

recommended that every man should provide himself with "a good

firelock, with bayonet attached, powder and ball," to be in

readiness to act in any emergency.

MARYLAND RESOLVES

[December, 1774]

On Calvert's plains new faction reigns,

Great Britain we defy, sir,

True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains,

Though freedom is the cry, sir.

The Congress, and their factious tools,

Most wantonly oppress us,

Hypocrisy triumphant rules,

And sorely does distress us.

The British bands with glory crown'd,

No longer shall withstand us;

Our martial deeds loud fame shall sound

Since mad Lee now commands us.

Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike,

That all the world shall awe, sir,

And General Gage, Sir Perseus like,

Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir.

When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men,

Our race meant to extermine,

Pray did committees save us then,

Or Hancock, or such vermin?

Then faction spurn! think for yourselves!

Your parent state, believe me,

From real griefs, from factious elves,

Will speedily relieve ye.

Rivington's _Gazetteer_.

Such effusions as the "Massachusetts Liberty Song" became

immensely popular, and bands of liberty-loving souls met

nightly to sing them.

MASSACHUSETTS SONG OF LIBERTY

Come swallow your bumpers, ye _Tories_, and roar

That the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more;

But know that no _Cut-throats_ our spirits can tame,

Nor a host of _Oppressors_ shall smother the flame.

_In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave,

Will never surrender,

But swear to defend her,

And scorn to survive, if unable to save._

Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear,

Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;

Through deaths and through dangers their _Trophies_ they won,

We dare be their _Rivals_, nor will be outdone.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,

Encroach on our RIGHTS, and make FREEDOM their prize;

The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,

Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

The tree which proud _Haman_ for _Mordecai_ rear'd

Stands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared;

That _rogues_, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain,

Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall know

Those who dare to be free shall forever be so;

On these arms and these hearts they may safely rely

For in freedom we'll live, or like _Heroes_ we'll die.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Ye insolent _Tyrants_! who wish to enthrall;

Ye _Minions_, ye _Placemen_, _Pimps_, _Pensioners_, all;

How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust,

Your honor must wither and nod to the dust.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

When oppress'd and approach'd, our KING we implore,

Still firmly persuaded our RIGHTS he'll restore;

When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right,

Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a fray

Could make us submit to their chains for a day;

Withheld by affection, on _Britons_ we call,

Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

All ages should speak with amaze and applause

Of the prudence we show in support of our cause:

Assured of our safety, a BRUNSWICK still reigns,

Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains.

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall;

Has the land such a dastard as scorns not a LORD,

Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword?

_In Freedom we're born, etc._

Attributed to MRS. MERCY WARREN.

EPIGRAM

Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger,

Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her.

Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aid

And give Master John a severe bastinade.

Now, good men of the law, who is at fault,

The one who begins or resists the assault?

Anderson's _Constitutional Gazette_, 1775.

TO THE BOSTON WOMEN

O Boston wives and maids, draw near and see

Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea,

Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown,

If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town.

_St. James Chronicle._

It was evident that, in the excited state of the country, a

single incident might turn the balance between peace and war

and produce a general explosion. That incident was not long in

coming.

"PROPHECY"

[1774]

Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat,

Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,

But wealth and power have no immortal day,

For all things ripen only to decay.

And when that time arrives, the lot of all,

When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall;

Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decree

In other worlds another Britain see,

And what thou art, America shall be.

GULIAN VERPLANCK.

CHAPTER II

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM

All through the winter of 1774-75, the people of Massachusetts

had offered a passive but effective resistance to General Gage.

Not a councillor, judge, sheriff, or juryman could be found

to serve under the royal commission; and for nine months the

ordinary functions of government were suspended. At eventide,

on every village-green, a company of yeomen drilled, and a

supply of powder and ball was gradually collected at Concord;

but every man in the province was given to understand that

England must fire the first shot. At the beginning of spring,

Gage received peremptory orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John

Hancock, and send them to England to be tried for treason. He

learned that they would be at a friend's house at Lexington,

during the middle of April, and on the night of April 18

dispatched a force of eight hundred men to seize them, and then

to proceed to Concord and destroy the military stores collected

there. Although the movement was conducted with the greatest

secrecy, Joseph Warren divined its purpose, and sent out Paul

Revere by way of Charlestown to give the alarm.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

[April 18-19, 1775]

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar

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 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 sombre 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 sombre 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 galloped 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.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

At the same time Warren dispatched William Dawes by way

of Roxbury; but though Dawes played an important part in

the events of the night, his exploits have been completely

overshadowed in the popular imagination by those of the other

courier.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

I am a wandering, bitter shade;

Never of me was a hero made;

Poets have never sung my praise,

Nobody crowned my brow with bays;

And if you ask me the fatal cause,

I answer only, "My name was Dawes."

'Tis all very well for the children to hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;

But why should my name be quite forgot,

Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?

Why should I ask? The reason is clear--

My name was Dawes and his Revere.

When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,

Paul Revere was waiting about,

But I was already on my way.

The shadows of night fell cold and gray

As I rode, with never a break or pause;

But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?

History rings with his silvery name;

Closed to me are the portals of fame.

Had he been Dawes and I Revere,

No one had heard of him, I fear.

No one has heard of me because

He was Revere and I was Dawes.

HELEN F. MORE.

Revere galloped at top speed to Lexington, and warned Hancock

and Adams, who left the town shortly before daybreak. Meanwhile

the minute-men of the village had gathered, and the vanguard

of the English column was confronted by about fifty colonials

under command of Captain John Parker. The British commander,

Major Pitcairn, ordered them to disperse, and as they stood

motionless, he gave the order to fire. His men hesitated, but

he discharged his own pistol and repeated the order, whereupon

a deadly volley killed eight of the minute-men and wounded

ten. A moment later, the main body of the British came up, and

Parker, seeing the folly of resistance, ordered his men to

retire.

LEXINGTON[3]

[April 19, 1775]

From "Psalm of the West"

O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:

Climb, patriot, through the April dark.

O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,

Thou budding star in the April night,

For never a star more news hath told,

Or later flame in heaven shall hold.

Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,

When that thy church hath had her hour,

Still from the top of Reverence high

Shalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;

For, statured large o'er town and tree,

Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,

And, dim as now thy wick may shine,

The Future lights his lamp at thine.

Now haste thee while the way is clear,

Paul Revere!

Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!

To Lexington.

Then Devens looked and saw the light:

He got him forth into the night,

And watched alone on the river-shore,

And marked the British ferrying o'er.

John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,

But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!

Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:

The Morning comes ere darkness goes.

Have forth and call the yeomen out,

For somewhere, somewhere close about

Full soon a Thing must come to be

Thine honest eyes shall stare to see--

Full soon before thy patriot eyes

Freedom from out of a Wound shall rise.

Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!

Bring all the men of Lincoln here;

Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,

Let Acton, Bedford, hither file--

Oh hither file, and plainly see

Out of a wound leap Liberty.

Say, Woodman April! all in green,

Say, Robin April! hast thou seen

In all thy travel round the earth

Ever a morn of calmer birth?

But Morning's eye alone serene

Can gaze across yon village-green

To where the trooping British run

Through Lexington.

Good men in fustian, stand ye still;

The men in red come o'er the hill.

_Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!_ cry

The men in red full haughtily.

But never a grounding gun is heard;

The men in fustian stand unstirred;

Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird

Puts in his little heavenly word.

O men in red! if ye but knew

The half as much as bluebirds do,

Now in this little tender calm

Each hand would out, and every palm

With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke

Or ere these lines of battle broke.

O men in red! if ye but knew

The least of the all that bluebirds do,

Now in this little godly calm

Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm--

The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes

Who pardons and is very wise--

Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,

_Fire!_

The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:

The homespuns' anxious voices call,

_Brother, art hurt?_ and _Where hit, John?_

And, _Wipe this blood_, and, _Men, come on_,

And, _Neighbor, do but lift my head_,

And, _Who is wounded? Who is dead?

Seven are killed. My God! my God!

Seven lie dead on the village sod.

Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,

Monroe and Porter,--these are down.

Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!_

He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.

He lies at the step of his own house-door;

He crawls and makes a path of gore.

The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;

He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;

He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,

But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.

Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:

Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.

But, O ye Six that round him lay

And bloodied up that April day!

As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell--

At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;

As Harrington came, ye likewise came

And died at the door of your House of Fame.

SIDNEY LANIER.

[3] From Poems by Sidney Lanier, copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.

Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

LEXINGTON

[April 19, 1775]

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,

Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,

When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,

Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

Waving her golden veil

Over the silent dale,

Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;

Hushed was his parting sigh,

While from his noble eye

Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing

Calmly the first-born of glory have met;

Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!

Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!

Faint is the feeble breath,

Murmuring low in death,

"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"

Nerveless the iron hand,

Raised for its native land,

Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;

As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,

Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

Fast on the soldier's path

Darken the waves of wrath,--

Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;

Red glares the musket's flash,

Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,

Never to shadow his cold brow again;

Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,

Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;

Pale is the lip of scorn,

Voiceless the trumpet horn,

Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;

Many a belted breast

Low on the turf shall rest

Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,

Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,

Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,

Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;

Far as the tempest thrills

Over the darkened hills,

Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,

Roused by the tyrant band,

Woke all the mighty land,

Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!

Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,

While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying

Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.

Borne on her Northern pine,

Long o'er the foaming brine

Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;

Heaven keep her ever free,

Wide as o'er land and sea

Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

The British pressed on to Concord, but the greater part of the

stores had been hidden, and minute-men were gathering from all

directions. Colonel Smith, commanding the British, began to

realize the dangers of his position and about noon started to

retreat to Boston. And none too soon, for the whole country

was aroused. Minute-men swarmed in from all directions, and

taking advantage of every tree and hillock by the roadside,

poured into the British a fire so deadly that the retreat

soon became a disorderly flight. The timely arrival of strong

reinforcements was all that saved the British from annihilation.

NEW ENGLAND'S CHEVY CHASE

[April 19, 1775]

'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red light

Brooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,--

Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:

"The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."

Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;

Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;

To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,

Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.

Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,

Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,

"We have got the alarm,--they have left Phips's farm;

You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."

John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;

They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:

"Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;

The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.

By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;

At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;

So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,

And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forward THE TOWN.

Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,

And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!

O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of light

Lead thy children to-night to the glories of day!

And let thy stars fight all the foes of the Right

As the stars fought of old against Sisera."

And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,

Till the last of them faded in twilight away;

And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,

Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:

"On the King's own highway I may travel all day,

And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;

"I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."

Then he turned to the boys,--"Forward, march! Follow me."

And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he played

The old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.

We saw Davis fall dead, but no man was afraid;

That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.

This opened the play, and it lasted all day.

We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;

Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;

We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.

They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.

They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.

Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the head

As he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.

John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,

John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,

And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,--

Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.

I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;

Fill your horn from mine,--let me lie where I be.

Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,

Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;

And that man is a knave or a fool who, to save

His life for a minute, would live like a slave."

Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,--

From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,--

Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;

And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.

We knew, every one, it was war that begun,

When that morning's marching was only half done.

In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,

I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.

'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,

"Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."

In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and Munroe

And Baker and Abram and I made a bed.

We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;

But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:

"It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to me

To march to the sea by this road where we've come;

But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us say

We'd rather have spent it this way than to home."

* * * * *

The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,

And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.

And never since then, in the memory of men,

Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

April 19, 1882.

THE KING'S OWN REGULARS

AND THEIR TRIUMPH OVER THE IRREGULARS

Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,

I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;

So I'll sing you a song,--as a body may say,

'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.

_Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars._

At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,

We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;

Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,

But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.

At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,

And recover some credit by better behavior:

We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,

So feet swore they would stand, but--legs ran however.

No troops perform better than we at reviews,

We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,

George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,

There we all fight with courage--you may see 't in the news.

To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,

We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;

That great expedition cost infinite sums,

But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.

It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,

If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should

have beat them with ease,

They may fight with one another that way if they please,

But it is not _regular_ to stand, and fight with such rascals as these.

At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,

We show'd our vast skill in fortification;

The French fired three guns;--of the fourth they had no occasion;

For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.

To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,

Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;

But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,

Because they fought behind trees, which is not the _regular_ fashion.

Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;

With a great regular army he went on his way,

Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,

But returned--without seeing it,--for he didn't _feel bold_ that day.

Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,

Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,

He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,

So resolved a rebellion to make--of his own.

The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't

fight,

And so he sent us over to take away their right;

But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and

louder,

For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.

Our general with his council of war did advise

How at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;

We march'd--and re-marched--all surprised--at being beat;

And so our wise general's plan of _surprise_--was complete.

For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to

pull a trigger;

But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?

For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;

'Twas not in _going out_, but in _returning_, consisted our EXPEDITION.

Says our general, "We were forced to take to our _arms_ in our defence

(For _arms_ read _legs_, and it will be both truth and sense),

Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,

And that is--'I can never enough praise him for his great--agility.'"

Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;

Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to

use the other;

Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace

us,

'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees--could not

face us.

As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?

We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.

That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;

For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.

_Pennsylvania Evening Post_, March 30, 1776.

How the alarm of the fight spread through the countryside, how

men left the plough, the loom, the anvil, and hastened, musket

in hand, to the land's defence that day, has been told and

retold in song and story. Here is the story of Morgan Stanwood,

one among hundreds such.

MORGAN STANWOOD

CAPE ANN, 1775

Morgan Stanwood, patriot!

Little more is known;

Nothing of his home is left

But the door-step stone.

Morgan Stanwood, to our thought

You return once more;

Once again the meadows lift

Daisies to your door.

Once again the morn is sweet,

Half the hay is down,--

Hark! what means that sudden clang

From the distant town?

Larum bell and rolling drum

Answer sea-borne guns;

Larum bell and rolling drum

Summon Freedom's sons!

And the mower thinks to him

Cry both bell and drum,

"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?

Here th' invaders come!"

"Morgan Stanwood" need no more

Bell and drum-beat call;

He is one who, hearing once,

Answers once for all.

Ne'er the mower murmured then,

"Half my grass is mown,

Homespun isn't soldier-wear,

Each may save his own."

Fallen scythe and aftermath

Lie forgotten now;

Winter need may come and find

But a barren mow.

Down the musket comes. "Good wife,--

Wife, a quicker flint!"

And the face that questions face

Hath no color in 't.

"Wife, if I am late to-night,

Milk the heifer first;--

Ruth, if I'm not home at all,--

Worse has come to worst."

Morgan Stanwood sped along,

Not the common road;

Over wall and hill-top straight,

Straight to death, he strode;

Leaving her to hear at night

Tread of burdened men,

By the gate and through the gate,

At the door, and then--

Ever after that to hear,

When the grass is sweet,

Through the gate and through the night,

Slowly coming feet.

Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;

Here the door-step lies;

One may stand thereon and think,--

For the thought will rise,--

Were we where the meadow was,

Mowing grass alone,

Would we go the way he went,

From this very stone?

Were we on the door-step here,

Parting for a day,

Would we utter words as though

Parting were for aye?

Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,

Meadow-math is sweet;

Parting be as parting may,

After all, we meet.

HIRAM RICH.

Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon,

while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic

address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for

the firing line.

THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO'

[April 19, 1775]

'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;

'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;

When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed--

A cracking whip and clanking hoofs--a case of crying need!

And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,

Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.

The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day

To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;

They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,

Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:

"The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;

Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;

Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;

On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;

We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:

All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"

The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,

The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.

They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,

At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.

The pewter-ware is melted into bullets--long past due,

The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.

Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayer

Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share;

He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,

For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.

The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;

With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives

good-by.

The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strife

That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.

At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;

At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:

The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.

Our rifles speak from fence and tree--in front, on every side.

The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woe

Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.

The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;

No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;

But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;

They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.

The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,

On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.

Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:

That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.

A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world

With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.

The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;

They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.

In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;

And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.

WALLACE RICE.

LEXINGTON

[1775]

No Berserk thirst of blood had they,

No battle-joy was theirs, who set

Against the alien bayonet

Their homespun breasts in that old day.

Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;

They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;

They saw not, what to us is plain,

That God would make man's wrath His praise.

No seers were they, but simple men;

Its vast results the future hid:

The meaning of the work they did

Was strange and dark and doubtful then.

Swift as their summons came they left

The plough mid-furrow standing still,

The half-ground corn grist in the mill,

The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.

They went where duty seemed to call,

They scarcely asked the reason why;

They only knew they could but die,

And death was not the worst of all!

Of man for man the sacrifice,

All that was theirs to give, they gave.

The flowers that blossomed from their grave

Have sown themselves beneath all skies.

Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,

And shattered slavery's chain as well;

On the sky's dome, as on a bell,

Its echo struck the world's great hour.

That fateful echo is not dumb:

The nations listening to its sound

Wait, from a century's vantage-ground,

The holier triumphs yet to come,--

The bridal time of Law and Love,

The gladness of the world's release,

When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace

The hawk shall nestle with the dove!--

The golden age of brotherhood

Unknown to other rivalries

Than of the mild humanities,

And gracious interchange of good,

When closer strand shall lean to strand,

Till meet, beneath saluting flags,

The eagle of our mountain-crags,

The lion of our Motherland!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The news of the fight at Lexington spread with remarkable

rapidity throughout the whole country, and nearly every colony

at once took steps for the enlistment and training of a

colonial militia. No stronger proof of the electric condition

of the country could be offered than the way in which men

everywhere rushed to arms.

THE RISING

From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"

Out of the North the wild news came,

Far flashing on its wings of flame,

Swift as the boreal light which flies

At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,

And through the wild land everywhere

The answering tread of hurrying feet,

While the first oath of Freedom's gun

Came on the blast from Lexington;

And Concord, roused, no longer tame,

Forgot her old baptismal name,

Made bare her patriot arm of power,

And swell'd the discord of the hour.

* * * * *

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkeley Manor stood;

There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteem'd of gentle blood.

In vain their feet with loitering tread

Pass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;

All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

* * * * *

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;

The psalm was warrior David's song;

The text, a few short words of might,--

"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,

Of sacred rights to be secured;

Then from his patriot tongue of flame

The startling words for Freedom came.

The stirring sentences he spake

Compell'd the heart to glow or quake,

And, rising on his theme's broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand

The imaginary battle-brand,

In face of death he dared to fling

Defiance to a tyrant King.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed

In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;

Then swept his kindling glance of fire

From startled pew to breathless choir;

When suddenly his mantle wide

His hands impatient flung aside,

And, lo! he met their wondering eyes

Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause,--

When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!

God's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so,

When God is with our righteous cause;

His holiest places then are ours,

His temples are our forts and towers

That frown upon the tyrant foe;

In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,

There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door--

The warrior priest had order'd so--

The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar

Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,

Its long reverberating blow,

So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear

Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife

Fired the living with fiercer life;

While overhead, with wild increase,

Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before.

It seemed as it would never cease;

And every word its ardor flung

From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, "War! war! war!"

"Who dares"--this was the patriot's cry,

As striding from the desk he came--

"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,

For her to live, for her to die?"

A hundred hands flung up reply,

A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Early in May, news of the fight at Lexington reached Machias,

Maine, and on the 11th a party of young men boarded the British

armed schooner, Margaretta, which was in the harbor there, and

forced her to surrender, after a loss of about twenty on each

side.

THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA[4]

[May 11, 1775]

Four young men, of a Monday morn,

Heard that the flag of peace was torn;

Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,

Had fought the British at Lexington,

While they were far from that bloody plain,

Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.

With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,

They talked of the glory their friends had earned,

And asked each other, "What can we do,

So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"

Silent the Margaretta lay,

Out on the bosom of the bay;

On her masts rich bunting gleamed;

Bravely the flag of England streamed.

The young men gazed at the tempting prize--

They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;

Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dread

And hoist the pine-tree flag instead.

"We are only boys to the old and sage;

We have not yet come to manhood's age;

"But we can show them that, when there's need,

Men may follow and boys may lead."

Tightly each other's hand they pressed,

Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;

"The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,

Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."

III

They ran to a sloop that lay near by;

They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;

They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,

And called for a crew of volunteers.

Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,

And men came running from every side.

Curious armed were the dauntless ones,

With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;

They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,

The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"

With sails all set, trim as could be,

The Margaretta stood out to sea.

With every man and boy in place,

The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.

Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;

Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;

And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!

We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"

A sound of thunder, echoing wide,

Came from the Margaretta's side;

A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,

And one of the brave pursuers fell.

They aimed a gun at the schooner then,

And sent the compliment back again;

He who at the helm of the schooner stood,

Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.

Each burning to pay a bloody debt,

The crews of the hostile vessels met;

The Western nation now to be,

Made her first fight upon the sea.

And not till forty men were slain,

Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;

But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,

And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.

One of the youths, the deed to crown,

Grasped the colors and pulled them down;

And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,

The pine-tree flag of blue and white.

And the truth was shown, for the world to read,

That men may follow and boys may lead.

WILL CARLETON.

[4] From _Poems for Young Americans_, published by Harper & Bros.

In North Carolina, the men of Mecklenburg County met, May

31, and adopted their famous "Resolves," declaring that each

provincial congress was invested with all legislative and

executive powers for the government of the colonies, and should

exercise them independently of Great Britain, until Parliament

should resign its arbitrary pretensions. It was from these

"Resolves" that the legend of the Mecklenburg "Declaration of

Independence, said to have been signed May 20," originated.

THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION

[May 20, 1775]

Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,

The men of Mecklenburg had met

Determined to be free,

And crook no coward knee,

Though Might in front and Treason at the back

Brought death and ruin in their joint attack.

The tyrant's heel was on the land

When Polk convoked his gallant band,

And told in words full strong

The bitter tale of wrong,

Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:

"We must be independent, or be slaves!"

But, hark! What hurried rider, this,

With jaded horse and garb amiss,

Whose look some woe proclaims,

Ere he his mission names?

He rides amain from far-off Lexington,

And tells the blood-red news of war begun!

Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spoke

The wise bold words that aye invoke

Men to defend the right

And scorn the despot's might;

Until from all there rose the answering cry:

"We will be independent, or we die."

When Alexander called the vote,

No dastard "nay's" discordant note

Broke on that holy air--

For dastard none was there!

But in prompt answer to their country's call,

They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor--all!

In solemn hush the people heard;

With shout and cheer they caught the word:

Independence! In that sign

We grasp our right divine;

For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hate

Must yield to men who fight for God and State!

The hero shout flew on the breeze;

Rushed from the mountains to the seas;

Till all the land uprose,

Their faces to their foes,

Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,

And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!

And well those men maintained the right;

They kept the faith, and fought the fight;

Till Might and Treason both

Fled fast before the oath

Which brought the God of Freedom's battles down

To place on patriot brows the victor's crown!

WILLIAM C. ELAM.

Up and down the land, in every city, town, and hamlet, men were

drilling--with brooms and corn-stalks, when no muskets were

available. The storm, which had been gathering for years, had

burst at last.

A SONG

Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!

To arms, my brave boys, and away:

'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,

And upbraids the too tedious delay.

What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,

Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;

Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!

The tyrants are seized on, they die!

Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,

Like men, we'll be joyful and gay--

With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,

And lose the fatigues of the day.

'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,

But oppression all happiness sours;

It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,

And strew the way over with flowers.

_Pennsylvania Journal_, May 31, 1775.

CHAPTER III

THE COLONISTS TAKE THE OFFENSIVE

A rustic army of nearly twenty thousand men quickly gathered

about Boston to besiege Gage there; but its warlike spirit ran

too high to be contented with passive and defensive measures.

Benedict Arnold suggested that expeditions be sent against the

fortresses at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which commanded the

northern approach to the Hudson and were of great strategic

importance. The suggestion was at once adopted. Arnold was

created colonel and set out to raise a regiment among the

Berkshire Hills. When he arrived there, he found that Ethan

Allen had already raised a force of Vermonters and started for

Ticonderoga.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS

[May 9, 1775]

Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent

On the rugged forest-ground,

And light our fire with the branches rent

By winds from the beeches round.

Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,

But a wilder is at hand,

With hail of iron and rain of blood,

To sweep and waste the land.

How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,

That startle the sleeping bird!

To-morrow eve must the voice be still,

And the step must fall unheard.

The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,

In Ticonderoga's towers,

And ere the sun rise twice again,

Must they and the lake be ours.

III

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides

Where the fire-flies light the brake;

A ruddier juice the Briton hides

In his fortress by the lake.

Build high the fire, till the panther leap

From his lofty perch in flight,

And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep

For the deeds of to-morrow night.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Arnold overtook Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" on May 9,

and accompanied the expedition as a volunteer. At daybreak of

the 10th, Allen and Arnold, with eighty-three men, crossed Lake

Champlain and entered Ticonderoga side by side. The garrison

was completely surprised and surrendered the stronghold without

a blow.

THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA

[May 10, 1775]

'Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing

Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,--

Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm,

Or chanticleer's shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.

But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,

Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys,"--

Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,

To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!

"My comrades,"--thus the leader spake to his gallant band,--

"The key of all the Canadas is in King George's hand,

Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,

Good Yankee swords--God willing--may pick his rusty lock!"

At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,

Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,

As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet

To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.

The curtain of the darkness closed 'round them like a tent,

When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,

They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,

And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.

O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!

O bastions of old Carillon, the "Fort of Chiming Rills!"

Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,

And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!

In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,

Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;

The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,

Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.

Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray

Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;

Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,

And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:

"Soldiers, so long united--dread scourge of lawless power!

Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.

One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest--

To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!

"I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,

Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!

There leads no pathway backward--'tis death or victory!

Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!"

From man to man a tremor ran at their captain's word

(Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees that once King David heard),--

While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,

Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!

"Right face, my men, and forward!" Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!

They mount the slope unfaltering--they gain the esplanade!

A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,

Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm--too late!

They swarm before the barracks--the quaking guards take flight,

And such a shout resultant resounds along the height,

As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,

When brave Montcalm's defenders charged on a British foe!

Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,

To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!

The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,

And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Surrender!" Allen cries.

"Then in whose name the summons?" the ashen lips reply.

The mountaineer's stern visage turns proudly to the sky,--

"In the name of great Jehovah!" he speaks with lifted sword,

"And the Continental Congress, who wait upon his word!"

Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,

As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,

Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,

As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.

Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,

Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,

And still, on Freedom's roster, through all her glorious years,

Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!

MARY A. P. STANSBURY.

The Continental army at Cambridge, meanwhile, was busy day and

night, drilling and getting into shape. It was at this time

that "a gentleman of Connecticut," whose name, it is said,

was Edward Bangs, described his visit to the camp in verses

destined to become famous. They were printed originally as a

broadside.

THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP

[June, 1775]

Father and I went down to camp,

Along with Captain Gooding,

And there we see the men and boys,

As thick as hasty pudding.

_Chorus_--Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle, dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy.

And there we see a thousand men,

As rich as 'Squire David;

And what they wasted every day

I wish it could be savèd.

The 'lasses they eat every day

Would keep an house a winter;

They have as much that, I'll be bound,

They eat it when they're a mind to.

And there we see a swamping gun,

Large as a log of maple,

Upon a deucèd little cart,

A load for father's cattle.

And every time they shoot it off,

It takes a horn of powder,

And makes a noise like father's gun,

Only a nation louder.

I went as nigh to one myself

As Siah's underpinning;

And father went as nigh again,

I thought the deuce was in him.

Cousin Simon grew so bold,

I thought he would have cocked it;

It scared me so, I shrinked it off,

And hung by father's pocket.

And Captain Davis had a gun,

He kind of clapt his hand on 't,

And stuck a crooked stabbing iron

Upon the little end on 't.

And there I see a pumpkin shell

As big as mother's bason;

And every time they touched it off,

They scampered like the nation.

I see a little barrel, too,

The heads were made of leather,

They knocked upon 't with little clubs

And called the folks together.

And there was Captain Washington,

And gentlefolks about him,

They say he's grown so tarnal proud

He will not ride without 'em.

He got him on his meeting clothes,

Upon a strapping stallion,

He set the world along in rows,

In hundreds and in millions.

The flaming ribbons in his hat,

They looked so tearing fine ah,

I wanted pockily to get,

To give to my Jemimah.

I see another snarl of men

A digging graves, they told me,

So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,

They 'tended they should hold me.

It scared me so, I hooked it off,

Nor stopped, as I remember,

Nor turned about, till I got home,

Locked up in mother's chamber.

EDWARD BANGS.

Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne arrived, May 25, with

reinforcements which raised the British force in Boston to ten

thousand men, and plans were at once made to extend the lines

to cover Charlestown and Dorchester, the occupation of which

by the Americans would render Boston untenable. Confident of

victory, Gage, on June 12, issued a proclamation offering

pardon to all rebels who should lay down their arms and return

to their allegiance, save only John Hancock and Samuel Adams.

At the same time, all who remained in arms were threatened with

the gallows.

TOM GAGE'S PROCLAMATION;

OR BLUSTERING DENUNCIATION

(REPLETE WITH DEFAMATION)

THREATENING DEVASTATION,

AND SPEEDY JUGULATION,

OF THE NEW ENGLISH NATION.--

WHO SHALL HIS PIOUS WAYS SHUN?

[June 12, 1775]

Whereas the rebels hereabout

Are stubborn still, and still hold out;

Refusing yet to drink their tea,

In spite of Parliament and me;

And to maintain their bubble, Right,

Prognosticate a real fight;

Preparing flints, and guns, and ball,

My army and the fleet to maul;

Mounting their guilt to such a pitch,

As to let fly at soldiers' breech;

Pretending they design'd a trick,

Tho' ordered not to hurt a chick;

But peaceably, without alarm,

The men of Concord to disarm;

Or, if resisting, to annoy,

And every magazine destroy:--

All which, tho' long obliged to bear,

Thro' want of men, and not of fear;

I'm able now by augmentation,

To give a proper castigation;

For since th' addition to the troops,

Now reinforc'd as thick as hops;

I can, like Jeremey at the Boyne,

Look safely on--fight you, Burgoyne;

And now, like grass, the rebel Yankees,

I fancy not these doodle dances:--

Yet, e'er I draw the vengeful sword,

I have thought fit to send abroad,

This present gracious proclamation,

Of purpose mild the demonstration,

That whosoe'er keeps gun or pistol,

I'll spoil the motion of his systole;

Or, whip his ----, or cut his weason,

As haps the measure of his treason:--

But every one that will lay down

His hanger bright, and musket brown,

Shall not be beat, nor bruis'd, nor bang'd,

Much less for past offences hang'd;

But on surrendering his toledo,

Go to and fro unhurt as we do:--

But then I must, out of this plan, lock

Both Samuel Adams and John Hancock;

For those vile traitors (like debentures)

Must be tucked up at all adventures;

As any proffer of a pardon,

Would only tend those rogues to harden:--

But every other mother's son,

The instant he destroys his gun

(For thus doth run the King's command),

May, if he will, come kiss my hand.--

And to prevent such wicked game, as

Pleading the plea of ignoramus,

Be this my proclamation spread

To every reader that can read:--

And as nor law nor right was known

Since my arrival in this town,

To remedy this fatal flaw,

I hereby publish martial law.

Meanwhile, let all, and every one

Who loves his life, forsake his gun;

And all the council, by mandamus,

Who have been reckoned so infamous,

Return unto their habitation,

Without or let or molestation.--

Thus graciously the war I wage,

As witnesseth my hand,--TOM GAGE.

By command of MOTHER CARY,

Thomas Flucker, Secretary.

_Pennsylvania Journal_, June 28, 1775.

The Committee of Safety received intelligence of Gage's

plans and ordered out a force of twelve hundred men to take

possession of Bunker Hill in Charlestown. At sunset of June 16

this brigade started from Cambridge, under command of Colonel

William Prescott, a veteran of the French War. On reaching

Bunker Hill, a consultation was held, and it was decided to

push on to Breed's Hill, and erect a fortification there.

Breed's Hill was reached about midnight, and the work of

throwing up intrenchments began at once.

THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL

[June 16, 1775]

'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath,

When life is a gladsome thing, and a distant dream is death;

There was gossip of birds in the air, and a lowing of herds by the wood,

And a sunset gleam in the sky that the heart of a man holds good;

Then the nun-like Twilight came, violet-vestured and still,

And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill.

There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word;

There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;--

Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales,

Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales;

Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill;

Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill!

Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true,

And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew;

The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,--

_Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes!

Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will!_

A hush, and then a loud _Amen!_ on the eve of Bunker Hill!

Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame,

Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name;

Some shall never again behold the set of the sun,

But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington,

Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill,

The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

June 17 dawned fair and bright, and the intrenchments were at

once discovered by the British. A lively cannonade was opened

upon them by the ships in the harbor, but without effect. At

noon, three thousand veterans were ordered forward to rout

out the "peasants," and by three o'clock in the afternoon had

crossed the river and were ready to storm the intrenchments.

Commanded by General Howe and General Pigot, they advanced

steadily up the hill, only to be met by so terrific a fire that

they gave way and retreated in disorder.

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS

[June 17, 1775]

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 a-fire!

And, before you, see

Who have done it!--From the vale

On they come!--And will ye quail?--

Leaden rain and iron 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!

JOHN PIERPONT.

A pause followed, during which Charlestown was set on fire by

shells from the fleet and was soon in a roaring blaze. Then

a second time the British advanced to the assault; again the

Americans held their fire, and again, at thirty yards, poured

into the Redcoats so deadly a volley that they were forced to

retreat.

THE BALLAD OF BUNKER HILL

We lay in the Trenches we'd dug in the Ground

While _Phoebus_ blazed down from his glory-lined Car,

And then from the lips of our Leader renown'd,

These lessons we learn'd in the _Science of War_.

"Let the Foeman draw nigh,

Till the white of his Eye

Is in range with your Rifles, and then, Lads, let fly!

And shew to _Columbia_, to _Britain_, and _Fame_,

How _Justice_ smiles aweful, when _Freemen_ take _aim_!"

The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the Hill

Came in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small,

But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, until

We fear'd there would be no _Attack_ after all!

Two men in red Coats

Talk'd to one in long Boots,

And all of them _pinted_ and _gestur'd_ like _Coots_,

And we said,--as the Boys do upon _Training-Day_--

"If they waste all their _Time_ so, the _Sham-fight_ won't pay."

But when they got Ready, and All came along,

The way they march'd up the _Hill-side_ wasn't slow,

But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong,

Held our _Fire_ till the Word, and then laid the Lads low!

... But who shall declare

The _End_ of the Affair?

At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there!

But we didn't depart till we'd given them _Some_!

When we burned up our Powder, we had to go _Home_!

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

So long a time elapsed after the second assault that it seemed

for a time that the Americans would be left in possession of

the field. In the confusion of the moment, no reinforcements

were sent them, and Prescott, to his dismay, discovered that

his supply of powder and ball was nearly exhausted.

BUNKER HILL

"Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!"

On came the foe, in even line:

Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.

We looked into their eyes. "Ready!"

A sheet of flame! A roll of death!

They fell by scores; we held our breath!

Then nearer still they came;

Another sheet of flame!

And brave men fled who never fled before.

Immortal fight!

Foreshadowing flight

Back to the astounded shore.

Quickly they rallied, reinforced.

Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,

And bursting bombs and whistling musketry

And shouts and groans, anear, afar,

All the new din of dreadful war,

Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed

The blood of those stout farmers, aiming

For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming.

Onward once more they came;

Another sheet of deathful flame!

Another and another still:

They broke, they fled:

Again they sped

Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,

Stormed with commander's rage.

Into each emptied barge

They crowd fresh men for a new charge

Up that great hill.

Again their gallant blood we spill:

That volley was the last:

Our powder failed.

On three sides fast

The foe pressed in; nor quailed

A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks

They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,

Till Prescott ordered the retreat.

Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,

From Bunker Hill and Breed,

Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,

Led off the remnant of those heroes true,

The foe too shattered to pursue.

The ground they gained; but we

The victory.

The tidings of that chosen band

Flowed in a wave of power

Over the shaken, anxious land,

To men, to man, a sudden dower.

From that stanch, beaming hour

History took a fresh higher start;

And when the speeding messenger, that bare

The news that strengthened every heart,

Met near the Delaware

Riding to take command,

The leader, who had just been named,

Who was to be so famed,

The steadfast, earnest Washington

With hand uplifted cries,

His great soul flashing to his eyes,

"Our liberties are safe; the cause is won."

A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then

His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.

GEORGE H. CALVERT.

There was, in fact, a difference of opinion among the British

generals as to continuing the assault. But Howe insisted that a

third attempt be made, and at five o'clock it was ordered. For

a moment, the advancing column was again shaken by the American

fire, but the last cartridges were soon spent, and, at the

bayonet point, the Americans were driven from their works and

forced to retreat across Charlestown neck.

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers

All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;"

When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_, when I tell the _Rebel_ story,

To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;

Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;

But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,

When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning

Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:

"Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and

clatter?

Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,

To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:

She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,

When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,

For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;

There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"--

For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;

Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;

God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,

How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!

In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping

Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,

With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found him,

So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people;

The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.

Just across the narrow river--oh, so close it made me shiver!--

Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,

Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:

Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,

And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME!

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted

And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,

When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;

It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,

With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;

Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,

Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.

At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were

forming;

At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;

How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and

listened

To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),

In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,

And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,

Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.

So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;

And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:

The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,--

At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,--

Now the front rank fires a volley,--they have thrown away their shot;

For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,

Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and

tipple),--

He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,--

Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,--

And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:--

"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,

But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;

You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm

Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation

Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;

Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,

We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,--nearer,

When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple shakes--

The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;

Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks!

Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!

The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;

Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying

Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.

Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be

doubted!

God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's smile!

"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook

so),--

"Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they beaten?"--"Wait a while."

Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:

They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;

And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,

Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.

All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!

They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!

The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round

them,--

The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town!

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column

As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.

Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?

Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?

Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!

Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!

But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,

And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!

So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,

Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;

And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run

for:

They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,

Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:

"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll try it--

Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"--then he handed me his flask,

Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;

I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"

So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,

Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.

All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,

As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round to four,

When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for

storming:

It's the death-grip that's a-coming,--they will try the works once more."

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring,

The deadly wall before them, in close array they come;

Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,--

Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum!

Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story,

How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck;

How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated,

With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?

It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted,

And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair:

When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,--

On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.

And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!

Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!"

Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,

How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came

was,

Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,

He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,

As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,--

And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What _will_ his mother

do?"

Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,

He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue.

"Why, grandma, how you're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking

Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;

So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother,

Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong.

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,--

"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,--

There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,

That--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children all are here!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

In this last charge, the Americans met with an irreparable

loss in the death of General Joseph Warren, who was shot

through the head as he lingered on the field, loath to join

in the retreat. He had hastened to the battlefield in the

early morning, replying to the remonstrance of a friend,

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." He had just been

appointed major-general, but refused the command tendered him

by Prescott, saying that he was only too glad to serve as a

volunteer aid.

THE DEATH OF WARREN

[June 17, 1775]

When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land,

To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;

On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,

When the army is joined by a young volunteer.

"Tempt not death!" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,

Saying, "Oh! it is sweet for our country to die!"

The tempest of battle now rages and swells,

'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;

And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire--

Scene of woe and destruction;--'tis Charlestown on fire!

The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry

But murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!"

With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:

A volley of musketry checks their career!

With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,

And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!"

"Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly!

Stand firm!--it is sweet for our country to die!"

Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;--

"Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"

But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,

Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.

A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh

Is, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!

To perish for country at Liberty's call!

Should the flag of invasion profane evermore

The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,

May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,--

"'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

EPES SARGENT.

The British loss in killed and wounded was 1054, while the

American loss, incurred mainly in the last hand-to-hand

struggle, was 449. The British had gained the victory, but the

moral advantage was wholly with the Americans.

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

COMPOSED BY A BRITISH OFFICER, THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE

It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,

The Yankees did surprise us,

With their strong works they had thrown up

To burn the town and drive us.

But soon we had an order come,

An order to defeat them;

Like rebels stout, they stood it out,

And thought we ne'er could beat them.

About the hour of twelve that day,

An order came for marching,

With three good flints and sixty rounds,

Each man hoped to discharge them.

We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,

Where boats were ready waiting;

With expedition we embark'd,

Our ships kept cannonading.

And when our boats all fillèd were

With officers and soldiers,

With as good troops as England had,

To oppose who dare controul us?

And when our boats all fillèd were,

We row'd in line of battle,

Where showers of ball like hail did fly,

Our cannon loud did rattle.

There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,

Our twenty-fours they played;

And the three frigates in the stream,

That very well behaved.

The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,

All at the time of landing,

With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,

No Yankee e'er could stand them.

And when we landed on the shore,

We draw'd up all together;

The Yankees they all mann'd their works,

And thought we'd ne'er come thither.

But soon they did perceive brave Howe,

Brave Howe, our bold commander;

With grenadiers, and infantry,

We made them to surrender.

Brave William Howe, on our right wing,

Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;

You soon will see the rebels flee,

With great amaze and wonder."

Now some lay bleeding on the ground,

And some fell fast a-running

O'er hills and dales, and mountains high,

Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."

They 'gan to play on our left wing,

Where Pigot, he commanded;

But we returned it back again,

With courage most undaunted.

To our grape-shot and musket-balls,

To which they were but strangers,

They thought to come with sword in hand,

But soon they found their danger.

And when their works we got into,

And put them to the flight, sirs,

Some of them did hide themselves,

And others died of fright, sirs.

And when their works we got into,

Without great fear or danger,

The works they'd made were firm and strong,

The Yankees are great strangers.

But as for our artillery,

They all behavèd dinty;

For while our ammunition held,

We gave it to them plenty.

But our conductor, he got broke

For his misconduct sure, sir;

The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,

Were made for twenty-fours, sir.

There's some in Boston pleased to say,

As we the field were taking,

We went to kill their countrymen,

While they their hay were making.

For such stout whigs I never saw,

To hang them all I'd rather;

For making hay with musket-balls,

And buckshot mixt together.

Brave Howe is so considerate,

As to guard against all dangers:

He allows us half a pint a day--

To rum we are no strangers.

Long may he live by land and sea,

For he's belov'd by many;

The name of Howe the Yankees dread,

We see it very plainly.

And now my song is at an end:

And to conclude my ditty,

It is the poor and ignorant,

And only them, I pity.

But as for their king, John Hancock,

And Adams, if they're taken,

Their heads for signs shall hang up high,

Upon that hill call'd Beacon.

On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight

before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental

army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived

at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the

great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he

took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American

forces.

THE NEW-COME CHIEF

From "Under the Old Elm"

[July 3, 1775]

Beneath our consecrated elm

A century ago he stood,

Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood

Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm

The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:--

From colleges, where now the gown

To arms had yielded, from the town,

Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see

The new-come chief and wonder which was he.

No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,

Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone

To bridle others' clamors and his own,

Firmly erect, he towered above them all,

The incarnate discipline that was to free

With iron curb that armed democracy.

A motley rout was that which came to stare,

In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,

Of every shape that was not uniform,

Dotted with regimentals here and there;

An army all of captains, used to pray

And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,

Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;

Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note

In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,

Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,

But largely liberal to its private moods;

Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,

Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,

Nor much fastidious as to how and when:

Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create

A thought-staid army or a lasting state:

Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;

But owned, as all men own, the steady hand

Upon the bridle, patient to command,

Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,

And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.

Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint

And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.

* * * * *

Never to see a nation born

Hath been given to mortal man,

Unless to those who, on that summer morn,

Gazed silent when the great Virginian

Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash

Shot union through the incoherent clash

Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them

Around a single will's unpliant stem,

And making purpose of emotion rash,

Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,

Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,

Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,

The common faith that made us what we are.

That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,

Till then provincial, to Americans,

And made a unity of wildering plans;

Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the date

When this New World awoke to man's estate,

Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:

Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hate

Could from its poise move that deliberate mind,

Weighing between too early and too late

Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:

His was the impartial vision of the great

Who see not as they wish, but as they find.

He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less

The incomputable perils of success;

The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;

The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;

The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;

On either hand a sullen rear of woes,

Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,

Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"

Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely chose

The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the

undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head,

but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of

very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only

one which has survived.

THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE

[July 3, 1775]

When Congress sent great Washington

All clothed in power and breeches,

To meet old Britain's warlike sons

And make some rebel speeches;

'Twas then he took his gloomy way

Astride his dapple donkeys,

And travelled well, both night and day,

Until he reach'd the Yankees.

Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,

From Lily he dismounted.

His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig

While he the specie counted.

All prinkèd up in _full_ bag-wig;

The shaking notwithstanding,

In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!

He reach'd the Yankee landing.

The women ran, the darkeys too;

And all the bells, they tollèd;

For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,

We're sure to be--consolèd.

Old mother Hancock with a pan

All crowded full of butter,

Unto the lovely Georgius ran,

And added to the splutter.

Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,

And John is wondrous happy.

He sent this present to you, dear,

As you're the 'country's papa.'"--

"You'll butter bread and bread butter,

But do not butt your speeches.

You'll butter bread and bread butter,

But do not grease your breeches."

Full many a child went into camp,

All dressed in homespun kersey,

To see the greatest rebel scamp

That ever cross'd o'er Jersey.

The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!

Too awkward was their figure.

'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,

And here and there a nigger.

Upon a stump he placed (himself),

Great Washington did he,

And through the nose of lawyer Close,

Proclaimed great Liberty.

The patriot brave, the patriot fair,

From fervor had grown thinner,

So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,

And took a patriot dinner.

The Colonials, on the other hand, among whom he seems to have

inspired almost instant respect and affection, made him the

subject of many songs, the most popular of which was Sewall's

"War and Washington," which was sung by soldiers and civilians

during the whole Revolution.

WAR AND WASHINGTON

Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,

By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,

Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.

Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,

Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,

Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,

And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!

Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,

You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.

Like Esop's greedy cur you'll gain a shadow for your bone,

Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.

Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!

The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,

Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,

And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!

Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,

Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,

And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,

You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!

Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,

Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?

The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,

Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!

Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swords

To rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,

'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,

From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.

For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,

Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.

Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,

America or Albion, a George or Washington!

Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,

To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;

And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,

Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!

Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,

And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy

Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,

While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!

Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,

To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,

And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,

Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!

Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,

While every warlike nation would court alliance here;

And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his throne

Pay homage to America and glorious Washington!

JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWALL.

While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume

the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They

recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a

fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett

Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol,

which had refused to furnish him with supplies,--an incident

which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of

Revolutionary ballads.

THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL

[October 7, 1775]

In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,

Our Bristol town was much surprised

By a pack of thievish villains,

That will not work to earn their livings.

October 'twas the seventh day,

As I have heard the people say,

Wallace, his name be ever curst,

Came on our harbor just at dusk.

And there his ship did safely moor,

And quickly sent his barge on shore,

With orders that should not be broke,

Or they might expect a smoke.

Demanding that the magistrates

Should quickly come on board his ship,

And let him have some sheep and cattle,

Or they might expect a battle.

At eight o'clock, by signal given,

Our peaceful atmosphere was riven

By British balls, both grape and round,

As plenty afterwards were found.

But oh! to hear the doleful cries

Of people running for their lives!

Women, with children in their arms,

Running away to the farms!

With all their firing and their skill

They did not any person kill;

Neither was any person hurt

But the Reverend Parson Burt.

And he was not killed by a ball,

As judged by jurors one and all;

But being in a sickly state,

He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.

Another truth to you I'll tell,

That you may see they levelled well;

For aiming for to kill the people,

They fired their shot into a steeple.

They fired low, they fired high,

The women scream, the children cry;

And all their firing and their racket

Shot off the topmast of a packet.

From the moment, almost, of the fight at Lexington, the

conquest of Canada had been dreamed of, and in September, 1775,

a force of two thousand men, under General Richard Montgomery,

started for Quebec. He was joined by another force under

Benedict Arnold, and an attempt was made to carry the citadel

by storm. But Montgomery fell as he led the way over the walls,

Arnold was wounded, and the Americans were beaten back.

MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC

[December 31, 1775]

Round Quebec's embattled walls

Moodily the patriots lay;

Dread disease within its thralls

Drew them closer day by day;

Till from suffering man to man,

Mutinous, a murmur ran.

Footsore, they had wandered far,

They had fasted, they had bled;

They had slept beneath the star

With no pillow for the head;

Was it but to freeze to stone

In this cruel icy zone?

Yet their leader held his heart,

Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;

Quelled with unobtrusive art

Those that muttered; unafraid

Waited, watchful, for the hour

When his golden chance should flower.

'Twas the death-tide of the year;

Night had passed its murky noon;

Through the bitter atmosphere

Pierced nor ray of star nor moon;

But upon the bleak earth beat

Blinding arrows of the sleet.

While the trumpets of the storm

Pealed the bastioned heights around,

Did the dauntless heroes form,

Did the low, sharp order sound.

"Be the watchword _Liberty_!"

Cried the brave Montgomery.

Here, where he had won applause,

When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,

For a nobler, grander cause

Would he strike the fearless blow,--

Smite at Wrong upon the throne,

At Injustice giant grown.

"Men, you will not fear to tread

Where your general dares to lead!

On, my valiant boys!" he said,

And his foot was first to speed;

Swiftly up the beetling steep,

Lion-hearted, did he leap.

Flashed a sudden blinding glare;

Roared a fearsome battle-peal;

Rang the gloomy vasts of air;

Seemed the earth to rock and reel;

While adown that fiery breath

Rode the hurtling bolts of death.

Woe for him, the valorous one,

Now a silent clod of clay!

Nevermore for him the sun

Would make glad the paths of day;

Yet 'twere better thus to die

Than to cringe to tyranny!--

Better thus the life to yield,

Striking for the right and God,

Upon Freedom's gory field,

Than to kiss Oppression's rod!

Honor, then, for all time be

To the brave Montgomery!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Though the Americans had lost Canada, they were soon to gain

Boston. During the winter of 1775-76, a great number of

captured cannon had been dragged on sledges from Ticonderoga,

the drilling of the army had gone steadily on, and at last

Washington felt that he was able to assume the offensive,

and on the night of March 4, 1776, he seized and fortified

Dorchester Heights.

A SONG

[1776]

Smile, Massachusetts, smile,

Thy virtue still outbraves

The frowns of Britain's isle,

The rage of home-born slaves.

Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,

When purchased by their liberties.

Thy genius, once the pride

Of Britain's ancient isle,

Brought o'er the raging tide

By our forefathers' toil;

In spite of North's despotic power,

Shines glorious on this western shore.

In Hancock's generous mind

Awakes the noble strife,

Which so conspicuous shined

In gallant Sydney's life;

While in its cause the hero bled,

Immortal honors crown'd his head.

Let zeal your breasts inspire;

Let wisdom guide your plans;

'Tis not your cause entire,

On doubtful conflict hangs;

The fate of this vast continent,

And unborn millions share th' event.

To close the gloomy scenes

Of this alarming day,

A happy union reigns

Through wide America.

While awful Wisdom hourly waits

To adorn the councils of her states.

Brave Washington arrives,

Arrayed in warlike fame,

While in his soul revives

Great Marlboro's martial flame,

To lead your conquering armies on

To lasting glory and renown.

To aid the glorious cause,

Experienc'd Lee has come,

Renown'd in foreign wars,

A patriot at home.

While valiant Putnam's warlike deeds

Amongst the foe a terror spreads.

Let Britons proudly boast,

"That their two thousand braves

Can drive our numerous host,

And make us all their slaves;"

While twice six thousand quake with fear,

Nor dare without their lines appear.

Kind Heaven has deign'd to own

Our bold resistance just,

Since murderous Gage began

The bloody carnage first.

Near ten to one has been their cost,

For each American we've lost.

Stand firm in your defence,

Like Sons of Freedom fight,

Your haughty foes convince

That you'll maintain your right.

Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,

And glory will your valor crown.

_The Connecticut Gazette_, 1776.

Howe realized that Boston was untenable unless the Americans

could be dislodged; but with the memory of Bunker Hill before

him, he had no heart for the enterprise. While he hesitated,

the American works were made well-nigh impregnable, and Howe

decided to abandon the town. On March 17, 1776, the British

troops, eight thousand in number, sailed away for Halifax.

Washington at once took possession of the city.

A POEM CONTAINING SOME REMARKS ON THE PRESENT WAR

[March 17, 1776]

Britons grown big with pride

And wanton ease,

And tyranny beside,

They sought to please

Their craving appetite,

They strove with all their might,

They vow'd to rise and fight,

To make us bow.

The plan they laid was deep

Even like hell;

With sympathy I weep,

While here I tell

Of that base murderous brood,

Void of the fear of God,

Who came to spill our blood

In our own land.

They bid their armies sail

Though billows roar,

And take the first fair gale

For Boston's shore;

They cross'd the Atlantic sea

A long and watery way,

Poor Boston fell a prey

To tyranny.

* * * * *

Gage was both base and mean,

He dare not fight,

The men he sent were seen

Like owls in night:

It was in Lexington

Where patriots' blood did run

Before the rising sun

In crimson gore.

Here sons of freedom fell

Rather than flee,

Unto those brutes of hell

They fell a prey;

But they shall live again,

Their names shall rise and reign

Among the noble slain

In all our land.

But oh! this cruel foe

Went on in haste,

To Concord they did go,

And there did waste

Some stores in their rage,

To gratify old Gage,

His name in every page

Shall be defam'd.

Their practice thus so base,

And murder too,

Rouz'd up the patriot race,

Who did pursue,

And put this foe to flight,

They could not bear the light,

Some rued the very night

They left their den.

And now this cruelty

Was spread abroad,

The sons of liberty

This act abhorr'd,

Their noble blood did boil,

Forgetting all the toil,

In troubles they could smile,

And went in haste.

Our army willingly

Did then engage,

To stop the cruelty

Of tyrants' rage!

They did not fear our foe,

But ready were to go,

And let the tyrants know

Whose sons they were.

But when old Gage did see

All us withstand,

And strive for liberty

Through all our land,

He strove with all his might,

For rage was his delight,

With fire he did fight,

A monster he.

On Charlestown he display'd

His fire abroad;

He it in ashes laid,

An act abhorr'd

By sons of liberty,

Who saw the flames on high

Piercing their native sky,

And now lies waste.

To Bunker-Hill they came

Most rapidly,

And many there were slain,

And there did die.

They call'd it bloody hill,

Altho' they gain'd their will

In triumph they were still,

'Cause of their slain.

Here sons of freedom fought

Right manfully,

A wonder here was wrought

Though some did die.

Here WARREN bow'd to death,

His last expiring breath,

In language mild he saith,

Fight on, brave boys.

Oh! this did stain the pride

Of British troops,

They saw they were deny'd

Of their vain hopes

Of marching thro' our land,

When twice a feeble band,

Did fight and boldly stand

In our defence.

Brave WASHINGTON did come

To our relief;

He left his native home,

Filled with grief,

He did not covet gain,

The cause he would maintain

And die among the slain

Rather than flee.

His bosom glow'd with love

For liberty,

His passions much did move

To orphans' cry,

He let proud tyrants know,

How far their bounds should go

And then his bombs did throw

Into their den.

This frighted them full sore

When bombs were sent,

When cannon loud did roar

They left each tent:

Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,

Went precipitately,

Their shipping being nigh,

They sailed off.

And now Boston is free

From tyrants base,

The sons of liberty

Possess the place;

They now in safety dwell.

Free from those brutes of hell,

Their raptur'd tongues do tell

Their joys great.

A portion of the British fleet remained in Boston harbor, and

apprehensions began to be felt that an effort would be made

to recapture the town. It was at this juncture that Captain

James Mugford, of the schooner Franklin, captured the British

ship Hope, bound for Boston with supplies and fifteen hundred

barrels of powder. Two days later, on May 19, the Franklin ran

aground at Point Shirley, at the mouth of the harbor, and was

at once attacked by boats from the British vessels. A sharp

engagement ensued, in which Mugford was killed. His last words

are said to have been those used by Lawrence nearly forty years

later: "Don't give up the ship! You will beat them off!" And

they did.

MUGFORD'S VICTORY

[May 17-19, 1776]

Our mother, the pride of us all,

She sits on her crags by the shore,

And her feet they are wet with the waves

Whose foam is as flowers from the graves

Of her sons whom she welcomes no more,

And who answer no more to her call.

Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shells

They are buried far down in the deep,--

The deep which they loved to career.

Oh, might we awake them from sleep!

Oh, might they our voices but hear,

And the sound of our holiday bells!

Can it be she is thinking of them,

Her face is so proud and so still,

And her lashes are moistened with tears?

Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,

Her lap with your jollity fill,

And ask of her thoughts and her fears.

"Fears!"--we have roused her at last;

See! her lips part with a smile,

And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,--

"Fears! whence should they ever arise

In our hearts, O my children, the while

We can remember the past?

"Can remember that morning of May,

When Mugford went forth with his men,

Twenty, and all of them ours.

'Tis a hundred years to a day,

And the sea and the shore are as then,

And as bright are the grass and the flowers;

But our twenty--they come not again!

"He had heard of the terrible need

Of the patriot army there

In Boston town. Now for a deed

To save it from despair!

To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,

And hope new-born to all the land impart!

"Hope! ay; that was the very name

Of the good ship that came

From England far away,

Laden with enginery of death,

Food for the cannon's fiery breath;

Hope-laden for great Washington,

Who, but for her, was quite undone

A hundred years ago to-day.

"'Oh, but to meet her there,

And grapple with her fair,

Out in the open bay!'

Mugford to Glover said.

How could he answer nay?

And Mugford sailed away,

Brave heart and newly wed.

"But what are woman's tears,

And rosy cheeks made pale,

To one who far off hears

The generations hail

A deed like this we celebrate to-day,

A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!

"I love to picture him,

Clear-eyed and strong of limb,

Gazing his last upon the rocky shore

His feet should press no more;

Seeing the tall church-steeples fade away

In distance soft and gray;

So dropping down below the horizon's rim

Where fame awaited him.

"Slow sailing from the east his victim came.

They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,

And she was ours;

In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,

Great joy for Washington!

But heavy grew the hours

On Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,

His mother proud, news of his victory;

But that was not to be!

"Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of gray

The British cruisers lay:

They saw the daring skipper dropping down

From the much-hated rebel-haunted town,

And in the twilight dim

Their boats awaited him,

While wind and tide conspired

To grant what they desired.

"Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;

But Mugford gayly laughed

And gave them blow for blow;

And many a hapless foe

Went hurtling down below.

Upon the schooner's rail

Fell, like a thresher's flail,

The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,

And pistol-crack through many an eager heart

Sent deadly hail.

But when the fight was o'er,

Brave Mugford was no more.

Crying, with death-white lip,

'Boys, don't give up the ship!'

His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore.

"We gave him burial meet;

Through every sobbing street

A thousand men marched with their arms reversed;

And Parson Story told,

In sentences of gold,

The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."

Such is the story she tells,

Our mother, the pride of us all.

Ring out your music, O bells,

That ever such things could befall!

Ring not for Mugford alone,

Ring for the twenty unknown,

Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,

Who saw his last look when he died,

And who brought him, though dead, to his own!

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

A month later, on June 14, 1775, the Continentals occupied

various islands and points in the bay, and opened so hot a

fire upon the British ships that they were finally forced to

weigh anchor and sail away. The news of the capture of Boston

and departure of the British was received with the greatest

rejoicing throughout the country. Among the many songs composed

to celebrate the event, one, "Off from Boston," gained wide

popularity.

OFF FROM BOSTON

Sons of valor, taste the glories

Of celestial liberty,

Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,

Let the pulse of joy beat high.

Heaven hath this day foil'd the many

Fallacies of George the King;

Let the echo reach Britan'y,

Bid her mountain summits ring.

See yon navy swell the bosom

Of the late enragèd sea;

Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,

Sons of valor must be free.

Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,

There to combat with the brave,

Driven from each dale and highland,

They shall plough the purple wave.

Should they thence to fair Virginia,

Bend a squadron to Dunmore,

Still with fear and ignominy,

They shall quit the hostile shore.

To Carolina or to Georg'y,

Should they next advance their fame,

This land of heroes shall disgorge the

Sons of tyranny and shame.

Let them rove to climes far distant,

Situate under Arctic skies,

Call on Hessian troops assistant,

And the savages to rise.

Boast of wild brigades from Russia,

To fix down the galling chain,

Canada and Nova Scotia,

Shall disgorge these hordes again.

In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,

Should their standards mock the air,

Many a surgeon shall put lint on

Wounds of death receivèd there.

War, fierce war, shall break their forces,

Nerves of Tory men shall fail,

Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,

Bending to the western gale.

Thus from every bay of ocean,

Flying back with sails unfurl'd,

Tossed with ever-troubled motion,

They shall quit this smiling world.

Like Satan banishèd from heaven,

Never see the smiling shore;

From this land, so happy, driven,

Never stain its bosom more.

CHAPTER IV

INDEPENDENCE

At the outbreak of the Revolution very few, even of the more

radical colonial leaders, thought of or desired complete

independence from Great Britain. Samuel Adams was perhaps

the first to proclaim this as the only solution of the

problem which confronted the colonies. But the sentiment for

independence grew steadily.

EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE

[1775]

_Libera nos, Domine_--Deliver us, O Lord,

Not only from British dependence, but also,

From a junto that labor for absolute power,

Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;

From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom

Who still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.

From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions,

And fools that are waiting for further submissions;

From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,

From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.

From pirates sent out by command of the king

To murder and plunder, but never to swing;

From Wallace, and Graves, and _Vipers_, and _Roses_,

Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.

From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti

Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,

From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,

The little fat man with his pretty white hair.

From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,

From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,

From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings

(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).

From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,

And swelled with importance, disdains the committee

(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,

What the devil care we where the devil he goes).

From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,

From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,

Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),

He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.

From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,

I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayers

That we, disunited, may freemen be still,

And Britain go on--to be damn'd if she will.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On June 8 Richard Henry Lee submitted to the Continental

Congress a motion "That these United Colonies are, and of

right ought to be, free and independent States; that they are

absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that

all political connection between them and the state of Great

Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved." The debate on

the motion began July 1.

RODNEY'S RIDE

[July 3, 1776]

In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear

The North and South on the genial air,

Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,

Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,

In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,

A foe to King George and the English State,

Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,

And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,

It was matter grave that brought him there,

To the counties three on the Delaware.

"Money and men we must have," he said,

"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead;

Give us both and the King shall not work his will.

We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!"

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:

"Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,

For the Congress halts at a deed so great,

And your vote alone may decide its fate."

Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;

It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.

When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare,

But ride like the wind from the Delaware."

"Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,

And the Congress sits eighty miles away--

But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,

To shake my fist in King George's face."

He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies

On the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies;

It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,

And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling

The Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling;

It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where

The road winds down to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,

From his panting steed he gets him down--

"A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!"

And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun

Tinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;

Six; and the dust of Chester Street

Flies back in a cloud from the courser's feet.

It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam,

At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream--

And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,

He flings his reins to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate's begun,

And Liberty lags for the vote of one--

When into the hall, not a moment late,

Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! and that half day's ride

Forwards the world with a mighty stride;

For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke

O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;

"We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung,

And the sons of the free may recall with pride

The day of Delegate Rodney's ride.

The motion was put to a vote the following day, July 2, 1776,

and was adopted by the unanimous vote of twelve colonies, the

delegates from New York being excused from voting, as they

had no sufficient instructions. This having been decided, the

Congress at once went into committee of the whole, to consider

the form of declaration which should be adopted.

AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE

Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd,

Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd,

Make room for America, another great nation;

She rises to claim in your councils a station.

Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own bravery

Have rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery;

America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd;

And America's fame is forever restored.

Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected;

Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected.

The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation,

And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station.

With glory immortal she here sits enthroned,

Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,

Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded;

Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded.

To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us,

The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us;

The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us,

Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us.

In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance,

We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance;

The cause we supported was just, and was glorious;

When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

A committee had already been appointed to draw up a paper which

should be worthy this solemn occasion. Thomas Jefferson was its

chairman, and was chosen to be the author of the Declaration.

On the evening of July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence

was unanimously adopted by twelve colonies, the New York

delegates being still unable to act.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

Day of glory! Welcome day!

Freedom's banners greet thy ray;

See! how cheerfully they play

With thy morning breeze,

On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,

On the heights where squadrons wheeled,

When a tyrant's thunder pealed

O'er the trembling seas.

God of armies! did thy stars

On their courses smite his cars;

Blast his arm, and wrest his bars

From the heaving tide?

On our standard, lo! they burn,

And, when days like this return,

Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn

Who for freedom died.

God of peace! whose spirit fills

All the echoes of our hills,

All the murmur of our rills,

Now the storm is o'er,

O let freemen be our sons,

And let future Washingtons

Rise, to lead their valiant ones

Till there's war no more!

JOHN PIERPONT.

News of its adoption was received throughout the country with

the greatest rejoicing. On the 9th of July it was ratified by

New York, and the soldiers there celebrated the occasion by

throwing down the leaden statue of George III on the Bowling

Green, and casting it into bullets. Everywhere there were

bonfires, torchlight processions, and ratification meetings.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

Squeak the fife, and beat the drum,

Independence day is come!

Let the roasting pig be bled,

Quick twist off the cockerel's head,

Quickly rub the pewter platter,

Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.

Set the cups and beaker glass,

The pumpkin and the apple sauce;

Send the keg to shop for brandy;

Maple sugar we have handy.

Independent, staggering Dick,

A noggin mix of swingeing thick;

Sal, put on your russet skirt,

Jotham, get your _boughten_ shirt,

To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.

--Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;

Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,

And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.

Moll, come leave your witched tricks,

And let us have a reel of six.

Father and mother shall make two;

Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row;

Sambo, play and dance with quality;

This is the day of blest equality.

Father and mother are but _men_,

And Sambo--is a citizen.

Come foot it, Sal--Moll, figure in,

And mother, you dance up to him;

Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,

And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.

--Thus we dance, and thus we play,

On glorious independence day.--

Rub more rosin on your bow,

And let us have another go.

Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,

Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,

Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,

On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.

And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady--

Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby,

Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair;

Good folks, we're glad to see you here.

Jotham, get the great case bottle,

Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.

Ensign,--Deacon, never mind;

'Squire, drink until you're blind.

Come, here's the French, the Guillotine,

And here is good 'Squire Gallatin,

And here's each noisy Jacobin.

Here's friend Madison so hearty,

And here's confusion to the treaty.

Come, one more swig to Southern Demos

Who represent our brother negroes.

Thus we drink and dance away,

This glorious INDEPENDENCE DAY!

ROYALL TYLER.

ON INDEPENDENCE

[August 17, 1776]

Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free,

It's for Independence we all now agree;

Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defend

Our liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.

In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree,

And from hostile invaders set America free,

The cause is so glorious we need not to fear

But from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear.

Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall say

That Americans e'er to such monsters gave way,

But fighting we'll die in America's cause

Before we'll submit to tyrannical laws.

George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign,

With unlimited sway o'er these free States again;

Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan,

Shall ever be honor'd by an American.

May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States,

And grant that the union may never abate;

May love, peace, and harmony ever be found,

For to go hand in hand America round.

Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestow

Both wisdom and skill our good to pursue;

On Heaven alone dependent we'll be.

But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free.

Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skill

Our armies to guide, and the sword for to wield,

May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight,

Be able to put British armies to flight.

And now, brave Americans, since it is so,

That we are independent, we'll have them to know

That united we are, and united we'll be,

And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free.

May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors,

Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers,

Keep us from invaders by land and by sea,

And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty.

JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWALL.

THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S PRAYER

[1776]

Parent of all, omnipotent

In heav'n, and earth below,

Thro' all creation's bounds unspent,

Whose streams of goodness flow.

Teach me to know from whence I rose,

And unto what design'd;

No private aims let me propose,

Since link'd with human kind.

But chief to hear my country's voice,

May all my thoughts incline,

'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice,

'Tis nature's call and thine.

Me from fair freedom's sacred cause

Let nothing e'er divide;

Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,

Nor friendship false misguide.

Let me not faction's partial hate

Pursue to _this land's_ woe;

Nor grasp the thunder of the state

To wound a private foe.

If, for the right, to wish the wrong

My country shall combine,

Single to serve th' erron'ous throng,

Spite of themselves, be mine.

COLUMBIA

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 see the morn hide the beams of her star.

New bards, and new sages, unrivalled 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,

And 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'er-spread,

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."

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST CAMPAIGN

News of the Declaration of Independence was accompanied over

the country by that of a brilliant success at the South.

Early in June, the British, under Sir Peter Parker, Sir Henry

Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis, prepared to capture Charleston,

S. C. To oppose them there was practically nothing but a fort

of palmetto logs built on Sullivan's Island in Charleston

harbor by Colonel William Moultrie. On June 28, 1776, the

British advanced to the attack, but were beaten off with heavy

loss.

THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER

[June 28, 1776]

'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea,

With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee;

_A little lead for a cure_, he said, _for these rebel sires and sons_!

And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted

guns;

They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a

hopeful smile,

The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.

'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noon

Ruin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,--

The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mast

And the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast;

But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single sign

That the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.

'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flag

From the fortress wall; then rang his call:--_They have lost their rebel

rag!_

And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled;

_'Tis now_, the haughty Admiral cried, _we'll drive them out of their

hold_!

But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted

power,

For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the

hour!

'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amaze

This hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery

haze;

Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught,

And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught.

Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet,

And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.

'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea,

With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee;

Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and

woe,

For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe;

But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a

joyful smile

The stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The British fleet remained in the neighborhood for three weeks

to refit and then sailed away to New York to coöperate with

Howe. Charleston was saved and for two years the Southern

States were free from the invader.

A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER

My lords, with your leave,

An account I will give,

Which deserves to be written in metre;

How the rebels and I

Have been pretty nigh,

Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!

De'il take 'em! their shot

Came so swift and so hot,

And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,

That I put ship about

And was glad to get out,

Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.

With much labor and toil

Unto Sullivan's Isle,

I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;

But the Yankees, od rat 'em--

I could not get at 'em,

They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.

Behold, Clinton, by land,

Did quietly stand,

While I made a thundering clatter;

But the channel was deep,

So he only could peep,

And not venture over the water.

Now, bold as a Turk,

I proceeded to York,

Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:

I've the wind in my tail,

And am hoisting my sail,

To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.

But, my lords, do not fear,

For, before the next year,

Although a small island should fret us,

The continent, whole,

We will take, by my soul,

If the cowardly Yankees will let us.

The victory at Charleston was the last success which American

arms were to achieve for many months. The British had decided

to capture and hold the line of the Hudson in order to cut

the colonies in two. Howe, with a trained army of twenty-five

thousand men, prepared to attack New York, while, to oppose

him, Washington had only eighteen thousand undisciplined

levies. Half this force was concentrated at Brooklyn Heights,

which was strongly fortified, and here, on August 27, 1776,

Howe delivered his attack. Overwhelming superiority of numbers

enabled the British to press back their opponents to their

works on the heights. Not daring to storm, the British prepared

to lay siege to this position. Washington had no way to

withstand a siege, which must have resulted in the loss of his

whole army, and after nightfall of August 29, he succeeded in

ferrying the entire force, with their cannon, arms, ammunition,

horses, and larder, over to the New York side.

THE MARYLAND BATTALION

[August 27, 1776]

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 bugles 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, flank 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!

"Oh, 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?"

Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,

For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!

Tralára! Tralára! 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, though 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.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York,

and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem

River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through

their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and

for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been

formed.

HAARLEM HEIGHTS

Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells

of the affair of September 16, 1776.

They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,

Despite your hireling band!

The farmer boys have borne a brunt,

The 'prentice lads will stand!

Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,

Our fight's as good as won;

We've made them yield in open field!

We've made the Redcoats run!

Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn

With Knowlton at their head

To rout the British pickets out

And spend a little lead.

We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,

And hurried, fighting, back;

For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps

Were keen upon our track.

Along the vale of Bloomingdale

They pressed our scant array;

They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag

Across the Hollow Way.

Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"

Their buglers, from the wall,

In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt

Brayed out the hunting call!

Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame

In every sunburned face,

And every soul was hot as coal

To cleanse the foul disgrace.

And some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights

And fled at Turtle Bay

Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path

And clamored for the fray.

Our General came spurring!--

There rolled a signal drum.--

His eye was bright; he rose his height;

He knew the time had come.

He gave the word to Knowlton

To lead us on once more--

The pick of old Connecticut,--

And Leitch with Weedon's corps

Of proud Virginia Riflemen,

Tall hunters of the deer,--

To round the boastful Briton's flank

And take him in the rear.

We left the dell, we scaled the fell,

And up the crest we sprang,

When swift and sharp along the scarp

A deadly volley rang;

And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps!

Deep hurt, but gallant still;

And down went Knowlton!--he that bore

The sword of Bunker Hill.

I raised his head. But this he said,

Death-wounded as he lay:

"Lead on the fight! I hold it light

If we but get the day!"

In open rank we struck their flank,

And oh! the fight was hot!

Up came the Hessian Yagers!

Up came the kilted Scot!

Up came the men of Linsingen,

Von Donop's Grenadiers!

But soon we sped the vengeful lead

A-whistling 'bout their ears!

They buckled front to Varnum's brunt;

We crumpled up their right,

And hurling back the crimson wrack

We swept along the height.

The helmets of the Hessians

Are tumbled in the wheat;

The tartan of the Highlander

Shall be his winding-sheet!

A mingled rout, we drove them out

From orchard, field, and glen;

In goodly case it seemed to chase

Our hunters home again!

We flaunted in their faces

The flag they thought to scorn,

And left them with a loud "Hurrah!"

To choke their bugle-horn!

Upon a ledge embattled

Above the Hudson's shore

We dug the grave for Knowlton

And Leitch of Weedon's corps.

And though in plight of War's despite

We yield this island throne,

Upon that ledge we left a pledge

That we shall claim our own!

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

At this time occurred the first of the two most dramatic and

moving tragedies of the Revolution. It was important that

Washington should obtain detailed and accurate information

as to the position and intentions of the British, and Nathan

Hale, a captain in Knowlton's regiment, volunteered for the

service, and passed into the British lines in disguise. He was

captured and taken before Sir William Howe, to whom he frankly

acknowledged his errand. Howe ordered him hanged next day.

NATHAN HALE

[September 22, 1776]

The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines,

A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"

As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,

For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.

"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,

In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.

"For the tyrants are near, and with them appear

What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."

The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home,

In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.

With mother and sister and memories dear,

He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.

Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,

The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.

The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,

To make his retreat; to make his retreat.

He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,

As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood;

And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore,

As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.

The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,

Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.

They took him and bore him afar from the shore,

To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.

No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,

In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.

But he trusted in love, from his Father above.

In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.

An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice,

Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by.

"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,

For he must soon die; for he must soon die."

The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,

The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral.

His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,

And said that was all; and said that was all.

They took him and bound him and bore him away,

Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.

'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,

His cause did deride; his cause did deride.

Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,

For him to repent; for him to repent.

He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another,

To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd,

As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.

And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,

As his words do presage; as his words do presage.

"Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,

Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;

Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.

No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."

The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold

being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market

Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I

only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."

NATHAN HALE

[September 22, 1776]

To drum-beat and heart-beat,

A soldier marches by;

There is color in his cheek,

There is courage in his eye,

Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat

In a moment he must die.

By the starlight and moonlight,

He seeks the Briton's camp;

He hears the rustling flag

And the armèd sentry's tramp;

And the starlight and moonlight

His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread,

He scans the tented line;

And he counts the battery guns,

By the gaunt and shadowy pine;

And his slow tread and still tread

Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,

It meets his eager glance;

And it sparkles 'neath the stars,

Like the glimmer of a lance--

A dark wave, a plumed wave,

On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a still clang,

And terror in the sound!

For the sentry, falcon-eyed,

In the camp a spy hath found;

With a sharp clang, a steel clang,

The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, and steady brow,

He listens to his doom;

In his look there is no fear,

Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;

But with calm brow and steady brow,

He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,

He kneels upon the sod;

And the brutal guards withhold

E'en the solemn word of God!

In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,

He dies upon the tree;

And he mourns that he can lose

But one life for Liberty;

And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,

His spirit wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words,

They burn, lest friendly eye

Should read how proud and calm

A patriot could die,

With his last words, his dying words,

A soldier's battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,

From monument and urn,

The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,

His tragic fate shall learn;

But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf

The name of HALE shall burn!

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

Washington soon found himself unable to cope with Howe's

superior force, retreated across New Jersey, and on December 8

reached the west bank of the Delaware River. The British came

up the next day and took a position on the east bank, with

their centre at Trenton. Never did America's future look darker

than on that Christmas night of 1776.

THE BALLAD OF SWEET P

[December 25, 1776]

Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,

Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"

Painted by Peale, she won renown

In a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;

A red rose touched by her finger-tips

And a smile held back from her roguish lips.

Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight,

In clouds of smoke, night after night,

Would tell a tale in delighted pride,

To cronies, who came from far and wide;

Always ending (with candle, he)

"And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"

The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chance

To give to the British a Christmas dance.

Penwick's house past the outpost stood,

Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood.

Hessian and British quartered there

Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair.

Fires ablaze and candles alight,

Soldier and officer feasted that night.

The enemy? Safe, with a river between,

Black and deadly and fierce and keen;

A river of ice and a blinding storm!--

So they made them merry and kept them warm.

But while they mirth and roistering made,

Up in her dormer window stayed

Mistress Penelope Penwick apart,

With fearful thought and sorrowful heart.

Night by night had her candle's gleam

Sent through the dark its hopeful beam.

But the nights they came and they passed again,

With never a sign from her countrymen;

For where beat the heart so brave, so bold,

Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold?

Penelope's eyes and her candle's light

Were mocked by the storm that Christmas night.

But lo, full sudden a missile stung

And shattered her casement pane and rung

At her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside.

She opened her dormer window wide.

A wind-swept figure halted below--

The ferryman, old and bent and slow.

Then a murmur rose upward--only one,

Thrilling and powerful--"_Washington!_"

With jest and laughter and candles bright,

'Twas two by the stairway clock that night,

When Penelope Penwick tripped her down,

Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown,

With a red rose (cut from her potted bush).

There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.

She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween,

The daintiest thing they e'er had seen!

And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet,

And patted her little slippered feet.

"'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P,

"I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"

Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro,

And each for the honor bowed him low.

With smiling charm and witching grace

She chose him pranked with officer's lace

And shining buttons and dangling sword;

No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!

Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,--

Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P!

And when it was over, and blood aflame,

Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!"

"We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried.

"If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,

"Let each lay it down at my feet in turn,

And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!"

What held they all in their love and pride?

Straight flew a hand unto every side;

Each man had a sword and nothing more,

And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.

Standing there, in her satin gown,

With candlelight on her yellow crown,

And at her feet a bank of steel

(I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!)

Penelope held her rose on high--

"I fine each one for a leaf to try!"

She plucked the petals and blew them out,

A rain of red they fluttered about.

Over the floor and through the air

Rushed the officers here and there;

When lo! a cry! The door burst in!

"_The enemy!_" Tumult, terror, and din!

Flew a hand unto every side,--

Swords?--Penelope, arms thrown wide

Leapt that heap of steel before;

Swords behind her upon the floor;

Facing her countrymen staunch and bold,

Who dared the river of death and cold,

Who swept them down on a rollicking horde,

And found they never a man with sword!

And so it happened (but not by chance),

In '76 there was given a dance

By a witch with a rose and a satin gown

(Painted in Philadelphia town),

Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,

Called by her father, "My Sweet P."

VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

The British soldiers, thinking the war virtually ended, had

grown careless, and Howe and Cornwallis had returned to New

York to celebrate Christmas. It was at this juncture that

Washington decided to attack. More than ten hours were

consumed in getting across the river, which was blocked with

ice. At daybreak on the 26th, Washington entered Trenton, and

surprised the enemy.

ACROSS THE DELAWARE

The winter night is cold and drear,

Along the river's sullen flow;

The cruel frost is camping here--

The air has living blades of snow.

Look! pushing from the icy strand,

With ensigns freezing in the air,

There sails a small but mighty band,

Across the dang'rous Delaware.

Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fight

The bayonets of a winter storm?

In truth it were a better night

For blazing fire and blankets warm!

We seek to trap a foreign foe,

Who fill themselves with stolen fare;

We carry freedom as we go

Across the storm-swept Delaware!

The night is full of lusty cheer

Within the Hessians' merry camp;

And faint and fainter on the ear

Doth fall the heedless sentry's tramp.

O hirelings, this new nation's rage

Is something 'tis not well to dare;

You are not fitted to engage

These men from o'er the Delaware!

A rush--a shout--a clarion call,

Salute the early morning's gray:

Now, roused invaders, yield or fall:

The refuge-land has won the day!

Soon shall the glorious news be hurled

Wherever men have wrongs to bear;

For freedom's torch illumes the world,

And God has crossed the Delaware!

WILL CARLETON.

The surprise was complete. Eighteen of the enemy were killed

and over a thousand made prisoners, while the American loss was

only four. The remainder of the enemy retreated in disorder to

Princeton, leaving their sick and wounded, and all their heavy

arms and baggage behind them.

THE BATTLE OF TRENTON

On Christmas-day in seventy-six,

Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,

For Trenton marched 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.

Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,

That 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 centre, 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.

At Princeton Cornwallis joined them, and on January 2, 1777,

advanced against Trenton at the head of eight thousand men. By

the time he reached there, Washington had withdrawn his whole

force beyond a little stream called the Assunpink, where he

repelled two British assaults. That night, he marched toward

Princeton, routed a British detachment of two thousand, and

took up a strong position on the heights at Morristown.

TRENTON AND PRINCETON

[December 26, 1776--January 3, 1777]

On December, the sixth

And the twentieth day,

Our troops attacked the Hessians,

And show'd them gallant play.

Our roaring cannon taught them

Our valor for to know;

We fought like brave Americans

Against a haughty foe.

The chiefs were kill'd or taken,

The rest were put to flight,

And some arrived at Princeton,

Half-fainting with affright.

The third of January,

The morning being clear,

Our troops attack'd the regulars,

At Princeton, we do hear.

About a mile from Princeton,

The battle is begun,

And many a haughty Briton fell

Before the fight was done.

And what our gallant troops have done

We'll let the British know;

We fought like brave Americans

Against a haughty foe.

The British, struck with terror,

And frighted, ran away:

They ran across the country

Like men in deep dismay,

Crying to every one they met,

"Oh! hide us! hide us! do!

The rebels will devour us,

So hotly they pursue."

Oh, base, ungenerous Britons!

To call us by that name;

We're fighting for our liberty,

Our just and lawful claim.

We trust in Heaven's protection,

Nor fear to win the day;

When time shall come we'll crown our deeds

With many a loud huzza!

Our foes are fled to Brunswick,

Where they are close confined;

Our men they are unanimous,

In Freedom's cause combined.

Success to General Washington,

And Gates and Putnam, too,

Both officers and privates,

Who liberty pursue.

ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON

[January 3, 1777]

Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,

And after at Princeton the Briton we met;

Few in both armies--they'd skirmishes call them,

Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.

But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,

Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;

There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman--

I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.

Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;

There's nothing a veteran hates and abhors

More than a chance lost to tell his adventures,

Or give you his story of battles and wars.

Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,

And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;

Youth has the power to be up and be doing,

While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.

Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,

There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,

When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,

Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day--

Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,

From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run--

Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying--

Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.

Two ways were left them by which to assail us,

And neither was perfectly to their desire--

One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,

The other the ford that was under our fire.

"Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other,"

Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:

Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,

And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.

Down at the ford, it was said, that the water

Was reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:

As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forces

Were beaten with terrible slaughter as well.

Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,

And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;

Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;

Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.

How did I get there? I came from our corn-mill

At noon of the day when the battle begun,

Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;

'Twas not very long ere that errand was done.

Up to that time I had never enlisted,

Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;

But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,

And made up my mind with the rest to remain.

_We_ camped on _our_ side--the south--of Assunpink,

While _they_ bivouacked for the night upon _theirs_;

Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,

With those on both sides talking over affairs.

"Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis,

And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;

"Fox! but I have him!"--the earl had mistaken;

The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.

Early that night, when the leaders held council,

Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;

Useless to strike at the van of our foemen--

His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.

Washington thought so, and bade us replenish

Our watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;

Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,

While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.

Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,

We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,

Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalion

Our foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;

Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,

All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;

Only a chance that we lost not our labor,

And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.

Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger,

Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,

Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,

When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way;

Turning contemptuously back to attack it,

They drove it with ease in disorder ahead--

Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon--

A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.

Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter--

A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true--

Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,

And let us in all give the demon his due.

Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,

So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,

Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,

And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.

Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,

Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;

Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,

And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.

Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,

Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,

Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not--

We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.

Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one--

It did not last over the fourth of an hour;

But 'twas a battle that did us this service--

No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.

Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,

But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;

Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen water

And ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.

Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor--

A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.

Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over Assunpink

That day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er.

Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,

All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,

I would not chatter to you about battles,

And you and your children would not have been free.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

"Thus in a brief campaign of three weeks, Washington had

rallied the fragments of a defeated and broken army, fought two

successful battles, taken nearly two thousand prisoners, and

recovered the state of New Jersey."

SEVENTY-SIX

What heroes from the woodland sprung,

When, through the fresh-awakened land,

The thrilling cry of freedom rung

And to the work of warfare strung

The yeoman's iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,

And ocean-mart replied to mart,

And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,

Pealed far away the startling sound

Into the forest's heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,

From mountain-river swift and cold;

The borders of the stormy deep,

The vales where gathered waters sleep,

Sent up the strong and bold,--

As if the very earth again

Grew quick with God's creating breath,

And, from the sods of grove and glen,

Rose ranks of lion-hearted men

To battle to the death.

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day

The fair fond bride of yestereve,

And aged sire and matron gray,

Saw the loved warriors haste away,

And deemed it sin to grieve.

Already had the strife begun;

Already blood, on Concord's plain,

Along the springing grass had run,

And blood had flowed at Lexington,

Like brooks of April rain.

That death-stain on the vernal sward

Hallowed to freedom all the shore;

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred--

The footstep of a foreign lord

Profaned the soil no more.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The question of a national flag, which had been under

consideration for a long time, was now finally settled. There

is a tradition that in June, 1776, General Washington and

a committee of Congress had called upon Mrs. John Ross, of

Philadelphia, and requested her to make a flag after a design

which Washington furnished, which she did, producing the first

"stars and stripes."

BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG

From dusk till dawn the livelong night

She kept the tallow dips alight,

And fast her nimble fingers flew

To sew the stars upon the blue.

With weary eyes and aching head

She stitched the stripes of white and red,

And when the day came up the stair

Complete across a carven chair

Hung Betsy's battle flag.

Like shadows in the evening gray

The Continentals filed away,

With broken boots and ragged coats,

But hoarse defiance in their throats;

They bore the marks of want and cold,

And some were lame and some were old,

And some with wounds untended bled,

But floating bravely overhead

Was Betsy's battle flag.

When fell the battle's leaden rain,

The soldier hushed his moans of pain

And raised his dying head to see

King George's troopers turn and flee.

Their charging column reeled and broke,

And vanished in the rolling smoke,

Before the glory of the stars,

The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars

Of Betsy's battle flag.

The simple stone of Betsy Ross

Is covered now with mold and moss,

But still her deathless banner flies,

And keeps the color of the skies.

A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,

A nation follows where it leads,

And every man is proud to yield

His life upon a crimson field

For Betsy's battle flag!

MINNA IRVING.

It was not, however, until Saturday, June 14, 1777, that a

flag was formally adopted by Congress. On that day, Congress

"Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be

thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be

thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new

constellation." Save for the addition of a star for each new

state admitted to the Union, this is the flag of the United

States to-day.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there;

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white

With streakings of the morning light;

Then from his mansion in the sun

She called her eagle bearer down,

And gave into his mighty hand

The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,

To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,

And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven--

Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,

To hover in the sulphur smoke,

To ward away the battle-stroke,

And bid its blendings shine afar,

Like rainbows on the cloud of war,

The harbingers of victory!

III

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,

The sign of hope and triumph high,

When speaks the signal trumpet tone,

And the long line comes gleaming on;

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,

Each soldier eye shall brightly turn

To where thy sky-born glories burn,

And, as his springing steps advance,

Catch war and vengeance from the glance

And when the cannon-mouthings loud

Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud

And gory sabres rise and fall,

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;

Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,

And cowering foes shall sink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below

That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;

When death, careering on the gale,

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,

And frighted waves rush wildly back

Before the broadside's reeling rack,

Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,

And smile to see thy splendors fly

In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,

By angel hands to valor given;

The stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

CHAPTER VI

"THE FATE OF SIR JACK BRAG"

Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor

to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under

General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the

Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was

to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while

a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to

Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne

began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand

men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13,

detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington,

where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of

its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared

to give it a warm reception.

THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON

Why come ye hither, stranger?

Your mind what madness fills?

In our valleys there is danger,

And danger on our hills!

Hear ye not the singing

Of the bugle, wild and free?

Full soon ye'll know the ringing

Of the rifle from the tree!

The rifle, the sharp rifle!

In our hands it is no trifle!

Ye ride a goodly steed;

He may know another master:

Ye forward come with speed,

But ye'll learn to back much faster,

When ye meet our mountain boys

And their leader, Johnny Stark!

Lads who make but little noise,

But who always hit the mark

With the rifle, the true rifle!

In their hands will prove no trifle!

Had ye no graves at home

Across the briny water,

That hither ye must come,

Like bullocks to the slaughter?

If we the work must do,

Why, the sooner 'tis begun,

If flint and trigger hold but true,

The quicker 'twill be done

By the rifle, the good rifle!

In our hands it is no trifle!

Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's

orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner,

and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set

out to meet the enemy.

THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN

[August 15, 1777]

March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark,

And let no man straggle on the way!

March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark,

For the old man needs us all to-day.

Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball,

With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay!

But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all,

Let no man let the buckshot go astray.

Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line,

When we meet those bloody Hessians in array!

They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine,

Unless the cowards turn and run away.

Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won,

To the home where the women watch and pray!

To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun,

And to hear them thank our God for the day.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and

the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising

ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his

plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a

company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike

parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen.

PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE

[August 15, 1777]

The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night.

The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here,

Assembled and grouped in the lingering light,

To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.

Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green,

Through the driving rain of that August day,

The "Flock" marched on with martial mien,

And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay."

"Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said,

As the boys of New England drew up face to face,

"Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread,

And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'"

"The lads who are with me have come here to fight,

And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply,

"Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right,

Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti."

"To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do,

If you think you can wait for the morning light,

And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you,

Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."

What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp,

Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess;

A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp,

With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.

But we know the result of that glorious day,

And the victory won ere the night came down;

How Warner charged in the bitter fray,

With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:

And how in the lull of the three hours' fight,

The Parson harangued the Tory line,

As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright,

And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:--

The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry,

A refuge sure in the hour of need,

And freedom and faith can never die,

Is article first of the Puritan creed.

"Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash,"

He remarked to his comrades after the rout,

"For behind a bush I saw a flash,

But I fired that way and put it out."

And many the sayings, eccentric and queer,

Repeated and sung through the whole country side,

And quoted in Berkshire for many a year,

Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.

All honor to Stark and his resolute men,

To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise,

While with shout and with cheer we welcome again,

The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.

WALLACE BRUCE.

The next day, August 16, 1777, dawned clear and bright, and

the morning was consumed in preparations for the attack. Stark

managed to throw half his force on Baum's rear and flanks,

and, early in the afternoon, assaulted the enemy on all sides.

The Germans stood their ground and fought desperately, but they

were soon thrown into disorder, and at the end of two hours

were all either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON

[August 16, 1777]

Up through a cloudy sky, the sun

Was buffeting his way,

On such a morn as ushers in

A sultry August day.

Hot was the air--and hotter yet

Men's thoughts within them grew:

They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw--

They saw their homesteads too.

They thought of all their country's wrongs,

They thought of noble lives

Pour'd out in battle with her foes,

They thought upon their wives,

Their children, and their aged sires,

Their firesides, churches, God--

And these deep thoughts made hallow'd ground

Each foot of soil they trod.

Their leader was a brave old man,

A man of earnest will;

His very presence was a host--

He'd fought at Bunker Hill.

A living monument he stood

Of stirring deeds of fame,

Of deeds that shed a fadeless light

On his own deathless name.

Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood,

His presence told the tale,

It made each hero's heart beat high

Though lip and cheek grew pale;

It spoke of Princeton, Morristown,

Told Trenton's thrilling story--

It lit futurity with hope,

And on the past shed glory.

Who were those men--their leader who?

Where stood they on that morn?

The men were Berkshire yeomanry,

Brave men as e'er were born,--

Who in the reaper's merry row

Or warrior rank could stand

Right worthy such a noble troop,

John Stark led on the band.

Wollamsac wanders by the spot

Where they that morning stood;

Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream,

The waves were tinged with blood;

And the near hills that dark cloud girt,

And fires like lightning flash'd,

And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts,

Rose as the bayonets clash'd.

The night before, the Yankee host

Came gathering from afar,

And in each belted bosom glow'd

The spirit of the war.

As full of fight, through rainy storm,

Night, cloudy, starless, dark,

They came, and gathered as they came,

Around the valiant Stark.

There was a Berkshire parson--he

And all his flock were there,

And like true churchmen militant

The arm of flesh made bare.

Out spake the Dominie and said,

"For battle have we come

These many times, and after this

We mean to stay at home."

"If now we come in vain," said Stark,

"What! will you go to-night

To battle it with yonder troops,

God send us morning light,

And we will give you work enough:

Let but the morning come,

And if ye hear no voice of war

Go back and stay at home."

The morning came--there stood the foe,

Stark eyed them as they stood--

Few words he spake--'twas not a time

For moralizing mood.

"See there the enemy, my boys!

Now strong in valor's might,

Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleep

In widowhood to-night."

Each soldier there had left at home

A sweetheart, wife, or mother,

A blooming sister, or, perchance,

A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother.

Each from a fireside came, and thoughts

Those simple words awoke

That nerved up every warrior's arm

And guided every stroke.

Fireside and woman--mighty words!

How wondrous is the spell

They work upon the manly heart,

Who knoweth not full well?

And then the women of this land,

That never land hath known

A truer, prouder hearted race,

Each Yankee boy must own.

Brief eloquence was Stark's--nor vain--

Scarce utter'd he the words,

When burst the musket's rattling peal

Out-leap'd the flashing swords;

And when brave Stark in after time

Told the proud tale of wonder,

He said the battle din was one

"Continual clap of thunder."

Two hours they strove--then victory crown'd

The gallant Yankee boys.

Nought but the memory of the dead

Bedimm'd their glorious joys;

Ay--there's the rub--the hour of strife,

Though follow years of fame,

Is still in mournful memory link'd

With some death-hallow'd name.

The cypress with the laurel twines--

The pæan sounds a knell,

The trophied column marks the spot

Where friends and brothers fell.

Fame's mantle a funereal pall

Seems to the grief-dimm'd eye,

For ever where the bravest fall

The best beloved die.

THOMAS P. RODMAN.

Just at this moment, when the Americans, thinking the battle

over, began to scatter to the plunder of the German camp, a

relieving force of five hundred men, sent by Burgoyne, came

upon the scene. Luckily, Seth Warner also arrived with fresh

men at this juncture, charged furiously upon the British, and

by nightfall had killed or captured the entire column, with the

exception of six men, who succeeded in reaching the British

camp.

BENNINGTON

[August 16, 1777]

A cycle was closed and rounded,

A continent lost and won,

When Stark and his men went over

The earthworks at Bennington.

Slowly down from the northward,

Billowing fold on fold,

Whelming the land and crushing,

The glimmering glacier rolled.

Down from the broad St. Lawrence,

Bright with its thousand isles,

Through the Canadian woodlands,

Sweet with the summer smiles,

On over field and fastness,

Village and vantage coigne,

Rolled the resistless legions

Led by the bold Burgoyne.

Roared the craggy ledges

Looming o'er Lake Champlain;

Red with the blaze of navies

Quivered the land-locked main;

Soared the Vancour eagle,

Screaming, across the sun;

Deep dived the loon in terror

Under Lake Horicon.

Panther and hart together

Fled to the wilds afar,

From the flash and the crash of the cannon

And the rush of the southward war.

But at last by the lordly river

The trampling giant swayed,

And his massive arm swung eastward

Like a blindly-plunging blade.

New England felt her bosom

Menaced with deadly blow,

And her minute-men sprang up again

And flew to bar the foe.

But Stark in his Hampshire valley

Watched like a glowering bear,

That hears the cry go sweeping by

Yet stirs not from his lair;

For on his daring spirit

A wrath lay like a spell,--

The wrath of one rewarded ill

For a great work wrought right well.

Neighbor and friend and brother

Flocked to his side in vain,--

"What, can it be that they long for me

To ruin their cause again?

"Surely the northern lights are bright.

Surely the South lies still.

Would they have more?--Lo, I left my sword

On the crest of Bunker Hill."

But at last from his own New Hampshire

An urgent summons came,

That stirred his heart like the voice of God

From Sinai's walls of flame.

He bowed his head, and he rose aloft;

Again he grasped the brand,--

"For the cause of man and my native State,

Not for an ingrate land!"

Through the mist-veil faintly struggling,

The rays of the setting sun

Reddened the leafy village

Of white-walled Bennington.

Then out of the dismal weather

Came many a sound of war,--

The straggling shots and the volleys

And the cries, now near now far.

For forms half seen were chasing

The phantom forms that fled;

And ghostly figures grappled

And spectres fought and bled;

Till the mist on a sudden settled

And they saw before them fair,

Over a hill to the westward,

An island in the air.

There were tree-trunks and waving branches,

And greensward and flowers below;

It rose in a dome of verdure

From the mist-waves' watery flow.

A flag from its summit floated

And a circling earthwork grew,

As the arms of the swarming soldiers

At their toil unwonted flew.

"Aha!" cried the Yankee leader,

"So the panther has turned at bay

With his claws of steel and his breath of fire

Behind that wall of clay!

"_Our_ steel is in muscle and sinew.

But I know,"--and his voice rang free,--

"Right well I know we shall strike a blow

That the world will leap to see."

I stood by a blazing city

Till the fires had died away,

Save a flickering gleam in the ruins

And a fitful gleam on the bay.

But a swarthy cove by the water

Blue-bristled from point to base,

With the breath of demons, bursting

Through the crust of their prison-place;

And another beside it flaunted

A thousand rags of red,

Like the Plague King's dancing banners

On a mound of the swollen dead.

Twin brothers of flame and evil,

In their quivering living light,

They ruled with a frightful beauty

The desolate waste of night.

Thus did the battle mountain

Blazon with flashes dire;

The leaguered crest responded

In a coronal of fire.

The tough old fowling-pieces

In huddling tumult rang.

Louder the muskets' roaring!

Shriller the rifles' clang!

Hour after hour the turmoil

Gathered and swelled apace,

Till the hill seemed a volcano

Bursting in every place.

Then the lights grew faint and meagre,

Though the hideous noise rolled on;

And out of a bath of glory

Uprose the noble sun.

It brightened the tossing banner;

It yellowed the leafy crest;

It smote on the serried weapons,

On helmet and scarlet breast.

It drove on the mist below them

Where Stark and his foremost stood,

Flashing volley for volley

Into the stubborn wood.

A thousand stalwart figures

Sprang from the gulf profound,

A thousand guns uplifted

Went whirling round and round.

Like some barbarian onslaught

On a lofty Roman hold;

Like the upward rush of Titans

On Olympian gods of old;

With a swirl of the wrangling torrents

As they dash on a castle wall;

With the flame-seas skyward surging

At the mountain demon's call,

Heedless of friend and brother

Stricken to earth below,

The sons of New England bounded

On the breastwork of the foe.

Each stalwart form on the ramparts

Swaying his battered gun

Seemed a vengeful giant, looming

Against the rising sun.

The pond'rous clubs swept crashing

Through the bayonets round their feet

As a woodman's axe-edge crashes

Through branches mailed in sleet,

Shattering head and shoulder,

Splintering arm and thigh,

Hurling the redcoats earthward

Like bolts from an angry sky.

Faster each minute and faster

The yeomen swarm over the wall,

And narrower grows the circle

And thicker the Britons fall;

Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmen

Swift to the rescue flies,

The frown of the Northland on their brows

And the war-light in their eyes.

Back reeled the men of Berkshire,

The mountaineers gave back,

But Stark and his Hampshire yeomen

Flung full across their track.

The stern Teutonic mother

Well might she grandly eye

The prowess dread of her war-swarms red

As they racked the earth and sky.

Like rival wrestling athletes

Grappled the East and West.

With straining thews and staring eyes

They swayed and strove for the royal prize,

A continent's virgin breast.

Till at last as a strong man's wrenching

Shatters a brittle vase,

The lustier arms of the Westland

Shattered the elder race.

Baum and his bravest cohorts

Lay on the trampled sod,

And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high,

"Yield in the name of God!"

Then the sullen Hessians yielded,

Girt by an iron ring,

And down from the summit fluttered

The flag of the British king.

Vainly the tardy Breyman

May strive that height to gain;

More work for the Hampshire war-clubs!

More room for the Hessian slain!

The giant's arm is severed,

The giant's blood flows free,

And he staggers in the pathway

That leads to the distant sea.

The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomen

With the men of the Hudson join,

And the gathering flood rolls over

The host of the bold Burgoyne.

For a cycle was closed and rounded,

A continent lost and won,

When Stark and his men went over

The earthworks at Bennington.

W. H. BABCOCK.

Saint Leger, meanwhile, had landed at Oswego and advanced

against Fort Stanwix. General Nicholas Herkimer, commander

of the militia of Tryon County, at the head of eight hundred

men, started to the rescue. He met the enemy, on August 5, at

Oriskany, and there followed the most obstinate and murderous

battle of the Revolution. Both sides claimed the victory.

THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY

[August 6, 1777]

As men who fight for home and child and wife,

As men oblivious of life

In holy martyrdom,

The yeomen of the valley fought that day,

Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,--

Blood-red Oriskany.

From rock and tree and clump of twisted brush

The hissing gusts of battle rush,--

Hot-breathed and horrible!

The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas,

Sweep through thy splintered trees,--

Hard-fought Oriskany.

Heroes are born in such a chosen hour;

From common men they rise, and tower,

Like thee, brave Herkimer!

Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beech

Cheered on thy men, with sword and speech,

In grim Oriskany.

But ere the sun went toward the tardy night,

The valley then beheld the light

Of freedom's victory;

And wooded Tryon snatched from British arms

The empire of a million farms--

On bright Oriskany.

The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies;

The rescued wilderness replies;

Forth dash the garrison!

And routed Tories, with their savage aids,

Sink reddening through the sullied shades--

From lost Oriskany.

CHARLES D. HELMER.

Saint Leger rallied his shaken columns and settled down to

besiege the fort, which laughed at his summons to surrender.

Soon afterwards, news of Oriskany and of the siege arrived at

General Schuyler's headquarters at Stillwater, and Benedict

Arnold set out at once for Fort Stanwix at the head of twelve

hundred men. Such exaggerated reports of the size of his force

were conveyed to Saint Leger that, on August 22, he raised the

siege and retreated to Canada.

SAINT LEGER

[August, 1777]

From out of the North-land his leaguer he led,

Saint Leger, Saint Leger;

And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped;

_Their courage_, he cried, _it shall die i' the throat

When they mark the proud standards that over us float--

See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat_!

Saint Leger, Saint Leger.

He hurried by water, he scurried by land,

Saint Leger, Saint Leger,

Till closely he cordoned the patriot band:

_Surrender_, he bade, _or I tighten the net!_

_Surrender?_ they mocked him, _we laugh at your threat!_

_By Heaven!_ he thundered, _you'll live to regret_

Saint Leger, Saint Leger!

He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell,

Saint Leger, Saint Leger;

Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell;

But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate,

As he sat in his tent-door, _Egad, we can wait,

For famine is famous to open a gate_!

Saint Leger, Saint Leger.

But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear--

Saint Leger, Saint Leger--

A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear!

_They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled!

They come, and their onset may not be controlled,

For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold_--

Saint Leger, Saint Leger!

_Retreat!_ Was the word e'er more bitterly said,

Saint Leger, Saint Leger,

Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led?

Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain--

Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train!

And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vain

Saint Leger!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Saint Leger's retreat, joined to the disaster at Bennington,

left Burgoyne in an exceedingly critical condition. The

Americans hemmed him in, front and rear, and increased rapidly

in numbers; he had received no news from Howe, who was

supposed to be on his way up the Hudson to join him; and he

found it more and more difficult to get provisions.

THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG

Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review,

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!

These rebels their course very quickly will rue,

And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew,

When him who is your leader they know, boys!

They with men have now to deal,

And we soon will make them feel--

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!

That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel,

Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys!

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game,

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!

He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,

He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flame

For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!

No lack of skill, but fates,

Shall make us yield to Gates,

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!

The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States.

But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,

Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

The American army was stationed along the western bank of the

Hudson; while Burgoyne's troops were encamped along the eastern

bank. For nearly a month the armies remained in this position;

then Burgoyne determined to advance to Albany, and on September

13, 1777, the British army crossed on a pontoon bridge to the

west bank of the Hudson. Two desperate attempts were made to

break through the American lines, but the British were routed

by Benedict Arnold's superb and daring generalship, and forced

to retreat to Saratoga.

ARNOLD AT STILLWATER

[October 7, 1777]

Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel!

Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;

Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared

Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!

Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;

Then, with my rage at his treason--with pity when André died.

Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,

Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;

Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,

Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!

Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.

The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,

And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;

There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;

Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;

As silent their long line of scarlet--not one of them whispered or

stirred.

Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;

Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;

"What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,

Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?"

"General Gates sent his orders"--faltering the aide-de-camp spoke--

"You're to return, lest some rashness--" Fiercely the speech Arnold

broke:

"Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!

Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"

Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,

Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!--

Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell--

Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Burgoyne was hotly pursued, and when he reached the place where

he had crossed the Hudson, found it occupied in force by the

Americans. The British army, in short, was surrounded, and,

after a week's indecision, Burgoyne sent a flag of truce to

Gates, inquiring what terms of surrender would be accepted.

Three days were spent in a discussion of terms, and on October

17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered to the American forces.

THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE

[October 17, 1777]

When Jack the King's commander

Was going to his duty,

Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed

To every blooming beauty.

The city rung with feats he'd done

In Portugal and Flanders,

And all the town thought he'd be crowned

The first of Alexanders.

To Hampton Court he first repairs

To kiss great George's hand, sirs;

Then to harangue on state affairs

Before he left the land, sirs.

The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse

To hear his grand oration;

And "all the peers," with loudest cheers,

Proclaimed him to the nation.

Then off he went to Canada,

Next to Ticonderoga,

And quitting those away he goes

Straightway to Saratoga.

With great parade his march he made

To gain his wished-for station,

While far and wide his minions hied

To spread his "Proclamation."

To such as stayed he offers made

Of "pardon on submission;

But savage bands should waste the lands

Of all in opposition."

But ah, the cruel fates of war!

This boasted son of Britain,

When mounting his triumphal car,

With sudden fear was smitten.

The sons of Freedom gathered round,

His hostile bands confounded,

And when they'd fain have turned their back

They found themselves surrounded!

In vain they fought, in vain they fled;

Their chief, humane and tender,

To save the rest soon thought it best

His forces to surrender.

Brave St. Clair, when he first retired,

Knew what the fates portended;

And Arnold and heroic Gates

His conduct have defended.

Thus may America's brave sons

With honor be rewarded,

And be the fate of all her foes

The same as here recorded.

SARATOGA SONG

[October 17, 1777]

Come unto me, ye heroes

Whose hearts are true and bold,

Who value more your honor

Than others do their gold;

Give ear unto my story,

And I the truth will tell,

Concerning many a soldier

Who for his country fell.

Burgoyne, the King's commander,

From Canada set sail;

With full eight thousand regulars,

He thought he could not fail;

With Indians and Canadians,

And his cursèd Tory crew,

On board his fleet of shipping

He up the Champlain flew.

Before Ticonderoga,

The first day of July,

Appeared his ships and army,

And we did them espy.

Their motions we observed,

Full well both night and day,

And our brave boys prepared

To have a bloody fray.

Our garrison, they viewed them,

And straight their troops did land;

And when St. Clair, our chieftain,

The fact did understand,

That they the Mount Defiance

Were bent to fortify,

He found we must surrender,

Or else prepare to die.

The fifth day of July, then,

He ordered a retreat;

And when next morn we started,

Burgoyne thought we were beat.

And closely he pursued us,

Till when near Hubbardton,

Our rear guards were defeated,

He thought the country won.

And when 'twas told in Congress

That we our forts had left,

To Albany retreated,

Of all the North bereft,

Brave General Gates they sent us,

Our fortunes to retrieve,

And him, with shouts of gladness,

The army did receive.

Where first the Mohawk's waters

Do in the sunshine play,

For Herkimer's brave soldiers

Sellinger ambushed lay;

And them he there defeated,

But soon he had his due,

And scared by Brooks and Arnold,

He to the north withdrew.

To take the stores and cattle

That we had gathered then,

Burgoyne sent a detachment

Of fifteen hundred men;

By Baum they were commanded,

To Bennington they went;

To plunder and to murder

Was fully their intent.

But little did they know then

With whom they had to deal;

It was not quite so easy

Our stores and stocks to steal,

Bold Stark would give them only

A portion of his lead;

With half his crew, ere sunset,

Baum lay among the dead.

The nineteenth of September,

The morning cool and clear,

Brave Gates rode through our army,

Each soldier's heart to cheer;

"Burgoyne," he cried, "advances,

But we will never fly;

No--rather than surrender,

We'll fight him till we die!"

The news was quickly brought us,

The enemy was near,

And all along our lines then,

There was no sign of fear;

It was above Stillwater

We met at noon that day,

And every one expected

To see a bloody fray.

Six hours the battle lasted,

Each heart as true as gold,

The British fought like lions,

And we like Yankees bold;

The leaves with blood were crimson,

And then did brave Gates cry,

"'Tis diamond now cut diamond!

We'll beat them, boys, or die."

The darkness soon approaching,

It forced us to retreat

Into our lines till morning,

Which made them think us beat;

But ere the sun was risen,

They saw before their eyes

Us ready to engage them,

Which did them much surprise.

Of fighting they seem weary,

Therefore to work they go

Their thousand dead to bury,

And breastworks up to throw;

With grape and bombs intending

Our army to destroy,

Or from our works our forces

By stratagem decoy.

The seventh day of October

The British tried again,

Shells from their cannon throwing,

Which fell on us like rain;

To drive us from our stations,

That they might thus retreat;

For now Burgoyne saw plainly

He never could us beat.

But vain was his endeavor

Our men to terrify;

Though death was all around us,

Not one of us would fly.

But when an hour we'd fought them,

And they began to yield,

Along our lines the cry ran,

"The next blow wins the field!"

Great God who guides their battles

Whose cause is just and true,

Inspired our bold commander

The course he should pursue!

He ordered Arnold forward,

And Brooks to follow on;

The enemy was routed!

Our liberty was won!

Then, burning all their luggage,

They fled with haste and fear,

Burgoyne with all his forces,

To Saratoga did steer;

And Gates, our brave commander,

Soon after him did hie,

Resolving he would take them,

Or in the effort die.

As we came nigh the village,

We overtook the foe;

They'd burned each house to ashes,

Like all where'er they go.

The seventeenth of October,

They did capitulate,

Burgoyne and his proud army

Did we our prisoners make.

Now here's a health to Arnold,

And our commander Gates,

To Lincoln and to Washington,

Whom every Tory hates;

Likewise unto our Congress,

God grant it long to reign;

Our Country, Right, and Justice

Forever to maintain.

Now finished is my story,

My song is at an end;

The freedom we're enjoying

We're ready to defend;

For while our cause is righteous,

Heaven nerves the soldier's arm,

And vain is their endeavor

Who strive to do us harm.

CHAPTER VII

THE SECOND STAGE

News of the reverse at Saratoga was received in England with

amazement and consternation, and its effect on the government

was soon discernible. On February 17, 1778, Lord North

astonished the House of Commons by rising in his place and

moving that Parliament repeal the tea tax and other measures

obnoxious to the Americans, that it renounce forever the right

of raising a revenue in America, and that commissioners be

sent to Congress, with full powers for negotiating a peace. So

complete a political somersault has seldom been turned by an

English minister.

LORD NORTH'S RECANTATION

[February 17, 1778]

When North first began

With his taxation plan,

The Colonies all to supplant,

To Britain's true cause,

And her liberty, laws,

Oh, how did he scorn to recant.

Oh! how did he boast

Of his pow'r and his host,

Alternately swagger and cant;

Of freedom so dear,

Not a word would he hear,

Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.

That freedom he swore

They ne'er should have more,

Their money to give and to grant;

Whene'er they addressed,

What disdain he express'd,

Not thinking they'd make him recant.

He armies sent o'er

To America's shore,

New government there to transplant;

But every campaign

Prov'd his force to be vain,

Yet still he refus'd to recant.

But with all their bombast,

They were so beat at last,

As to silence his impious rant;

Who for want of success,

Could at last do no less

Than draw in his horns, and recant.

With his brother Burgoyne,

He's forc'd now to join,

And a treaty of peace for to want;

Says he ne'er will fight,

But will give up his right

To taxation, and freely recant.

With the great General Howe,

He'd be very glad now,

He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;

And ev'ry proud Scot

In the devilish plot,

With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.

Old England, alas!

They have brought to such pass,

Too late are proposals extant;

America's lost,

Our glory at most

Is only that--tyrants recant.

But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded

with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of

armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain

proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence

should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part

of France was communicated to the British government, and war

against France was instantly declared.

A NEW BALLAD

[1778]

Rouse, Britons! at length,

And put forth your strength

Perfidious France to resist;

Ten Frenchmen will fly,

To shun a black eye,

If an Englishman doubles his fist.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

But if they feel stout,

Why let them turn out,

With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,

Brave Hardy's sea thunder

Shall strike them with wonder,

And make the frogs leap in their bellies!

For their Dons and their ships

We care not three skips

Of a flea--and their threats turn into jest, O!

We'll bang their bare ribs

For the infamous fibs

Cramm'd into their fine manifesto.

Our brethren so frantic

Across the Atlantic,

Who quit their old friends in a huff,

In spite of their airs,

Are at their last prayers,

And of fighting have had quantum suff.

Then if powers at a distance

Should offer assistance,

Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"

Old England's a match

And more for old scratch,

A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad,

the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned

Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set

his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777,

assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington

strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to

attack him, was forced to retire to New York.

GENERAL HOWE'S LETTER

The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified.

[June, 1777]

As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,

I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;

And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,

All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

There I met them in person, and took the command,

When I instantly told them the job upon hand;

I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,

But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.

With this omen elated, towards Quibbletown

I led them, concluding the day was our own;

For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,--

But Putnam and Washington, d--n them, were there!

I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skill

The rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;

With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,

But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.

There were then but two ways,--to retreat or attack,

And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;

For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,

There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.

Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,

I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;

So just as we went, we return'd to this place,

With no other diff'rence,--than mending our pace.

Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,

But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;

I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,--

Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.

Having briefly, my lord, told you,--how the land lies,

I hope there's enough--for a word to the wise;

'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,--

But, fighting or flying,--I'm your very humble.

Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut

off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of

July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight

sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until

the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at

the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only

eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let

Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11,

1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were

forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the

British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.

CARMEN BELLICOSUM

In their ragged regimentals

Stood the old Continentals,

Yielding not,

When the grenadiers were lunging,

And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the isles,

From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant

Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,

Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,

And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,

And in streams flashing redly

Blazed the fires:

As the roar

Of the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres

Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,

Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges

Worked the red St. George's

Cannoneers;

And the "villainous saltpetre"

Rung a fierce, discordant metre

Round their ears;

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor

On our flanks:

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire

Through the ranks!

Then the bareheaded Colonel

Galloped through the white infernal

Powder-cloud;

And his broadsword was swinging

And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet-loud.

Then the blue

Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,

Hurling Death.

GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER.

Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where,

through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot

army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and

endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion,

it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.

VALLEY FORGE

From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"

[1777-78]

O'er town and cottage, vale and height,

Down came the Winter, fierce and white,

And shuddering wildly, as distraught

At horrors his own hand had wrought.

His child, the young Year, newly born,

Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,

Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,

As on a frozen heath benighted.

In vain the hearths were set aglow,

In vain the evening lamps were lighted,

To cheer the dreary realm of snow:

Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,

Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.

How sad the wretch at morn or eve

Compelled his starving home to leave,

Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,

Toils slowly on from rift to rift,

Still hearing in his aching ear

The cry his fancy whispers near,

Of little ones who weep for bread

Within an ill-provided shed!

But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,

Freezing the tear it caused to start,

Was the inevitable chill

Which pierced a nation's agued heart,--

A nation with its naked breast

Against the frozen barriers prest,

Heaving its tedious way and slow

Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,

Where every blast that whistled by

Was bitter with its children's cry.

Such was the winter's awful sight

For many a dreary day and night,

What time our country's hope forlorn,

Of every needed comfort shorn,

Lay housed within a hurried tent,

Where every keen blast found a rent,

And oft the snow was seen to sift

Along the floor its piling drift,

Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,

Across the night-couch frequent rolled;

Where every path by a soldier beat,

Or every track where a sentinel stood,

Still held the print of naked feet,

And oft the crimson stains of blood;

Where Famine held her spectral court,

And joined by all her fierce allies:

She ever loved a camp or fort

Beleaguered by the wintry skies,--

But chiefly when Disease is by,

To sink the frame and dim the eye,

Until, with seeking forehead bent,

In martial garments cold and damp,

Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,

To count the charnels of the camp.

Such was the winter that prevailed

Within the crowded, frozen gorge;

Such were the horrors that assailed

The patriot band at Valley Forge.

It was a midnight storm of woes

To clear the sky for Freedom's morn;

And such must ever be the throes

The hour when Liberty is born.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very

pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various

alarms, one of which was celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in

some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in

the _Pennsylvania Packet_, March 4, 1778.

BRITISH VALOR DISPLAYED;

OR, THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS

[January 5, 1778]

Gallants attend, and hear a friend

Trill forth harmonious ditty;

Strange things I'll tell which late befel

In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as Poets say,

Just when the sun was rising,

A soldier stood on a log of wood,

And saw a sight surprising.

As in a maze he stood to gaze

(The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),

He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,

Come floating down the tide, Sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,

This strange appearance viewing,

First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,

Then said "Some mischief's brewing:

"These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,

Packed up like pickl'd herring;

And they're come down t' attack the town

In this new way of ferry'ng."

The soldier flew, the sailor too,

And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,

Wore out their shoes to spread the news,

And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.

Now up and down, throughout the town

Most frantic scenes were acted;

And some ran here, and others there,

Like men almost distracted.

Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,

But said the earth had quaked;

And girls and boys, with hideous noise,

Ran thro' the streets half naked.

_Sir William_ he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a snoring;

Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm

In bed with Mrs. Loring.

Now in a fright, he starts upright,

Awaked by such a clatter;

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,

"For God's sake, what's the matter?"

At his bedside he then espy'd,

_Sir Erskine_ at command, Sir;

Upon one foot he had one boot,

And t' other in his hand, Sir.

"Arise, arise," _Sir Erskine_ cries,

"The rebels--more's the pity--

Without a boat, are all afloat,

And rang'd before the city.

"The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, Sir,

Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,

Come driving down the tide, Sir.

"Therefore prepare for bloody war;

These kegs must all be routed;

Or surely we dispis'd shall be,

And British valor doubted."

The royal band now ready stand,

All ranged in dread array, Sir,

On every slip, on every ship,

For to begin the fray, Sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore;

The small-arms loud did rattle;

Since wars began I'm sure no man

E'er saw so strange a battle.

The _rebel_ dales, the _rebel_ vales,

With _rebel_ trees surrounded,

The distant woods, the hills and floods,

With _rebel_ echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro,

Attack'd from every quarter;

Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay

'Mong folks above the water.

The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made

Of _rebel_ staves and hoops, Sir,

Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,

The conq'ering British troops, Sir.

From morn to night these men of might

Display'd amazing courage;

And when the sun was fairly down,

Retired to sup their porridge.

A hundred men, with each a pen,

Or more, upon my word, Sir,

It is most true, would be too few,

Their valor to record, Sir.

Such feats did they perform that day

Against these wicked kegs, Sir,

That years to come, _if they get home_,

They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its

foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little

Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and

she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through

letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in

Philadelphia.

THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL[5]

A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down

With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;

And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,

Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.

His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,

The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;

But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,

And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;

His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;

But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,

Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.

"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;

And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;

But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,

Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,

Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,

Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;

And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.

But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind,

Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:

And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;

Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;

"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:

And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,

And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.

"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;

And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,

With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,

And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!

Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!"

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,

And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;

And, "Miss, _I_ have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;

But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.

With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,

Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the

street,

"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"

Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.

WILL CARLETON.

[5] From _Poems for Young Americans_, published by Harper & Bros.

Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command

of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated

Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York.

Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered

General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall

upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead

of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they

began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington,

summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered

Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British

back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed

to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded

behind.

THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH

[June 28, 1778]

Whilst in peaceful quarters lying

We indulge the glass till late,

Far remote the thought of dying,

Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:

From the summer's sun hot beaming,

Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,

To the plains where heroes bleeding,

Shouts and dying groans arise.

Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;

Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,

To the front close up the long rear,

See! the enemy is nigh;

Platoons march at proper distance,

Cover close each rank and file,

They will make a bold resistance,

Here, my lads, is gallant toil.

Now all you from downy slumber

Roused to the soft joys of love,

Waked to pleasures without number,

Peace and ease your bosoms prove:

Round us roars Bellona's thunder,

Ah! how close the iron storm,

O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,

Pass the word there, form, lads, form.

To the left display that column,

Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;

Mark in air yon fiery volume,

Who'd refuse a glorious grave;

Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,

See! our light-bobs gain the hill;

Courage, boys, be firm and steady,

Hence each care, each fear lie still.

Now the dismal cannon roaring

Speaks loud terror to the soul,

Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,

Ether rings from pole to pole;

See, the smoke, how black and dreary,

Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,

Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,

How their groans ascend on high!

Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?

Oh! can brave men ever yield,

Glorious danger now combines us,

None but cowards quit the field.

To the rear each gun dismounted;

Close the breach, and brisk advance.

All your former acts recounted

This day's merit shall enhance.

Now half-choked with dust and powder,

Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:

Hark! the din of arms grows louder,

Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!

See, from flank to flank wide flashing,

How each volley rends the gloom;

Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,

Man and horse now meet their doom;

Bravely done! each gallant soldier

Well sustained this heavy fire;

Alexander ne'er was bolder;

Now by regiments retire.

See, our second line moves on us,

Ope your columns, give them way,

Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,

These may yet regain the day.

Now our second line engaging,

Charging close, spreads carnage round,

Fierce revenge and fury raging,

Angry heroes bite the ground.

The souls of brave men here expiring

Call for vengeance e'en in death,

Frowning still, the dead, the dying,

Threaten with their latest breath.

To the left obliquely flying,

Oh! be ready, level well,

Who could think of e'er retiring,

See, my lads, those volleys tell.

Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,

How the squadrons fill the plain!

Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,

Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.

Now our left flank they are turning;

Carnage is but just begun;

Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,

Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!

Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,

To the shock our breasts oppose,

Hark! the shout, the signal beating,

See, with bayonets they close:

Front rank charge! the rear make ready!

Forward, march--reserve your fire!

Now present, fire brisk, be steady,

March, march, see their lines retire!

On the left, our light troops dashing,

Now our dragoons charge the rear,

Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,

They run, they run, hence banish fear!

Now the toil and danger's over,

Dress alike the wounded brave,

Hope again inspires the lover,

Old and young forget the grave;

Seize the canteen, poise it higher,

Rest to each brave soul that fell!

Death for this is ne'er the nigher,

Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.

R. H.

THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH

[June 28, 1778]

Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;

These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;

Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,

Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;

Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,

Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,

Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;

Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,

Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,

With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,

And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.

Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,

And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;

Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories--

They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those--

While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after

Rang around each creaking wain of the train.

'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning

Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;

Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,

Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the

fight;

Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,

And the corses gory red of the dead.

Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians

Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;

Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;

And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,

Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,

With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.

For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,

As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;

For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,

That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.

Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,

Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.

I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,

Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.

What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared

not;

But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,

At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,

With the Briton plying steel at their heel.

Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,

Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;

But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,

As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:

"Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?

Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"

Lee grew crimson in his anger--rang his curses o'er the clangor,

O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;

But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,

Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;

Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,

"Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"

At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;

"Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the

field;"

And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,

Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;

Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,

Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.

As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,

One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;

And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water

For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear.

"Move the piece!"--but there they found her loading, firing that

six-pounder,

And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.

Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley

Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;

Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought

That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no

lack:

There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,

While we swept with wrath condign on their line.

From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,

Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;

In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing

Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,

Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster

From the stronghold that we held back repelled.

Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades

peerless,

Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;

Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them

From the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;

While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,

Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.

Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,

Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;

Heat, and not a drop of water--heat, that won the race of slaughter,

Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;

Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,

As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.

On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,

Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;

Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,

Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;

For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspoken

When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.

In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,

Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;

Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories--

Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;

Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:

So we found the field our own, and alone.

How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!

How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!

Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,

By their hands I fain would clasp them--ah! each lives but in a name;

But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought

for,

Is their monument to-day, and for aye.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's

encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named

Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired,

freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in

carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet

killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it

fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill

and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt

and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington,

who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.

MOLLY PITCHER

[June 28, 1778]

'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town,

For Lee was beating a wild retreat;

The British were riding the Yankees down,

And panic was pressing on flying feet.

Galloping down like a hurricane

Washington rode with his sword swung high,

Mighty as he of the Trojan plain

Fired by a courage from the sky.

"Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried.

And a bombardier made swift reply.

Wheeling his cannon into the tide,

He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.

Molly Pitcher sprang to his side,

Fired as she saw her husband do.

Telling the king in his stubborn pride

Women like men to their homes are true.

Washington rode from the bloody fray

Up to the gun that a woman manned.

"Molly Pitcher, you saved the day,"

He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.

He named her sergeant with manly praise,

While her war-brown face was wet with tears--

A woman has ever a woman's ways,

And the army was wild with cheers.

KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

MOLLY PITCHER

All day the great guns barked and roared;

All day the big balls screeched and soared;

All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim,

Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim,

Sweet Molly labored with courage high,

With steady hand and watchful eye,

Till the day was ours, and the sinking sun

Looked down on the field of Monmouth won,

And Molly standing beside her gun.

Now, Molly, rest your weary arm!

Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm.

Now, woman, bow your aching head,

And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!

Next day on that field so hardly won,

Stately and calm stands Washington,

And looks where our gallant Greene doth lead

A figure clad in motley weed--

A soldier's cap and a soldier's coat

Masking a woman's petticoat.

He greets our Molly in kindly wise;

He bids her raise her tearful eyes;

And now he hails her before them all

Comrade and soldier, whate'er befall,

"And since she has played a man's full part,

A man's reward for her loyal heart!

And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's name

Be writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"

Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue!

Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you!

Sweet honor's roll will aye be richer

To hold the name of Molly Pitcher.

LAURA E. RICHARDS.

About the middle of July, a strong French fleet, commanded by

Count D'Estaing, arrived off Sandy Hook, bringing with it M.

Gérard, the first minister from France to the United States. It

was found that the ships could not pass the bar at the mouth of

New York harbor, and it was decided to attempt the capture of

the British force which held Newport, R. I., but the expedition

proved a failure, and the French sailed away to Boston to refit.

YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION TO RHODE ISLAND

[August, 1778]

From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came,

To Congress in this town, sir,

They bow'd to him, and he to them,

And then they all sat down, sir.

Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup

You shall bientôt behold, sir;

This was believ'd as gospel true,

And Jonathan felt bold, sir.

So Yankee Doodle did forget

The sound of British drum, sir,

How oft it made him quake and sweat,

In spite of Yankee rum, sir.

He took his wallet on his back,

His rifle on his shoulder,

And veow'd Rhode Island to attack

Before he was much older.

In dread array their tatter'd crew

Advanc'd with colors spread, sir,

Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo,

King Hancock at their head, sir.

What numbers bravely cross'd the seas,

I cannot well determine,

A swarm of rebels and of fleas,

And every other vermin.

Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,

For all flesh only grass is,

A plenteous store they therefore bought

Of whiskey and molasses.

They swore they'd make bold Pigot squeak,

So did their good ally, sir,

And take him pris'ner in a week,

But that was all my eye, sir.

As Jonathan so much desir'd

To shine in martial story,

D'Estaing with politesse retir'd,

To leave him all the glory.

He left him what was better yet,

At least it was more use, sir,

He left him for a quick retreat

A very good excuse, sir.

To stay, unless he rul'd the sea,

He thought would not be right, sir,

And Continental troops, said he,

On islands should not fight, sir.

Another cause with these combin'd

To throw him in the dumps, sir,

For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,

And made him stir his stumps, sir.

Lord Howe came up, soon afterwards, with the British fleet, and

made a pretence of blockading the French in Boston harbor, but

prudently withdrew when he saw the French were ready to put to

sea again. The latter abandoned all attempt to coöperate with

the Americans and sailed away for the West Indies.

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE

[September, 1778]

When the French fleet lay

In Massachusetts bay

In that day

When the British squadron made

Its impudent parade

Of blockade;

All along and up and down

The harbor of the town,--

The brave, proud town

That had fought with all its might

Its bold, brave fight

For the right,

To win its way alone

And hold and rule its own,

Such a groan

From the stanch hearts and stout

Of the Yankees there went out:

But to rout

The British lion then

Were maddest folly, when

One to ten

Their gallant allies lay,

Scant of powder, day by day

In the bay.

Chafing thus, impatient, sore,

One day along the shore

Slowly bore

A clipper schooner, worn

And rough and forlorn,

With its torn

Sails fluttering in the air:

The British sailors stare

At her there,

So cool and unafraid.

"What! she's running the blockade,

The jade!"

They all at once roar out,

Then--"Damn the Yankee lout!"

They shout.

Athwart her bows red hot

They send a challenge shot;

But not

An inch to right or left she veers,

Straight on and on she steers,

Nor hears

Challenge or shout, until

Rings forth with British will

A shrill

"Heave to!" Then sharp and short

Question and quick retort

Make British sport.

"What is it that you say,--

Where do I hail from pray,

What is my cargo, eh?

"My cargo? I'll allow

You can hear 'em crowin' now,

At the bow.

"And I've long-faced gentry too,

For passengers and crew,

Just a few,

"To fatten up, you know,

For home use, and a show

Of garden sass and so.

"And from Taunton town I hail;

Good Lord, it was a gale

When I set sail!"

The British captain laught

As he leaned there abaft:

"'Tis a harmless craft,

"And a harmless fellow too,

With his long-faced gentry crew;

Let him through,"

He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!"

Sounded forth, and there sped

Down the red

Sunset track, unafraid,

Straight through the blockade,

This jade

Of a harmless craft,

Packed full to her draught,

Fore and aft,

With powder and shot,

One day when, red hot

The British got

Their full share and more

Of this cargo, they swore,

With a roar,

At the trick she had played,

This "damned Yankee jade"

Who had run the blockade!

NORA PERRY.

The abortive expedition against Rhode Island practically ended

the war at the north, and for a time the scene of activity was

transferred to the frontier. The Indians had naturally allied

themselves with the British at the beginning of the war, and

early in September, 1777, attacked Fort Henry, near Wheeling,

but were beaten off after a desperate fight, during which the

garrison was saved by the famous exploit of Elizabeth Zane.

BETTY ZANE

[September, 1777]

Women are timid, cower and shrink

At show of danger, some folk think;

But men there are who for their lives

Dare not so far asperse their wives.

We let that pass--so much is clear,

Though little perils they may fear,

When greater perils men environ,

Then women show a front of iron;

And, gentle in their manner, they

Do bold things in a quiet way,

And so our wondering praise obtain,

As on a time did Betty Zane.

A century since, out in the West,

A block-house was by Girty pressed--

Girty, the renegade, the dread

Of all that border, fiercely led

Five hundred Wyandots, to gain

Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;

And in this hold--Fort Henry then,

But Wheeling now--twelve boys and men

Guarded with watchful ward and care

Women and prattling children there,

Against their rude and savage foes,

And Betty Zane was one of those.

There had been forty-two at first

When Girty on the border burst;

But most of those who meant to stay

And keep the Wyandots at bay,

Outside by savage wiles were lured,

And ball and tomahawk endured,

Till few were left the place to hold,

And some were boys and some were old;

But all could use the rifle well,

And vainly from the Indians fell,

On puncheon roof and timber wall,

The fitful shower of leaden ball.

Now Betty's brothers and her sire

Were with her in this ring of fire,

And she was ready, in her way,

To aid their labor day by day,

In all a quiet maiden might.

To mould the bullets for the fight,

And, quick to note and so report,

Watch every act outside the fort;

Or, peering through the loopholes, see

Each phase of savage strategy--

These were her tasks, and thus the maid

The toil-worn garrison could aid.

Still, drearily the fight went on

Until a week had nearly gone,

When it was told--a whisper first,

And then in loud alarm it burst--

Their powder scarce was growing; they

Knew where a keg unopened lay

Outside the fort at Zane's--what now?

Their leader stood with anxious brow.

It must be had at any cost,

Or toil and fort and lives were lost.

Some one must do that work of fear;

What man of men would volunteer?

Two offered, and so earnest they,

Neither his purpose would give way;

And Shepherd, who commanded, dare

Not pick or choose between the pair.

But ere they settled on the one

By whom the errand should be done,

Young Betty interposed, and said,

"Let me essay the task instead.

Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane,

A useless woman, should be slain;

But death, if dealt on one of those,

Gives too much vantage to our foes."

Her father smiled with pleasure grim--

Her pluck gave painful pride to him;

And while her brothers clamored "No!"

He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go!

She'll do it at less risk than you;

But keep her steady in your view,

And be your rifles shields for her.

If yonder foe make step or stir,

Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,

And so you'll serve her in her need.

Now I recover from surprise,

I think our Betty's purpose wise."

The gate was opened, on she sped;

The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said,

And wondered at her purpose, till

She gained that log-hut by the hill.

But when, in apron wrapped, the cask

She backward bore, to close her task,

The foemen saw her aim at last,

And poured their fire upon her fast.

Bullet on bullet near her fell,

While rang the Indians' angry yell;

But safely through that whirring rain,

Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.

They filled their horns, both boys and men,

And so began the fight again.

Girty, who there so long had stayed,

By this new feat of feet dismayed,

Fired houses round and cattle slew,

And moved away--the fray was through.

But when the story round was told

How they maintained the leaguered hold,

It was agreed, though fame was due

To all who in that fight were true,

The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain,

Fell to the share of Betty Zane.

A hundred years have passed since then;

The savage never came again.

Girty is dust; alike are dead

Those who assailed and those bestead.

Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,

A crowded city proudly stands;

But of the many who reside

By green Ohio's rushing tide,

Not one has lineage prouder than

(Be he or poor or rich) the man

Who boasts that in his spotless strain

Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which

the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in

northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted

many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly

exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to

serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the

eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve

hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the

garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and

burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly

a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation.

THE WYOMING MASSACRE

[July 3, 1778]

Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,

While she attempts to tell

Of poor Wyoming's overthrow

By savage sons of hell.

One hundred whites, in painted hue,

Whom Butler there did lead,

Supported by a barb'rous crew

Of the fierce savage breed.

The last of June the siege began,

And several days it held,

While many a brave and valiant man

Lay slaughtered on the field.

Our troops marched out from Forty Fort

The third day of July,

Three hundred strong, they marched along,

The fate of war to try.

But oh! alas! three hundred men

Is much too small a band

To meet eight hundred men complete,

And make a glorious stand.

Four miles they marchèd from the Fort

Their enemy to meet,

Too far indeed did Butler lead,

To keep a safe retreat.

And now the fatal hour is come--

They bravely charge the foe,

And they, with ire, returned the fire,

Which prov'd our overthrow.

Some minutes they sustained the fire,

But ere they were aware,

They were encompassed all around,

Which prov'd a fatal snare.

And then they did attempt to fly,

But all was now in vain,

Their little host--by far the most--

Was by those Indians slain.

And as they fly, for quarters cry;

Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!

Hard to relate--their dreadful fate,

No quarters must be given.

With bitter cries and mournful sighs,

They seek some safe retreat,

Run here and there, they know not where,

Till awful death they meet.

Their piercing cries salute the skies--

Mercy is all their cry:

"Our souls prepare God's grace to share,

We instantly must die."

Some men yet found are flying round

Sagacious to get clear;

In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!

They front the flank and rear.

And now the foe hath won the day,

Methinks their words are these:

"Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,

Will this your Congress please?

"Your pardons crave, you them shall have,

Behold them in our hands;

We'll all agree to set you free,

By dashing out your brains.

"And as for you, enlisted crew,

We'll raise your honors higher:

Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,

In yonder burning fire."

Then naked in those flames they're cast,

Too dreadful 'tis to tell,

Where they must fry, and burn and die,

While cursed Indians yell.

Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,--

The youth, and hoary head,

Were by those monsters murdered there,

And numbered with the dead.

Methinks I hear some sprightly youth

His mournful state condole:

"Oh, that my tender parents knew

The anguish of my soul!

"But oh! there's none to save my life,

Or heed my dreadful fear;

I see the tomahawk and knife,

And the more glittering spear.

"When years ago, I dandled was

Upon my parents' knees,

I little thought I should be brought

To feel such pangs as these.

"I hoped for many a joyful day,

I hoped for riches' store--

These golden dreams are fled away;

I straight shall be no more.

"Farewell, fond mother; late I was

Locked up in your embrace;

Your heart would ache, and even break,

If you could know my case.

"Farewell, indulgent parents dear,

I must resign my breath;

I now must die, and here must lie

In the cold arms of death.

"For oh! the fatal hour is come,

I see the bloody knife,--

The Lord have mercy on my soul!"

And quick resigned his life.

A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,

Pursue the doleful theme;

It is no fancy to delude,

Nor transitory dream.

The Forty Fort was the resort

For mother and for child,

To save them from the cruel rage

Of the fierce savage wild.

Now, when the news of this defeat

Had sounded in our ears,

You well may know our dreadful woe,

And our foreboding fears.

A doleful sound is whispered round,

The sun now hides his head;

The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,

We all shall soon be dead.

How can we bear the dreadful spear,

The tomahawk and knife?

And if we run, the awful gun

Will rob us of our life.

But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!

His hand we must adore.

He did assuage the savage rage,

That they should kill no more.

The gloomy night now gone and past,

The sun returns again,

The little birds from every bush

Seem to lament the slain.

With aching hearts and trembling hands,

We walkèd here and there,

Till through the northern pines we saw

A flag approaching near.

Some men were chose to meet this flag,

Our colonel was the chief,

Who soon returned and in his mouth

He brought an olive leaf.

This olive leaf was granted life,

But then we must no more

Pretend to fight with Britain's king,

Until the wars are o'er.

And now poor Westmoreland is lost,

Our forts are all resigned,

Our buildings they are all on fire,--

What shelter can we find?

They did agree in black and white,

If we'd lay down our arms,

That all who pleased might quietly

Remain upon their farms.

But oh! they've robbed us of our all,

They've taken all but life,

And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,

If this may end the strife.

And now I've told my mournful tale,

I hope you'll all agree

To help our cause and break the jaws

Of cruel tyranny.

URIAH TERRY.

CHAPTER VIII

THE WAR ON THE WATER

At the outbreak of the Revolution, the colonies had no navy,

but a number of cruisers and privateers were soon fitted out,

and by the end of 1776 nearly three hundred British vessels had

fallen into the hands of the Americans. This activity was kept

up during the succeeding year, the cruise of the Fair American,

as described in the old ballad of that name, being one of the

most noteworthy.

THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN

[1777]

The twenty-second of August,

Before the close of day,

All hands on board of our privateer,

We got her under weigh;

We kept the Eastern shore along,

For forty leagues or more,

Then our departure took for sea,

From the isle of Mauhegan shore.

Bold Hawthorne was commander,

A man of real worth,

Old England's cruel tyranny

Induced him to go forth;

She, with relentless fury,

Was plundering all our coast,

And thought, because her strength was great,

Our glorious cause was lost.

Yet boast not, haughty Britons,

Of power and dignity,

By land thy conquering armies,

Thy matchless strength at sea;

Since taught by numerous instances

Americans can fight,

With valor can equip their stand,

Your armies put to flight.

Now farewell to fair America,

Farewell our friends and wives;

We trust in Heaven's peculiar care

For to protect their lives;

To prosper our intended cruise

Upon the raging main,

And to preserve our dearest friends

Till we return again.

The wind it being leading,

It bore us on our way,

As far unto the southward

As the Gulf of Florida;

Where we fell in with a British ship,

Bound homeward from the main;

We gave her two bow-chasers,

And she returned the same.

We haulèd up our courses,

And so prepared for fight;

The contest held four glasses,

Until the dusk of night;

Then having sprung our main-mast,

And had so large a sea,

We dropped astern and left our chase

Till the returning day.

Next morn we fished our main-mast,

The ship still being nigh,

All hands made for engaging,

Our chance once more to try;

But wind and sea being boisterous,

Our cannon would not bear,

We thought it quite imprudent

And so we left her there.

We cruisèd to the eastward,

Near the coast of Portugal,

In longitude of twenty-seven

We saw a lofty sail;

We gave her chase, and soon perceived

She was a British snow

Standing for fair America,

With troops for General Howe.

Our captain did inspect her

With glasses, and he said,

"My boys, she means to fight us,

But be you not afraid;

All hands repair to quarters,

See everything is clear,

We'll give her a broadside, my boys,

As soon as she comes near."

She was prepared with nettings,

And her men were well secured,

And bore directly for us,

And put us close on board;

When the cannon roared like thunder,

And the muskets fired amain,

But soon we were alongside

And grappled to her chain.

And now the scene it altered,

The cannon ceased to roar,

We fought with swords and boarding-pikes

One glass or something more,

Till British pride and glory

No longer dared to stay,

But cut the Yankee grapplings,

And quickly bore away.

Our case was not so desperate

As plainly might appear;

Yet sudden death did enter

On board our privateer.

Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons,

The valiant and the brave,

Fell glorious in the contest,

And met a watery grave.

Ten other men were wounded

Among our warlike crew,

With them our noble captain,

To whom all praise is due;

To him and all our officers

Let's give a hearty cheer;

Success to fair America

And our good privateer.

The Americans were not without their losses, and one of the

most serious occurred early in 1778. On the morning of March

7, the 32-gun frigate Randolph, Captain Nicholas Biddle, while

cruising off Barbadoes, fell in with the English 64-gun ship

of the line Yarmouth, and attacked immediately. The fight had

lasted about an hour when the Randolph's magazine was in some

way fired, and the ship blew up. Of the crew of three hundred

and fifteen, only four were saved.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE

[March 7, 1778]

What distant thunders rend the skies,

What clouds of smoke in volumes rise,

What means this dreadful roar!

Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,

Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,

Or Etna's self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear;

And lo! two hostile ships appear,

Red lightnings round them glow:

The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,

The Randolph thirty-two--no more--

And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams

Shall coast along the land of dreams,

The islands of the dead!

But fate, that parts them on the deep,

Shall save the Briton, still to weep

His ancient honors fled.

Say, who commands that dismal blaze,

Where yonder starry streamer plays;

Does Mars with Jove engage!

'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,

Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires

With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball

Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;

Her bravest sons expire;

Did Mars himself approach so nigh,

Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly

The Randolph's fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew,

"And shall we strike to _thirty-two_"

(Said Hector, stained with gore);

"Shall Britain's flag to these descend--

Rise, and the glorious conflict end,

Britons, I ask no more!"

He spoke--they charged their cannon round,

Again the vaulted heavens resound,

The Randolph bore it all,

Then fixed her pointed cannons true--

Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;

Britain, the warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,

Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,

Her boldest heroes dead--

She saw amidst her floating slain

The conquering Randolph stem the main--

She saw, she turned, and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,

Dear Biddle, had the powers divine

Been kind as thou wert brave;

But fate, who doomed thee to expire,

Prepared an arrow tipped with fire,

And marked a watery grave,

And in that hour when conquest came

Winged at his ship a pointed flame

That not even _he_ could shun--

The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled,

The bursting Randolph ruin spread,

And lost what honor won.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Among the most successful of the Yankee privateers was the

Providence, and her most famous exploit was performed in July,

1779, when she attacked a fleet of merchantmen, under convoy

of a ship of the line and some cruisers, and captured ten

prizes, nine of which, valued at over a million dollars, were

got safely to Boston. The Providence was commanded by Abraham

Whipple, the hero of the Gaspee exploit and of a hundred others.

THE YANKEE PRIVATEER

[July, 1779]

Come listen and I'll tell you

How first I went to sea,

To fight against the British

And earn our liberty.

We shipped with Cap'n Whipple

Who never knew a fear,

The Captain of the Providence,

The Yankee Privateer.

We sailed and we sailed

And made good cheer,

There were many pretty men

On the Yankee Privateer.

The British Lord High Admiral

He wished old Whipple harm,

He wrote that he would hang him

At the end of his yard arm.

"My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back,

"It seems to me it's clear

That if you want to hang him,

You must catch your Privateer."

We sailed and we sailed

And made good cheer,

For not a British frigate

Could come near the Privateer.

We sailed to the south'ard,

And nothing did we meet,

Till we found three British frigates

And their West Indian fleet.

Old Whipple shut our ports

As we crawled up near,

And he sent us all below

On the Yankee Privateer.

So slowly he sailed

We dropped to the rear,

And not a soul suspected

The Yankee Privateer.

At night we put the lights out

And forward we ran

And silently we boarded

The biggest merchantman.

We knocked down the watch,--

And the lubbers shook for fear,

She's a prize without a shot

To the Yankee Privateer.

We sent the prize north

While we lay near

And all day we slept

On the bold Privateer.

For ten nights we followed,

And ere the moon rose,

Each night a prize we'd taken

Beneath the Lion's nose.

When the British looked to see

Why their ships should disappear,

They found they had in convoy

A Yankee Privateer.

But we sailed and sailed

And made good cheer!

Not a coward was on board

Of the Yankee Privateer.

The biggest British frigate

Bore round to give us chase,

But though he was the fleeter

Old Whipple wouldn't race,

Till he'd raked her fore and aft,

For the lubbers couldn't steer,

Then he showed them the heels

Of the Yankee Privateer.

Then we sailed and we sailed

And we made good cheer,

For not a British frigate

Could come near the Privateer.

Then northward we sailed

To the town we all know,

And there lay our prizes

All anchored in a row;

And welcome were we

To our friends so dear,

And we shared a million dollars

On the bold Privateer.

We'd sailed and we'd sailed

And we made good cheer,

We had all full pockets

On the bold Privateer.

Then we each manned a ship

And our sails we unfurled,

And we bore the Stars and Stripes

O'er the oceans of the world.

From the proud flag of Britain

We swept the seas clear,

And we earned our independence

On the Yankee Privateer.

Then landsmen and sailors,

One more cheer!

Here is three times three

For the Yankee Privateer!

ARTHUR HALE.

The achievements of other American naval captains were soon

eclipsed by those of John Paul Jones, a Scotch sailor, settled

in Virginia, who, at the outbreak of the war, offered his

services to Congress. In 1776, on board the Alfred, in the

Delaware River, he raised the first flag of the Revolution,--a

pine tree, with a rattlesnake coiled at the foot, and the

motto, "Don't tread on me."

PAUL JONES

A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer,

Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover,

For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer,"

And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over,

In their channel and coast,

He scattered their host,

And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast,

And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fear

Of Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land,

Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor,

He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command,

And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor,

'Twas his hand that raised

The first flag that blazed,

And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd,

For hundreds of foes met a watery bier

From Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crew

That strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered;

Remember his valor at proud Flamborough,

When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard;

Oh! he robbed of their store

The vessels sent o'er

To feed all the Tories and foes on our shore,

He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revere

The name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.

In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about

the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the

Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and

captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight.

With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to

Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was

fitting out for the following year.

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR

[1778]

'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,

And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the

pitch-pine spars,--

With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,

On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,

As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;

With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,

And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,

And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!

And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout

main-tack,

But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.

The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,

And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,

And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each

hour,

And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford

Tower.

The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three,

Her spanker and her standing jib--the courses being free;

"Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!"

And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?

'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's,

For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four

We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past--

"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!"

Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered

ark,

And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot

bark.

"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her

sheet,"

And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British

fleet,

And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,

Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

The new squadron sailed for the English coast in the summer

of 1779. It consisted of the flagship--a clumsy old Indiaman

called the Duras, whose name Jones changed to Bon Homme

Richard--and four consorts. The summer was spent in cruising

about the British coast and so much damage was done that Paul

Jones became a sort of bogey to all England.

PAUL JONES--A NEW SONG

Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four,

That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er,

For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones,

As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.

Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue,

At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,

The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoans

The losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.

How happy for England, would Fortune but sweep

At once all her treacherous foes to the deep;

For the land under burthens most bitterly groans,

To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.

To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend,

In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend,

May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd,

Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!

If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd,

The Leaders in office to shove from the board;

May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bones

Of Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!

On September 23, 1779, the little squadron sighted a British

fleet of forty sail off Flamborough Head. They were merchantmen

bound for the Baltic under convoy of the Serapis, forty-four,

and the Countess of Scarborough, twenty. Captain Jones

instantly gave chase, ordering his consorts to form in line

of battle, but the Alliance, whose command had been given to

a Frenchman, ran off to some distance, leaving the Richard to

attack the Serapis single-handed, while the Pallas took care of

the Scarborough.

PAUL JONES

[September 23, 1779]

An American frigate from Baltimore came,

Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name;

Went to cruise in the channel of old England,

With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.

We had not sail'd long before we did espy

A large forty-four, and a twenty close by:

These two warlike ships, full laden with store,

Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.

At the hour of twelve, Pierce came alongside.

With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried;

"Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before,

Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."

Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run:

Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;"

When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen,

We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.

We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot,

Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot,

And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore,

Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.

Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,

"Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;"

Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride,

"If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."

At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:

The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down,

The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake,

Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.

Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize,

A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;

They are both noble vessels, well laden with store!

We will toss off the can to our country once more.

God help the poor widows, who shortly must weep

For the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep!

We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand,

Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.

The Serapis was greatly superior to the Richard in armament and

fighting qualities, but Jones succeeded in running his vessel

into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their

yardarms interlocked and both ships were soon covered with dead

and wounded. At the end of two hours, the Serapis was on fire;

but the Richard was already sinking. Half an hour later the

Serapis surrendered. The Richard was kept afloat with great

difficulty until morning, when she sank.

THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS

[September 23, 1779]

O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet,

The guardian of a numerous fleet,

Serapis from the Baltic came:

A ship of less tremendous force

Sail'd by her side the self-same course,

Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.

And now their native coasts appear,

Britannia's hills their summits rear

Above the German main;

Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,

They southward coast along the shore,

Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.

Full forty guns Serapis bore,

And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,

Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars--

What flag that rides the Gallic seas

Shall dare attack such piles as these,

Design'd for tumults and for wars!

Now from the top-mast's giddy height

A seaman cry'd--"Four sail in sight

Approach with favoring gales."

Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,

Stood off to sea, these ships to meet,

And closely brac'd his shivering sails.

With him advanc'd the Countess bold,

Like a black tar in wars grown old:

And now these floating piles drew nigh.

But, muse, unfold what chief of fame

In the other warlike squadron came,

Whose standards at his mast-head fly.

'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led

As bold a crew as ever bled

Upon the sky-surrounded main;

The standards of the western world

Were to the willing winds unfurl'd,

Denying Britain's tyrant reign.

The Good-Man-Richard led the line;

The Alliance next: with these combine

The Gallic ship they Pallas call,

The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame;

These to attack the Britons came--

But _two_ accomplish'd all.

Now Phoebus sought his pearly bed:

But who can tell the scenes of dread,

The horrors of that fatal night!

Close up these floating castles came:

The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame;

Serapis trembled at the sight.

She felt the fury of _her_ ball:

Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall;

The decks were strew'd with slain:

Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;

And, while the black artillery flash'd,

Loud thunders shook the main.

Alas! that mortals should employ

Such murdering engines to destroy

That frame by heaven so nicely join'd;

Alas! that e'er the god decreed

That brother should by brother bleed,

And pour'd such madness in the mind.

But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear,

The rights of man demand your care:

For _these_ you dare the greedy waves.

No tyrant, on destruction bent,

Has plann'd thy conquest--thou art sent

To humble tyrants and their slaves.

See!--dread Serapis flames again--

And art thou, Jones, among the slain,

And sunk to Neptune's caves below?--

He lives--though crowds around him fall,

Still he, unhurt, survives them all;

Almost alone he fights the foe.

And can your ship these strokes sustain?

Behold your brave companions slain,

All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace;

STRIKE, OR BE SUNK--the Briton cries--

SINK IF YOU CAN--the chief replies,

Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.

Then to the side three guns he drew

(Almost deserted by his crew),

And charg'd them deep with woe;

By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls;

His main-mast totters--down it falls--

O'erwhelming half below.

Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield,

But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,

And thus was heard to cry--

"With hell, not mortals, I contend;

What art thou--human, or a fiend,

That dost my force defy?

"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"--

So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;

But call'd, alas! in vain;

Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;

Some to their deep recesses fled,

And hosts were shrouded in the main.

Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,

He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,

And yielded to his gallant foe;

Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,--

Thus both their haughty colors struck,

Confessing what the brave can do.

But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy

These ships possest so gloriously,

Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:

Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,

That the proud Briton overcame,

Even she forsook thee on thy way;

For when the morn began to shine,

Fatal to her, the ocean brine

Pour'd through each spacious wound;

Quick in the deep she disappear'd;

But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,

With conquest and with glory crown'd.

Go on, great man, to scourge the foe,

And bid these haughty Britons know

They to our _Thirteen Stars_ shall bend;

Those _Stars_ that, veil'd in dark attire,

Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,

But radiant now ascend.

Bend to the Stars that flaming rise

In western, not in eastern, skies,

Fair Freedom's reign restored--

So when the Magi, come from far,

Beheld the God-attending Star,

They trembled and ador'd.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Another remarkable action was that between the Hyder Ali

and the General Monk. The latter, a cruiser mounting twenty

nine-pounders, had been harassing the American shipping in

Delaware Bay, and the merchants of Philadelphia finally

equipped the Hyder Ali, an old merchantman, with sixteen

six-pounders, put Joshua Barney in command and started him

after the British ship.

BARNEY'S INVITATION

[April, 1782]

Come all ye lads who know no fear,

To wealth and honor with me steer

In the Hyder Ali privateer,

Commanded by brave Barney.

She's new and true, and tight and sound,

Well rigged aloft, and all well found--

Come away and be with laurel crowned,

Away--and leave your lasses.

Accept our terms without delay,

And make your fortunes while you may,

Such offers are not every day

In the power of the jolly sailor.

Success and fame attend the brave,

But death the coward and the slave,

Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave,

To seek the bold invaders.

Come, then, and take a cruising bout,

Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,

She has been tried both in and out,

And answers expectation.

Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,

Distress our trade, insult our shore--

Teach them to know their reign is o'er,

Bold Philadelphia sailors!

We'll teach them how to sail so near,

Or to venture on the Delaware,

When we in warlike trim appear

And cruise without Henlopen.

Who cannot wounds and battle dare

Shall never clasp the blooming fair;

The brave alone their charms should share,

The brave are their protectors.

With hand and heart united all,

Prepared to conquer or to fall,

Attend, my lads, to honor's call,

Embark in our Hyder Ali.

From an Eastern prince she takes her name,

Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,

Usurping Britons brought to shame,

His country's wrongs avenging;

See, on her stern the waving stars--

Inured to blood, inured to wars,

Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,

To scourge these warlike Britons.

Here's grog enough--then drink a bout,

I know your hearts are firm and stout;

American blood will never give out,

And often we have proved it.

Though stormy oceans round us roll,

We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,

Befriended by the cheering bowl,

Sworn foes to melancholy:

When timorous landsmen lurk on shore,

'Tis ours to go where cannons roar--

On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,

Despisers of all danger;

And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,

Shall guard us over the gloomy wave;

A fearful heart betrays the knave--

Success to the Hyder Ali.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The Hyder Ali sailed down the bay April 8, 1782, and met the

Englishman near the capes. By skilful manoeuvring, Barney

was able to rake his antagonist; then, lashing fast, poured

several broadsides in rapid succession into the enemy, who

struck their colors at the end of thirty minutes.

SONG

ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY OVER THE SHIP GENERAL MONK

[April 8, 1782]

O'er the waste of waters cruising,

Long the General Monk had reigned;

All subduing, all reducing,

None her lawless rage restrained:

Many a brave and hearty fellow

Yielding to this warlike foe,

When her guns began to bellow

Struck his humbled colors low.

But grown bold with long successes,

Leaving the wide watery way,

She, a stranger to distresses,

Came to cruise within Cape May:

"Now we soon (said Captain Rogers)

Shall their men of commerce meet;

In our hold we'll have them lodgers,

We shall capture half their fleet.

"Lo! I see their van appearing--

Back our topsails to the mast--

They toward us full are steering

With a gentle western blast:

I've a list of all their cargoes,

All their guns, and all their men:

I am sure these modern Argos

Can't escape us one in ten:

"Yonder comes the Charming Sally

Sailing with the General Greene--

First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,

Taking her is taking them:

She intends to give us battle,

Bearing down with all her sail--

Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!

To take her we cannot fail.

"Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder,

Soon shall terrify this foe;

We shall maul her, we shall wound her,

Bringing rebel colors low."--

While he thus anticipated

Conquests that he could not gain,

He in the Cape May channel waited

For the ship that caused his pain.

Captain Barney then preparing,

Thus addressed his gallant crew--

"Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,

Let your hearts be firm and true;

This is a proud English cruiser,

Roving up and down the main,

We must fight her--must reduce her,

Though our decks be strewed with slain.

"Let who will be the survivor,

We must conquer or must die,

We must take her up the river,

Whate'er comes of you or I:

Though she shows most formidable

With her eighteen pointed nines,

And her quarters clad in sable,

Let us balk her proud designs.

"With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixes

We will face that daring band;

Let no dangers damp your courage,

Nothing can the brave withstand.

Fighting for your country's honor,

Now to gallant deeds aspire;

Helmsman, bear us down upon her,

Gunner, give the word to fire!"

Then yardarm and yardarm meeting,

Strait began the dismal fray,

Cannon mouths, each other greeting,

Belched their smoky flames away:

Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,

That from Barney's cannons flew,

Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,

Killed and wounded half her crew.

Captain Rogers strove to rally

But they from their quarters fled,

While the roaring Hyder Ali

Covered o'er his decks with dead.

When from their tops their dead men tumbled,

And the streams of blood did flow,

Then their proudest hopes were humbled

By their brave inferior foe.

All aghast, and all confounded,

They beheld their champions fall,

And their captain, sorely wounded,

Bade them quick for quarters call.

Then the Monk's proud flag descended,

And her cannon ceased to roar;

By her crew no more defended,

She confessed the contest o'er.

Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,

You have humbled one proud foe,

No brave action this surpasses,

Fame shall tell the nation so--

Thus be Britain's woes completed,

Thus abridged her cruel reign,

Till she ever, thus defeated,

Yields the sceptre of the main.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The last naval action of the war occurred December 19, 1782,

when the American ship, South Carolina, forty guns, was chased

and captured, off the Delaware, by the British ships Quebec,

Diomede, and Astrea, carrying ninety-eight guns. A few days

later a ballad describing the affair appeared in the loyalist

papers as a letter "from a dejected Jonathan, a prisoner taken

in the South Carolina, to his brother Ned at Philadelphia."

THE SOUTH CAROLINA

[December 19, 1782]

My dear brother Ned,

We are knock'd on the head,

No more let America boast;

We may all go to bed,

And that's enough said,

For the South Carolina we've lost.

The pride of our eyes,

I swear is a prize,

You never will see her again,

Unless thro' surprise,

You are brought where she lies,

A prisoner from the false main.

Oh Lord! what a sight!--

I was struck with affright,

When the Diomede's shot round us fell,

I feared that in spite,

They'd have slain us outright,

And sent us directly to h--l.

The Quebec did fire,

Or I'm a curs'd liar,

And the Astrea came up apace;

We could not retire

From the confounded fire,

They all were so eager in chase.

The Diomede's shot

Was damnation hot,

She was several times in a blaze;

It was not my lot

To go then to pot,

But I veow, I was struck with amaze.

And Ned, may I die,

Or be pok'd in a sty,

If ever I venture again

Where bullets do fly,

And the wounded do cry,

Tormented with anguish and pain.

The Hope, I can tell,

And the brig Constance fell,

I swear, and I veow, in our sight;

The first I can say,

Was taken by day,

But the latter was taken at night.

I die to relate

What has been our fate,

How sadly our navies are shrunk;

The pride of our State

Begins to abate,

For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.

The Congress must bend,

We shall fall in the end,

For the curs'd British sarpents are tough;

But, I think as you find,

I have enough penn'd

Of such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.

Yet how vexing to find

We are left all behind,

That by sad disappointment we're cross'd;

Ah, fortune unkind!

Thou afflicted'st my mind,

When the South Carolina we lost.

Our enemy vile,

Cunning Digby does smile,

Is pleasèd at our mischance;

He useth each wile

Our fleets to beguile,

And to check our commerce with France.

No more as a friend,

Our ships to defend,

Of South Carolina we boast;

As a foe in the end,

She will us attend,

For the South Carolina we've lost.

CHAPTER IX

NEW YORK AND THE "NEUTRAL GROUND"

For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth, Sir

Henry Clinton remained cooped up in New York, while Washington,

established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him.

The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of

Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York

was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put

to work on the fortifications.

SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES

[1779]

Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,

Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!

For the sake of our King,

Come labor and sing.

You left all you had for his honor and glory,

And he will remember the suffering Tory.

We have, it is true,

Some small work to do;

But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,

And never regard what the rebels may say,

But throw off your jerkins and labor away.

To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,

To pull down old houses and dig the canal,

To build and destroy,

Be this your employ,

In the daytime to work at our fortifications,

And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.

The King wants your aid,

Not empty parade;

Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,

Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;

This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.

Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,

The French and the rebels are coming next summer,

And the forts we must build

Though the Tories are killed.

Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,

For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.

If York we can hold,

I'll have you enroll'd;

And after you're dead, your names shall be read,

As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,

And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.

'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,

And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.

Then scour up your mortars,

And stand to your quarters,

'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,

They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;

Their hearts should not fail 'em,

No balls will assail 'em,

Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,

For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,

Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing

the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a

garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of

fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington,

nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the

task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men

for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed

the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the

outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by

storm.

THE STORMING OF STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,

Night on the stars of their battle-flag,

Threading the maze of the dark morass

Under the frown of the Thunder Crag;

Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,

Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,

Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,

Grim in the promise of work to do.

"Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!

Let not a whisper your march betray!

Out with the flint from the musket lock!

Now! let the bayonet find the way!"

"Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.

Swift came the shot of the waking foe.

Bright flashed the axe of the Pioneer

Smashing the abatis, blow on blow.

Little they tarried for British might!

Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!

Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,

Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!

Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once more

Sentinel giants of Freedom's throne,

Massive and proud! to the Eastern shore

Bellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"

Echo our cheers for the Men of old!

Shout for the Hero who led his band

Braving the death that his heart foretold

Over the parapet, "spear in hand!"

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

WAYNE AT STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

'Twas 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 aftertime!

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.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the

boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron

Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike

expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the

charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at

least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart

of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours

with her.

AARON BURR'S WOOING

From the commandant's quarters on Westchester height

The blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:

On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,

But the redcoats are wary--the Hudson's between.

Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon--'twill be dark;

'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"

And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,

And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"

Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,

Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,

Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.

Not a word--not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!

Once across, once again in the seat and away--

Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;

And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path know

To the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.

Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,

Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,

Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.

With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;

Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.

Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,

And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow--

Half in smiles, half in tears--Theodosia Prevost.

Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!

What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,

Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's view

Like this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?

She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,

For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;

British gallants by day through her doors come and go,

But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.

Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,

When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?

Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,

And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past--

But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;

Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,

When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,

He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the

American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he

advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene

was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans

to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared

not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton

retreated toward Elizabethtown.

THE MODERN JONAS

[June 23, 1780]

You know there goes a tale,

How Jonas went on board a whale,

Once, for a frolic;

And how the whale

Set sail

And got the cholic;

And, after a great splutter,

Spew'd him up upon the coast,

Just like woodcock on a toast,

With trail and butter.

There also goes a joke,

How Clinton went on board the Duke

Count Rochambeau to fight;

As he didn't fail

To set sail

The first fair gale,

For once we thought him right;

But, after a great clutter,

He turn'd back along the coast,

And left the French to make their boast,

And Englishmen to mutter.

Just so, not long before,

Old Knyp,

And old Clip

Went to the Jersey shore,

The rebel rogues to beat;

But, at Yankee farms,

They took alarms,

At little harms,

And quickly did retreat.

Then after two days' wonder,

March'd boldly up to Springfield town,

And swore they'd knock the rebels down.

But as their foes

Gave them some blows,

They, like the wind,

Soon changed their mind.

And, in a crack,

Returned back,

From not one third their number.

On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British

passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set

it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them

shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was

kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge

described in Mr. Harte's poem.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

[June 23, 1780]

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height

Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right

Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,--

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.

Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,

Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard

Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word

Down at Springfield? What, No? Come--that's bad; why he had

All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name

Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,

For he loved the Lord God,--and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day

Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way

At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,

Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew

But God--and that one of the hireling crew

Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay,

And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand

By the old church to-day;--think of him and his band

Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat

Of that reckless advance,--of that straggling retreat!

Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,--

And what could you, what should you, what would you do?

Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch

For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,

Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road

With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load

At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,

Rang his voice,--"Put Watts into 'em,--Boys, give 'em Watts!"

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow

Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,--

But not always a hero like this,--and that's all.

BRET HARTE.

Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a

blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was

a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780,

General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland

troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the

American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by

the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair

which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called

"The Cow-Chace."

THE COW-CHACE

[July 21, 1780]

CANTO I

To drive the kine one summer's morn,

The Tanner took his way;

The calf shall rue that is unborn

The jumbling of that day.

And Wayne descending steers shall know,

And tauntingly deride;

And call to mind in every low,

The tanning of _his_ hide.

Yet Bergen cows still ruminate,

Unconscious in the stall,

What mighty means were used to get,

And loose them after all.

For many heroes bold and brave,

From Newbridge and Tappan,

And those that drink Passaic's wave,

And those who eat supawn;

And sons of distant Delaware,

And still remoter Shannon,

And Major Lee with horses rare,

And Proctor with his cannon.

All wond'rous proud in arms they came,

What hero could refuse

To tread the rugged path to fame,

Who had a pair of shoes!

At six, the host with sweating buff,

Arrived at Freedom's pole;

When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough,

Thus speechified the whole:

"O ye, whom glory doth unite,

Who Freedom's cause espouse;

Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight,

Or that to drive the cows,

"Ere yet you tempt your further way,

Or into action come,

Hear, soldiers, what I have to say,

And take a pint of rum.

"Intemp'rate valor then will string

Each nervous arm the better;

So all the land shall I O sing,

And read the Gen'ral's letter.

"Know that some paltry refugees,

Whom I've a mind to fright,

Are playing h--l amongst the trees

That grow on yonder height.

"Their fort and blockhouses we'll level,

And deal a horrid slaughter;

We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil,

And ravish wife and daughter.

"I, under cover of th' attack,

Whilst you are all at blows,

From English neighb'rhood and Nyack,

Will drive away the cows;

"For well you know the latter is

The serious operation,

And fighting with the refugees

Is only demonstration."

His daring words, from all the crowd,

Such great applause did gain,

That every man declar'd aloud

For serious work with Wayne.

Then from the cask of rum once more,

They took a heady gill;

When one and all, they loudly swore,

They'd fight upon the hill.

But here--the Muse hath not a strain

Befitting such great deeds;

Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne,

And shouting,--did their needs.

CANTO II

Near his meridian pomp, the sun

Had journey'd from th' horizon;

When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on,

Of heroes drunk as pison.

The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths,

Reëchoed through the wood;

Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes,

And some to swim in blood.

At Irving's nod 'twas fine to see

The left prepare to fight;

The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,

Drew off upon the right.

Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate,

Nor can the Muse assist her;

Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat,

Or he that gives a clyster.

For greatly one was signaliz'd,

That fought on Chestnut Hill;

And Canada immortaliz'd

The vender of the pill.

Yet their attendance upon Proctor,

They both might have to boast of;

For there was business for the doctor,

And hats to be disposed of.

Let none uncandidly infer,

That Stirling wanted spunk;

The self-made peer had sure been there,

But that the peer was drunk.

But turn we to the Hudson's banks,

Where stood the modest train,

With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,

Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.

For them the unrelenting hand

Of rebel fury drove,

And tore from ev'ry genial band

Of friendship and of love.

And some within the dungeon's gloom,

By mock tribunals laid,

Had waited long a cruel doom

Impending o'er each head.

Here one bewails a brother's fate,

There one a sire demands,

Cut off, alas! before their date,

By ignominious hands.

And silver'd grandsires here appear'd

In deep distress serene,

Of reverent manners that declar'd

The better days they'd seen.

Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,

Thine all these tales of woe;

Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine

Blood never cease to flow?

And now the foe began to lead

His forces to th' attack;

Balls whistling unto balls succeed,

And make the blockhouse crack.

No shot could pass, if you will take

The Gen'ral's word for true;

But 'tis a d----ble mistake,

For ev'ry shot went thro'.

The firmer as the rebels press'd,

The loyal heroes stand;

Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,

And industry each hand.

In valor's frenzy, Hamilton

Rode like a soldier big,

And Secretary Harrison,

With pen stuck in his wig.

But lest their chieftain, Washington,

Should mourn them in the mumps,

The fate of Withrington to shun,

They fought behind the stumps.

But ah, Thaddeus Posset, why

Should thy poor soul elope?

And why should Titus Hooper die,

Ay, die--without a rope?

Apostate Murphy, thou to whom

Fair Shela ne'er was cruel,

In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,

"Och! would ye die, my jewel?"

Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,

Of melancholy fate;

The gray goose stolen as he went,

In his heart's blood was wet.

Now, as the fight was further fought,

And balls began to thicken,

The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,

The color of a lickin'.

Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,

And to redeem the day,

Cry, SOLDIERS, CHARGE! they hear, they stand,

They turn and run away.

CANTO III

Not all delights the bloody spear,

Or horrid din of battle;

There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hear

A word about the cattle.

The chief whom we beheld of late,

Near Schralenberg haranging,

At Yan Van Poop's unconscious sat

Of Irving's hearty banging.

Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,

Most bravely did oppose

The tears of woman and of child,

Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.

But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,

Required a relief,

Not all the blessings could impart

Of battle or of beef.

For now a prey to female charms,

His soul took more delight in

A lovely hamadryad's arms,

Than cow-driving or fighting.

A nymph the refugees had drove

Far from her native tree,

Just happen'd to be on the move,

When up came Wayne and Lee.

She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye,

The hero saw portray'd,

And all in tears she took him by--

The bridle of his jade.

"Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander!

No human lamentations;

The trees you see them cutting yonder,

Are all my near relations.

"And I, forlorn! implore thine aid,

To free the sacred grove;

So shall thy prowess be repaid

With an immortal's love."

Now some, to prove she was a goddess,

Said this enchanting fair

Had late retirèd from the Bodies

In all the pomp of war.

The drums and merry fifes had play'd

To honor her retreat,

And Cunningham himself convey'd

The lady through the street.

Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd,

To no inquiry stoops,

But takes the fair afflicted maid

Right into Yan Van Poop's.

So Roman Anthony, they say,

Disgraced th' imperial banner,

And for a gypsy lost a day,

Like Anthony the tanner.

The hamadryad had but half

Receiv'd redress from Wayne,

When drums and colors, cow and calf,

Came down the road amain.

And in a cloud of dust was seen

The sheep, the horse, the goat,

The gentle heifer, ass obscene,

The yearling and the shoat.

And pack-horses with fowls came by,

Be-feather'd on each side,

Like Pegasus, the horse that I

And other poets ride.

Sublime upon his stirrups rose

The mighty Lee behind,

And drove the terror-smitten cows

Like chaff before the wind.

But sudden see the woods above

Pour down another corps,

All helter-skelter in a drove,

Like that I sung before.

Irving and terror in the van,

Came flying all abroad;

And cannon, colors, horse, and man,

Ran tumbling to the road.

Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry,

And his example too,

"Run on, my merry men--for why?

The shot will not go thro'."

As when two kennels in the street,

Swell'd with a recent rain,

In gushing streams together meet

And seek the neighboring drain;

So met these dung-born tribes in one,

As swift in their career,

And so to Newbridge they ran on--

But all the cows got clear.

Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder,

Saw the returning train,

And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunder

For them to steal again.

For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, and

To share with each commander,

As he had done at Staten Island

With frost-bit Alexander.

In his dismay, the frantic priest

Began to grow prophetic;

You'd swore, to see his laboring breast,

He'd taken an emetic.

"I view a future day," said he,

"Brighter than this dark day is;

And you shall see what you shall see,

Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!

"And he shall come to Paulus Hook,

And great achievements think on;

And make a bow and take a look,

Like Satan over Lincoln.

"And every one around shall glory

To see the Frenchman caper;

And pretty Susan tell the story

In the next Chatham paper."

This solemn prophecy, of course,

Gave all much consolation,

Except to Wayne, who lost his horse

Upon that great occasion.

His horse that carried all his prog,

His military speeches,

His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,

Blue stockings and brown breeches.

And now I've clos'd my epic strain,

I tremble as I show it,

Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,

Should ever catch the poet.

JOHN ANDRÉ.

The last stanza was singularly prophetic. The Americans relied

for the defence of the Hudson upon the impregnable position at

West Point, to the command of which Benedict Arnold had been

appointed in July, 1780. Arnold, one of the most brilliant

officers in the army, had been treated with great injustice

by Congress, and to revenge himself determined to betray

West Point into the hands of the British. He therefore opened

communication with Clinton, and on September 21 Major André was

sent to confer with the traitor. While returning to the British

lines the following night, he was captured by an American

outpost, who searched him, discovered the papers giving the

details of the plot, and took him back to the American lines,

refusing his offers of reward for his release.

BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY

[September 23, 1780]

Come all you brave Americans,

And unto me give ear,

And I'll sing you a ditty

That will your spirits cheer,

Concerning a young gentleman

Whose age was twenty-two;

He fought for North America,

His heart was just and true.

They took him from his dwelling,

And they did him confine,

They cast him into prison,

And kept him there a time.

But he with resolution

Resolv'd not long to stay;

He set himself at liberty,

And soon he ran away.

He with a scouting-party

Went down to Tarrytown,

Where he met a British officer,

A man of high renown,

Who says unto these gentlemen,

"You're of the British cheer,

I trust that you can tell me

If there's any danger near?"

Then up stept this young hero,

John Paulding was his name,

"Sir, tell us where you're going,

And, also, whence you came?"

"I bear the British flag, sir;

I've a pass to go this way,

I'm on an expedition,

And have no time to stay."

Then round him came this company,

And bid him to dismount;

"Come, tell us where you're going,

Give us a strict account;

For we are now resolvèd

That you shall ne'er pass by."

Upon examination

They found he was a spy.

He beggèd for his liberty,

He plead for his discharge,

And oftentimes he told them,

If they'd set him at large,

"Here's all the gold and silver

I have laid up in store,

But when I reach the city,

I'll give you ten times more."

"I scorn the gold and silver

You have laid up in store,

And when you get to New York,

You need not send us more;

But you may take your sword in hand

To gain your liberty,

And if that you do conquer me,

Oh, then you shall be free."

"The time it is improper

Our valor for to try,

For if we take our swords in hand,

Then one of us must die;

I am a man of honor,

With courage true and bold,

And I fear not the man of clay,

Although he's cloth'd in gold."

He saw that his conspiracy

Would soon be brought to light;

He begg'd for pen and paper,

And askèd leave to write

A line to General Arnold,

To let him know his fate,

And beg for his assistance;

But now it was too late.

When the news it came to Arnold,

It put him in a fret;

He walk'd the room in trouble,

Till tears his cheek did wet;

The story soon went through the camp,

And also through the fort;

And he callèd for the Vulture

And sailèd for New York.

Now Arnold to New York has gone,

A-fighting for his king,

And left poor Major André

On the gallows for to swing;

When he was executed,

He look'd both meek and mild;

He look'd upon the people,

And pleasantly he smil'd.

It mov'd each eye with pity,

Caus'd every heart to bleed,

And every one wished him releas'd

And Arnold in his stead.

He was a man of honor,

In Britain he was born;

To die upon the gallows

Most highly he did scorn.

A bumper to John Paulding!

Now let your voices sound,

Fill up your flowing glasses,

And drink his health around;

Also to those young gentlemen

Who bore him company;

Success to North America,

Ye sons of liberty!

Arnold learned of André's capture just in time to escape to a

British ship in the river, and Washington, arriving soon after,

prevented his treacherous disposition of the American forces

from being taken advantage of by the enemy.

ARNOLD

THE VILE TRAITOR

[September 25, 1780]

Arnold! the name, as heretofore,

Shall now be Benedict no more:

Since, instigated by the devil,

Thy ways are turned from good to evil.

'Tis fit we brand thee with a name

To suit thy infamy and shame;

And, since of treason thou'rt convicted,

Thy name shall be maledicted.

Unless, by way of contradiction,

We style thee Britain's Benediction.

Such blessings she, with lavish hand,

Confers on this devoted land.

For instance, only let us mention

Some proof of her benign intention;

The slaves she sends us o'er the deep,

And bribes to cut our throats in sleep.

To take our lives and scalps away,

The savage Indians keeps in pay,

And Tories worse, by half, than they.

Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,--

The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,--

Recorded Arnold's name shall stand,

While Freedom's blessings crown our land,

And odious for the blackest crimes,

Arnold shall stink to latest times.

EPIGRAM

Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow,

I love you much better than ever I did;

You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,--

But mind that you both do just what I bid."

Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me!

I will strictly adhere to all your great views;

To you I'm devoted, with all things about me--

You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."

_New Jersey Gazette_, November 1, 1780.

André was tried by court-martial September 29, and condemned

to be hanged as a spy. Clinton, with whom André was a warm

personal favorite, made a desperate effort to save him, but in

vain; and a petition from André himself that he might be shot

instead of hanged was also rejected.

ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON

[October 1, 1780]

It is not the fear of death

That damps my brow,

It is not for another breath

I ask thee now;

I can die with a lip unstirr'd

And a quiet heart--

Let but this prayer be heard

Ere I depart.

I can give up my mother's look--

My sister's kiss;

I can think of love--yet brook

A death like this!

I can give up the young fame

I burn'd to win--

All--but the spotless name

I glory in.

Thine is the power to give,

Thine to deny,

Joy for the hour I live--

Calmness to die.

By all the brave should cherish,

By my dying breath,

I ask that I may perish

By a soldier's death!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

Accordingly, on Monday, October 2, 1780, the adjutant-general

of the British army was led to the gallows, and shared the fate

which had befallen Nathan Hale four years before.

ANDRÉ

This is the place where André met that death

Whose infamy was keenest of its throes,

And in this place of bravely yielded breath

His ashes found a fifty years' repose;

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,

With those who have been kings in blood or fame,

As Honor here some compensation gave

For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,

Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,

Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed

The loving pity and regret they bore.

In view of all he lost,--his youth, his love,

And possibilities that wait the brave,

Inward and outward bound, dim visions move

Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.

The country's Father! how do we revere

His justice,--Brutus-like in its decree,--

With André-sparing mercy, still more dear

Had been his name,--if that, indeed, could be!

CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.

But Arnold, the chief offender, had escaped, and a plan was set

on foot to abduct him from the midst of the British and bring

him back to the American lines. The execution of this plot was

intrusted to John Champe, a sergeant-major in Lee's cavalry. On

the night of October 20, Champe mounted his horse and seemingly

deserted to the British, escaping a hot pursuit. He gained

Arnold's confidence, and made every arrangement to abduct him,

but was foiled at the last moment by Arnold's embarkation on

an expedition to the south.

SERGEANT CHAMPE

[October 20, 1780]

Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys,

And listen to the story,

How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night,

Set off to catch the Tory.

You see the general had got mad

To think his plans were thwarted,

And swore by all, both good and bad,

That Arnold should be carted.

So unto Lee he sent a line,

And told him all his sorrow,

And said that he must start the hunt

Before the coming morrow.

Lee found a sergeant in his camp,

Made up of bone and muscle,

Who ne'er knew fear, and many a year

With Tories had a tussle.

Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip,

All button'd up from weather,

Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip,

And soon was in the heather.

He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook,

Improving every instant--

Until a patrol, wide awake,

Descried him in the distance.

On coming up, the guard call'd out

And asked him where he's going--

To which he answer'd with his spur,

And left him in the mowing.

The bushes pass'd him like the wind,

And pebbles flew asunder,

The guard was left far, far behind,

All mix'd with mud and wonder.

Lee's troops paraded, all alive,

Although 'twas one the morning,

And counting o'er a dozen or more,

One sergeant is found wanting.

A little hero, full of spunk,

But not so full of judgment,

Press'd Major Lee to let him go,

With the bravest of his reg'ment.

Lee summon'd cornet Middleton,

Expressèd what was urgent,

And gave him orders how to go

To catch the rambling sergeant.

Then forty troopers, more or less,

Set off across the meader;

'Bout thirty-nine went jogging on

A-following their leader.

At early morn, adown a hill,

They saw the sergeant sliding;

So fast he went, it was not ken't

Whether he's rode, or riding.

None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd,

A-gaining every minute.

To see them go, 'twould done you good,

You'd thought old Satan in it.

The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck,

And took another tracing,

He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook,

Elizabethtown facing.

It was the custom of Sir Hal

To send his galleys cruising,

And so it happenèd just then

That two were at Van Deusen's.

Strait unto these the sergeant went,

And left old Rip, all standing,

A-waiting for the blown cornet,

At Squire Van Deusen's landing.

The troopers didn't gallop home,

But rested from their labors;

And some 'tis said took gingerbread

And cider from the neighbors.

'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'd

The camp they left that morning.

Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee,

Gave an unwelcome warning.

"If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;"

So thought the generous major;

"I would not have his garment touch'd

For millions on a wager!"

The cornet told him all he knew,

Excepting of the cider.

The troopers, all, spurred very well,

But Champe was the best rider!

And so it happen'd that brave Champe

Unto Sir Hal deserted,

Deceiving him, and you, and me,

And into York was flirted.

He saw base Arnold in his camp,

Surrounded by the legion,

And told him of the recent prank

That threw him in that region.

Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands,

And e'enmost choked with pleasure,

Not thinking Champe was all the while

A "taking of his measure."

"Come now," says he, "my bold soldier,

As you're within our borders,

Let's drink our fill, old care to kill,

To-morrow you'll have orders."

Full soon the British fleet set sail!

Say! wasn't that a pity?

For thus it was brave Sergeant Champe

Was taken from the city.

To southern climes the shipping flew,

And anchored in Virginia,

When Champe escaped and join'd his friends

Among the picininni.

Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd,

Poor André was gibbeted;

Arnold's to blame for André's fame,

And André's to be pitied.

After the flurry consequent upon André's capture and execution,

affairs at New York settled back into the old routine. A sort

of lethargy seemed to possess the British leaders, and the

Americans grew bolder and bolder, sometimes pushing their

foraging expeditions within the British lines, and on one

occasion seizing a quantity of hay and setting fire to some

houses within sight of Clinton's quarters. The next day, the

Loyalist disgust was voiced in some verses written by Joseph

Stansbury and stuck up about the town.

A NEW SONG

[1780]

"Has the Marquis La Fayette

Taken off all our hay yet?"

Says Clinton to the wise heads around him:

"Yes, faith, Sir Harry,

Each stack he did carry,

And likewise the cattle--confound him!

"Besides, he now goes,

Just under your nose,

To burn all the houses to cinder."

"If that be his project,

It is not an object

Worth a great man's attempting to hinder.

"For forage and house

I care not a louse;

For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow:

I swear I'll not do more

To keep them in humor,

Than play on my violoncello.

"Since Charleston is taken,

'Twill sure save my bacon,--

I can live a whole year on that same, sir;

Ride about all the day,

At night, concert or play;

So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir.

"If growlers complain,

I inactive remain--

Will do nothing, nor let any others!

'Tis sure no new thing

To serve thus our king--

Witness Burgoyne, and two famous Brothers!"

JOSEPH STANSBURY.

Another of Stansbury's lyrics, and perhaps the best he ever

wrote, is "The Lords of the Main," intended for the use of the

British sailors then engaged in fighting their ancient foes,

France and Spain.

THE LORDS OF THE MAIN

[1780]

When Faction, in league with the treacherous Gaul,

Began to look big, and paraded in state,

A meeting was held at Credulity Hall,

And Echo proclaimed their ally good and great.

By sea and by land

Such wonders are planned--

No less than the bold British lion to chain!

"Well hove!" says Jack Lanyard,

"French, Congo, and Spaniard,

Have at you!--remember, we're Lords of the Main.

Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main;

The Tars of old England are Lords of the Main!"

Though party-contention awhile may perplex,

And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense,

If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex,

In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence.

When danger alarms,

'Tis then that in arms

United we rush on the foe with disdain;

And when the storm rages,

It only presages

Fresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main!

Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main--

Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main!

Then, Britons, strike home--make sure of your blow:

The chase is in view--never mind a lea shore.

With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe:

'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore!

Brave Anson, and Drake,

Hawke, Russell, and Blake,

With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain!

Combining with treason,

They're deaf to all reason;

Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main.

Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main--

The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main!

JOSEPH STANSBURY.

Among the desperate and foolish expedients to which the British

resorted in the hope of winning America back to her allegiance

was that of sending Prince William Henry, afterwards William

IV, to New York in 1781. The Tory authorities of the city

overwhelmed him with adulation, but in the country at large,

his visit excited only derision.

THE ROYAL ADVENTURER

[1781]

Prince William, of the Brunswick race,

To witness George's sad disgrace

The royal lad came over,

Rebels to kill, by right divine--

Derived from that illustrious line,

The beggars of Hanover.

So many chiefs got broken pates

In vanquishing the rebel states,

So many nobles fell,

That George the Third in passion cried:

"Our royal blood must now be tried;

'Tis that must break the spell;

"To you [the fat pot-valiant swain

To Digby said], dear friend of mine,

To you I trust my boy;

The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,

Rebellion die when he appears,

My Tories leap with joy."

So said, so done--the lad was sent,

But never reached the continent,

An island held him fast--

Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,

The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,

"Prince William's come at last!"

"Prince William's come!"--the Briton cried--

"Our labors now will be repaid--

Dominion be restored--

Our monarch is in William seen,

He is the image of our queen,

Let William be adored!"

The Tories came with long address,

With poems groaned the royal press,

And all in William's praise--

The youth, astonished, looked about

To find their vast dominions out,

Then answered in amaze:

"Where all your vast domain can be,

Friends, for my soul I cannot see;

'Tis but an empty name;

Three wasted islands and a town

In rubbish buried--half burnt down,

Is all that we can claim;

"I am of royal birth, 'tis true.

But what, my sons, can princes do,

No armies to command?

Cornwallis conquered and distrest--

Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest--

I curse--and quit the land."

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The war in the North thereafter was confined, on the part of

the British, to predatory raids along the coasts, of which

"The Descent on Middlesex" is a fair example. On the afternoon

of July 22, 1781, a party of Royalist refugees surrounded

the church, where the people of Middlesex were at prayer,

and took fifty of them captive, among them Schoolmaster St.

John, of Norwalk, the author of the following ingenuous ballad

describing their experiences.

THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX

[July 22, 1781]

July the twenty-second day,

The precise hour I will not say,

In seventeen hundred and eighty-one,

A horrid action was begun.

While to the Lord they sing and pray,

The Tories who in ambush lay,

Beset the house with brazen face,

At Middlesex, it was the place.

A guard was plac'd the house before,

Likewise behind and at each door;

Then void of shame, those men of sin

The sacred temple enter'd in.

The reverend Mather closed his book,

How did the congregation look!

Those demons plunder'd all they could,

Either in silver or in gold.

The silver buckles which we use,

Both at the knees and on the shoes,

These caitiffs took them in their rage,

Had no respect for sex or age.

As they were searching all around,

They several silver watches found;

While they who're plac'd as guards without,

Like raging devils rang'd about.

Run forty horses to the shore,

Not many either less or more;

With bridles, saddles, pillions on;

In a few minutes all was done.

The men from hence they took away,

Upon that awful sacred day,

Was forty-eight, besides two more

They chanc'd to find upon the shore.

On board the shipping they were sent,

Their money gone, and spirits spent,

And greatly fearing their sad end,

This wicked seizure did portend.

They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd,

And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first;

'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrong

To bring so many men along.

Then every man must tell his name,

A list they took, and kept the same;

When twenty-four of fifty men

Were order'd to go home again.

The twenty-six who stay'd behind,

Most cruelly they were confin'd;

On board the brig were order'd quick,

And then confin'd beneath the deck.

A dismal hole with filth besmear'd,

But 'twas no more than what we fear'd;

Sad the confinement, dark the night,

But then the devil thought 'twas right.

But to return whence I left off.

They at our misery made a scoff;

Like raving madmen tore about,

Swearing they'd take our vitals out.

They said no quarter they would give

Nor let a cursèd rebel live;

But would their joints in pieces cut,

Then round the deck like turkeys strut.

July, the fourth and twentieth day,

We all marched off to Oyster Bay;

To increase our pains and make it worse,

They iron'd just six pair of us.

But as they wanted just one pair,

An iron stirrup lying there

Was taken and on anvil laid,

On which they with a hammer paid.

And as they beat it inch by inch,

They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch;

Those wretched caitiffs standing by,

Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.

Although to call them not by name,

From Fairfield county many came;

And were delighted with the rout,

To see the rebels kick'd about.

At night we travell'd in the rain,

All begg'd for shelter, but in vain,

Though almost naked to the skin;

A dismal pickle we were in.

Then to the half-way house we came,

The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name,

And there we found a soul's relief;

We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.

The people gen'rously behav'd,

Made a good fire, some brandy gave,

Of which we greatly stood in need,

As we were wet and cold indeed.

But ere the house we did attain,

We trembled so with cold and rain,

Our irons jingled--well they might--

We shiver'd so that stormy night.

In half an hour or thereabout,

The orders were, "Come, all turn out!

Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew,

To loiter thus will never do."

'Twas now about the break of day,

When all were forc'd to march away;

With what they order'd we complied,

Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.

We made a halt one half mile short

Of what is term'd Brucklyn's fort;

Where all were hurried through the street:

Some overtook us, some we met.

We now traversing the parade,

The awful figure which we made,

Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment,

And some would curse us as we went.

Their grandest fort was now hard by us;

They show'd us that to terrify us;

They show'd us all their bulwarks there,

To let be known how strong they were.

Just then the Tory drums did sound,

And pipes rang out a warlike round;

Supposing we must thence conclude

That Britain ne'er could be subdued.

Up to the guard-house we were led,

Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread;

Not quite one mouthful, I believe,

For every man we did receive.

In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd,

And at New York arriv'd at last;

As through the streets we pass'd along,

Ten thousand curses round us rang.

But some would laugh, and some would sneer,

And some would grin, and others leer;

A mixèd mob, a medley crew,

I guess as e'er the devil knew.

To the Provost we then were haul'd,

Though we of war were prisoners call'd;

Our irons now were order'd off,

And we were left to sneeze and cough.

But oh! what company we found.

With great surprise we look'd around:

I must conclude that in that place,

We found the worst of Adam's race.

Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too,

And everything that's bad they'd do;

One of our men found to his cost,

Three pounds, York money, he had lost.

They pick'd his pocket quite before

We had been there one single hour;

And while he lookèd o'er and o'er,

The vagrants from him stole some more.

We soon found out, but thought it strange

We never were to be exchang'd

By a cartel, but for some men

Whom they desir'd to have again.

A pack with whom they well agree,

Who're call'd the loyal company,

Or "Loyalists Associated,"

As by themselves incorporated.

Our food was call'd two-thirds in weight

Of what a soldier has to eat;

We had no blankets in our need,

Till a kind friend did intercede.

Said he, "The prisoners suffer so,

'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too;

I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed,

So great their hardship and their need."

And well to us was the event,

Fine blankets soon to us were sent;

Small the allowance, very small,

But better far than none at all.

An oaken plank, it was our bed,

An oaken pillow for the head,

And room as scanty as our meals,

For we lay crowded head and heels.

In seven days or thereabout,

One Jonas Weed was taken out,

And to his friends he was resign'd,

But many still were kept behind.

Soon after this some were parol'd,

Too tedious wholly to be told;

And some from bondage were unstrung,

Whose awful sufferings can't be sung.

The dread smallpox to some they gave,

Nor tried at all their lives to save,

But rather sought their desolation,

As they denied 'em 'noculation.

To the smallpox there did succeed

A putrid fever, bad indeed;

As they before were weak and spent,

Soon from the stage of life they went.

For wood we greatly stood in need,

For which we earnestly did plead;

But one tenth part of what we wanted

Of wood, to us was never granted.

The boiling kettles which we had,

Were wanting covers, good or bad;

The worst of rum that could be bought,

For a great price, to us was brought.

For bread and milk, and sugar, too,

We had to pay four times their due;

While cash and clothing which were sent,

Those wretched creatures did prevent.

Some time it was in dark November,

But just the day I can't remember,

Full forty of us were confin'd

In a small room both damp and blind,

Because there had been two or three,

Who were not of our company,

Who did attempt the other day,

The Tories said, to get away.

In eighteen days we were exchang'd,

And through the town allowed to range;

Of twenty-five that were ta'en,

But just nineteen reach'd home again.

Four days before December's gone,

In seventeen hundred eighty-one,

I hail'd the place where months before,

The Tories took me from the shore.

PETER ST. JOHN.

CHAPTER X

THE WAR IN THE SOUTH

After the surrender of Burgoyne, the military attitude of the

British in the Northern States was, as has been seen, purely

defensive, but the Southern States were the scene of vigorous

fighting. The King had set his heart on the reduction of

Georgia and the Carolinas, and it looked for a time as though

he would be gratified. In General Augustine Prevost there

was at last found a man after the King's own heart, and his

barbarities and vandalism were among the most monstrous of the

war. General Benjamin Lincoln was sent south to oppose him, and

was soon joined by Count Pulaski and his legion.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER

When the dying flame of day

Through the chancel shot its ray,

Far the glimmering tapers shed

Faint light on the cowlèd head;

And the censer burning swung,

Where, before the altar, hung

The crimson banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave

Proudly o'er the good and brave;

When the battle's distant wail

Breaks the sabbath of our vale,

When the clarion's music thrills

To the hearts of these lone hills,

When the spear in conflict shakes,

And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath

The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,

Guard it, till our homes are free!

Guard it! God will prosper thee!

In the dark and trying hour,

In the breaking forth of power,

In the rush of steeds and men,

His right hand will shield thee then.

"Take thy banner! But when night

Closes round the ghastly fight,

If the vanquished warrior bow,

Spare him! By our holy vow,

By our prayers and many tears,

By the mercy that endears,

Spare him! he our love hath shared!

Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

"Take thy banner! and if e'er

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,

And the muffled drum should beat

To the tread of mournful feet,

Then this crimson flag shall be

Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

The warrior took that banner proud,

And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

In August, 1779, the French fleet under D'Estaing appeared

off the coast of Georgia, and plans were made for the capture

of Savannah. The place was closely invested by the French and

Americans, and for nearly a month the siege was vigorously

carried on. But D'Estaing grew impatient, and on October 9 an

attempt was made to carry the place by storm. The assailants

were totally defeated, losing more than a thousand men, while

the British loss was only fifty-five. Count Pulaski was among

the slain.

ABOUT SAVANNAH

[October 9, 1779]

Come let us rejoice,

With heart and with voice,

Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,

While bumpers go round,

Reëcho the sound,

Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

With warlike parade,

And his Irish brigade,

His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,

As proud as an elf,

D'Estaing came himself,

And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

There joining a band

Under Lincoln's command,

Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,

'Gainst the town of Savannah

He planted his banner,

And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

With thund'ring of guns,

And bursting of bombs,

He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:

But amidst all their din,

Brave Maitland push'd in,

And Moncrieffe cried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

Chagrined at delay,

As he meant not to stay,

The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.

Van, centre, and rear

March'd up without fear,

Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

Though rude was the shock,

Unmov'd as a rock,

Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,

While the brave German corps,

And Americans bore

Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

Then muskets did rattle,

Fierce ragèd the battle,

Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.

The ditch fill'd with slain,

Blood dyed all the plain,

When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.

See! see! how they run!

Lord! what glorious fun!

How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!

Brains fly all around,

Dying screeches resound,

And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

There Pulaski fell,

That imp of old Bell,

Who attempted to murder his king, sir.

But now he is gone

Whence he'll never return;

But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

To Charleston with fear

The rebels repair;

D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,

Each blaming the other,

Each cursing his brother,

And--may they cut each other's throats, sir.

Scarce three thousand men

The town did maintain,

'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,

Who left on the plain,

Of wounded and slain,

Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

Three thousand! no less!

For the rebels confess

Some loss, as you very well know, sir.

Then let bumpers go round,

And reëcho the sound,

Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

As soon as Clinton learned of this victory, he determined to

capture Charleston, where General Lincoln was stationed with

three thousand men. Lincoln decided to withstand a siege,

hoping for reinforcements; but none came, and on May 12, 1780,

to avoid a wanton waste of life, he surrendered his army and

the city to the British.

A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON

[May 12, 1780]

King Hancock sat in regal state,

And big with pride and vainly great,

Address'd his rebel crew:

"These haughty Britons soon shall yield

The boasted honors of the field,

While our brave sons pursue.

"Six thousand fighting men or more,

Protect the Carolina shore,

And Freedom will defend;

And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,

'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,

How vainly they contend."

But ere he spake, in dread array,

To rebel foes, ill-fated day,

The British boys appear;

Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,

And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,

Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.

See Clinton brave, serene, and great,

For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,

Direct the thund'ring fight,

While Mars, propitious god of war,

Looks down from his triumphal car

With wonder and delight.

"Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,

'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine

A great immortal name,

And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appear

Conspicuous each revolving year,

The pledge of future fame."

Our tars, their share of glories won,

For they among the bravest shone,

Undaunted, firm, and bold;

Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd

Hearts which with native valor glow'd,

Hearts of true British mould.

The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British;

estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged

traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was

impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number

of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion,

perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act

of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no

partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy

in legitimate warfare.

THE SWAMP FOX

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,

His friends and merry men are we;

And when the troop of Tarleton rides,

We burrow in the cypress-tree.

The turfy hammock is our bed,

Our home is in the red deer's den,

Our roof, the tree-top overhead,

For we are wild and hunted men.

We fly by day and shun its light,

But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,

We mount and start with early night,

And through the forest track our foe.

And soon he hears our chargers leap,

The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,

And ere he drives away his sleep,

And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,

That will not ask a kind caress

To swim the Santee at our need,

When on his heels the foemen press,--

The true heart and the ready hand,

The spirit stubborn to be free,

The twisted bore, the smiting brand,--

And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal,

The last perhaps that we shall taste;

I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,

And that's a sign we move in haste.

He whistles to the scouts, and hark!

You hear his order calm and low.

Come, wave your torch across the dark,

And let us see the boys that go.

We may not see their forms again,

God help 'em, should they find the strife!

For they are strong and fearless men,

And make no coward terms for life;

They'll fight as long as Marion bids,

And when he speaks the word to shy,

Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,

Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

Now stir the fire and lie at ease,--

The scouts are gone, and on the brush

I see the Colonel bend his knee,

To take his slumbers too. But hush!

He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;

The man that's fighting day by day

May well, when night comes, take a change,

And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand

The sly and silent jug that's there;

I love not it should idly stand

When Marion's men have need of cheer.

'Tis seldom that our luck affords

A stuff like this we just have quaffed,

And dry potatoes on our boards

May always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log;

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head

That's half the time in brake and bog

Must never think of softer bed.

The owl is hooting to the night,

The cooter crawling o'er the bank,

And in that pond the flashing light

Tells where the alligator sank.

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,

And through the Santee swamp so deep,

Without the aid of friendly moon,

And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!

But courage, comrades! Marion leads,

The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;

So clear your swords and spur your steeds,

There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,

We leave the swamp and cypress-tree,

Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,

And ready for the strife are we.

The Tory camp is now in sight,

And there he cowers within his den;

He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,

He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress-tree;

We know the forest round us

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery

That little dread us near!

On them shall light at midnight

A strange and sudden fear:

When, waking to their tents on fire,

They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over,

We share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads--

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlight plain;

'Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts his tossing mane.

A moment in the British camp--

A moment--and away,

Back to the pathless forest

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs;

Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.

And lovely ladies greet our band

With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.

For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more

Till we have driven the Briton

Forever from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Among the members of Marion's band was a gigantic Scotsman

named Macdonald, the hero of many daring escapades, of which

his raid through Georgetown, S. C., with only four troopers,

was the most remarkable. Georgetown was a fortified place,

defended by a garrison of three hundred men.

MACDONALD'S RAID

[1780]

I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,

And the legion lay idle and listless that day,

A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,

And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,

When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade,

Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid.

Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring,

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,

To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;

Yet he chose from our numbers _four_ men and no more.

"Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore,

If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,

With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.

Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form

Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm

When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,

And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;

His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,

With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,

His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing--

Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride,

Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide,

The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,

A soft _dolce_ were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,

When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,

With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,

Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,

"Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout,

That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,

And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,

"Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.

Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din!

'Tis the front wall besieged--have the rebels rushed in?

It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring

Of 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,

And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;

And the ground here and there by an ominous stain

Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:

A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,

With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,

By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,

To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,

And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring

With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left

Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft,

What should we do next, but--as careless and calm

As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm

'Mid a land of pure peace--just serenely drop down

On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.

_What_ a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,

As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?--

Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars

Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars

From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,

On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,

Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast

Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash _ruse_ at last;

So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling

The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track

We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,

And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:

With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,

And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the trees

Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;

Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring

The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

Ah! _that_ was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men

Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with _us_ then?

Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow

I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now--

The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,

Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:

Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring--

Ay! _my_ muscles are firm still; _I_ fought 'gainst the King!

Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all

The sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall;

Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;

Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp

The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep

I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep--

That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling

To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

Second alone to Marion in this wild warfare was Thomas Sumter,

a Virginian, destined to serve his country in other ways.

During the summer of 1780, he kept up so brisk a guerrilla

warfare that Cornwallis called him "the greatest plague in the

country."

SUMTER'S BAND

When Carolina's hope grew pale

Before the British lion's tread,

And Freedom's sigh in every gale

Was heard above her martyr'd dead;

When from her mountain heights subdued,

In pride of place forbid to soar,

Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood,

Lay sullen on the indignant shore,

Breathing revenge, invoking doom,

Tyrant! upon thy purple host,

When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom,

And silence brooded o'er her coast,

Stealthy, as when from thicket dun,

The Indian springs upon his bow,

Up rose, South Mount, thy warrior son,

And headlong darted on the foe.

Not in the pride of war he came,

With bugle note and banner high,

And nodding plume, and steel of flame,

Red battle's gorgeous panoply!

With followers few, but undismay'd,

Each change and chance of fate withstood,

Beneath her sunshine and her shade,

The same heroic brotherhood!

From secret nook, in other land,

Emerging fleet along the pine,

Prone down he flew before his band,

Like eagle on the British line!

Catacoba's waters smiled again,

To see her Sumter's soul in arms;

And issuing from each glade and glen,

Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,

Throng'd hundreds through the solitude

Of the wild forest, to the call

Of him whose spirit, unsubdued,

Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.

By day the burning sands they ply,

Night sees them in the fell ravine;

Familiar to each follower's eye,

The tangled brake, the hall of green.

Roused by their tread from covert deep,

Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while near

Is heard, forbidding thought of sleep,

The rattling serpent's sound of fear!

Before or break of early morn,

Or fox looks out from copse to close,

Before the hunter winds his horn.

Sumter's already on his foes!

He beat them back! beneath the flame

Of valor quailing, or the shock!

And carved, at last, a hero's name

Upon the glorious Hanging Rock!

And time, that shades or sears the wreath,

Where glory binds the soldier's brow,

Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death,

His hour of proudest triumph, now.

And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shore

Where Sumter bled, nor bled in vain;

A thousand hearts shall break, before

They wear the oppressor's chains again.

O never can thy sons forget

The mighty lessons taught by thee;

Since--treasured by the eternal debt--

Their watchword is thy memory!

J. W. SIMMONS.

South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the

skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to

the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at

Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis,

elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the

country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment

of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain,

and either killed or captured.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN

[October 7, 1780]

'Twas on a pleasant mountain

The Tory heathens lay,

With a doughty major at their head,

One Ferguson, they say.

Cornwallis had detach'd him

A-thieving for to go,

And catch the Carolina men,

Or bring the rebels low.

The scamp had rang'd the country

In search of royal aid,

And with his owls, perchèd on high,

He taught them all his trade.

But ah! that fatal morning,

When Shelby brave drew near!

'Tis certainly a warning

That ministers should hear.

And Campbell, and Cleveland,

And Colonel Sevier,

Each with a band of gallant men,

To Ferguson appear.

Just as the sun was setting

Behind the western hills,

Just then our trusty rifles sent

A dose of leaden pills.

Up, up the steep together

Brave Williams led his troop,

And join'd by Winston, bold and true,

Disturb'd the Tory coop.

The royal slaves, the royal owls,

Flew high on every hand;

But soon they settled--gave a howl,

And quarter'd to Cleveland.

I would not tell the number

Of Tories slain that day,

But surely it is certain

That none did run away.

For all that were a-living,

Were happy to give up;

So let us make thanksgiving,

And pass the bright tin-cup.

To all the brave regiments,

Let's toast 'em for their health,

And may our good country

Have quietude and wealth.

This brilliant victory restored hope to the patriots of the

South, and Cornwallis soon found himself in a dangerous

position. He was finally forced to detach Tarleton, with eleven

hundred men, to attack Daniel Morgan's little army of nine

hundred men, which was threatening his line of communications.

On Tarleton's approach, Morgan retreated to a grazing ground

known as the Cowpens near King's Mountain, and here, on January

17, 1781, Tarleton attacked him, only to be completely routed.

THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS

[January 17, 1781]

To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,

Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;

From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,

Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error,

When his force was made our ready blows to feel;

When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror

At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,

Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;

There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,

Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.

Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces,

Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;

While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses,

Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor

That they scarce would care to follow us again;

In the rear, the Continentals--none were readier, nor braver;

In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces

Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,

Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses,

Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall.

Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing--

It was then upon the very nick of nine.

Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,

And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer,

There was naught about them fearful, after all,

Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer,

"Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."

Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother

Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand;

Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother

From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten.

Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;

Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter

Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.

But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me--

No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;

And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;

And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden

Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;

Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;

And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's;

On your rifles and a careful aim rely.

They were trained in many battles--we in workshops, fields, and forges;

But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."

Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,

Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:

Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;

On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.

At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yelling

Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone;

With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling

In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing

Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks;

Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring.

Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er us

Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;

Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before

us,

Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,

Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar;

Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging

Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden

Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.

Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden;

Tarleton gave the closing order--"Bring to action the reserve!"

Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,

Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;

And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,

Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward,

And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;

We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward,

With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

Morgan gave his order clearly--"Fall back nearly to the border

Of the hill and let the enemy come nigher!"

Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,

When out rang the voice of Howard--"To the right about, face!--Fire!"

Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,

And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;

Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard--

"Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"--and we did it with a will.

In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster

Than their comrades on our rear in fury bore;

But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,

For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them;

In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;

Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,

And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.

Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such

fleetness--

We had never seen such running in our lives!

Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,

Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield

them!

To their home o'er ocean never sailing back;

After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,

Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.

In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted

Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;

When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted

Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken

By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;

'Twas my sister's--for the moment things around me were forsaken;

I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.

Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;

Vain to me they looked for succor in their need.

O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,

Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.

As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;

Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim;

As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,

For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him--

Horse and rider--down together went the twain:

"Quarter!"--He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er

him;

Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain--

Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Tarleton's defeat deprived Cornwallis of nearly a third of his

forces, and his situation became more desperate than ever.

He kept on across North Carolina and engaged Greene in an

indecisive action at Guilford Court-House on March 15, and

then retreated to Wilmington. Greene, with splendid strategy,

started at once for South Carolina, captured nearly all the

forts there in British hands, and on September 8 fell upon

the British at Eutaw Springs, compelling them to retreat to

Charleston.

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW

[September 8, 1781]

Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain,

And it speaks to our heart in its pride,

As it tells of the bearing of heroes

Who compassed its summits and died!

How they gathered to strife as the eagles,

When the foeman had clambered the height!

How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,

They hunted him down for the fight.

Hark! through the gorge of the valley,

'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe;

Our own quickly sounds for the rally,

And we snatch down the rifle and go.

As the hunter who hears of the panther,

Each arms him and leaps to his steed,

Rides forth through the desolate antre,

With his knife and his rifle at need.

From a thousand deep gorges they gather,

From the cot lowly perched by the rill,

The cabin half hid in the heather,

'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still;

Each lonely at first in his roaming,

Till the vale to the sight opens fair,

And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,

When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble

For the hunt of the insolent foe,

And soon shall his myrmidons tremble

'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow.

Down the lone heights now wind they together,

As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,

And now, as they group on the heather,

The keen scout delivers his tale:

"The British--the Tories are on us,

And now is the moment to prove

To the women whose virtues have won us,

That our virtues are worthy their love!

They have swept the vast valleys below us

With fire, to the hills from the sea;

And here would they seek to o'erthrow us

In a realm which our eagle makes free!"

No war-council suffered to trifle

With the hours devote to the deed;

Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,

Swift followed the bound to the steed;

And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,

All panting with rage at the sight,

Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,

As he lay in his camp on the height.

Grim dashed they away as they bounded,

The hunters to hem in the prey,

And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,

Then the British rose fast to the fray;

And never with arms of more vigor

Did their bayonets press through the strife.

Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,

The sharpshooters dashed out a life!

'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;

'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;

Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,

Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;

Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,

As from danger to danger he flies.

Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,

With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!

An hour, and the battle is over;

The eagles are rending the prey;

The serpents seek flight into cover,

But the terror still stands in the way:

More dreadful the doom that on treason

Avenges the wrongs of the state;

And the oak-tree for many a season

Bears fruit for the vultures of fate!

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

EUTAW SPRINGS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS, UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN

SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781, AT

EUTAW SPRINGS.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:

Their limbs with dust are covered o'er--

Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;

How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin they

Can yet be thought to claim a tear,

O smite thy gentle breast, and say

The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,

If goodness rules thy generous breast,

Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;

Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;

You too may fall and ask a tear;

'Tis not the beauty of the morn

That proves the evening shall be clear--

They saw their injured country's woe;

The flaming town, the wasted field;

Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;

They took the spear,--but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,

The Britons they compelled to fly;

None distant viewed the fatal plain,

None grieved, in such a cause, to die--

But, like the Parthians famed of old,

Who, flying, still their arrows threw,

These routed Britons, full as bold,

Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;

Though far from Nature's limits thrown,

We trust they find a happier land,

A brighter sunshine of their own.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Cornwallis, meanwhile, had marched off toward Virginia,

reaching Petersburg May 20, 1781, joining the British forces

there and raising his army to five thousand men. He marched

down the peninsula and established himself at Yorktown, adding

the garrison of Portsmouth to his army, so that it numbered

over seven thousand men.

THE DANCE

Cornwallis led a country dance,

The like was never seen, sir,

Much retrograde and much advance,

And all with General Greene, sir.

They rambled up and rambled down,

Joined hands, then off they run, sir.

Our General Greene to Charlestown,

The earl to Wilmington, sir.

Greene in the South then danced a set,

And got a mighty name, sir,

Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,

But suffered in his fame, sir.

Then down he figured to the shore,

Most like a lordly dancer,

And on his courtly honor swore

He would no more advance, sir.

Quoth he, my guards are weary grown

With footing country dances,

They never at St. James's shone,

At capers, kicks, or prances.

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,

While sauntering on parade, sir,

Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,

Or at a masquerade, sir.

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,

For stumps and briars meet, sir?

Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,

Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

Now housed in York, he challenged all,

At minuet or all 'amande,

And lessons for a courtly ball

His guards by day and night conned.

This challenge known, full soon there came

A set who had the bon ton,

De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame

Fut brillant pour un long tems.

And Washington, Columbia's son,

Whom easy nature taught, sir,

That grace which can't by pains be won,

Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

Now hand in hand they circle round

This ever-dancing peer, sir;

Their gentle movements soon confound

The earl as they draw near, sir.

His music soon forgets to play--

His feet can move no more, sir,

And all his bands now curse the day

They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

Now Tories all, what can ye say?

Come--is not this a griper,

That while your hopes are danced away,

'Tis you must pay the piper?

Here an unexpected factor entered upon the scene. A magnificent

French fleet under Count de Grasse had sailed for the

Chesapeake, and Washington, with a daring worthy of Cæsar or

Napoleon, decided to transfer his army from the Hudson to

Virginia and overwhelm Cornwallis. On August 19 Washington's

army crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry and started on its

four hundred mile march. On September 18 it appeared before

Yorktown. The French squadron was already on the scene, and

Cornwallis was in the trap. There was no escape. On October 17

he hoisted the white flag, and two days later the British army,

over seven thousand in number, laid down its arms.

CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER

[October 19, 1781]

When British troops first landed here,

With Howe commander o'er them,

They thought they'd make us quake for fear,

And carry all before them;

With thirty thousand men or more,

And she without assistance,

America must needs give o'er,

And make no more resistance.

But Washington, her glorious son,

Of British hosts the terror,

Soon, by repeated overthrows,

Convinc'd them of their error;

Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell,

What gallant deeds he's done, sir,

And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell,

And thousands more have run, sir.

Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd

Virginia's old dominion,

Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be;

And so was North's opinion.

From State to State with rapid stride,

His troops had march'd before, sir,

Till quite elate with martial pride,

He thought all dangers o'er, sir.

But our allies, to his surprise,

The Chesapeake had enter'd;

And now too late, he curs'd his fate,

And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd,

For Washington no sooner knew

The visit he had paid her,

Than to his parent State he flew,

To crush the bold invader.

When he sat down before the town,

His Lordship soon surrender'd;

His martial pride he laid aside,

And cas'd the British standard;

Gods! how this stroke will North provoke,

And all his thoughts confuse, sir!

And how the Peers will hang their ears,

When first they hear the news, sir.

Be peace, the glorious end of war,

By this event effected;

And be the name of Washington

To latest times respected;

Then let us toast America,

And France in union with her;

And may Great Britain rue the day

Her hostile bands came hither.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS

Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell,

'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell;

'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar,

A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er.

A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord,

Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword,

Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies

too,

And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"

A council to surrender this lord did then command;

"What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend;

Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's

roar?

De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."

'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81,

Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington;

Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms;

Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.

Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd,

Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind;

Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due,

O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.

Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see,

And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty;

For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent,

That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.

Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew,

Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue;

May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore,

And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

"Early on a dark morning of the fourth week in October, an

honest old German, slowly pacing the streets of Philadelphia

on his night watch, began shouting, 'Basht dree o'glock, und

Gornvallis ish dakendt!' and light sleepers sprang out of bed

and threw up their windows." The whole country burst into

jubilation at the news, and every village green was ablaze with

bonfires.

NEWS FROM YORKTOWN

OCTOBER, 1781

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."

How the voice rolled down the street

Till the silence rang and echoed

With the stir of hurrying feet!

In the hush of the Quaker city,

As the night drew on to morn,

How it startled the troubled sleepers,

Like the cry for a man-child born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."

How they gathered, man and maid,

Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock,

There the trembling grandsire staid!

From the stateliest homes of the city,

From hovels that love might scorn,

How they followed that ringing summons,

Like the cry for a king's heir born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."

I can see the quick lights flare,

See the glad, wild face at the window,

Half dumb in a breathless stare.

In the pause of an hour portentous,

In the gloom of a hope forlorn,

How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens,

Like the cry for a nation born!

"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."

How the message is sped and gone

To the farm and the town and the forest

Till the world was one vast dawn!

To distant and slave-sunk races,

Bowed down in their chains that morn,

How it swept on the winds of heaven,

Like a cry for God's justice born!

LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH.

AN ANCIENT PROPHECY

(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis)

When a certain great King, whose initial is G.,

Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;

When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,

You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.

But when a Petition he treads under feet,

And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,

When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,

Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to _cage_;

When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;

You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.

But when B. and C. with their armies are taken

This King will do well if he saves his own bacon:

In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two

A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;

And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,

When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.

In the year eighty-three, the affair will be over

And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;

The face of the Lion will then become pale,

He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail--

O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,

From the _Stars_ and the _Stripes_ you will mercy implore,

And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.--

PHILIP FRENEAU.

CHAPTER XI

PEACE

The news of Cornwallis's surrender was received with

consternation in Great Britain. The King declared that he would

abdicate rather than acknowledge the independence of the United

States, Lord North resigned, Lord Germaine was dismissed, and

Sir Henry Clinton was superseded in command of the army by Sir

Guy Carleton.

ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL

[May, 1782]

The dog that is beat has a right to complain--

Sir Harry returns, a disconsolate swain,

To the face of his master, the devil's anointed,

To the country provided for thieves disappointed.

Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall:

He concluded the weakest must go to the wall.

The more he was flatter'd, the bolder he grew:

He quitted the old world to conquer the new.

But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison

(And they have been curious beyond all comparison),

He now must go home, at the call of his king,

To answer the charges that Arnold may bring.

But what are the acts which this chief has achieved?

If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved:

And the more, as he fought for his national glory,

Nor valued, a farthing, the _right_ of the story.

This famous great man, and two birds of his feather,

In the Cerberus frigate came over together:

But of all the bold chiefs that remeasure the trip,

Not two have been known to return in one ship.

Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport,

They are very well pleased as long as unhurt;

But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye,

Ends the fray; and they go to their daddy and cry.

Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many!

You said all our paper was not worth a penny:

('Tis nothing but rags, quoth honest Will Tryon:

Are rags to discourage the sons of the lion?)

But Clinton thought thus: "It is folly to fight,

When things may by easier methods come right:

There is such an art as counterfeit-ation,

And I'll do my utmost to honor our nation:

"I'll show this damn'd country that I can enslave her,

And that by the help of a skilful engraver;

And then let the rebels take care of their bacon;

We'll play 'em a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken."

But the project succeeded not quite to your liking;

So you paid off your artist, and gave up bill-striking:

But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on:

You had surely been hang'd had you tried it in Britain.

At the taking of Charlestown you cut a great figure,

The terms you propounded were terms full of rigor,

Yet could not foresee poor Charley's disgrace,

Nor how soon your own colors would go to the case.

When the town had surrender'd, the more to disgrace ye

(Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia),

You broke all the terms yourself had extended,

Because you supposed the rebellion was ended.

Whoever the Tories mark'd out as a Whig,

If gentle, or simple, or little, or big,

No matter to you--to kill 'em and spite 'em,

You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em.

Then, thinking these rebels were snug and secure,

You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour

(The face of the latter no mask need be draw'd on,

And to fish for the devil, my bait should be Rawdon).

Returning to York with your ships and your plunder,

And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under,

The first thing that struck you as soon as you landed

Was the fortress at West Point where Arnold commanded.

Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver,

We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river;

The east and the south losing communication,

The Yankees will die by the act of starvation."

So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas),

Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows;

Your loss, I conceive, than your gain was far greater,

You lost a good fellow and got a damn'd traitor.

Now Carleton comes over to give you relief;

A knight, like yourself, and commander-in-chief;

But the _chief_ he will get, you may tell the dear honey,

Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money.

Now, with "Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel;

Away to your master, and honestly tell,

That his arms and his artists can nothing avail;

His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale.

Advise him, at length to be just and sincere,

Of which not a symptom as yet doth appear;

As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy,

Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie.

_Freeman's Journal_, May 22, 1782.

George III also declared that he would retain the cities of

New York and Charleston at all hazards, but it was soon out of

his power to retain Charleston, at least. General Leslie, in

command there, found himself in dire straits for supplies, and

on December 14, 1782, evacuated the city and sailed away for

Halifax.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE BRITISH FROM CHARLESTON

[December 14, 1782]

His triumphs of a moment done;

His race of desolation run,

The Briton, yielding to his fears,

To other shores with sorrow steers:

To other shores--and coarser climes

He goes, reflecting on his crimes,

His broken oaths, a murder'd _Hayne_,

And blood of thousands, spilt in vain.

To _Cooper's_ stream, advancing slow,

_Ashley_ no longer tells his woe,

No longer mourns his limpid flood

Discolor'd deep with human blood.

Lo! where those social streams combine

Again the friends of Freedom join;

And, while they stray where once they bled,

Rejoice to find their tyrants fled,

Since memory paints that dismal day

When British squadrons held the sway,

And circling close on every side,

By sea and land retreat deny'd--

Shall she recall that mournful scene,

And not the virtues of a GREENE,

Who great in war--in danger try'd,

Has won the day, and crush'd their pride.

Through barren wastes and ravag'd lands

He led his bold undaunted bands,

Through sickly climes his standard bore

Where never army marched before:

By fortitude, with patience join'd

(The virtues of a noble mind),

He spread, where'er our wars are known,

His country's honor and his own.

Like Hercules, his generous plan

Was to redress the wrongs of men;

Like him, accustom'd to subdue,

He freed a world from _monsters_ too.

Through every want and every ill

We saw him persevering still,

Through Autumn's damps and Summer's heat,

Till his great purpose was complete.

Like the bold eagle, from the skies

That stoops, to seize his trembling prize,

He darted on the slaves of kings

At Camden heights and Eutaw Springs.

Ah! had our friends that led the fray

Surviv'd the ruins of that day,

We should not damp our joy with pain,

Nor, sympathizing, now complain.

Strange! that of those who nobly dare

Death always claims so large a share,

That those of virtue most refin'd

Are soonest to the grave consign'd!--

But fame is theirs--and future days

On pillar'd brass shall tell their praise;

Shall tell--when cold neglect is dead--

"These for their country fought and bled."

PHILIP FRENEAU.

However the King might froth and bluster, it was evident that

he was beaten. He was forced to bow to the inevitable, and on

December 5, 1782, in his speech at the opening of Parliament,

he recommended that peace be made with the colonies in America,

and that they be declared free and independent.

ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH

RECOMMENDING PEACE WITH THE AMERICAN STATES

[December 5, 1782]

Grown sick of war, and war's alarms,

Good George has changed his note at last--

Conquest and death have lost their charms;

He and his nation stand aghast,

To think what fearful lengths they've gone,

And what a brink they stand upon.

Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell,

If you advised him to retreat

Before our vanquished thousands fell,

Prostrate, submissive at his feet:

Awake once more his latent flame,

And bid us yield you all you claim.

The Macedonian wept and sighed

Because no other world was found

Where he might glut his rage and pride,

And by its ruin be renowned;

The world that Sawney wished to view

George fairly had--and lost it too!

Let jarring powers make war or peace,

Monster!--no peace can greet your breast!

Our murdered friends can never cease

To hover round and break your rest!

The Furies will your bosom tear,

Remorse, distraction, and despair

And hell, with all its fiends, be there!

Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail

Hence, freighted for your odious shore;

May tempests o'er her strength prevail,

Destruction round her roar!

May Nature all her aids deny,

The sun refuse his light,

The needle from its object fly,

No star appear by night:

Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime,

Directs the prow to some more Christian clime.

Genius! that first our race designed,

To other kings impart

The finer feelings of the mind,

The virtues of the heart;

Whene'er the honors of a throne

Fall to the bloody and the base,

Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down,

Like his, be their disgrace!

Hibernia, seize each native right!

Neptune, exclude him from the main;

Like her that sunk with all her freight,

The Royal George, take all his fleet,

And never let them rise again;

Confine him to his gloomy isle,

Let Scotland rule her half,

Spare him to curse his fate awhile,

And Whitehead, thou to write his epitaph.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782

O Thou, that sendest out the man

To rule by land and sea,

Strong mother of a Lion-line,

Be proud of those strong sons of thine

Who wrench'd their rights from thee!

What wonder if in noble heat

Those men thine arms withstood,

Retaught the lesson thou had'st taught,

And in thy spirit with thee fought,--

Who sprang from English blood!

But thou rejoice with liberal joy,

Lift up thy rocky face,

And shatter, when the storms are black,

In many a streaming torrent back,

The seas that shock thy base!

Whatever harmonies of law

The growing world assume,

Thy work is thine--the single note

From that deep chord which Hampden smote

Will vibrate to the doom.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

A preliminary treaty of peace was finally agreed upon. Carleton

received orders to evacuate New York, and on October 18, 1783,

Congress issued a general order disbanding the American army.

ON DISBANDING THE ARMY

[October 18, 1783]

Ye brave Columbian bands! a long farewell!

Well have ye fought for freedom--nobly done

Your martial task--the meed immortal won--

And Time's last records shall your triumphs tell.

Once friendship made their cup of suff'rings sweet--

The dregs how bitter, now those bands must part!

Ah! never, never more on earth to meet;

Distill'd from gall that inundates the heart,

What tears from heroes' eyes are seen to start!

Ye, too, farewell, who fell in fields of gore,

And chang'd tempestuous toil for rest serene;

Soon shall we join you on the peaceful shore

(Though gulfs irremeable roll between),

Thither by death-tides borne, as ye full soon have been.

DAVID HUMPHREYS.

November 25 was fixed upon as the date for the evacuation

of New York. Early on that day, Carleton got his troops on

shipboard, and by the middle of the afternoon the city was in

the hands of the Americans. The song which is given below was

composed for and sung upon this occasion.

EVACUATION OF NEW YORK BY THE BRITISH

[November 25, 1783]

They come!--they come!--the heroes come

With sounding fife, with thundering drum;

Their ranks advance in bright array,--

The heroes of America!

He comes!--'tis mighty Washington

(Words fail to tell all he has done),

Our hero, guardian, father, friend!

His fame can never, never end.

He comes!--he comes!--our Clinton comes!

Justice her ancient seat resumes:

From shore to shore let shouts resound,

For Justice comes, with Freedom crown'd.

She comes!--the angelic virgin--Peace,

And bids stern War his horrors cease;

Oh! blooming virgin, with us stay,

And bless, oh! bless America.

Since Freedom has our efforts crown'd,

Let flowing bumpers pass around:

The toast is, "Freedom's favorite son,

Health, peace, and joy to Washington!"

On Thursday, December 4, the principal officers of the army

assembled at Fraunce's Tavern to take a final leave of their

beloved chief. A few days later, at Annapolis, Washington

resigned his commission, and betook himself to the quiet of his

estate at Mount Vernon.

OCCASIONED BY GENERAL WASHINGTON'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA, ON HIS

WAY TO HIS RESIDENCE IN VIRGINIA

[December, 1783]

The great unequal conflict past,

The Briton banished from our shore,

Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last,

And hostile nations rage no more;

From fields of death the weary swain

Returning, seeks his native plain.

In every vale she smiles serene,

Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise,

New charms she adds to every scene,

Her brighter sun illumes our skies.

Remotest realms admiring stand,

And hail the _Hero_ of our land:

He comes!--the Genius of these lands--

Fame's thousand tongues his worth confess,

Who conquer'd with his suffering bands,

And grew immortal by distress:

Thus calms succeed the stormy blast,

And valor is repaid at last.

O WASHINGTON!--thrice glorious name,

What due rewards can man decree--

Empires are far below thy aim,

And sceptres have no charms for thee;

_Virtue_ alone has your regard,

And she must be your great reward.

Encircled by extorted power,

_Monarchs_ must envy your _Retreat_

_Who_ cast, in some ill-fated hour,

Their country's freedom at their feet;

'Twas yours to act a nobler part,

For injur'd Freedom had your heart.

For ravag'd realms and conquer'd seas

Rome gave the great imperial prize,

And, swell'd with pride, for feats like these,

Transferr'd her heroes to the skies:--

A brighter scene your deeds display,

You gain those heights a different way.

When _Faction_ rear'd her bristly head,

And join'd with tyrants to destroy,

Where'er you march'd the monster fled,

Timorous her arrows to employ:

Hosts catch'd from you a bolder flame,

And despots trembled at your name.

Ere war's dread horrors ceas'd to reign,

What leader could your place supply?--

Chiefs crowded to the embattled plain,

Prepar'd to conquer or to die--

Heroes arose--but none, like you,

Could save our lives and freedom too.

In swelling verse let kings be read,

And princes shine in polish'd prose;

Without such aid your triumphs spread

Where'er the convex ocean flows,

To Indian worlds by seas embrac'd,

And Tartar, tyrant of the waste.

Throughout the east you gain applause,

And soon the _Old World_, taught by you,

Shall blush to own her barbarous laws,

Shall learn instruction from the _New_.

Monarchs shall hear the humble plea,

Nor urge too far the proud decree.

Despising pomp and vain parade,

At home you stay, while France and Spain

The secret, ardent wish convey'd,

And hail'd you to their shores in vain:

In _Vernon's_ groves you shun the throne,

Admir'd by kings, but seen by none.

Your fame, thus spread to distant lands,

May envy's fiercest blasts endure,

Like Egypt's pyramids it stands,

Built on a basis more secure;

Time's latest age shall own in you

The patriot and the statesman too.

Now hurrying from the busy scene,

Where thy _Potowmack's_ waters flow,

May'st thou enjoy thy rural reign,

And every earthly blessing know;

Thus he, who Rome's proud legions sway'd,

Return'd, and sought his sylvan shade.

Not less in wisdom than in war

_Freedom_ shall still employ your mind,

_Slavery_ must vanish, wide and far,

Till not a trace is left behind;

Your counsels not bestow'd in vain,

Shall still protect this infant reign.

So, when the bright, all-cheering sun

From our contracted view retires,

Though folly deems his race is run,

On other worlds he lights his fires:

Cold climes beneath his influence glow,

And frozen rivers learn to flow.

O say, thou great, exalted name!

What Muse can boast of equal lays,

Thy worth disdains all vulgar fame,

Transcends the noblest poet's praise.

Art soars, unequal to the flight,

And genius sickens at the height.

For States redeem'd--our western reign

Restor'd by thee to milder sway,

Thy conscious glory shall remain

When this great globe is swept away

And _all_ is lost that pride admires,

And all the pageant scene expires.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Early in January, word reached America that the definite

treaty of peace had been signed at Paris on November 30, 1783.

The independence of the United States was acknowledged; the

Mississippi was set as the western boundary of the country, the

St. Croix and the Great Lakes as the northern, and the Gulf of

Mexico as the southern. On January 14, 1784, this treaty was

ratified by Congress.

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER'S HYMN

'Tis God that girds our armor on,

And all our just designs fulfils;

Through Him our feet can swiftly run,

And nimbly climb the steepest hills.

Lessons of war from Him we take,

And manly weapons learn to wield;

Strong bows of steel with ease we break,

Forced by our stronger arms to yield.

'Tis God that still supports our right,

His just revenge our foes pursues;

'Tis He that with resistless might,

Fierce nations to His power subdues.

Our universal safeguard He!

From Whom our lasting honors flow;

He made us great, and set us free

From our remorseless bloody foe.

Therefore to celebrate His fame,

Our grateful voice to Heaven we'll raise;

And nations, strangers to His name,

Shall thus be taught to sing His praise.

A day of solemn thanksgiving was set apart and universally

observed throughout the country, which set its face toward the

future, with a heart full of hope and high resolve.

THANKSGIVING HYMN

The Lord above, in tender love,

Hath sav'd us from our foes;

Through Washington the thing is done,

The war is at a close.

America has won the day,

Through Washington, our chief;

Come let's rejoice with heart and voice,

And bid adieu to grief.

Now we have peace, and may increase

In number, wealth, and arts,

If every one, like Washington,

Will strive to do their parts.

Then let's agree, since we are free,

All needless things to shun;

And lay aside all pomp and pride,

Like our great Washington.

Use industry, and frugal be,

Like Washington the brave;

So shall we see, 'twill easy be,

Our country for to save,

From present wars and future foes,

And all that we may fear;

While Washington, the great brave one,

Shall as our chief appear.

Industry and frugality

Will all our taxes pay;

In virtuous ways, we'll spend our days,

And for our rulers pray.

The Thirteen States, united sets,

In Congress simply grand;

The Lord himself preserve their health,

That they may rule the land.

Whilst every State, without its mate,

Doth rule itself by laws,

Will sovereign be, and always free;

To grieve there is no cause.

But all should try, both low and high,

Our freedom to maintain;

Pray God to bless our grand Congress,

And cease from every sin.

Then sure am I, true liberty

Of every sort will thrive;

With one accord we'll praise the Lord,

All glory to Him give.

To whom all praise is due always,

For He is all in all;

George Washington, that noble one,

On His great name doth call.

Our Congress too, before they do,

Acknowledge Him supreme;

Come let us all before Him fall,

And glorify His name.

LAND OF THE WILFUL GOSPEL[6]

From "Psalm of the West"

Land of the Wilful Gospel, thou worst and thou best;

Tall Adam of lands, new-made of the dust of the West;

Thou wroughtest alone in the Garden of God, unblest

Till He fashioned lithe Freedom to lie for thine Eve on thy breast--

Till out of thy heart's dear neighborhood, out of thy side,

He fashioned an intimate Sweet one and brought thee a Bride.

Cry hail! nor bewail that the wound of her coming was wide.

Lo, Freedom reached forth where the world as an apple hung red;

_Let us taste the whole radiant round of it_, gayly she said:

_If we die, at the worst we shall lie as the first of the dead._

Knowledge of Good and of Ill, O Land! she hath given thee;

Perilous godhoods of choosing have rent thee and riven thee;

Will's high adoring to Ill's low exploring hath driven thee--

Freedom, thy Wife, hath uplifted thy life and clean shriven thee!

Her shalt thou clasp for a balm to the scars of thy breast,

Her shalt thou kiss for a calm to thy wars of unrest,

Her shalt extol in the psalm of the soul of the West.

For Weakness, in freedom, grows stronger than Strength with a chain;

And Error, in freedom, will come to lamenting his stain,

Till freely repenting he whiten his spirit again;

And Friendship, in freedom, will blot out the bounding of race;

And straight Law, in freedom, will curve to the rounding of grace;

And Fashion, in freedom, will die of the lie in her face.

SIDNEY LANIER.

[6] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.

Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

PART III

THE PERIOD OF GROWTH

"OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE"

Oh mother of a mighty race,

Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!

The elder dames, thy haughty peers,

Admire and hate thy blooming years.

With words of shame

And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread

That tints thy morning hills with red;

Thy step--the wild deer's rustling feet

Within thy woods are not more fleet;

Thy hopeful eye

Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Ay, let them rail--those haughty ones,

While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.

They do not know how loved thou art,

How many a fond and fearless heart

Would rise to throw

Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride,

What virtues with thy children bide;

How true, how good, thy graceful maids

Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades;

What generous men

Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;--

What cordial welcomes greet the guest

By thy lone rivers of the West;

How faith is kept, and truth revered,

And man is loved, and God is feared,

In woodland homes,

And where the ocean border foams.

There's freedom at thy gates and rest

For earth's down-trodden and opprest,

A shelter for the hunted head,

For the starved laborer toil and bread.

Power, at thy bounds,

Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow

Shall sit a nobler grace than now.

Deep in the brightness of the skies

The thronging years in glory rise,

And, as they fleet,

Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

CHAPTER I

THE NEW NATION

The war was ended, but the five years following 1783 were

perhaps the most critical in the history of the American

people. The country was at the verge of bankruptcy, there

was discontent everywhere. In Massachusetts, the malcontents

found a leader in Daniel Shays, rose in rebellion, looted the

country, and were not dispersed for nearly a year.

A RADICAL SONG OF 1786

Huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;

Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, and Day;

Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;

Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws:

Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush;

Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush.

New laws and new charters our books shall display,

Composed by conventions and Counsellor Grey.

Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown,

We'll make them to know we can let them alone.

Of Glasgow or Pelham we'll make a seaport,

And there we'll assemble our General Court:

Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work,

And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork;

In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a peer

On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year.

Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we'll spurn,

As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn,

And sit the whole term, without pension or fee,

Nor Cushing nor Sewal look graver than we.

Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough;

Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff;

Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain,

That poor people no more shall have cause to complain.

To Congress and impost we'll plead a release;

The French we can beat half-a-dozen apiece;

We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance;

And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance.

Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;

Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day;

Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;

Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws.

ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD.

A federal convention was proposed, and in May, 1787, there

assembled at Philadelphia fifty-five men appointed by the

various states to devise an adequate constitution for a federal

government.

THE FEDERAL CONVENTION

[May, 1787]

Concentred here th' united wisdom shines,

Of learn'd judges, and of sound divines:

Patriots, whose virtues searching time has tried,

Heroes, who fought, where brother heroes died;

Lawyers, who speak, as Tully spoke before,

Sages, deep read in philosophic lore;

Merchants, whose plans are to no realms confin'd,

Farmers--the noblest title 'mongst mankind:

Yeomen and tradesmen, pillars of the state;

On whose decision hangs Columbia's fate.

September, 1787.

George Washington was chosen president of the convention;

the doors were locked, and the Herculean task of making a

constitution begun. Washington himself, in a burst of noble

eloquence, braced the delegates for the task before them. The

problem was to devise a government which should bind all the

states without impairing their sovereignty.

TO THE FEDERAL CONVENTION

[1787]

Be then your counsels, as your subject, great,

A world their sphere, and time's long reign their date.

Each party-view, each private good, disclaim,

Each petty maxim, each colonial aim;

Let all Columbia's weal your views expand,

A mighty system rule a mighty land;

Yourselves her genuine sons let Europe own,

Not the small agents of a paltry town.

Learn, cautious, what to alter, where to mend;

See to what close projected measures tend.

From pressing wants the mind averting still,

Thinks good remotest from the present ill:

From feuds anarchial to oppression's throne,

Misguided nations hence for safety run;

And through the miseries of a thousand years,

Their fatal folly mourn in bloody tears.

Ten thousand follies thro' Columbia spread;

Ten thousand wars her darling realms invade.

The private interest of each jealous state;

Of rule th' impatience and of law the hate.

But ah! from narrow springs these evils flow,

A few base wretches mingle general woe;

Still the same mind her manly race pervades;

Still the same virtues haunt the hallow'd shades.

But when the peals of war her centre shook,

All private aims the anxious mind forsook.

In danger's iron-bond her race was one,

Each separate good, each little view unknown.

Now rule, unsystem'd, drives the mind astray;

Now private interest points the downward way:

Hence civil discord pours her muddy stream,

And fools and villains float upon the brim;

O'er all, the sad spectator casts his eye,

And wonders where the gems and minerals lie.

But ne'er of freedom, glory, bliss, despond:

Uplift your eyes those little clouds beyond;

See there returning suns, with gladdening ray,

Roll on fair spring to chase this wint'ry day.

'Tis yours to bid those days of Eden shine:

First, then, and last, the federal bands entwine:

To this your every aim and effort bend:

Let all your efforts here commence and end.

O'er state concerns, let every state preside;

Its private tax controul; its justice guide;

Religion aid; the morals to secure;

And bid each private right thro' time endure.

Columbia's interests public sway demand,

Her commerce, impost, unlocated land;

Her war, her peace, her military power;

Treaties to seal with every distant shore;

To bid contending states their discord cease;

To send thro' all the calumet of peace;

Science to wing thro' every noble flight;

And lift desponding genius into light.

Be then your task to alter, aid, amend;

The weak to strengthen, and the rigid bend;

The prurient lop; what's wanted to supply;

And grant new scions from each friendly sky.

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

There was a natural antagonism between large and small

states, and more than once the convention was on the verge

of dissolution; but a compromise was finally reached, the

constitution as we know it was evolved and signed by all the

delegates, and on September 17, 1787, the convention adjourned.

The constitution was familiarly styled the "new roof."

THE NEW ROOF

A SONG FOR FEDERAL MECHANICS

[1787]

Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools,

Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules;

Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line,

And plenty of pins of American pine:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

Our government firm, and our citizens free_.

Come, up with _the plates_, lay them firm on the wall,

Like the people at large, they're the groundwork of all;

Examine them well, and see that they're sound,

Let no rotten part in our building be found:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be

A government firm, and our citizens free_.

III

Now hand up the _girders_, lay each in his place,

Between them the _joists_, must divide all the space;

Like assemblymen _these_ should lie level along,

Like _girders_, our senate prove loyal and strong:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be

A government firm over citizens free_.

The _rafters_ now frame; your _king-posts_ and _braces_,

And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places;

Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine,

And your pins be all made of American pine:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

A government firm over citizens free_.

Our _king-posts_ are _judges_; how upright they stand,

Supporting the _braces_; the laws of the land:

The laws of the land, which divide right from wrong,

And strengthen the weak, by weak'ning the strong:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

Laws equal and just, for a people that's free_.

Up! up! with the _rafters_; each frame is a _state_:

How nobly they rise! their span, too, how great!

From the north to the south, o'er the whole they extend,

And rest on the walls, whilst the walls they defend:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be

Combined in strength, yet as citizens free_.

VII

Now enter the _purlins_, and drive your pins through;

And see that your joints are drawn home and all true.

The _purlins_ will bind all the rafters together:

The strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather:

_For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

United as states, but as citizens free_.

VIII

Come, raise up the _turret_; our glory and pride;

In the centre it stands, o'er the whole to _preside_:

The sons of Columbia shall view with delight

Its pillars, and arches, and towering height:

_Our roof is now rais'd, and our song still shall be,

A federal head o'er a people that's free_.

Huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete;

The world shall admire Columbia's fair seat;

Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof,

And thousands shall come to dwell under our roof:

_Whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be,

Our government firm, and our citizens free_.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

The new constitution had still to be submitted to the several

states for ratification. One after another they fell into line,

but Massachusetts held back. On January 9, 1788, the convention

met, and week after week dragged by in fierce debate; but

finally, on February 6, 1788, the Constitution was ratified by

a majority of nineteen votes.

CONVENTION SONG

[February 6, 1788]

The 'Vention did in Boston meet

But State House could not hold 'em,

So they went to Federal Street,

And there the truth was told 'em.

Yankee doodle, keep it up!

Yankee doodle, dandy,

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy.

They every morning went to prayer;

And then began disputing;

Till opposition silenced were,

By arguments refuting.

Then 'Squire Hancock, like a man

Who dearly loves the nation,

By a Concil'atory plan,

Prevented much vexation.

He made a _woundy_ Fed'ral speech,

With sense and elocution;

And then the Yankees did beseech

T' adopt the Constitution.

The question being outright put

(Each voter independent),

The Fed'ralists agreed to adopt,

And then propose amendments.

The other party seeing then

The People were against them,

Agreed, like honest, faithful men,

To mix in peace amongst 'em.

The Boston folks are deuced lads,

And always full of notions;

The boys, the girls, their mams and dads,

Were fill'd with joy's commotions.

So straightway they procession made,

Lord, how _nation_ fine, sir!

For every man of every trade

Went with his tools--to dine, sir.

John Foster Williams in a ship

Join'd with the social band, sir

And made the lasses dance and skip,

To see him sail on land, sir!

O then a whopping feast began,

And all hands went to eating,

They drank their toasts, shook hands and sung--

Huzza for 'Vention meeting!

Now, politicians, of all kinds,

Who are not yet derided,

May see how Yankees speak their minds,

And yet we're not decided.

Then from this sample, let 'em cease

Inflammatory writing;

For freedom, happiness, and peace,

Are better far than fighting.

So here I end my Federal song,

Composed of thirteen verses;

May agriculture flourish long,

And commerce fill our purses.

Hot battles were still to be fought in some of the other

states,--hottest of all in New York,--but by midsummer of 1788

all the states had ratified the Constitution, and it stood an

accomplished fact.

THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION

Poets may sing of their Helicon streams;

Their gods and their heroes are fabulous dreams!

They ne'er sang a line

Half so grand, so divine

As the glorious toast

We Columbians boast--

The Federal Constitution, boys, and Liberty forever.

The man of our choice presides at the helm;

No tempest can harm us, no storm overwhelm;

Our sheet anchor's sure,

And our bark rides secure;

So here's to the toast

We Columbians boast--

The Federal Constitution and the President forever.

A free navigation, commerce, and trade,

We'll seek for no foe, of no foe be afraid;

Our frigates shall ride,

Our defence and our pride;

Our tars guard our coast,

And huzza for our toast--

The Federal Constitution, trade and commerce forever.

Montgomery and Warren still live in our songs;

Like them our young heroes shall spurn at our wrongs:

The world shall admire

The zeal and the fire,

Which blaze in the toast

We Columbians boast--

The Federal Constitution and its advocates forever.

When an enemy threats, all party shall cease;

We bribe no intruders to buy a mean peace;

Columbia will scorn

Friends and foes to suborn;

We'll ne'er stain the toast

Which as freemen we boast--

The Federal Constitution, and integrity forever.

Fame's trumpet shall swell in Washington's praise,

And time grant a furlough to lengthen his days;

May health weave the thread

Of delight round his head.

No nation can boast

Such a name, such a toast,

The Federal Constitution, boys, and Washington forever.

WILLIAM MILNS.

The Continental Congress, in putting an end to its troubled

existence, decreed that the first presidential election should

be held on the first Wednesday of January, 1789, and that the

Senate and House of Representatives should assemble on the

first Wednesday in March.

THE FIRST AMERICAN CONGRESS

[April 6, 1789]

Columbus looked; and still around them spread,

From south to north, th' immeasurable shade;

At last, the central shadows burst away,

And rising regions open'd on the day.

He saw, once more, bright Del'ware's silver stream,

And Penn's throng'd city cast a cheerful gleam;

The dome of state, that met his eager eye,

Now heav'd its arches in a loftier sky.

The bursting gates unfold: and lo, within,

A solemn train in conscious glory shine.

The well-known forms his eye had trac'd before,

In diff'rent realms along th' extended shore;

Here, grac'd with nobler fame, and rob'd in state,

They look'd and mov'd magnificently great.

High on the foremost seat, in living light,

Majestic Randolph caught the hero's sight:

Fair on his head, the civic crown was plac'd,

And the first dignity his sceptre grac'd.

He opes the cause, and points in prospect far,

Thro' all the toils that wait th' impending war--

But, hapless sage, thy reign must soon be o'er,

To lend thy lustre, and to shine no more.

So the bright morning star, from shades of ev'n,

Leads up the dawn, and lights the front of heav'n,

Points to the waking world the sun's broad way,

Then veils his own, and shines above the day.

And see great Washington behind thee rise,

Thy following sun, to gild our morning skies;

O'er shadowy climes to pour the enliv'ning flame,

The charms of freedom and the fire of fame.

Th' ascending chief adorn'd his splendid seat,

Like Randolph, ensign'd with a crown of state;

Where the green patriot bay beheld, with pride,

The hero's laurel springing by its side;

His sword, hung useless, on his graceful thigh,

On Britain still he cast a filial eye;

But sov'reign fortitude his visage bore,

To meet their legions on th' invaded shore.

Sage Franklin next arose, in awful mien,

And smil'd, unruffled, o'er th' approaching scene;

High, on his locks of age, a wreath was brac'd,

Palm of all arts, that e'er a mortal grac'd;

Beneath him lies the sceptre kings have borne,

And crowns and laurels from their temples torn.

Nash, Rutledge, Jefferson, in council great,

And Jay and Laurens op'd the rolls of fate.

The Livingstons, fair Freedom's gen'rous band,

The Lees, the Houstons, fathers of the land,

O'er climes and kingdoms turn'd their ardent eyes,

Bade all th' oppressed to speedy vengeance rise;

All pow'rs of state, in their extended plan,

Rise from consent to shield the rights of man.

Bold Wolcott urg'd the all-important cause;

With steady hand the solemn scene he draws;

Undaunted firmness with his wisdom join'd,

Nor kings nor worlds could warp his stedfast mind.

Now, graceful rising from his purple throne,

In radiant robes, immortal Hosmer shone;

Myrtles and bays his learned temples bound,

The statesman's wreath, the poet's garland crown'd:

Morals and laws expand his liberal soul,

Beam from his eyes, and in his accents roll.

But lo! an unseen hand the curtain drew,

And snatch'd the patriot from the hero's view;

Wrapp'd in the shroud of death, he sees descend

The guide of nations and the muses' friend.

Columbus dropp'd a tear. The angel's eye

Trac'd the freed spirit mounting thro' the sky.

Adams, enrag'd, a broken charter bore,

And lawless acts of ministerial pow'r;

Some injur'd right in each loose leaf appears,

A king in terrors and a land in tears;

From all the guileful plots the veil he drew,

With eye retortive look'd creation through;

Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan,

Trac'd all the steps of liberty and man;

Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung,

And Independence thunder'd from his tongue.

JOEL BARLOW.

The first business was the counting of the electoral votes.

There were sixty-nine of them, and every one was for George

Washington, of Virginia.

WASHINGTON

God wills no man a slave. The man most meek,

Who saw Him face to face on Horeb's peak,

Had slain a tyrant for a bondman's wrong,

And met his Lord with sinless soul and strong.

But when, years after, overfraught with care,

His feet once trod doubt's pathway to despair,

For that one treason lapse, the guiding hand

That led so far now barred the promised land.

God makes no man a slave, no doubter free;

Abiding faith alone wins liberty.

No angel led our Chieftain's steps aright;

No pilot cloud by day, no flame by night;

No plague nor portent spake to foe or friend;

No doubt assailed him, faithful to the end.

Weaklings there were, as in the tribes of old,

Who craved for fleshpots, worshipped calves of gold,

Murmured that right would harder be than wrong,

And freedom's narrow road so steep and long;

But he who ne'er on Sinai's summit trod,

Still walked the highest heights and spake with God;

Saw with anointed eyes no promised land

By petty bounds or pettier cycles spanned,

Its people curbed and broken to the ring,

Packed with a caste and saddled with a King,--

But freedom's heritage and training school,

Where men unruled should learn to wisely rule,

Till sun and moon should see at Ajalon

King's heads in dust and freemen's feet thereon.

His work well done, the leader stepped aside,

Spurning a crown with more than kingly pride,

Content to wear the higher crown of worth,

While time endures, First Citizen of earth.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

Washington left Mount Vernon on April 16, and started for New

York, where, on April 30, 1789, he took the oath of office as

President of the United States.

THE VOW OF WASHINGTON

[April 30, 1789]

The sword was sheathed: in April's sun

Lay green the fields by Freedom won;

And severed sections, weary of debates,

Joined hands at last and were United States.

O City sitting by the Sea!

How proud the day that dawned on thee,

When the new era, long desired, began,

And, in its need, the hour had found the man!

One thought the cannon salvos spoke,

The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke,

The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls,

And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's!

How felt the land in every part

The strong throb of a nation's heart,

As its great leader gave, with reverent awe,

His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law!

That pledge the heavens above him heard,

That vow the sleep of centuries stirred;

In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent

Their gaze on Freedom's great experiment.

Could it succeed? Of honor sold

And hopes deceived all history told.

Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past,

Was the long dream of ages true at last?

Thank God! the people's choice was just,

The one man equal to his trust,

Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good,

Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude!

His rule of justice, order, peace,

Made possible the world's release;

Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust,

And rule alone, which serves the ruled, is just;

That Freedom generous is, but strong

In hate of fraud and selfish wrong,

Pretence that turns her holy truth to lies,

And lawless license masking in her guise.

Land of his love! with one glad voice

Let thy great sisterhood rejoice;

A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set,

And, God be praised, we are one nation yet.

And still we trust the years to be

Shall prove his hope was destiny,

Leaving our flag, with all its added stars,

Unrent by faction and unstained by wars.

Lo! where with patient toil he nursed

And trained the new-set plant at first,

The widening branches of a stately tree

Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea.

And in its broad and sheltering shade,

Sitting with none to make afraid,

Were we now silent, through each mighty limb,

The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him.

Our first and best!--his ashes lie

Beneath his own Virginian sky.

Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave,

The storm that swept above thy sacred grave!

For, ever in the awful strife

And dark hours of the nation's life,

Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word,

Their father's voice his erring children heard!

The change for which he prayed and sought

In that sharp agony was wrought;

No partial interest draws its alien line

'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine!

One people now, all doubt beyond,

His name shall be our Union-bond;

We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now

Take on our lips the old Centennial vow.

For rule and trust must needs be ours;

Chooser and chosen both are powers

Equal in service as in rights; the claim

Of Duty rests on each and all the same.

Then let the sovereign millions, where

Our banner floats in sun and air,

From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold,

Repeat with us the pledge a century old!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Benjamin Franklin had been in ill-health for many months, and

the end came at Philadelphia, April 17, 1790. He was born at

Boston, January 17, 1706.

ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

[April 17, 1790]

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood

The glory of its native wood,

By storms destroyed, or length of years,

Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,

To dust returns by slow decays;

But, when its destined years are o'er,

We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,

The world laments your exit made;

So long befriended by your art,

Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!--

When monarchs tumble to the ground

Successors easily are found;

But, matchless Franklin! what a few

Can hope to rival such as you,

Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,

And turned the lightning's darts aside!

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On November 6, 1792, George Washington was again unanimously

chosen President of the United States, and was inaugurated on

March 4, 1793.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

This was the man God gave us when the hour

Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun;

Who dared a deed and died when it was done

Patient in triumph, temperate in power,--

Not striving like the Corsican to tower

To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater son

To win the world and weep for worlds unwon,

Or lose the star to revel in the flower.

The lives that serve the eternal verities

Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and pride

Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray

Smoking across the crests of cavernous seas

Is impotent to hasten or delay

The everlasting surges of the tide.

JOHN HALL INGHAM.

On September 19, 1796, Washington issued his "farewell

address," declining a third term as President.

WASHINGTON

Where may the wearied eye repose

When gazing on the Great;

Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state?

Yes--one--the first--the last--the best--

The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

Bequeath the name of Washington,

To make men blush there was but one!

LORD BYRON.

The election was held on November 8, 1796, and the electoral

votes were counted February 8, 1797. John Adams received

seventy-one, Thomas Jefferson sixty-eight, Thomas Pinckney

fifty-nine, and Aaron Burr thirty. Adams assumed office March

4, 1797. Relations with both France and England had become more

than ever strained, and a war, especially with the former,

seemed certain. These circumstances gave birth to one of the

most popular political songs ever written in America.

ADAMS AND LIBERTY

[1798]

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought

For those rights which unstained from your sires have descended,

May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought,

And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.

'Mid the reign of mild peace,

May your nation increase,

With the glory of Rome and the wisdom of Greece;

And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,

Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,

The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd,

To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.

But should pirates invade,

Though in thunder array'd,

Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,

Had justly ennobled our nation in story,

Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,

And enveloped the sun of American glory.

But let traitors be told,

Who their country have sold,

And barter'd their God for his image in gold,

That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,

And society's base threats with wide dissolution;

May peace, like the dove who return'd from the flood,

Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution.

But, though peace is our aim,

Yet the boon we disclaim,

If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame;

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms:

Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision,

Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,

We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division.

While, with patriot pride,

To our laws we're allied,

No foe can subdue us, no faction divide,

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak;

Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd;

But long ere our nation submits to the yoke,

Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd.

Should invasion impend,

Every grove would descend,

From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;

Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion;

Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;

Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion.

Foes assail us in vain,

Though their fleets bridge the main,

For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,

Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;

For, unmov'd, at its portal, would Washington stand,

And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!

His sword from the sleep

Of its scabbard would leap,

And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep!

For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

Let fame to the world sound America's voice;

No intrigues can her sons from their government sever;

Her pride is her Adams; her laws are his choice,

And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever.

Then unite heart and hand,

Like Leonidas' band,

And swear to the God of the ocean and land,

That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

ROBERT TREAT PAINE.

On May 28, 1798, Congress authorized a provisional army of

ten thousand men and empowered the President to instruct the

commanders of American ships of war to seize French armed

vessels attacking American merchantmen, or hovering about

the coast for that purpose. Public excitement ran high, and

when Hopkinson's "Hail Columbia" was sung one night at a

Philadelphia theatre, it met with instantaneous success.

HAIL COLUMBIA

[First sung at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, May, 1798]

Hail! Columbia, happy land!

Hail! ye heroes, heav'n-born band,

Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,

And when the storm of war was gone,

Enjoyed the peace your valor won;

Let independence be your boast,

Ever mindful what it cost,

Ever grateful for the prize,

Let its altar reach the skies.

_Chorus_--Firm, united let us be,

Rallying round our liberty,

As a band of brothers joined,

Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots, rise once more!

Defend your rights, defend your shore;

Let no rude foe with impious hand,

Let no rude foe with impious hand

Invade the shrine where sacred lies

Of toil and blood the well-earned prize;

While offering peace, sincere and just,

In heav'n we place a manly trust,

That truth and justice may prevail,

And ev'ry scheme of bondage fail.

Sound, sound the trump of fame!

Let Washington's great name

Ring thro' the world with loud applause!

Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear

Listen with a joyful ear;

With equal skill, with steady pow'r,

He governs in the fearful hour

Of horrid war, or guides with ease

The happier time of honest peace.

Behold the chief, who now commands,

Once more to serve his country stands,

The rock on which the storm will beat!

But armed in virtue, firm and true,

His hopes are fixed on heav'n and you.

When hope was sinking in dismay,

When gloom obscured Columbia's day,

His steady mind, from changes free,

Resolved on death or liberty.

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

Word crossed the ocean that Napoleon was gathering a great

fleet at Toulon and it was generally believed that he intended

to invade America. The fleet, of course, was intended for his

expedition to Egypt, and the idea that he hoped to conquer

America seems ludicrous enough, but some verses written by

Thomas Green Fessenden in July, 1798, show how seriously it was

entertained.

YE SONS OF COLUMBIA

AN ODE

[July, 1798]

Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause

Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws;

Should foes then invade us, to battle we'll hie,

For the GOD OF OUR FATHERS will be our ally!

Let Frenchmen advance,

And all Europe join France,

Designing our conquest and plunder;

United and free

Forever we'll be,

And our cannon shall tell them in thunder,

That foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,

Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

When Britain assail'd us, undaunted we stood,

Defended the land we had purchas'd with blood,

Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast,

If the old world united should menace our coast:--

Should millions invade,

In terrour array'd,

Our liberties bid us surrender,

Our country they'd find

With bayonets lin'd,

And Washington here to defend her,

For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy

Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

Should Buonapart' come with his sans culotte band,

And a new sort of freedom we don't understand,

And make us an offer to give us as much

As France has bestow'd on the Swiss and the Dutch,

His fraud and his force

Will be futile of course;

We wish for no _Frenchified_ Freedom:

If folks beyond sea

Are to bid us be free,

We'll send for them when we shall need 'em.

But sans culotte Frenchmen we'll ever defy,

Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

We're anxious that Peace may continue her reign,

We cherish the virtues which sport in her train;

Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh,

And we shiver at Horrour's funereal cry!

But still, though we prize

That child of the skies,

We'll never like slaves be accosted.

In a war of defence

Our means are immense,

And we'll fight till our _all_ is exhausted:

For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,

Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

The EAGLE of FREEDOM with rapture behold,

Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold!

The flood-gates of glory are open on high,

And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky!

They come from above

With a message of love,

To bid us be firm and decided;

"At Liberty's call,

Unite one and all,

For you conquer, unless you're divided.

Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy,

Till the continent sinks and the ocean is dry!

"Americans, seek no occasion for war;

The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor:

But if in defence of your rights you should arm,

Let toils ne'er discourage, nor dangers alarm.

For foes to your peace

Will ever increase,

If freedom and fame you should barter,

Let those rights be yours,

While nature endures,

For OMNIPOTENCE gave you the charter!"

Then foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,

Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN.

Though there was to be no invasion to repel, the new navy was

soon to win its spurs. On February 9, 1799, the Constellation,

Captain Truxton, sighted the 36-gun frigate, Insurgente, off

St. Kitts, in the West Indies, and promptly gave chase. The

Frenchman was overhauled about the middle of the afternoon, and

after a fierce engagement was forced to surrender. Two months

later, Napoleon agreed to receive the American envoy "with the

respect due a powerful nation," and all danger of war was soon

over.

TRUXTON'S VICTORY

[February 9, 1799]

When Freedom, fair Freedom, her banner display'd,

Defying each foe whom her rights would invade,

Columbia's brave sons swore those rights to maintain,

And o'er ocean and earth to establish her reign;

United they cry,

While that standard shall fly,

Resolved, firm, and steady,

We always are ready

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

Tho' Gallia through Europe has rushed like a flood,

And deluged the earth with an ocean of blood:

While by faction she's led, while she's governed by knaves,

We court not her smiles, and will ne'er be her slaves;

Her threats we defy,

While our standard shall fly,

Resolved, firm, and steady,

We always are ready

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

Tho' France with caprice dares our Statesmen upbraid,

A tribute demands, or sets bounds to our trade;

From our young rising Navy our thunders shall roar,

And our Commerce extend to the earth's utmost shore.

Our cannon we'll ply,

While our standard shall fly;

Resolved, firm, and steady,

We always are ready

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

To know we're resolved, let them think on the hour,

When Truxton, brave Truxton off Nevis's shore,

His ship mann'd for battle, the standard unfurl'd,

And at the Insurgente defiance he hurled;

And his valiant tars cry,

While our standard shall fly,

Resolved, firm, and steady,

We always are ready

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

Each heart beat exulting, inspir'd by the cause;

They fought for their country, their freedom and laws;

From their cannon loud volleys of vengeance they pour'd,

And the standard of France to Columbia was lower'd.

Huzza! they now cry,

Let the Eagle wave high;

Resolved, firm, and steady,

We always are ready

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

Then raise high the strain, pay the tribute that's due

To the fair Constellation, and all her brave Crew;

Be Truxton revered, and his name be enrolled,

'Mongst the chiefs of the ocean, the heroes of old.

Each invader defy,

While such heroes are nigh,

Who always are ready,

Resolved, firm, and steady

To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

THE CONSTELLATION AND THE INSURGENTE

[February 9, 1799]

Come all ye Yankee sailors, with swords and pikes advance,

'Tis time to try your courage and humble haughty France,

The sons of France our seas invade,

Destroy our commerce and our trade,

'Tis time the reck'ning should be paid!

To brave Yankee boys.

On board the Constellation, from Baltimore we came,

We had a bold commander and Truxton was his name!

Our ship she mounted forty guns,

And on the main so swiftly runs,

To prove to France Columbia's sons

Are brave Yankee boys.

We sailed to the West Indies in order to annoy

The invaders of our commerce, to burn, sink, and destroy;

Our Constellation shone so bright,

The Frenchmen could not bear the sight,

And away they scamper'd in affright,

From the brave Yankee boys.

'Twas on the 9th of February, at Montserrat we lay,

And there we spy'd the Insurgente just at the break of day,

We raised the orange and the blue,

To see if they our signals knew,

The Constellation and her crew

Of brave Yankee boys.

Then all hands were called to quarters, while we pursued in chase,

With well-prim'd guns, our tompions out, well spliced the main brace.

Soon to the French we did draw nigh,

Compelled to fight, they were, or fly,

The word was passed, "CONQUER OR DIE,"

My brave Yankee boys.

Lord! our Cannons thunder'd with peals tremendous roar,

And death upon our bullets' wings that drenched their decks with gore,

The blood did from their scuppers run,

Their chief exclaimed, "We are undone!"

Their flag they struck, the battle won,

By the brave Yankee boys.

Then to St. Kitts we steered, we bro't her safe in port,

The grand salute was fired and answered from the fort,

John Adams in full bumpers toast,

George Washington, Columbia's boast,

And now "the girl we love the most!"

My brave Yankee boys.

1813.

On December 14, 1799, George Washington died at Mount Vernon

after an illness lasting only a few days. The funeral took

place four days later, with only such ceremonials as the

immediate neighborhood provided.

WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT

For him who sought his country's good

In plains of war, mid scenes of blood;

Who, in the dubious battle's fray,

Spent the warm noon of life's bright day,

That to a world he might secure

Rights that forever shall endure,

Rear the monument of fame!

Deathless is the hero's name.

For him, who, when the war was done,

And victory sure, and freedom won,

Left glory's theatre, the field,

The olive branch of peace to wield;

And proved, when at the helm of state,

Though great in war, in peace as great;

Rear the monument of fame!

Deathless is the hero's name!

For him, whose worth, though unexpress'd,

Lives cherish'd in each freeman's breast,

Whose name, to patriot souls so dear,

Time's latest children shall revere,

Whose brave achievements praised shall be,

While beats one breast for liberty;

Rear the monument of fame!

Deathless is the hero's name!

But why for him vain marbles raise?

Can the cold sculpture speak his praise?

Illustrious shade! we can proclaim

Our gratitude, but not thy fame.

Long as Columbia shall be free,

She lives a monument of thee;

And may she ever rise in fame,

To honor thy immortal name!

Since 1785 it had been necessary to protect American commerce

from the Barbary corsairs by paying tribute, but their demands

grew so exorbitant that war was at last declared against

Tripoli, and a squadron dispatched to the Mediterranean. One

of this squadron was the Philadelphia, which ran aground and

was captured by the pirates on October 31, 1803. The ship was

towed into the harbor of Tripoli and anchored under the guns

of the fortress. On the night of February 15, 1804, a party

of seventy-five headed by Lieutenants Decatur and Lawrence

and Midshipman Bainbridge, entered the harbor, boarded the

Philadelphia, drove the Turkish crew overboard, set fire to the

ship, and escaped without losing a man, having performed what

Lord Nelson called "the most daring act of the age."

HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA

[February 15, 1804]

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore

He would scourge us from the seas;

Yankees should trouble his soul no more--

By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,

Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,

And troubled his soul no more._

The moon was dim in the western sky,

And a mist fell soft on the sea,

As we slipped away from the Siren brig

And headed for Tripoli.

Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay,

Before us the empty night;

And when again we looked behind

The Siren was gone from our sight.

Nothing behind us, and nothing before,

Only the silence and rain,

As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows

And cast us up again.

Through the rain and the silence we stole along,

Cautious and stealthy and slow,

For we knew the waters were full of those

Who might challenge the Mastico.

But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost

Of the ship we had come to see,

Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame

Rolling uneasily.

And as we looked, the mist drew up

And the moon threw off her veil,

And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight,

Ghostly and drear and pale.

Then spoke Decatur low and said:

"To the bulwarks shadow all!

But the six who wear the Tripoli dress

Shall answer the sentinel's call."

"What ship is that?" cried the sentinel.

"No ship," was the answer free;

"But only a Malta ketch in distress

Wanting to moor in your lee.

"We have lost our anchor, and wait for day

To sail into Tripoli town,

And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night,

So cast a cable down."

Then close to the frigate's side we came,

Made fast to her unforbid--

Six of us bold in the heathen dress,

The rest of us lying hid.

But one who saw us hiding there

"_Americano!_" cried.

Then straight we rose and made a rush

Pellmell up the frigate's side.

Less than a hundred men were we,

And the heathen were twenty score;

But a Yankee sailor in those old days

Liked odds of one to four.

And first we cleaned the quarter-deck,

And then from stern to stem

We charged into our enemies

And quickly slaughtered them.

All around was the dreadful sound

Of corpses striking the sea,

And the awful shrieks of dying men

In their last agony.

The heathen fought like devils all,

But one by one they fell,

Swept from the deck by our cutlasses

To the water, and so to hell.

Some we found in the black of the hold,

Some to the fo'c's'le fled,

But all in vain; we sought them out

And left them lying dead;

Till at last no soul but Christian souls

Upon that ship was found;

The twenty score were dead, and we,

The hundred, safe and sound.

And, stumbling over the tangled dead,

The deck a crimson tide,

We fired the ship from keel to shrouds

And tumbled over the side.

Then out to sea we sailed once more

With the world as light as day,

And the flames revealed a hundred sail

Of the heathen there in the bay.

All suddenly the red light paled,

And the rain rang out on the sea;

Then--a dazzling flash, a deafening roar,

Between us and Tripoli!

Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before,

Only the silence and rain;

And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows

And cast us up again.

_By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore

He would scourge us from the seas;

Yankees should trouble his soul no more--

By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,

Then lighted his hookah and took his ease,

And troubled his soul no more._

BARRETT EASTMAN.

Arrangements were made to bombard the port and a concerted

attack was made August 3, 1804. Two gunboats were captured

and three sunk, and the shore batteries badly damaged. Attack

after attack followed, and the war was finally ended by Tripoli

renouncing all claim to tribute and releasing all American

prisoners. It was during the first assault that Reuben James

saved Decatur's life.

REUBEN JAMES

[August 3, 1804]

Three ships of war had Preble when he left the Naples shore,

And the knightly king of Naples lent him seven galleys more,

And never since the Argo floated in the middle sea

Such noble men and valiant have sailed in company

As the men who went with Preble to the siege of Tripoli.

Stewart, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur--how their names ring out like gold!--

Lawrence, Porter, Trippe, Macdonough, and a score as true and bold;

Every star that lights their banner tells the glory that they won;

But one common sailor's glory is the splendor of the sun.

Reuben James was first to follow when Decatur laid aboard

Of the lofty Turkish galley and in battle broke his sword.

Then the pirate captain smote him, till his blood was running fast,

And they grappled and they struggled, and they fell beside the mast.

Close behind him Reuben battled with a dozen, undismayed,

Till a bullet broke his sword-arm, and he dropped the useless blade.

Then a swinging Turkish sabre clove his left and brought him low,

Like a gallant bark, dismasted, at the mercy of the foe.

Little mercy knows the corsair: high his blade was raised to slay,

When a richer prize allured him where Decatur struggling lay.

"Help!" the Turkish leader shouted, and his trusty comrade sprung,

And his scimetar like lightning o'er the Yankee captain swung.

Reuben James, disabled, armless, saw the sabre flashed on high,

Saw Decatur shrink before it, heard the pirate's taunting cry,

Saw, in half the time I tell it, how a sailor brave and true

Still might show a bloody pirate what a dying man can do.

Quick he struggled, stumbling, sliding in the blood around his feet,

As the Turk a moment waited to make vengeance doubly sweet.

Swift the sabre fell, but swifter bent the sailor's head below,

And upon his 'fenceless forehead Reuben James received the blow!

So was saved our brave Decatur; so the common sailor died;

So the love that moves the lowly lifts the great to fame and pride.

Yet we grudge him not his honors, for whom love like this had birth--

For God never ranks His sailors by the Register of earth!

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

In the spring of 1808 the schooner Betsy, of Marblehead,

commanded by "Skipper Ireson," sighted a wreck while passing

Cape Cod on her way home from the West Indies. It was dark

at the time, and the sea was running high, so that she was

unable to render any assistance. Another vessel soon afterwards

rescued the people on the wreck, and they reached shore in

season for news of the occurrence to reach Marblehead before

the Betsy's arrival. A crowd met the vessel at the wharf, and

the sailors, when called to account, protested that Ireson

would not let them go to the relief of the wrecked vessel. The

mob thereupon seized the unfortunate skipper, and putting him

into an old dory, started to drag him to Beverly, where they

said he belonged, in order to show him to his own people.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

[1808]

Of all the rides since the birth of time,

Told in story or sung in rhyme,--

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,

Witch astride of a human back,

Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,--

The strangest ride that ever was sped

Was Ireson's out from Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of fowl,

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,

Feathered and ruffled in every part,

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.

Scores of women, old and young,

Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase

Bacchus round some antique vase,

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him!--He sailed away

From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,--

Sailed away from a sinking wreck,

With his own town's-people on her deck!

"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.

Back he answered, "Sink or swim!

Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur

That wreck shall lie forevermore.

Mother and sister, wife and maid,

Looked from the rocks of Marblehead

Over the moaning and rainy sea,--

Looked for the coming that might not be!

What did the winds and the sea-birds say

Of the cruel captain who sailed away?--

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,

Up flew windows, doors swung wide;

Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,

Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.

Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,

Hulks of old sailors run aground,

Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,

And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Sweetly along the Salem road

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim,

Like an Indian idol glum and grim,

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear

Of voices shouting, far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--

"What to me is this noisy ride?

What is the shame that clothes the skin

To the nameless horror that lives within?

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,

And hear a cry from a reeling deck!

Hate me and curse me,--I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead!"

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea

Said, "God has touched him! why should we!"

Said an old wife mourning her only son,

"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"

So with soft relentings and rude excuse,

Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,

And gave him a cloak to hide him in,

And left him alone with his shame and sin.

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Later investigation proved that Ireson was in no way

responsible for the abandonment of the disabled ship, and that

his crew had lied in order to save themselves.

A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON

[1808]

Old Flood Ireson! all too long

Have jeer and gibe and ribald song

Done thy memory cruel wrong.

Old Flood Ireson, bending low

Under the weight of years and woe,

Crept to his refuge long ago.

Old Flood Ireson sleeps in his grave;

Howls of a mad mob, worse than the wave,

Now no more in his ear shall rave!

* * * * *

Gone is the pack and gone the prey,

Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day

Is hunted still down Time's highway.

Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare

Hooting and tooting the same old air,

Drags him along the old thoroughfare.

Mocked evermore with the old refrain,

Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,

Jingling and jolting he comes again

Over that road of old renown,

Fair broad avenue, leading down

Through South Fields to Salem town,

Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong,

Mounted high on the car of song,

Sight that cries, O Lord! how long

Shall heaven look on and not take part

With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?

Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame

Wipes away with tears of shame

Stains from many an injured name,

Shall not, in the tuneful line,

Beams of truth and mercy shine

Through the clouds that darken thine?

Take henceforth, perturbèd sprite,

From the fever and the fright,

Take the rest,--thy well-earned right.

Along the track of that hard ride

The form of Penitence oft shall glide,

With tender Pity by her side;

And their tears, that mingling fall

On the dark record they recall,

Shall cleanse the stain and expiate all.

CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.

CHAPTER II

THE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND

The treaty of peace with England which closed the Revolution

provided for the payment of English creditors and the

restoration of confiscated estates, but the individual

states refused to carry out this agreement, and England, in

consequence, retained possession of some of the Western posts.

To this were soon added other causes of annoyance, principal

among which was the right claimed by England to impress into

her service seamen of British birth, wherever found, and to

stop and search the ships of the United States for this purpose.

THE TIMES

Ye brave sons of Freedom, come join in the chorus,

At the dangers of war do not let us repine,

But sing and rejoice at the prospect before us,

And drink it success in a bumper of wine.

At the call of the nation,

Let each to his station,

And resist depredation,

Which our country degrades;

Ere the conflict is over,

Our rights we'll recover,

Or punish whoever

Our honor invades.

We're abused and insulted, our country's degraded,

Our rights are infringed both by land and by sea;

Let us rouse up, indignant, when those rights are invaded,

And announce to the world, "We're united and free!"

By our navy's protection

We'll make our election,

And in every direction

Our trade shall be free;

No British oppression,

No Gallic aggression

Shall disturb the possession

We claim to the sea.

Then Columbia's ships shall sail on the ocean,

And the nations of Europe respect us at last:

Our stars and our stripes shall command their devotion,

And Liberty perch on the top of the mast.

Though _Bona_ and _John Bull_

Continue their long pull,

Till ambition's cup-full

Be drain'd to the lees;

By wisdom directed,

By tyrants respected,

By cannon protected,

We'll traverse the seas.

Though vile combinations to sever the Union

Be projected with caution and managed with care,

Though traitors and Britons, in sweetest communion,

Their patriot virtue unite and compare,

American thunder

Shall rend it asunder,

And ages shall wonder

At the deeds we have done:

And every Tory

When he hears of the story,

Shall repine at the glory

Our heroes have won.

Let local attachments be condemn'd and discarded,

Distrust and suspicion be banish'd the mind,

Let union, our safety, be ever regarded,

When improved by example, by virtue refined.

Our ancestors brought it,

Our sages have taught it,

Our Washington bought it,

'Tis our glory and boast!

No factions shall ever

Our government sever,

But "Union forever,"

Shall be our last toast.

Measures so outrageous made war seemingly inevitable; but

Washington, through the Jay Treaty, managed to patch up a

peace. In 1805 England, hard-pressed by Napoleon, again

asserted the "right of search," and her war-vessels stopped

merchantmen and cruisers alike and took off all persons whom

the British commanders chose to regard as British subjects.

Congress retaliated by prohibiting commerce with England.

The embargo went into effect in January, 1808, and aroused

sectional feeling to such an extent that New England threatened

secession from the Union.

REPARATION OR WAR

WRITTEN DURING THE EMBARGO

Rejoice, rejoice, brave patriots, rejoice!

Our martial sons take a bold and manly stand!

Rejoice, rejoice, exulting raise your voice,

Let union pervade our happy land.

The altar of Liberty shall never be polluted,

But freedom expand and flourish, firm and deeply rooted.

Our eagle, towering high,

Triumphantly shall fly,

While men like JEFFERSON preside to serve their country!

Huzza! huzza! boys, etc., etc.

With firmness we'll resent our wrongs sustain'd at sea;

Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.

For none but slaves will bend to tyranny.

To arms, to arms, with ardor rush to arms,

Our injured rights have long for vengeance cried.

To arms, to arms, prepare for war's alarms,

If honest reparation be denied.

Though feeble counteracting plans, or foreign combinations,

May interdict awhile our trade, against the law of nations,

The embargo on supplies

Shall open Europe's eyes;

Proclaiming unto all the world, "Columbia will be free."

Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.

With honor we'll maintain a just neutrality.

Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.

For none but slaves will bend to tyranny.

Defend, defend, ye heroes and ye sages,

The gift divine--your independency!

Transmit with joy, down to future ages,

How Washington achieved your liberty.

When freemen are insulted, they send forth vengeful thunder,

Determined to maintain their rights, strike the foe with wonder.

They cheerfully will toil,

To cultivate the soil,

And rather live on humble fare than feast ignobly.

Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.

United, firm we stand, invincible and free,

Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.

Then none but slaves shall bend to tyranny.

The opponents of the embargo termed the conflict a "terrapin

war,"--the nation, by extinguishing commerce, drawing within

its own shell like a terrapin; and at gatherings of the

Federalists, a song by that title was very popular.

TERRAPIN WAR

Huzza for our liberty, boys,

These are the days of our glory--

The days of true national joys,

When terrapins gallop before ye!

There's Porter and Grundy and Rhea,

In Congress who manfully vapor,

Who draw their six dollars a day,

And fight bloody battles _on paper_!

Ah! this is true Terrapin war.

Poor Madison the tremors has got,

'Bout this same arming the nation;

Too far to retract, he cannot

Go on--and he loses his station.

Then bring up your "regulars," lads,

In "attitude" nothing ye lack, sirs,

Ye'll frighten to death the Danads,

With fire-coals blazing aback, sirs!

Oh, this is true Terrapin war!

As to powder and bullets and swords,

For, as they were never intended,

They're a parcel of high-sounding words,

But never to _action_ extended.

Ye must _frighten_ the rascals away,

In "_rapid descent_" on their quarters;

Then the plunder divide as ye may,

And drive them headlong in the waters.

Oh, this is _great_ Terrapin war!

But the hostility to Great Britain grew steadily more bitter,

and the war party was led by such able men as Henry Clay and

John C. Calhoun. Various incidents tended to fan the flames,

and on June 18, 1812, war was declared.

FAREWELL, PEACE

[June 18, 1812]

Farewell, Peace! another crisis

Calls us to "the last appeal,"

Made when monarchs and their vices

Leave no argument but _steel_.

When injustice and oppression

Dare avow the tyrant's plea.

Who would recommend submission?

Virtue bids us to be free.

History spreads her page before us,

Time unrolls his ample scroll;

Truth unfolds them, to assure us,

States, united, ne'er can fall.

See, in annals Greek and Roman,

What immortal deeds we find;

When those gallant sons of woman

In their country's cause combined.

Sons of Freedom! brave descendants

From a race of heroes tried,

To preserve our independence

Let all Europe be defied.

Let not all the world, united,

Rob us of one sacred right:

Every patriot heart's delighted

In his country's cause to fight.

Come then, War! with hearts elated

To thy standard we will fly;

Every bosom animated

Either to live free or die.

May the wretch that shrinks from duty,

Or deserts the glorious strife,

Never know the smile of beauty,

Nor the blessing of a wife.

The Federalists claimed that war had been declared, not to

avenge the country's wrongs upon the ocean, but to conquer

Canada. Canada was, indeed, the first objective, and troops

were enlisted and hurried forward to the various northern posts.

COME, YE LADS, WHO WISH TO SHINE

Come, ye lads, who wish to shine

Bright in future story,

Haste to arms, and form the line

That leads to martial glory.

Beat the drum, the trumpet sound,

Manly and united,

Danger face, maintain your ground,

And see your country righted.

Columbia, when her eagle's roused,

And her flag is rearing

Will always find her sons disposed

To drub the foe that's daring.

Beat the drum, etc.

Hearts of oak, protect the coast,

Pour your naval thunder,

While on shore a mighty host

Shall strike the world with wonder.

Beat the drum, etc.

Haste to Quebec's towering walls,

Through the British regions;

Hark! Montgomery's spirit calls,

Drive the hostile legions.

Beat the drum, etc.

Honor for the brave to share

Is the noblest booty;

Guard your rights, protect the fair,

For that's a soldier's duty.

Beat the drum, etc.

Charge the musket, point the lance,

Brave the worst of dangers;

Tell to Britain and to France,

That we to fear are strangers.

Beat the drum, etc.

The Canadian campaign was soon to end ignominiously enough. In

July, General Hull, governor of Michigan territory, crossed

from Detroit into Canada, then crossed back again, and on

August 16, without striking a blow, surrendered Detroit and

his entire army to the British under General Brock. Hull was

afterwards tried by court-martial, convicted of cowardice, and

sentenced to be shot, but the sentence was commuted.

HULL'S SURRENDER

OR, VILLANY SOMEWHERE

[August 16, 1812]

Ye Columbians so bold, attend while I sing;

Sure treason and treachery's not quite the thing,

At a time like the present, we ought, one and all,

In defence of our rights, to stand nobly or fall.

_Chorus_

Then let traitors be banish'd Columbia's fair shore,

And treason be known in her borders no more.

With a brave, gallant army HULL went to Detroit,

And swore he'd accomplish a noble exploit;

That the British and Indians he'd conquer outright,

And give cause to his country of joy and delight.

_Chorus_

But if traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,

O let it be known in her borders no more.

Ah! quickly alas! defeat and disgrace

Star'd our brave noble soldiers quite full in the face,

When they thought that the victory was sure to be won,

Their general gave up, _without firing a gun_.

_Chorus_

Then do traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,

IF THEY DO, let them dwell in her borders no more!

Those heroes, who bravely on the Wabash had fought,

Who for glory successfully nobly had sought,

Where the _favor_ denied of asserting their wrongs,

And deprived of that _right_ which to freemen belongs.

_Chorus_

Then if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,

O let it be known in her borders no more!

Is it true that our soldiers were wrongfully us'd?

Is it true that they've been by their GENERAL abus'd?

Is it true that an army so gallant were _sold_?

Is it true that COLUMBIANS were barter'd for gold?

_Chorus_

If it is, then does treason still dwell on our shore,

But let it be known in our country no more!

Ye heroes who fought by the side of brave _Floyd_,

Ye heroes, conducted to glory by _Boyd_,

Think not that your brethren will quietly bear,

From your brows that a traitor your laurels should tear.

_Chorus_

No--if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,

It shall soon be expell'd to reside here no more.

Then rouse ye brave freemen, and heed no alarms,

Your dear native country now calls you to arms,

Away to the battle, and count not the cost

Till the glory you gain, which so basely was lost.

_Chorus_

For if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,

By our fathers we swear it shall dwell here no more.

The fury which the news of this disaster aroused was tempered

by rejoicing for a remarkable victory on the ocean. Anxious

to meet some of the famous British frigates, Captain Isaac

Hull put out from Boston with the Constitution on August

2. He sailed without orders, and had the cruise resulted

disastrously, he would probably have been court-martialed and

shot. On the afternoon of August 19, a sail was sighted off

Halifax and proved to be the British frigate Guerrière. Hull at

once attacked, and soon reduced the enemy to a "perfect wreck."

The Constitution sustained little injury and got safely back to

port.

THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUERRIÈRE

[August 19, 1812]

I often have been told

That the British seamen bold

Could beat the tars of France neat and handy O;

But they never found their match,

Till the Yankees did them catch,

For the Yankee tars for fighting are the dandy O.

O, the Guerrière so bold

On the foaming ocean rolled,

Commanded by Dacres the grandee O;

For the choice of British crew

That a rammer ever drew

Could beat the Frenchmen two to one quite handy O.

When the frigate hove in view,

"O," said Dacres to his crew,

"Prepare ye for action and be handy O;

On the weather-gauge we'll get her."

And to make his men fight better,

He gave to them gunpowder and good brandy O.

Now this boasting Briton cries,

"Make that Yankee ship your prize,

You can in thirty minutes do it handy O,

Or twenty-five, I'm sure

You'll do it in a score,

I will give you a double share of good brandy O.

"When prisoners we've made them,

With switchell we will treat them,

We will treat them with 'Yankee Doodle Dandy' O;"

The British balls flew hot,

But the Yankees answered not,

Until they got a distance that was handy O.

"O," cried Hull unto his crew,

"We'll try what we can do;

If we beat those boasting Britons we're the dandy O."

The first broadside we poured

Brought the mizzen by the board,

Which doused the royal ensign quite handy O.

O Dacres he did sigh,

And to his officers did cry,

"I did not think these Yankees were so handy O."

The second told so well

That the fore and main-mast fell,

Which made this lofty frigate look quite handy O.

"O," says Dacres, "we're undone,"

So he fires a lee gun.

Our drummer struck up "Yankee Doodle Dandy" O;

When Dacres came on board

To deliver up his sword,

He was loth to part with it, it looked so handy O.

"You may keep it," says brave Hull.

"What makes you look so dull?

Cheer up and take a glass of good brandy O;"

O Britons now be still,

Since we've hooked you in the gill,

Don't boast upon Dacres the grandee O.

HALIFAX STATION

[August 19, 1812]

From Halifax station a bully there came,

To take or be taken, call'd Dacres by name:

But 'twas who but a Yankee he met on his way--

Says the Yankee to him, "Will you stop and take tea?"

Then Dacres steps up, thus addressing his crew:--

"Don't you see that d--d flag that is red, white, and blue;

Let us drum all to quarters, prepare for to fight,

For in taking that ship boys, it will make me a knight."

Then up to each mast-head he straight sent a flag,

Which shows, on the ocean, a proud British brag;

But Hull, being pleasant, he sent up but one,

And told every seaman to stand true to his gun.

Then Hull, like a hero, before them appears,

And with a short speech his sailors he cheers,

Saying, "We'll batter their sides, and we'll do the neat thing:

We'll conquer their bully, and laugh at their king."

Then we off with our hats and gave him a cheer,

Swore we'd stick by brave Hull, while a seaman could steer;

And at it we went with mutual delight,

For to fight and to conquer's a sailor's free right.

Then we crowded all sail, and we ran alongside,

And we wellfed our bull-dogs with true Yankee pride.

'Twas broadside for broadside we on them did pour,

While cannon's loud mouths at each other did roar.

Says Dacres, "Fight on, and we'll have her in tow,

We will drink to Great Britain, and the cans they shall flow;

So strike, you d--d Yankee, I'll make you with ease:"

But the man they call Hull, says, "O no, if you please."

Then Dacres wore ship, expecting to rake;

But quite in a hurry, found out his mistake;

For we luff'd round his bow, boys, and caught his jib-boom,

And, in raking them aft, we soon gave him his doom.

Then Dacres look'd wild, and then sheath'd his sword,

When he found that his masts were all gone by the board,

And dropping astern cries out to the steward,

"Come up and be d--d, fire a gun to the leeward."

Then we off with our hats, and we gave them three cheers,

Which bitterly stung all those Englishmen's ears;

Saying, "We'll fight for our country, do all things that's right,

And let the world know, that green Yankees can fight."

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIÈRE

[August 19, 1812]

Long the tyrant of our coast

Reigned the famous Guerrière;

Our little navy she defied,

Public ship and privateer:

On her sails in letters red,

To our captains were displayed

Words of warning, words of dread,

"All who meet me, have a care!

I am England's Guerrière."

On the wide, Atlantic deep

(Not her equal for the fight)

The Constitution, on her way,

Chanced to meet these men of might;

On her sails was nothing said,

But her waist the teeth displayed

That a deal of blood could shed,

Which, if she would venture near,

Would stain the decks of the Guerrière.

Now our gallant ship they met--

And, to struggle with John Bull--

Who had come, they little thought,

Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull:

Better soon to be acquainted:

Isaac hailed the Lord's anointed--

While the crew the cannon pointed,

And the balls were so directed

With a blaze so unexpected;

Isaac so did maul and rake her

That the decks of Captain Dacre

Were in such a woful pickle

As if death with scythe and sickle,

With his sling, or with his shaft

Had cut his harvest fore and aft.

Thus, in thirty minutes ended,

Mischiefs that could not be mended;

Masts, and yards, and ship descended,

All to David Jones's locker--

Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink a bout to the Constitution!

She performed some execution,

Did some share of retribution

For the insults of the year

When she took the Guerrière.

May success again await her,

Let who will again command her,

Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur--

Nothing like her can withstand her.

With a crew like that on board her

Who so boldly called "to order"

One bold crew of English sailors,

Long, too long our seamen's jailors,

Dacre and the Guerrière!

PHILIP FRENEAU.

FIRSTFRUITS IN 1812

[August 19, 1812]

_What is that a-billowing there

Like a thunderhead in air?

Why should such a sight be whitening the seas?_

That's a Yankee man-o'-war,

And three things she's seeking for--

For a prize, and for a battle, and a breeze.

When the war blew o'er the sea

Out went Hull and out went we

In the Constitution, looking for the foe;

But five British ships came down--

And we got to Boston-town

By a mighty narrow margin, you must know!

Captain Hull can't fight their fleet,

But he fairly aches to meet

Quite the prettiest British ship of all there were;

So he stands again to sea

In the hope that on his lee

He'll catch Dacres and his pretty Guerrière.

'Tis an August afternoon

Not a day too late or soon,

When we raise a ship whose lettered mainsail reads:

_All who meet me have a care,

I am England's Guerrière;_

So Hull gayly clears for action as he speeds.

Cheery bells had chanted five

On the happiest day alive

When we Yankees dance to quarters at his call;

While the British bang away

With their broadsides' screech and bray;

But the Constitution never fires a ball.

We send up three times to ask

If we sha'n't begin our task?

Captain Hull sends back each time the answer _No_;

Till to half a pistol-shot

The two frigates he had brought,

Then he whispers, _Lay along!_--and we let go.

Twice our broadside lights and lifts,

And the Briton, crippled, drifts

With her mizzen dangling hopeless at her poop:

Laughs a Yankee, _She's a brig!_

Says our Captain, _That's too big;

Try another, so we'll have her for a sloop!_

We hurrah, and fire again,

Lay aboard of her like men,

And, like men, they beat us off, and try in turn;

But we drive bold Dacres back

With our muskets' snap and crack--

All the while our crashing broadsides boom and burn.

'Tis but half an hour, bare,

When that pretty Guerrière

Not a stick calls hers aloft or hers alow,

Save the mizzen's shattered mast,

Where her "meteor flag" 's nailed fast

Till, a fallen star, we quench its ruddy glow.

Dacres, injured, o'er our side

Slowly bears his sword of pride,

Holds it out, as Hull stands there in his renown:

_No, no!_ says th' American,

_Never, from so brave a man--

But I see you're wounded, let me help you down._

All that night we work in vain

Keeping her upon the main,

But we've hulled her far too often, and at last

In a blaze of fire there

Dies the pretty Guerrière;

While away we cheerly sail upon the blast.

Oh, the breeze that blows so free!

Oh, the prize beneath the sea!

Oh, the battle!--was there ever better won?

Still the happy Yankee cheers

Are a-ringing in our ears

From old Boston, glorying in what we've done.

_What is that a-billowing there

Like a thunderhead in air?

Why should such a sight be whitening the seas?_

That's Old Ir'nsides, trim and taut,

And she's found the things she sought--

Found a prize, a bully battle, and a breeze!

WALLACE RICE.

This victory, needless to say, greatly encouraged the

Americans, and General Stephen van Rensselaer, in command of

the northern army, determined to try another stroke at Canada.

On October 13, 1812, he started to cross the Niagara River with

six hundred men; but the crossing was mismanaged, the militia

refused to obey orders, and after a gallant fight lasting all

day, the Americans were forced to surrender to an overwhelming

force of British and Indians.

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTOWN

[October 13, 1812]

When brave Van Rensselaer cross'd the stream,

Just at the break of day,

Distressing thoughts, a restless dream,

Disturb'd me where I lay.

But all the terrors of the night

Did quickly flee away:

My opening eyes beheld the light,

And hail'd the new-born day.

Soon did the murdering cannon's roar

Put blood in all my veins;

Columbia's sons have trod the shore

Where the proud Britain reigns.

To expose their breast to cannon's ball,

Their country's rights to save,

O what a grief to see them fall!

True heroes, bold and brave!

The musket's flash, the cannon's glow,

Thunder'd and lighten'd round,

Struck dread on all the tawny foe,

And swept them to the ground.

I thought what numbers must be slain,

What weeping widows left!

And aged parents full of pain,

Of every joy bereft.

The naked savage yelling round

Our heroes where they stood,

And every weapon to be found

Was bathed in human blood.

But bold Van Rensselaer, full of wounds,

Was quickly carried back;

Brave Colonel Bloom did next command

The bloody fierce attack.

Where Brock, the proud insulter, rides

In pomp and splendor great;

Our valiant heroes he derides,

And dared the power of fate.

"Here is a mark for Yankee boys,

So shoot me if you can:"

A Yankee ball soon closed his eyes,

Death found him but a man.

They slaughter'd down the tawny foe,

And Britons that were near;

They dealt out death at every blow,

The battle was severe.

Five battles fought all in one day,

Through four victorious stood,

But ah! the fifth swept all away,

And spilt our heroes' blood.

The tomahawk and scalping-knife

On them did try their skill;

Some wounded, struggling for their life,

Did black barbarians kill.

Brave Wadsworth boldly kept the field

Till their last bullets flew;

Then all were prisoners forced to yield,

What could the general do?

Militia men! O fie for shame!

Thus you your country flee.

'Tis you at last will bear the blame

For loss of victory.

When mild Van Rensselaer did command,

You would not him obey;

But stood spectators on the strand,

To see the bloody fray.

The number kill'd was seventy-four,

Prisoners, seven hundred sixty-nine,

Wounded, two hundred or more,

Who languish'd in great pain.

Some have already lost their lives,

And others like to go;

But few, I fear, will tell their wives

The doleful tale of wo.

WILLIAM BANKER, JR.

But disasters on land seemed fated to be followed by victories

on the water. About noon of October 18, 1812, the American

18-gun sloop of war, Wasp, encountered the 20-gun British

brig, Frolic, off Albemarle Sound, and, after a severe action,

boarded and compelled her to surrender. Shortly afterwards,

a sail hove in sight, which proved to be the British 74,

Poictiers, and, running down on the sloops, she seized both the

Wasp and her prize and carried them to Bermuda.

THE WASP'S FROLIC

[October 18, 1812]

'Twas on board the sloop of war Wasp, boys,

We set sail from Delaware Bay,

To cruise on Columbia's fair coast, sirs,

Our rights to maintain on the sea.

Three days were not passed on our station,

When the Frolic came up to our view;

Says Jones, "Show the flag of our nation;"

Three cheers were then gave by our crew.

We boldly bore up to this Briton,

Whose cannon began for to roar;

The Wasp soon her stings from her side ran,

When we on them a broadside did pour.

Each sailor stood firm at his quarters,

'Twas minutes past forth and three,

When fifty bold Britons were slaughtered,

Whilst our guns swept their masts in the sea.

Their breasts then with valor still glowing,

Acknowledged the battle we'd won,

On us then bright laurels bestowing,

When to leeward they fired a gun.

On their decks we the twenty guns counted,

With a crew for to answer the same;

Eighteen was the number we mounted,

Being served by the lads of true game.

With the Frolic in tow, we were standing,

All in for Columbia's fair shore;

But fate on our laurels was frowning,

We were taken by a seventy-four.

A more signal victory was soon to be recorded. On the morning

of October 25, 1812, near the Canary Islands, the British

38-gun frigate, Macedonian, was overhauled by the American 44,

United States, and an hour after the action began, was reduced

to a wreck by the terrible fire of the American. A prize crew

was put aboard, repaired her, and got her safely to New York.

THE UNITED STATES AND THE MACEDONIAN

[October 25, 1812]

How glows each patriot bosom that boasts a Yankee heart,

To emulate such glorious deeds and nobly take a part;

When sailors with their thund'ring guns,

Prove to the English, French, and Danes

That Neptune's chosen fav'rite sons

Are brave Yankee boys.

The twenty-fifth of October, that glorious happy day,

When we beyond all precedent, from Britons bore the sway,--

'Twas in the ship United States,

Four and forty guns the rates,

That she should rule, decreed the Fates,

And brave Yankee boys.

Decatur and his hardy tars were cruising on the deep,

When off the Western Islands they to and fro did sweep,

The Macedonian they espied,

"Huzza! bravo!" Decatur cried,

"We'll humble Britain's boasted pride,

My brave Yankee boys."

The decks were cleared, the hammocks stowed, the boatswain pipes all

hands,

The tompions out, the guns well sponged, the Captain now commands;

The boys who for their country fight,

Their words, "Free Trade and Sailor's Rights!"

Three times they cheered with all their might,

Those brave Yankee boys.

Now chain-shot, grape, and langrage pierce through her oaken sides,

And many a gallant sailor's blood runs purpling in the tides;

While death flew nimbly o'er their decks,

Some lost their legs, and some their necks,

And Glory's wreath our ship be-decks,

For brave Yankee boys.

My boys, the proud St. George's Cross, the stripes above it wave,

And busy are our gen'rous tars, the conquered foe to save,

To Carden then, in tones so bland,

Our Captain cries "Give me your hand,"

Then of the ship who took command

But brave Yankee boys?

Our enemy lost her mizzen, her main and fore-topmast,

For ev'ry shot with death was winged, which slew her men so fast,

That they lost five to one in killed,

And ten to one their blood was spilled,

So Fate decreed and Heaven had willed,

For brave Yankee boys.

Then homeward steered the captive ship, now safe in port she lies,

The old and young with rapture viewed our sailors' noble prize;

Through seas of wine their health we'll drink,

And wish them sweet-hearts, friends, and chink,

Who 'fore they'd strike, will nobly sink

Our brave Yankee boys.

THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN

[October 25, 1812]

The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled,

While the silver-tipt surges in low homage curled,

Flashing bright round the bow of Decatur's brave bark,

In contest, an "eagle"--in chasing, a "lark."

The bold United States,

Which four-and-forty rates,

Will ne'er be known to yield--be known to yield or fly,

Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die."

All canvas expanded to woo the coy gale,

The ship cleared for action, in chase of a sail;

The foemen in view, every bosom beats high,

All eager for conquest, or ready to die.

Now havoc stands ready, with optics of flame,

And battle-hounds "strain on the start" for the game;

The blood demons rise on the surge for their prey,

While Pity, rejected, awaits the dread fray.

The gay floating streamers of Britain appear,

Waving light on the breeze as the stranger we near;

And now could the quick-sighted Yankee discern

"Macedonian," emblazoned at large on her stern.

She waited our approach, and the contest began,

But to waste ammunition is no Yankee plan;

In awful suspense every match was withheld,

While the bull-dogs of Britain incessantly yelled.

Unawed by her thunders, alongside we came,

While the foe seemed enwrapped in a mantle of flame;

When, prompt to the word, such a flood we return,

That Neptune, aghast, thought his trident would burn.

Now the lightning of battle gleams horridly red,

With a tempest of iron and hail-storm of lead;

And our fire on the foe we so copiously poured,

His mizzen and topmasts soon went by the board.

So fierce and so bright did our flashes aspire,

They thought that their cannon had set us on fire,

"The Yankee's in flames!"--every British tar hears,

And hails the false omen with three hearty cheers.

In seventeen minutes they found their mistake,

And were glad to surrender and fall in our wake;

Her decks were with carnage and blood deluged o'er,

Where welt'ring in blood lay an hundred and four.

But though she was made so completely a wreck,

With blood they had scarcely encrimsoned our deck;

Only five valiant Yankees in the contest were slain,

And our ship in five minutes was fitted again.

Let Britain no longer lay claim to the seas,

For the trident of Neptune is ours, if we please,

While Hull and Decatur and Jones are our boast,

We dare their whole navy to come on our coast.

Rise, tars of Columbia!--and share in the fame,

Which gilds Hull's, Decatur's, and Jones's bright name;

Fill a bumper, and drink, "Here's success to the cause,

But Decatur supremely deserves our applause."

The bold United States,

Which four-and-forty rates,

Shall ne'er be known to yield--be known to yield or fly,

Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die."

The United States was commanded by Captain Stephen Decatur, and

just before she engaged the Macedonian an incident occurred

which showed his crew's unbounded confidence in him.

JACK CREAMER

[October 25, 1812]

The boarding nettings are triced for fight;

Pike and cutlass are shining bright;

The boatswain's whistle pipes loud and shrill;

Gunner and topman work with a will;

Rough old sailor and reefer trim

Jest as they stand by the cannon grim;

There's a fighting glint in Decatur's eye,

And brave Old Glory floats out on high.

But many a heart beats fast below

The laughing lips as they near the foe;

For the pluckiest knows, though no man quails,

That the breath of death is filling the sails.

Only one little face is wan;

Only one childish mouth is drawn;

One little heart is sad and sore

To the watchful eye of the Commodore.

Little Jack Creamer, ten years old,

In no purser's book or watch enrolled,

Must mope or skulk while his shipmates fight,--

No wonder his little face is white!

"Why, Jack, old man, so blue and sad?

Afraid of the music?" The face of the lad

With mingled shame and anger burns.

Quick to the Commodore he turns:

"I'm not a coward, but I think if you--

Excuse me, Capt'n, I mean if you knew

(I s'pose it's because I'm young and small)

I'm not on the books! I'm no one at all!

And as soon as this fighting work is done,

And we get our prize-money, every one

Has his share of the plunder--_I_ get none."

"And you're sure we shall take her?" "Sure? Why, sir,

She's only a blessed Britisher!

We'll take her easy enough, I bet;

But glory's all that I'm going to get!"

"Glory! I doubt if I get more,

If I get so much," said the Commodore;

"But faith goes far in the race for fame,

And down on the books shall go your name."

Bravely the little seaman stood

To his post while the scuppers ran with blood,

While grizzled veterans looked and smiled

And gathered new courage from the child;

Till the enemy, crippled in pride and might,

Struck his crimson flag and gave up the fight.

Then little Jack Creamer stood once more

Face to face with the Commodore.

"You have got your glory," he said, "my lad,

And money to make your sweetheart glad.

Now, who may she be?" "My mother, sir;

I want you to send the half to her."

"And the rest?" Jack blushed and hung his head;

"I'll buy some schoolin' with that," he said.

Decatur laughed; then in graver mood:

"The first is the better, but both are good.

Your mother shall never know want while I

Have a ship to sail, or a flag to fly;

And schooling you'll have till all is blue,

But little the lubbers can teach to you."

_Midshipman_ Creamer's story is told--

They did such things in the days of old,

When faith and courage won sure reward,

And the quarter-deck was not triply barred,

To the forecastle hero; for men were men,

And the Nation was close to its Maker then.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

Encouraged by these successes, Congress, on January 2, 1813,

appropriated $2,500,000 to build four 74-gun ships and six

44-gun ships. England also took them to heart, and toward the

end of the month the entire British fleet was sent to blockade

the Atlantic coast.

YANKEE THUNDERS

[1813]

Britannia's gallant streamers

Float proudly o'er the tide,

And fairly wave Columbia's stripes,

In battle side by side.

And ne'er did bolder seamen meet,

Where ocean's surges pour;

O'er the tide now they ride,

While the bell'wing thunders roar,

While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,

And the bell'wing thunders roar.

When Yankee meets the Briton,

Whose blood congenial flows,

By Heav'n created to be friends,

By fortune rendered foes;

Hard then must be the battle fray,

Ere well the fight is o'er;

Now they ride, side by side,

While the bell'wing thunders roar,

While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,

And the bell'wing thunders roar.

Still, still, for noble England

Bold D'Acres' streamers fly;

And for Columbia, gallant Hull's

As proudly and as high;

Now louder rings the battle din,

And thick the volumes pour;

Still they ride, side by side,

While the bell'wing thunders roar,

While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,

And the bell'wing thunders roar.

Why lulls Britannia's thunder,

That waked the wat'ry war?

Why stays the gallant Guerrière,

Whose streamers waved so fair?

That streamer drinks the ocean wave,

That warrior's fight is o'er!

Still they ride, side by side,

While the bell'wing thunders roar,

While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,

And the bell'wing thunders roar.

Hark! 'tis the Briton's lee gun!

Ne'er bolder warrior kneeled!

And ne'er to gallant mariners

Did braver seamen yield.

Proud be the sires, whose hardy boys

Then fell to fight no more:

With the brave, mid the wave;

When the cannon's thunders roar,

Their spirits then shall trim the blast,

And swell the thunder's roar.

Vain were the cheers of Britons,

Their hearts did vainly swell,

Where virtue, skill, and bravery

With gallant Morris fell.

That heart so well in battle tried,

Along the Moorish shore,

And again o'er the main,

When Columbia's thunders roar,

Shall prove its Yankee spirit true,

When Columbia's thunders roar.

Hence be our floating bulwark

Those oaks our mountains yield;

'Tis mighty Heaven's plain decree--

Then take the wat'ry field!

To ocean's farthest barrier then

Your whit'ning sail shall pour;

Safe they'll ride o'er the tide,

While Columbia's thunders roar,

While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,

And her Yankee thunders roar.

On March 11, 1813, the little privateer schooner, General

Armstrong, Captain Guy R. Champlin, was cruising off Surinam

River, when she sighted a sail, and on investigation found it

to be a large vessel, apparently a British privateer. Champlin

bore down and endeavored to board. The stranger kept off,

and, suddenly raising her port covers, disclosed herself as a

British 44-gun frigate. For forty-five minutes the Americans

stood to their guns and endeavored to dismast the enemy, then

gradually drew away and escaped.

THE GENERAL ARMSTRONG

[March 11, 1813]

Come, all you sons of Liberty, that to the seas belong,

It's worth your attention to listen to my song;

The history of a privateer I will detail in full,

That fought a "six-and-thirty" belonging to John Bull.

The General Armstrong she is called, and sailèd from New York,

With all our hearts undaunted, once more to try our luck;

She was a noble vessel, a privateer of fame:

She had a brave commander, George Champlin was his name.

We stood unto the eastward, all with a favoring gale,

In longitude of fifty we spied a lofty sail:

Our mainsail being lower'd and foresail to repair,

Our squaresail being set, my boys, the wind it provèd fair.

We very soon perceivèd the lofty sail to be

Bearing down upon us while we lay under her lee;

All hands we call'd, and sail did make, then splicèd the main-brace,

Night coming on, we sail'd so fast, she soon gave up the chase.

Then to Barbadoes we were bound, our course so well did steer;

We cruisèd there for several days, and nothing did appear.

'Twas on the 11th of March, to windward of Surinam,

We spied a lofty ship, my boys, at anchor near the land;

All hands we call'd to quarters, and down upon her bore,

Thinking 'twas some merchant-ship then lying near the shore.

She quickly weighèd anchor and from us did steer,

And setting her top-gallant sail as if she did us fear,

But soon we were alongside of her, and gave her a gun,

Determinèd to fight, my boys, and not from her to run.

We hoisted up the bloody flag and down upon her bore,

If she did not strike, my boys, no quarters we would show her;

Each man a brace of pistols, a boarding-pike and sword,

We'll give her a broadside, my boys, before we do her board.

All hands at their quarters lay, until we came alongside,

And gave them three hearty cheers, their British courage tried.

The lower ports she had shut in, the Armstrong to decoy,

And quickly she her ports did show, to daunt each Yankee boy.

The first broadside we gave them true, their colors shot away,

Their topsail, haulyards, mizen rigging, main and mizen stay,

Two ports we did knock into one, his starboard quarter tore,

They overboard their wounded flung, while cannons loud did roar.

She wore directly round, my boys, and piped all hands on deck,

For fear that we would board and serve a Yankee trick;

To board a six-and-thirty it was in vain to try,

While the grape, round, and langrage, like hailstones they did fly.

Brave Champlin on the quarter-deck so nobly gave command:

"Fight on, my brave Americans, dismast her if you can."

The round, grape, and star-shot so well did play,

A musket-ball from the maintop brave Champlin low did lay.

His wound was quickly dress'd, while he in his cabin lay;

The doctor, while attending, these words he heard him say:

"Our Yankee flag shall flourish," our noble captain cried,

"Before that we do strike, my boys, we'll sink alongside."

She was a six-and-thirty, and mounted forty-two,

We fought her four glasses, what more then could we do;

Till six brave seamen we had kill'd, which grievèd us full sore,

And thirteen more wounded lay bleeding in their gore.

Our foremast being wounded, and bowsprit likewise;

Our lower rigging fore and aft, and headstay beside;

Our haulyards, braces, bowling, and foretop sheet also,

We found we could not fight her, boys, so from her we did go.

Our foremast proving dangerous, we could not carry sail,

Although we had it fish'd and welded with a chain;

It grieved us to the heart to put up with such abuse,

For this damn'd English frigate had surely spoil'd our cruise.

Here's success attend brave Champlin, his officers and men,

That fought with courage keen, my boys, our lives to defend;

We fought with much superior force, what could we do more?

Then haul'd our wind and stood again for Freedom's happy shore.

On the land, the year opened badly with the disastrous defeat

of an American column, under General Winchester, at Raisin

River, Michigan; but on April 27 General Pike, at the head of

fifteen hundred men, stormed and captured the British fort at

York, now Toronto.

CAPTURE OF LITTLE YORK

[April 27, 1813]

When Britain, with envy and malice inflamed,

Dared dispute the dear rights of Columbia's bless'd union,

We thought of the time when our freedom we claim'd,

And fought 'gainst oppression with fullest communion.

Our foes on the ocean have been forced to yield,

And fresh laurels we now gather up in the field.

Freedom's flag on the wilds of the west is unfurl'd,

And our foes seem to find their resistance delusion;

For our eagle her arrows amongst them has hurl'd

And their ranks of bold veterans fill'd with confusion.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

On the lakes of the west, full of national pride,

See our brave little fleet most triumphantly riding!

And behold the brave tars on the fresh-water tide,

In a noble commander, brave Chauncey, confiding.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Their deeds of proud valor shall long stand enroll'd

On the bright shining page of our national glory:

And oft, in the deep winter's night, shall be told

The exploits of the tars of American story.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Nor less shall the soldiers come in for their praise,

Who engaged to accomplish the great expedition;

And a monument Fame shall for them cheerily raise,

And their deeds shall in history find repetition.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Let Britons still boast of their prowess and pluck;

We care not a straw for their muskets and cannon.

In the field we will beat them, unless they've the luck

To run from their foes like Tenedos and Shannon.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Our sweet little bull-dogs, they thunder'd away,

And our sailors and soldiers the foe still kept mauling,

Till they grew very sick of such tight Yankee play,

And poor Sheaffe and his troops then ran away bawling.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

But the rascals on malice quite fully were bent:

And as from the fort they were cowardly going,

In pursuance to what was at first their intent,

The magazine they had resolved on up-blowing.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Two hundred brave soldiers there met with their death;

And while for their country they nobly were dying,

Full fifty bold Britons at once lost their breath,

And with them in the air were their carcasses flying.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

The brave General Pike there met with his end;

But his virtues his country forever will cherish:

And while o'er his grave fair Freedom shall bend,

She will swear that his memory never shall perish.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Let the minions of Britain swarm over our coast;

Columbians, all cowardly conduct disdaining,

We'll teach the invaders how vain is their boast,

And contend, whilst a drop of their blood is remaining.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Then, freemen, arise, and gird on your swords,

And declare, while you still have the means of resistance,

That you ne'er will give up for the threatening of words,

Nor of arms, those dear rights which you prize as existence.

Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Forty of the enemy and more than two hundred Americans were

killed or wounded by the explosion of a magazine, just as the

place surrendered. General Pike was mortally wounded, and died

with his head on the British flag which had been brought to him.

THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE

[April 27, 1813]

'Twas on the glorious day

When our valiant triple band

Drove the British troops away

From their strong and chosen stand;

When the city York was taken,

And the Bloody Cross hauled down

From the walls of the town

Its defenders had forsaken.

The gallant Pike had moved

A hurt foe to a spot

A little more removed

From the death-shower of the shot;

And he himself was seated

On the fragment of an oak,

And to a captive spoke,

Of the troops he had defeated.

He was seated in a place,

Not to shun the leaden rain

He had been the first to face,

And now burned to brave again,

But had chosen that position

Till the officer's return

The truth who'd gone to learn

Of the garrison's condition.

When suddenly the ground

With a dread convulsion shook,

And arose a frightful sound,

And the sun was hid in smoke;

And huge stones and rafters, driven

Athwart the heavy rack,

Fell, fatal on their track

As the thunderbolt of Heaven.

Then two hundred men and more,

Of our bravest and our best,

Lay all ghastly in their gore,

And the hero with the rest.

On their folded arms they laid him;

But he raised his dying breath:

"On, men, avenge the death

Of your general!" They obeyed him.

They obeyed. Three cheers they gave,

Closed their scattered ranks, and on.

Though their leader found a grave,

Yet the hostile town was won.

To a vessel straight they bore him

Of the gallant Chauncey's fleet,

And, the conquest complete,

Spread the British flag before him.

O'er his eyes the long, last night

Was already falling fast;

But came back again the light

For a moment; 'twas the last.

With a victor's joy they fired,

'Neath his head by signs he bade

The trophy should be laid;

And, thus pillowed, Pike expired.

LAUGHTON OSBORN.

General William Henry Harrison, meanwhile, at the head of the

western army, was besieged in Fort Meigs, at the mouth of the

Maumee, by a large force of Indians and British. On May 1 the

British made a determined assault, but were beaten off; a few

days later, after a desperate battle with a relief column, the

British raised the siege and retreated to Canada.

OLD FORT MEIGS

[April 28--May 9, 1813]

Oh! lonely is our old green fort,

Where oft, in days of old,

Our gallant soldiers bravely fought

'Gainst savage allies bold;

But with the change of years have pass'd

That unrelenting foe,

Since we fought here with Harrison,

A long time ago.

It seems but yesterday I heard,

From yonder thicket nigh,

The unerring rifle's sharp report,

The Indian's startling cry.

Yon brooklet flowing at our feet,

With crimson gore did flow,

When we fought here with Harrison,

A long time ago.

The river rolls between its banks,

As when of old we came,

Each grassy path, each shady nook,

Seems to me still the same;

But we are scatter'd now, whose faith

Pledged here, through weal or woe,

With Harrison our soil to guard,

A long time ago.

But many a soldier's lip is mute,

And clouded many a brow,

And hearts that beat for honor then,

Have ceased their throbbing now.

We ne'er shall meet again in life

As then we met, I trow,

When we fought here with Harrison,

A long time ago.

The remarkable list of victories on the ocean was soon to be

broken, for on June 1, 1813, the 36-gun frigate, Chesapeake,

was defeated and captured by the British 38-gun frigate,

Shannon.

THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE

[June 1, 1813]

The captain of the Shannon came sailing up the bay,

A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay;

His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea

Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

The captain of the Shannon sent word into the town:

Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down

And meet him at the harbor's mouth and fight him, gun to gun,

For honor's sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won?

Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main;

With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again;

His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide,

And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side.

But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame?

Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame.

Once more the great ship Chesapeake prepared her for the fight,--

"I'll bring the foe to town in tow," he said, "before to-night!"

High on the hills of Hingham that overlooked the shore,

To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more,

The children of the country watched the children of the sea

When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

"How can he fight," they whispered, "with only half a crew,

Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?"

But when the Chesapeake came down, the Stars and Stripes on high,

Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky.

The Captain of the Shannon, he swore both long and loud:

"This victory, where'er it be, shall make two nations proud!

Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat!

A sailor's life is sweet with strife, a sailor's death as sweet."

And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar,

And crashing surge plays devil's dirge upon the stricken shore,

With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot,

And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot.

And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart,

And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart.

Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears,

While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears.

The tall masts of the Chesapeake went groaning by the board;

The Shannon's spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword;

"Now woe," he cried, "to England, and shame and woe to me!"

The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.

"Give them one breaking broadside more," he cried, "before we strike!"

But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike

Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip

Rang to the land his last command: "Boys, don't give up the ship!"

* * * * *

The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down.

Men's cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town

They hurried in swift silence, while toward the eastern night

The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight.

Hail to the great ship Chesapeake! Hail to the hero brave

Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave!

And glory be to those that died for all eternity;

They lie apart at the mother-heart of God's eternal sea.

THOMAS TRACY BOUVÉ.

A British versifier celebrated the victory by composing a

ballad in imitation of the famous one about the Constitution

and Guerrière.

CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON

[June 1, 1813]

The Chesapeake so bold

Out of Boston, I've been told,

Came to take a British Frigate

Neat and handy O!

While the people of the port

Flocked out to see the sport,

With their music playing

Yankee Doodle Dandy O!

Now the British Frigate's name

Which for the purpose came

Of cooling Yankee courage

Neat and handy O!

Was the Shannon, Captain Broke,

Whose crew were heart of oak,

And for the fighting were confessed

To be the dandy O!

The engagement scarce begun

Ere they flinched from their guns,

Which at first they thought of working

Neat and handy O!

The bold Broke he waved his sword,

Crying, "Now, my lads, on board,

And we'll stop their playing

Yankee Doodle Dandy O!"

They no sooner heard the word

Than they quickly rushed aboard

And hauled down the Yankee ensign

Neat and handy O!

Notwithstanding all their brag,

Now the glorious British flag

At the Yankee's mizzen-peak

Was quite the dandy O!

Successful Broke to you,

And your officers and crew,

Who on board the Shannon frigate

Fought so handy O!

And may it ever prove

That in fighting as in love

The true British tar is the dandy O!

James Lawrence, commander of the Chesapeake, had been fatally

wounded early in the action. Until the last, he kept crying

from the cockpit, "Keep the guns going! Fight her till she

strikes or sinks!" His last words were the famous, "Don't give

up the ship!"

DEFEAT AND VICTORY

[June 1, 1813]

Through the clangor of the cannon,

Through the combat's wreck and reek,

Answer to th' o'ermastering Shannon

Thunders from the Chesapeake:

Gallant Lawrence, wounded, dying,

Speaks with still unconquered lip

Ere the bitter draught he drinks:

_Keep the Flag flying!

Fight her till she strikes or sinks!

Don't give up the ship!_

Still that voice is sounding o'er us,

So bold Perry heard it call;

Farragut has joined its chorus;

Porter, Dewey, Wainwright--all

Heard the voice of duty crying;

Deathless word from dauntless lip

That our past and future links:

_Keep the Flag flying!

Fight her till she strikes or sinks!

Don't give up the ship!_

WALLACE RICE.

Another action which resulted very differently was that between

the American 16-gun schooner, Enterprise, and the British

14-gun brig, Boxer. The ships came together off Monhegan on

September 5, 1813, and after a fierce fight lasting an hour,

the Englishman surrendered.

ENTERPRISE AND BOXER

[September 5, 1813]

Again Columbia's stripes, unfurl'd,

Have testified before the world,

How brave are those who wear 'em;

The foe has now been taught again

His streamers cannot shade the main

While Yankees live to share 'em.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill!

The brave are very generous still

But teach the foes submission:

Now twice three times his flag we've gain'd,

And more, much more can be obtain'd

Upon the same condition.

The gallant Enterprise her name,

A vessel erst of little fame,

Had sail'd and caught the foe, sirs;

'Twas hers the glory and the gain,

To meet the Boxer on the main,

And bring her home in tow, sirs.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

Fierce lightnings gleam and thunders roar,

While round and grape in torrents pour,

And echo through the skies, sirs;

When minutes forty-five had flown,

Behold the Briton's colors down!--

She's yielded up a prize, sirs.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

The victory gain'd, we count the cost,

We mourn, indeed, a hero lost!

Who nobly fell, we know, sirs;

But Burrows, we with Lawrence find,

Has left a living name behind,

Much honor'd by the foe, sirs.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

And while we notice deeds of fame,

In which the gallant honors claim;

As heroes of our story,

The name of Blyth a meed demands,

Whose tomb is deck'd by freemen's hands,

Who well deserve the glory.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

Then, while we fill the sparkling glass,

And cause it cheerly round to pass,

In social hours assembled;

Be Hull, Decatur, Bainbridge, Jones,

Lawrence and Burrows--Victory's sons,

With gratitude remember'd.

Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

This little victory was soon overshadowed by a far more

brilliant and important one on Lake Erie, where, on September

10, 1813, Oliver Hazard Perry, in command of a hastily

constructed fleet of nine ships, defeated and captured a

British squadron of superior strength.

PERRY'S VICTORY

[September 10, 1813]

We sailed to and fro in Erie's broad lake,

To find British bullies or get into their wake,

When we hoisted our canvas with true Yankee speed,

And the brave Captain Perry our squadron did lead.

We sailed through the lake, boys, in search of the foe,

In the cause of Columbia our brav'ry to show,

To be equal in combat was all our delight,

As we wished the proud Britons to know we could fight.

And whether like Yeo, boys, they'd taken affright,

We could see not, nor find them by day or by night;

So cruising we went in a glorious cause,

In defence of our rights, our freedom, and laws.

At length to our liking, six sails hove in view,

Huzzah! says brave Perry, huzzah! says his crew,

And then for the chase, boys, with our brave little crew,

We fell in with the bullies and gave them "burgoo."

Though the force was unequal, determined to fight,

We brought them to action before it was night;

We let loose our thunder, our bullets did fly,

"Now give them your shot, boys," our commander did cry.

We gave them a broadside, our cannon to try,

"Well done," says brave Perry, "for quarter they'll cry,

Shot well home, my brave boys, they shortly shall see,

That quite brave as they are, still braver are we."

Then we drew up our squadron, each man full of fight,

And put the proud Britons in a terrible plight,

The brave Perry's movements will prove fully as bold,

As the fam'd Admiral Nelson's prowess of old.

The conflict was sharp, boys, each man to his gun,

For our country, her glory, the vict'ry was won,

So six sail (the whole fleet) was our fortune to take,

Here's a health to brave Perry, who governs the Lake.

THE BATTLE OF ERIE

[September 10, 1813]

Avast, honest Jack! now, before you get mellow,

Come tip us that stave just, my hearty old fellow,

'Bout the young commodore, and his fresh-water crew,

Who keelhaul'd the Britons, and captured a few.

"'Twas just at sunrise, and a glorious day,

Our squadron at anchor snug in Put-in-Bay,

When we saw the bold Britons, and cleared for a bout,

Instead of put in, by the Lord we put out.

"Up went union-jack, never up there before,

'Don't give up the ship' was the motto it bore;

And as soon as that motto our gallant lads saw,

They thought of their Lawrence, and shouted huzza!

"Oh! then it would have raised your hat three inches higher,

To see how we dash'd in among them like fire!

The Lawrence went first, and the rest as they could,

And a long time the brunt of the action she stood.

"'Twas peppering work,--fire, fury, and smoke,

And groans that from wounded lads, spite of 'em, broke.

The water grew red round our ship as she lay,

Though 'twas never before so till that bloody day.

"They fell all around me like spars in a gale;

The shot made a sieve of each rag of a sail;

And out of our crew scarce a dozen remain'd;

But these gallant tars still the battle maintain'd.

"'Twas then our commander--God bless his young heart--

Thought it best from his well-peppered ship to depart,

And bring up the rest who were tugging behind--

For why--they were sadly in want of a wind.

"So to Yarnall he gave the command of his ship,

And set out, like a lark, on this desperate trip,

In a small open yawl, right through their whole fleet,

Who with many a broadside our cockboat did greet.

"I steer'd her and damme if every inch

Of these timbers of mine at each crack didn't flinch:

But our tight little commodore, cool and serene,

To stir ne'er a muscle by any was seen.

"Whole volleys of muskets were levell'd at him,

But the devil a one ever grazed e'en a limb,

Though he stood up aloft in the stern of the boat,

Till the crew pull'd him down by the skirt of his coat.

"At last, through Heaven's mercy, we reached t'other ship,

And the wind springing up, we gave her the whip,

And run down their line, boys, through thick and through thin,

And bother'd their crews with a horrible din.

"Then starboard and larboard, and this way and that,

We bang'd them and raked them, and laid their masts flat,

Till, one after t'other, they haul'd down their flag,

And an end, for that time, put to Johnny Bull's brag.

"The Detroit, and Queen Charlotte, and Lady Prevost,

Not able to fight or run, gave up the ghost:

And not one of them all from our grapplings got free,

Though we'd fifty-four guns, and they just sixty-three.

"Smite my limbs! but they all got their bellies full then,

And found what it was, boys, to buckle with men,

Who fight, or, what's just the same, think that they fight

For their country's free trade and their own native right.

"Now give us a bumper to Elliott and those

Who came up, in good time, to belabor our foes:

To our fresh-water sailors we'll toss off one more,

And a dozen, at least, to our young commodore.

"And though Britons may brag of their ruling the ocean,

And that sort of thing, by the Lord, I've a notion,

I'll bet all I'm worth--who takes it--who takes?

Though they're lords of the sea, we'll be lords of the lakes."

Immediately on receiving the surrender, Perry wrote with a

pencil on the back of an old letter, using his cap for a

desk, his famous message, "We have met the enemy and they are

ours--two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop," and

dispatched it to General Harrison.

PERRY'S VICTORY--A SONG

[September 10, 1813]

Columbia, appear!--To thy mountains ascend,

And pour thy bold hymn to the winds and the woods;

Columbia, appear!--O'er thy tempest-harp bend,

And far to the nations its trumpet-song send,--

Let thy cliff-echoes wake, with their sun-nourish'd broods,

And chant to the desert--the skies--and the floods,

And bid them remember,

The Tenth of September,

When our Eagle came down from her home in the sky--

And the souls of our heroes were marshall'd on high.

Columbia, ascend!--Let thy warriors behold

Their flag like a firmament bend o'er thy head.

The wide rainbow-flag with its star-clustered fold!

Let the knell of dark Battle beneath it be tolled,

While the anthem of Peace shall be pealed for the dead,

And the rude waters heave, on whose bosom they bled:

Oh, they will remember,

The Tenth of September,

When their souls were let loose in a tempest of flame,

And wide Erie shook at the trumpet of Fame.

Columbia, appear!--Let thy cloud minstrels wake,

As they march on the storm, all the grandeur of song,

Till the far mountain reel--and the billowless lake

Shall be mantled in froth, and its Monarch shall quake

On his green oozy throne, as their harping comes strong,

With the chime of the winds as they're bursting along.

For he will remember,

The Tenth of September,

When he saw his dominions all covered with foam,

And heard the loud war in its echoless home.

Columbia, appear!--Be thine olive displayed,

O cheer with thy smile, all the land and the tide!

Be the anthem we hear not the song that was made,

When the victims of slaughter stood forth, all arrayed

In blood-dripping garments--and shouted--and died.

Let the hymning of peace o'er the blue heavens ride;

O let us remember,

The Tenth of September,

When the dark waves of Erie were brightened to-day,

And the flames of the Battle were quenched in the spray.

Harrison, at the head of his army, started in hot pursuit of

the British and Indians, who had been compelled to evacuate

Detroit, and on October 5 overtook them on the bank of the

Thames, and routed them with great loss, the Indian chief

Tecumseh being among the slain.

THE FALL OF TECUMSEH

[October 5, 1813]

What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam,

To the war-blast indignantly tramping?

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam,

The steel bit impatiently champing.

'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,

Conducting the free and the fearless.

Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,

Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,

Announcing that chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,

To pour his response from the valley.

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard,

And nought but the war-whoop given;

The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred,

As if by the lightning riven.

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,

The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,

Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,

That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,

The chief of the horsemen contended;

His rowels were bathed in purple flood,

That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,

But the rider repressed not his daring,

Till met by a savage, whose rank and might

Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

The moment was fearful; a mightier foe

Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him;

But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow,

And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed

With conflict so dark and appalling!--

Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst

From their agonized bosoms in falling.

Gloom, silence, and solitude rest on the spot

Where the hopes of the red man perished;

But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,

By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,

With a spirit most loving and loyal.

And long shall the Indian warrior sing

The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,

In his arm slept the force of the thunder,

But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,

And left the freed captive to wonder.

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,

With a rudely built tumulus o'er him;

And the bright-bosomed Thames, in his majesty, sweeps,

By the mound where his followers bore him.

The British took care to maintain as strictly as possible the

blockade of the American coast, and the coast towns were kept

in a constant state of terror lest they be bombarded and burned.

THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER

SCENE.--_Fort Constitution on the Island of Newcastle, off

Portsmouth, N. H., Colonel Walbach, commanding. Period, the

fall of 1813._

More ill at ease was never man than Walbach, that Lord's day,

When, spent with speed, a trawler cried, "A war-ship heads this way!"

His pipe, half filled, to shatters flew; he climbed the ridge of knolls;

And, turning spy-glass toward the east, swept the long reach of Shoals.

An hour he watched: behind his back the Portsmouth spires waxed red;

Its harbor like a field of war, a brazen shield o'erhead.

Another hour: the sundown gun the Sabbath stillness brake;

When loud a second voice hallooed, "Two war-ships hither make!"

Again the colonel scanned the east, where soon white gleams arose:

Behind Star Isle they first appeared, then flashed o'er Smuttynose.

Fleet-wing'd they left Duck Isle astern; when, rounding full in view,

Lo! in the face of Appledore three Britishers hove to.

"To arms, O townsfolk!" Walbach cried, "Behold these black hawk three!

Whether they pluck old Portsmouth town rests now with you and me.

"The guns of Kittery, and mine, may keep the channel clear,

If but one pintle-stone be raised to ward me in the rear.

"But scarce a score my muster-roll; the earthworks lie unmanned

(Whereof some mouthing spy, no doubt, has made them understand);

"And if, ere dawn, their long-boat keels once kiss the nether sands,

My every port-hole's mouth is stopped, and we be in their hands!"

Then straightway from his place upspake the parson of the town:

"Let us beseech Heaven's blessing first!"--and all the folk knelt down.

"O God, our hands are few and faint; our hope rests all with thee:

Lend us thy hand in this sore strait,--and thine the glory be!"

"Amen! Amen!" the chorus rose; "Amen!" the pines replied;

And through the churchyard's rustling grass an "Amen" softly sighed.

Astir the village was awhile, with hoof and iron clang;

Then all grew still, save where, aloft, a hundred trowels rang.

None supped, they say, that Lord's-day eve; none slept, they say, that

night;

But all night long, with tireless arms, each toiled as best he might.

Four flax-haired boys of Amazeen the flickering torches stay,

Peopling with titan shadow-groups the canopy of gray;

Grandsires, with frost above their brows, the steaming mortar mix;

Dame Tarlton's apron, crisp at dawn, helps hod the yellow bricks;

While pilot, cooper, mackerelman, parson and squire as well,

Make haste to plant the pintle-gun, and raise its citadel.

And one who wrought still tells the tale, that as his task he plied,

An unseen fellow-form he felt that labored at his side;

And still to wondering ears relates, that as each brick was squared,

Lo! unseen trowels clinked response, and a new course prepared.

O night of nights! The blinking dawn beheld the marvel done,

And from the new martello boomed the echoing morning gun.

One stormy cloud its lip upblew; and as its thunder rolled,

Old England saw, above the smoke, New England's flag unfold.

Then, slowly tacking to and fro, more near the cruisers made,

To see what force unheralded had flown to Walbach's aid.

"God be our stay," the parson cried, "who hearkened Israel's wail!"

And as he spake,--all in a line, seaward the ships set sail.

GEORGE HOUGHTON.

In order to draw British ships from this blockade, the

government adopted the policy of sending light squadrons into

distant seas, and in October, 1812, the 32-gun frigate Essex,

Captain David Porter, sailed to join the Constitution and

Hornet for a cruise in the Indian Ocean. Porter failed to find

the other ships and decided to double Cape Horn and cruise in

the Pacific. He captured a number of prizes, and completely

destroyed British commerce in the south Pacific. A strong force

of British cruisers was sent out to intercept him, and finally,

on March 28, 1814, he was caught in a disabled condition at

Valparaiso by two British ships, and attacked, notwithstanding

the neutrality of the port. After a desperate fight, he was

forced to surrender.

THE BATTLE OF VALPARAISO

Proeliis audax, neque te silebo.--HOR.

[March 28, 1814]

From the laurel's fairest bough,

Let the muse her garland twine,

To adorn our Porter's brow,

Who, beyond the burning line,

Led his caravan of tars o'er the tide.

To the pilgrims fill the bowl,

Who, around the southern pole,

Saw new constellations roll,

For their guide.

"Heave the topmast from the board,

And our ship for action clear,

By the cannon and the sword,

We will die or conquer here.

The foe, of twice our force, nears us fast:

To your posts, my faithful tars!

Mind your rigging, guns, and spars,

And defend your stripes and stars

To the last."

At the captain's bold command,

Flew each sailor to his gun,

And resolved he there would stand,

Though the odds was two to one,

To defend his flag and ship with his life:

High on every mast display'd,

"God, Our Country, and Free Trade,"

E'en the bravest braver made

For the strife.

Fierce the storm of battle pours:

But unmoved as ocean's rock,

When the tempest round it roars,

Every seaman breasts the shock,

Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall.

O'er his head, full oft and loud,

Like the vulture in a cloud,

As it cuts the twanging shroud,

Screams the ball.

Before the siroc blast

From its iron caverns driven,

Drops the sear'd and shiver'd mast,

By the bolt of battle riven,

And higher heaps the ruin of the deck--

As the sailor, bleeding, dies,

To his comrades lifts his eyes,

"Let our flag still wave," he cries,

O'er the wreck.

In echo to the sponge,

Hark! along the silent lee,

Oft is heard the solemn plunge,

In the bosom of the sea.

'Tis not the sullen plunge of the dead,

But the self-devoted tar,

Who, to grace the victor's car,

Scorns from home and friends afar

To be led.

Long live the gallant crew

Who survived that day of blood:

And may fortune soon renew

_Equal_ battle on the flood.

Long live the glorious names of the brave

O'er these martyrs of the deep,

Oft the roving tar shall weep,

Crying, "Sweetly may they sleep

'Neath the wave."

With the opening of the spring of 1814, the campaign along the

Canadian border was begun with unusual activity. The army there

was under Major-General Jacob Brown, and on July 25 met the

British in the fiercely contested battle of Lundy's Lane, or

Bridgewater.

THE BATTLE OF BRIDGEWATER

[July 25, 1814]

O'er Huron's wave the sun was low,

The weary soldier watch'd the bow

Fast fading from the cloud below

The dashing of Niagara.

And while the phantom chain'd his sight,

Ah! little thought he of the fight--

The horrors of the dreamless night,

That posted on so rapidly.

Soon, soon is fled each softer charm;

The drum and trumpet sound alarm,

And bid each warrior nerve his arm

For boldest deeds of chivalry;

The burning red-cross, waving high,

Like meteor in the evening sky,

Proclaims the haughty foemen nigh

To try the strife of rivalry.

Columbia's banner floats as proud,

Her gallant band around it crowd,

And swear to guard or make their shroud

The starred flag of liberty.

"Haste, haste thee, Scott, to meet the foe,

And let the scornful Briton know,

Well strung the arm and firm the blow

Of him who strikes for liberty."

Loud, loud, the din of battle rings,

Shrill through the ranks the bullet sings,

And onward fierce each foeman springs

To meet his peer in gallantry.

Behind the hills descends the sun,

The work of death is but begun,

And red through twilight's shadows dun

Blazes the vollied musketry.

"Charge, Miller, charge the foe once more,"

And louder than Niagara's roar

Along the line is heard, encore,

"On, on to death or victory."

From line to line, with lurid glow,

High arching shoots the rocket's bow,

And lights the mingled scene below

Of carnage, death, and misery.

The middle watch has now begun,

The horrid battle-fray is done,

No longer beats the furious drum,

To death, to death or victory.

All, all is still--with silent tread

The watchman steals among the dead,

To guard his comrade's lowly bed,

Till morning give him sepulture.

Low in the west, of splendor shorn,

The midnight moon with bloody horn

Sheds her last beam on him, forlorn,

Who fell in fight so gloriously;

Oh! long her crescent wax and wane

Ere she behold such fray again,

Such dismal night, such heaps of slain,

Foe mix'd with foe promiscuously.

Colonel Winfield Scott commanded a battalion at this battle,

and by a series of desperate charges drove the British from

the field. But so shaken was the American army that it was

compelled to retreat to camp, after spending the night upon the

conquered ground.

THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER

[July 25, 1814]

Seize, O seize the sounding lyre,

With its quivering string!

Strike the chords, in ecstasy,

Whilst loud the valleys ring!

Sing the chief, who, gloriously,

From England's veteran band,

Pluck'd the wreaths of victory,

To grace his native land!

Where Bridgewater's war-famed stream

Saw the foemen reel,

Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleam

Of bayonet, knife, and steel;

And its crimson'd waters run

Red with gurgling flow,

As Albion's gathering hosts his arm,

His mighty arm, laid low.

Strike the sounding string of fame,

O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums!

Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name!

Behold the hero comes!

I see Columbia, joyously,

Her palmy circlet throw

Around his high victorious brow

Who laid her foemen low!

Take him, Fame! for thine he is!

On silvery columns, rear

The name of Scott, whence envious Time

Shall ne'er its honors tear!

And thou, O Albion, quake with dread!

Ye veterans shrink, the while,

Whene'er his glorious name shall sound

To shake your sea-girt isle!

CHARLES L. S. JONES.

The British, meanwhile, had extended their blockade to the

whole coast of the United States, and were ordered to "destroy

and lay waste all towns and districts of the United States

found accessive to the attack of the British armaments." In

pursuance of these orders, town after town along the coast was

bombarded and burned. On August 9, 1814, a squadron descended

on the little village of Stonington, but met a warm reception.

THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT

[August 9-12, 1814]

Four gallant ships from England came

Freighted deep with fire and flame,

And other things we need not name,

To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor'd, their work begun;

They thought to make the Yankees run,

And have a mighty deal of fun

In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon then popp'd up his head,

And parson Jones's sermon read,

In which the reverend doctor said

That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend

To sundry resolutions penn'd,

By which they promised to defend

With sword and gun old Stonington.

The ships advancing different ways,

The Britons soon began to blaze,

And put th' old women in amaze,

Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.

The Yankees to their fort repair'd,

And made as though they little cared

For all that came--though very hard

The cannon play'd on Stonington.

The Ramillies began the attack,

Despatch came forward--bold and black--

And none can tell what kept them back

From setting fire to Stonington.

The bombardiers with bomb and ball,

Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,

And did a cow-house sadly maul

That stood a mile from Stonington.

They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,

Three hogs they wounded in a pen--

They dash'd away, and pray what then?

This was not taking Stonington.

The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,

But not a shell, of all they threw,

Though every house was full in view,

Could burn a house at Stonington.

To have their turn they thought but fair;--

The Yankees brought two guns to bear,

And, sir, it would have made you stare,

This smoke of smokes at Stonington.

They bored Pactolus through and through,

And kill'd and wounded of her crew

So many, that she bade adieu

T' the gallant boys of Stonington.

The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn--

So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,

No more she cast an eye of scorn

On the little fort at Stonington.

The Ramillies gave up th' affray,

And, with her comrades, sneak'd away,

Such was the valor, on that day,

Of British tars near Stonington.

But some assert, on certain grounds

(Besides the damage and the wounds),

It cost the king ten thousand pounds

To have a dash at Stonington.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

Occasionally, an American ship would manage to deal a telling

blow. The Wasp, cruising in the English Channel, did especially

effective work, among her most famous actions being that with

the Avon on the night of September 1, 1814, in which, after a

spirited fight, the Avon was sunk.

THE OCEAN-FIGHT

[September 1, 1814]

The sun had sunk beneath the west,

When two proud barks to battle press'd,

With swelling sail and streamers dress'd,

So gallantly.

Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies:

Columbia's flag more proudly flies,

Her emblem stars of victories

Beam gloriously.

Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed,

Have streak'd the sky of bloody red,

And now the ensanguined lustre spread

Heaven's canopy.

Dread prelude to that awful night

When Britain's and Columbia's might

Join'd in the fierce and bloody fight,

Hard rivalry.

Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep,

Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep:

Yet still the barks their courses keep

Unerringly.

The northern gales more fiercely blow,

The white foam dashing o'er the prow;

The starry crescent round each bow

Beams vividly.

Near and more near the war-ships ride,

Till, ranged for battle, side by side,

Each warrior's heart beats high with pride

Of chivalry.

'Twas awful, ere the fight begun,

To see brave warriors round each gun,

While thoughts on home and carnage run,

Stand silently.

As death-like stillness reigns around,

Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound,

Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound,

Burst furiously.

So, bursting from Columbia's prow,

Her thunder on the red-cross foe,

The lurid cloud's sulphuric glow

Glares awfully.

Reëchoing peals more fiercely roar,

Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore,

The foaming waves that raged before,

Sink, tremulous.

Columbia's last sulphuric blaze,

That lights her stripes and starry rays,

The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays,

Struck fearfully.

And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo!

Haste, haste and save the sinking foe:

Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go,

Brave conquerors.

Now, honor to the warriors brave,

Whose field of fame, the mountain wave,

Their corses bear to ocean's cave,

Their sepulchre.

Their country's pæans swell their praise;

And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays,

Full many a bard shall chant his lays,

Their requiem.

The Wasp herself never returned to port. On September 21 she

captured the Atalanta and put a crew on board to take the prize

to America. They parted company, and the Wasp was never seen

again.

THE LOST WAR-SLOOP

(THE WASP, 1814)

O the pride of Portsmouth water,

Toast of every brimming beaker,--

Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,--

Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,

Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded,

Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free!

Every timber scorning cowards;

Every port alert for foemen

From the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;--

With eleven guns to starboard,

And eleven guns to larboard,

All for glory on a morn of May sailed she.

British ships were in the offing;

Swift and light she sped between them,--

Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide;

They had come from Portsmouth river,

Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem,

Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide;

Come for love of home and country,

Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,--

Every man among them brave and true and tried.

"Hearts of oak" are British seamen?

Hearts of fire were these, their kindred,

Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!

From the mountains, from the prairies,

Blew the west winds glad to waft her;--

Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down!

Ships with wealth of London laden,

Ships with treasures of the Indies,

Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town;

Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon,

To her valor struck their colors,

Making coast and ocean ring with her renown;

While her captain cried, exultant,

"Britain, to the bold Republic,

Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"

Oh, the woful, woful ending

Of the pride of Portsmouth water!

Never more to harbor nor to shore came she!

Springs returned but brought no tidings;

Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted,

Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee.

Did the bolts of heaven blast her?

Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm her

With her starry banner and her tall masts three?

Was a pirate-fleet her captor?

Did she drift to polar oceans?

Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!

Who shall tell? yet many a sailor

In his watch at dawn or midnight,

When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan,

Sees a stanch three-master looming;

Hears the hurried call to quarters,

The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;--

Then the cannon's direful thunder

Echoes far along the billows;

Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;--

And the watcher knows the phantom

Is the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,

Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

The abdication of Napoleon enabled England to turn her

undivided attention to the war with America, and a large body

of troops was detailed for service here. Having lost control

of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, England determined to secure

Lake Champlain and to invade New York by this route. A force of

twelve thousand regulars, under General George Prevost, started

from Montreal early in August, while the British naval force on

the lake was augmented to nineteen vessels.

ON THE BRITISH INVASION

[1814]

From France, desponding and betray'd,

From liberty in ruins laid,

Exulting Britain has display'd

Her flag, again to invade us.

Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,

Across the broad Atlantic fly,

Prepared again their strength to try,

And strike our country's standard.

Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,

And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,

And thousands more of brags and braves

Are under sail, and coming,

To burn our towns, to seize our soil,

To change our laws, our country spoil,

And Madison to Elba's isle

To send without redemption.

In Boston state they hope to find

A Yankee host of kindred mind,

To aid their arms, to rise and bind

Their countrymen in shackles.

But no such thing--it will not do--

At least, not while a Jersey Blue

Is to the cause of freedom true,

Or the bold Pennsylvanian.

A curse on England's frantic schemes!

Both mad and blind, her monarch dreams

Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes,

Where kings have had their sentence.

Though Washington has left our coast,

Yet other Washingtons we boast,

Who rise, instructed by his ghost,

To punish all invaders.

Go where they will, where'er they land,

This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,

They liberty will find at hand

To hurl them to perdition!

If in Virginia they appear,

Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,

Death in their front, and hell their rear;

So says the gallant buckskin.

All Carolina is prepared,

And Charleston doubly on her guard;

Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared,

So blasted by Fort Moultrie.

If farther south they turn their views,

With veteran troops, or veteran crews,

The curse of Heaven their march pursues,

To send them all a-packing.

The tallest mast that sails the wave,

The longest keel its waters lave,

Will bring them to an early grave

On the shores of Pensacola.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

The American commander on the lake was Thomas Macdonough, and

by almost herculean efforts he managed to build and launch

a ship, a schooner, and a number of gunboats, so that his

total force was raised to fourteen sail. With this fleet, he

proceeded to Plattsburg and anchored in Plattsburg Bay. On

September 11 the British fleet, certain of victory, sailed in

and attacked him, but was ignominiously defeated.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

[September 11, 1814]

Parading near Saint Peter's flood

Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood;

Allied with natives of the wood,

With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;

Which southward, now, began to steer;

Their object was, Ticonderogue.

Assembled at Missisqui bay

A feast they held, to hail the day,

When all should bend to British sway

From Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue.

And who could tell, if reaching there

They might not other laurels share

And England's flag in triumph bear

To the capitol, at Albany!

Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,

The frigates were with vengeance stored,

The strength of Mars was felt on board,--

When Downie gave the dreadful word,

Huzza! for death or victory!

Sir George beheld the prize at stake,

And, with his veterans, made the attack,

Macomb's brave legions drove him back;

And England's fleet approached, to meet

A desperate combat, on the lake.

From Isle La Motte to Saranac

With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;

We saw advance the Confiance,

Shall blood and carnage mark her track,

To gain dominion on the lake.

Then on our ships she poured her flame,

And many a tar did kill or maim,

Who suffered for their country's fame,

Her soil to save, her rights to guard.

Macdonough, now, began his play,

And soon his seamen heard him say,

"No Saratoga yields, this day,

To all the force that Britain sends.

"Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,

Be firm, and to your stations haste,

And England from Champlain is chased,

If you behave as you see me."

The fire began with awful roar;

At our first flash the artillery tore,

From his proud stand, their commodore,

A presage of the victory.

The skies were hid in flame and smoke,

Such thunders from the cannon spoke,

The contest such an aspect took

As if all nature went to wreck!

Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed,

Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,

Or waded through a scene of blood,

At every step that round him streamed:

He stood amidst Columbia's sons,

He stood amidst dismounted guns,

He fought amidst heart-rending groans,

The tattered sail, the tottering mast.

Then, round about, his ship he wore,

And charged his guns with vengeance sore,

And more than Etna shook the shore--

The foe confessed the contest vain.

In vain they fought, in vain they sailed,

That day; for Britain's fortune failed,

And their best efforts naught availed

To hold dominion on Champlain.

So, down their colors to the deck

The vanquished struck--their ships a wreck--

What dismal tidings for Quebec,

What news for England and her prince!

For, in this fleet, from England won,

A favorite project is undone;

Her sorrows only are begun--

And she may want, and very soon,

Her armies for her own defence.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY

[September 11, 1814]

_Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay!

Blue and gold in the dawning ray,

Crimson under the high noonday

With the reek of the fray!_

It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailor

As ever went scurrying over the main;

And he cried from his deck, _If they think I'm a quailer,

And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain,

We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain_!

So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab Island

He scattered his squadron in trim battle-line;

And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland,

He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine,

Imploring that Heaven would crown his design.

Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance;

The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar;

Soon gunboat and galley in hearty alliance

Their resonant volley of compliments pour;

And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore!

And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling,

A game-cock, released by a splintering ball,

Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling,

And over the din gave his trumpeting call,

An omen of ultimate triumph to all!

Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces;

Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun;

And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces,

And the fume of our cannon--it shrouded the sun;

Cried Macdonough--_Once more, and the battle is won!_

Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing;

The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore;

The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing;

The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar;

Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore!

Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory,

And many a brave brow was pallid with pain;

And while some won to death, yet we all won to glory

Who fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain,

And humbled her pride who is queen of the main!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

While the naval battle was in progress, Prevost made an

assault on the American lines, but was repulsed with loss, and

learning of the fleet's defeat, ordered a retreat. This was so

precipitate that it was almost a flight, and great quantities

of artillery, stores, and provisions fell into the hands of the

Americans.

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG

[September 11, 1814]

Sir George Prevost, with all his host,

March'd forth from Montreal, sir,

Both he and they as blithe and gay

As going to a ball, sir.

The troops he chose were all of those

That conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir;

Who at Garonne (the fact is known)

Scarce brought they to a halt, sir.

With troops like these, he thought with ease

To crush the Yankee faction:

His only thought was how he ought

To bring them into action.

"Your very names," Sir George exclaims,

"Without a gun or bayonet,

Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts,

And all their spirits stagnate.

"Oh! how I dread lest they have fled

And left their puny fort, sir,

For sure Macomb won't stay at home,

T' afford us any sport, sir.

Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd:

"Keep close as mice or rats snug:

We'll just run out upon a scout,

To burn the town of Plattsburg."

Then up Champlain with might and main

He marched in dress array, sir;

With fife and drum to scare Macomb,

And drive him quite away, sir.

And, side by side, their nation's pride

Along the current beat, sir:

Sworn not to sup till they ate up

McDonough and his fleet, sir.

Still onward came these men of fame,

Resolved to give "no quarter:"

But to their cost they found at last

That they had caught a Tartar.

At distant shot awhile they fought,

By water and by land, sir:

His knightship ran from man to man,

And gave his dread command, sir.

"Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb--

So well the fellow knows us--

Will just as soon jump o'er the moon

As venture to oppose us.

With quick despatch light every match,

Man every gun and swivel,

Cross in a crack the Saranac,

And drive 'em to the devil!"

The Vermont ranks that lined the banks,

Then poised the unerring rifle,

And to oppose their haughty foes

They found a perfect trifle.

Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport,

They thought the devil was in it;

Their mighty train play'd off in vain--

'Twas silenced in a minute.

Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed,

Such frantic gambols acted,

Of all his men, not one in ten

But thought him quite distracted.

He cursed and swore, his hair he tore,

Then jump'd upon his pony,

And gallop'd off towards the bluff,

To look for Captain Downie.

But when he spied McDonough ride,

In all the pomp of glory,

He hasten'd back to Saranac,

To tell the dismal story:

"My gallant crews--Oh! shocking news--

Are all or killed or taken!

Except a few that just withdrew

In time to save their bacon.

"Old England's pride must now subside.

Oh! how the news will shock her,

To have her fleet not only beat,

But sent to Davy's locker.

From this sad day, let no one say

Britannia rules the ocean:

We've dearly bought the humbling thought,

That this is all a notion.

"With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men,

But these are Satan's legions,

With malice fraught, some piping hot

From Pluto's darkest regions!

Hélas! mon Dieu! what shall I do?

I smell the burning sulphur--

Set Britain's isle all rank and file,

Such men would soon engulf her.

"That's full as bad--Oh! I'll run mad!

Those western hounds are summon'd;

Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down,

To serve me just like Drummond.

Thick, too, as bees, the Vermontese

Are swarming to the lake, sir;

And Izard's men, come back again,

Lie hid in every brake, sir.

"Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat,

Before their forces join, sir:

For, sure as fate, they've laid a bait

To catch us like Burgoyne, sir.

All round about, keep good look out:

We'll surely be surrounded;

Since I could crawl, my gallant soul

Was never so astounded."

The rout begun, Sir George led on,

His men ran helter skelter,

Each tried his best t' outrun the rest

To gain a place of shelter;

To hide their fear, they gave a cheer,

And thought it mighty cunning--

He'll fight, they say, another day,

Who saves himself by running!

Although the blow at New York had been turned aside, another,

aimed at the Nation's Capital, fell with deadly effect. On

August 24, 1814, a strong force landed in Chesapeake Bay,

routed a force of militia at Bladensburg, entered Washington,

and burned the Capitol, White House, and many other public

buildings. A few days later, Baltimore was attacked.

THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE

[September 12, 1814]

Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too,

And many a bloody villain more,

Swore with their bloody savage crew,

That they would plunder Baltimore.

But General Winder being afraid

That his militia would not stand,

He sent away to crave the aid

Of a few true Virginians.

Then up we rose with hearts elate,

To help our suffering sister state.

When first our orders we received,

For to prepare without delay,

Our wives and sweethearts for to leave,

And to the army march away,

Although it grieved our hearts full sore,

To leave our sweet Virginia shore,

We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er,

And march'd like true Virginians.

Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu,

With honor we'll return to you.

With rapid marches on we went,

To leave our sweet Virginia shore,

No halt was made, no time was spent,

Till we arrived at Baltimore.

The Baltimoreans did us greet,

The ladies clapt their lily-white hands,

Exclaiming as we passed the street,

"Welcome, ye brave Virginians.

May Heaven all your foes confound,

And send you home with laurels crown'd."

We had not been in quarters long,

Before we heard the dread alarms,

The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring,

The drum did beat to arms, to arms.

Then up we rose to face our foes,

Determined to meet them on the strand,

And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore,

Or die like brave Virginians.

In Heaven above we placed our trust,

Well knowing that our cause is just.

Then Ross he landed at North Point,

With seven thousand men or more,

And swore by that time next night,

That he would be in Baltimore.

But Striker met him on the strand,

Attended by a chosen band,

Where he received a fatal shot

From a brave Pennsylvanian--

Whom Heaven directed to the field,

To make this haughty Briton yield.

Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet,

To bombard Fort McHenry,

A thinking that our men, of course,

Would take affright and run away.

The fort was commanded by a patriotic band,

As ever graced fair Freedom's land,

And he who did the fort command

Was a true blue Virginian.

Long may we have brave Armstead's name

Recorded on the book of fame.

A day and a night they tried their might,

But found their bombs did not prevail,

And seeing their army put to flight,

They weigh'd their anchor and made sail,

Resolving to return again,

To execute their former plan;

But if they do, they'll find us still

That we are brave Virginians.

And they shall know before they've done,

That they are not in Washington.

But now their shipping's out of sight,

And each man takes a parting glass,

Drinks to his true love and heart's delight,

His only joy and bosom friend,

For I might as well drink a health,

For I hate to see good liquor stand,

That America may always boast

That we are brave Virginians.

The next day, Admiral Cochrane moved his fleet into position

to attack Fort McHenry, two miles above the city, and began

a terrific bombardment, which lasted all the night. The fort

answered with such guns as would reach the ships, and when

morning dawned, the Stars and Stripes were still floating over

it. The British feared to attack an intrenchment so gallantly

defended, and the next day retreated to their shipping.

FORT McHENRY

[September 13, 1814]

Thy blue waves, Patapsco, flow'd soft and serene,

Thy hills and thy valleys were cheerful and gay,

While the day-star of Peace shed its beams on the scene,

And youth, love, and beauty reflected its ray.

Where white-bosom'd commerce late reign'd o'er thy tide,

And zephyrs of gladness expanded each sail,

I saw hostile squadrons in dread array ride,

While their thunders reëchoed o'er hill and o'er vale.

But our heroes, thy sons, proud in panoply rose,

For their homes,--for their altars,--to conquer or die;

With the lightning of freedom encounter'd their foes;

Taught the veteran to tremble,--the valiant to fly.

Now, how tranquil thy scenes when the clangors of war

Late broke the soft dreams of the fair and the young!

To the tombs of thy heroes shall beauty repair,

And their deeds by our bards shall forever be sung.

On the iron-crown'd fortress "that frowns o'er thy flood,"

And tells the sad fate of the gay and the brave,

In mournful reflection Eliza late stood,

And paid a soft tribute--a tear on their grave.

To the manes of the fallen, oh! how grateful that tear!

Far sweeter to me than the Spring's richest bloom:

Such rewards light the fire of Chivalry here,

And when the brave fall--ever hallow their tomb.

Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key had put

out to the admiral's frigate to arrange for an exchange of

prisoners, and was directed to remain till the action was over.

All that night he watched the flaming shells, and when, by the

first rays of the morning, he saw his country's flag still

waving above the fort, he hastily wrote the stirring verses

which have since become America's national song.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

[September 13, 1814]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:

'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion

A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!

Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,

And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

The destruction of Washington, besides being perhaps the most

outrageous act of vandalism ever committed by a Christian army,

was a grave tactical error. One feeling of wrath and cry for

vengeance swept the land; party differences were forgotten, and

the whole country pressed forward to prosecute the war with an

enthusiasm and vigor which had before been sadly wanting.

YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND

Ye parliament of England,

You lords and commons, too,

Consider well what you're about,

And what you're going to do;

You're now to fight with Yankees,

I'm sure you'll rue the day

You roused the sons of liberty,

In North America.

You first confined our commerce,

And said our ships shan't trade,

You next impressed our seamen,

And used them as your slaves;

You then insulted Rogers,

While ploughing o'er the main,

And had not we declarèd war,

You'd have done it o'er again.

You thought our frigates were but few

And Yankees could not fight,

Until brave Hull your Guerrière took

And banished her from your sight.

The Wasp then took your Frolic,

We'll nothing say to that,

The Poictiers being of the line,

Of course she took her back.

The next, your Macedonian,

No finer ship could swim,

Decatur took her gilt-work off,

And then he sent her in.

The Java, by a Yankee ship

Was sunk, you all must know;

The Peacock fine, in all her plume,

By Lawrence down did go.

Then next you sent your Boxer,

To box us all about,

But we had an Enterprising brig

That beat your Boxer out;

We boxed her up to Portland,

And moored her off the town,

To show the sons of liberty

The Boxer of renown.

The next upon Lake Erie,

Where Perry had some fun,

You own he beat your naval force,

And caused them for to run;

This was to you a sore defeat,

The like ne'er known before--

Your British squadron beat complete--

Some took, some run ashore.

There's Rogers in the President,

Will burn, sink, and destroy;

The Congress, on the Brazil coast,

Your commerce will annoy;

The Essex, in the South Seas,

Will put out all your lights,

The flag she waves at her mast-head--

"Free Trade and Sailor's Rights."

Lament, ye sons of Britain,

Far distant is the day,

When you'll regain by British force

What you've lost in America;

Go tell your king and parliament,

By all the world 'tis known,

That British force, by sea and land,

By Yankees is o'erthrown.

Use every endeavor,

And strive to make a peace,

For Yankee ships are building fast,

Their navy to increase;

They will enforce their commerce,

The laws by heaven are made,

That Yankee ships in time of peace

To any port may trade.

Nor was the outrage universally applauded, even in England. An

anti-war party had arisen there, and was constantly growing in

strength.

THE BOWER OF PEACE

From "Ode Written during the War with America, 1814"

When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay

The thunderbolt aside,

And, twining olives with her laurel crown,

Rest in the Bower of Peace?

Not long may this unnatural strife endure

Beyond the Atlantic deep;

Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,

And insolent in wrong,

Afflict with their misrule the indignant land

Where Washington hath left

His awful memory

A light for after-times!

Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny

In their own annals, by their countrymen.

For lasting shame shall they be written down.

Soon may the better Genius there prevail!

Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay

The thunderbolt aside,

And, twining olives with her laurel crown,

Rest in the Bower of Peace.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

One of the most remarkable naval battles of the war occurred

on September 26, 1814, in Fayal Roads. The General Armstrong,

the famous privateer schooner, Captain Samuel Chester Reid, had

anchored there, trusting to the neutrality of the harbor, and

was attacked after nightfall by the boats of a strong British

squadron. A fearful struggle followed, the British being

finally beaten off.

REID AT FAYAL

[September 26, 1814]

A cliff-locked port and a bluff sea wall,

And a craggy rampart, brown and bold;

Proud Pico's bastions towering tall,

And a castle dumb and cold.

The scream of a gull where a porpoise rolls;

And the flash of a home-bound fisher's blade,

Where the ghostly boom of the drum fish tolls

For wrecks that the surf has made.

A grim dun ridge, and a thin gray beach,

And the swish and the swash of the sleepless tide;

And the moonlight masking the reef's long reach,

Where the lurking breakers bide.

And under the castle's senseless walls

(Santa Cruz, old and cold and dumb),

Where only the prying sea-mew calls,

And the harbor beetles hum,

A Yankee craft at her cable swings:

"All's well!" the cheery lookout sings.

But the skipper counts his sleeping crew,

His guns, and his drowsy ensign, too.

--Says he, "They'll do!"

For the skipper marks, tho' he makes no sign,

Frigate and corvette and ship of the line,

Rounding the headland into the light:

"Three Union Jacks and a moonlight night!"

--Says he, "We'll fight!"

Twelve launches cutting the silver bay;

Twenty score boarders called away.

And it's "Lively, hearties, and let her go!"

With a rouse and a cheer and a "Yeo, ho, ho!"

--Says Reid, "Lie low!"

'Tis a song of havoc the rowlocks sing,

And Death marks time in the rower's swing;

'Tis a baleful glow on the spouting spray,

As the keels in their cruel lust make way.

"Now, up and slay!"

Now up and play in the mad old game--

Axe and cutlass, fury and flame!

White breasts red-wat in the viler muck,

Proud hearts hurled back in the sprawling ruck.

--Says Reid, "Well struck!"

Pike and pistol and dripping blade

(So are the ghosts and the glory made);

A curse for a groan, and a cheer for a yell;

Pale glut of Hate and red rapture of Hell!

--Says Reid, "All's well!"

All's well for the banner that dances free,

Where the mountains are shouting the news to the sea.

All's well for the bold, and all's ill for the strong,

In the fight and the flight that shall hold us long,

In tale and song.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER

Tell the story to your sons

Of the gallant days of yore,

When the brig of seven guns

Fought the fleet of seven score,

From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night--

Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight

In the harbor of Fayal the Azore.

Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal:

One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall;

Nelson's valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are,

Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar.

Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away

Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.

There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast

In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;

There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring

Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!

At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide

Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,

And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town

And the privateer that lay close inside;

Came the eighteen-gun Carnation, and the Rota, forty-four,

And the triple-decked Plantagenet an Admiral's pennon bore:

And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller,

And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore.

Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: "Have no fear;

They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here

As if fifty stout armadas to shelter you from harm,

For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm."

But the privateersman said, "Well we know the Englishmen,

And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen.

Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end,

And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then."

"Seize the pirate where she lies!" cried the English Admiral:

"If the Portuguese protect her, all the wors for Portugal!"

And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray,

Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong, grim and dark and ready, lay.

Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning,

On they came in splendid silence, till a cable's length away.

Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico's thousand echoes woke;

And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay.

Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again,

And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men;

And he gave the word "No quarter!" and he sent them forth to smite.

Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might!

Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need;

God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid.

Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft,

Fourteen launches together striking the little craft.

They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail;

But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grape-shot fell like hail;

Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear,

Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer.

And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen:

Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between.

Once in the deadly strife

The boarder's leader pressed

Forward of all the rest

Challenging life for life;

But ere their blades had crossed

A dying sailor tossed

His pistol to Reid, and cried,

"Now riddle the lubber's hide!"

But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside,

And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died.

Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead,

But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled.

Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done,

When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one,

And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her, gun for gun,

And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun.

Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four,

With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore.

And the dauntless captain said: "Take our wounded and our dead,

Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong's days are o'er;

But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave--

To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman's grave."

So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land

With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand.

Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side,

And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the

tide.

Tell the story to your sons,

When the haughty stranger boasts

Of his mighty ships and guns

And the muster of his hosts,

How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore

When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,

In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

Three boats, loaded with dead and dying, were captured by the

Americans, the survivors having escaped by jumping overboard

and swimming ashore. At daybreak the whole British fleet moved

in to attack, and Captain Reid was forced to scuttle his ship

and abandon her.

THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL

[September 26, 1814]

_Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white,

And blue is Fayal's clear sky;

The sun and moon and sky are bright,

And the sea, and stars on high;

But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid

And the flag of his ship and crew

Are brighter far than sea or star

Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:

So lift your voices once again

For the land we love so dear,

For the fighting Captain and the men

Of the Yankee Privateer!_

The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine

Upon the blue Azores,

As twilight pours her purple wine

Upon those storied shores;

The General Armstrong's flag of stars

In the harbor of Fayal

Flies forth, remote from thought of wars,

Until the sunset call.

No glistening guns in serried line

The slender schooner boasts,

A pivot and eight hearty nines

Shall meet her foeman's hosts;

Her sides are oak, her masts are tall,

Her captain's one to trust,

Her ninety men are free men all,

Her quarrel wholly just.

On far Fayal the moon is fair

To-night as it was when,

Glad in the gay September air,

Reid laughed beside his men;

On far Fayal the sun to-day

Was lord of all the sky

As when the General Armstrong lay,

Our banner flung on high;

But now there rests a holier light

Than theirs on land or sea:

The splendor of our sailors' might,

And glorious bravery.

A moment, and the flag will sink

As sinks the sun to rest

Beyond the billows' western brink

Where towers the Eagle's nest,

When round the azure harbor-head

Where sparkling ocean brims,

Her British ensign streaming red,

The brig Carnation swims.

Ere with the sun her sails are set

The Rota frigate glides

And the great ship Plantagenet

To stations at her sides:

They carry six score guns and ten,

They serve the British crown,

They muster o'er a thousand men--

To win were small renown.

'Twas by Fayal, where Portugal

Still flaunts her Blue-and-White;

What cares their Floyd for Portugal

Or what cares he for right?

He starts his signals down the line--

Our flag is flying free--

His weapons in the moonbeams shine,

His boats drop on the sea.

Straight to the Armstrong swift they come.

_Speak, or I fire!_ shouts Reid--

Their rattling rowlocks louder hum

To mark their heightened speed.

Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream

Bright glares of crimson flame;

Our muskets but an instant gleam,

Yet leave them wounded, lame.

They try a feeble, brief reply

Ere back their course is sped.

Before our marksmanship they fly,

Their living with their dead.

Floyd swears upon his faith and all

The Armstrong shall be his;

He scorns rebuke from Portugal,

But not such enemies;

So guns are charged with canister

And picked men go to fight:

Brave hearts and doomed full many were

In the Azores that night.

From nine until the nick of twelve

Their boats are seen to throng

Where rocky islets slant and shelve

Safe from our bullets' song;

Then out they dash, their small arms flash,

While blare their carronades,

Their boarding-pikes and axes clash,

Their guns and cutlass blades.

Our Long Tom speaks, our shrapnel shrieks;

But ere we load again,

On every side the battle reeks

Of thrice a hundred men.

Our rail is low, and there the foe

Cling as they shoot and hack.

We stab them as they climb a-row,

Slaying, nor turning back.

They dash up now upon our bow,

And there our hearties haste;

Now at our stern their muskets burn,

And now along our waist.

Our fo'c'sle weeps when Williams dies,

When Worth falls in his blood,

But bleeding through the battle-cries

Our gallant Johnson stood;

The British muskets snapt and spat

Till Reid came in his wrath,

His brow so pale with purpose that

It glistened down his path.

Forth from the quarter-deck he springs,

He and his men with cheers;

On British skulls his cutlass rings,

His pistols in their ears;

His men beside him hold him good

Till spent the foeman's breath;

Where at our sides a Briton stood,

A Briton sank in death;

Though weak our men with blood and sweat,

Our sides a riddled wreck,

Yet ne'er a British foot is set

Upon the Armstrong's deck.

Three hundred men their Admiral sent

Our schooner's ways to mend:

A hundred British sailors went

Down to a warrior's end.

Two of our lads in death are red,

But safe the flag above:

God grant that never worse be sped

The fray for all we love!

The General Armstrong lies beneath

The waves in far Fayal,

But still his countrymen shall wreathe

Reid's name with laurels tall;

The sun and moon are fair to see

Above the blue Azores,

But fairer far Reid's victory

Beside their storied shores.

_Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white,

And blue is Fayal's clear sky;

The sun and moon and sky are bright,

And the sea, and stars on high;

But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid

And the flag of his ship and crew

Are brighter far than sea or star

Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:

So lift your voices once again

For the land we love so dear,

For the fighting Captain and the men

Of the Yankee Privateer._

WALLACE RICE.

Major-General Andrew Jackson had been intrusted with the task

of defending the South, and especially New Orleans, from the

expected British invasion. On September 15, 1814, a British

fleet and land force invested Fort Bowyer, which commanded the

entrance to Mobile, but were beaten off and forced to retire,

after a desperate struggle, in which one of the British ships

was blown up.

FORT BOWYER

[September 15, 1814]

Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,

Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowy

Surge, in its sweep laves, and, with lashing foam, breaks,

Rough in its whiteness;

See where the flag of Freedom, with its light wreaths,

Floats on the wind, in buoyancy expanded

High o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,

Proudly and fearless.

Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile

Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,

Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines

Sparkling with death-lights.

Shrink then that band of freemen, at the onslaught?

Palsy those arms that wield the unerring rifles?

Strikes chill the breast dread fear? or coward paleness

Whiten the blanch'd cheek?

No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,

Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not

Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,

Rallying they stand fast.

"Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proud

Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"

Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neither

Awed us, nor conquer'd.

CHARLES L. S. JONES.

Jackson hastened to New Orleans, and reached there just as a

great British fleet appeared in the offing. He determined to

attack the enemy as soon as they started to land, and on the

night of December 23 he drove in their advance guard. Then

he intrenched his little army, and on January 8, 1815, was

attacked by the full British force, seven thousand strong.

Their advance was checked by the steady fire of Jackson's

riflemen, and the enemy was finally routed with a loss of over

two thousand. The American loss was eight killed and thirteen

wounded.

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS

[January 8, 1815]

Here, in my rude log cabin,

Few poorer men there be

Among the mountain ranges

Of Eastern Tennessee.

My limbs are weak and shrunken,

White hairs upon my brow,

My dog--lie still old fellow!--

My sole companion now.

Yet I, when young and lusty,

Have gone through stirring scenes,

For I went down with Carroll

To fight at New Orleans.

You say you'd like to hear me

The stirring story tell,

Of those who stood the battle

And those who fighting fell.

Short work to count our losses--

We stood and dropped the foe

As easily as by firelight

Men shoot the buck or doe.

And while they fell by hundreds

Upon the bloody plain,

Of us, fourteen were wounded

And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,

Before the break of day,

Our raw and hasty levies

Were brought into array.

No cotton-bales before us--

Some fool that falsehood told;

Before us was an earthwork

Built from the swampy mould

And there we stood in silence,

And waited with a frown.

To greet with bloody welcome

The bull-dogs of the Crown.

The heavy fog of morning

Still hid the plain from sight,

When came a thread of scarlet

Marked faintly in the white.

We fired a single cannon,

And as its thunders rolled,

The mist before us lifted

In many a heavy fold--

The mist before us lifted

And in their bravery fine

Came rushing to their ruin

The fearless British line.

Then from our waiting cannon

Leaped forth the deadly flame,

To meet the advancing columns

That swift and steady came.

The thirty-twos of Crowley

And Bluchi's twenty-four

To Spotts's eighteen-pounders

Responded with their roar,

Sending the grape-shot deadly

That marked its pathway plain,

And paved the road it travelled

With corpses of the slain.

Our rifles firmly grasping,

And heedless of the din,

We stood in silence waiting

For orders to begin.

Our fingers on the triggers,

Our hearts, with anger stirred,

Grew still more fierce and eager

As Jackson's voice was heard:

"Stand steady! Waste no powder!

Wait till your shots will tell!

To-day the work you finish--

See that you do it well!"

Their columns drawing nearer,

We felt our patience tire,

When came the voice of Carroll,

Distinct and measured, "Fire!"

Oh! then you should have marked us

Our volleys on them pour--

Have heard our joyous rifles

Ring sharply through the roar,

And seen their foremost columns

Melt hastily away

As snow in mountain gorges

Before the floods of May.

They soon re-formed their columns,

And, mid the fatal rain

We never ceased to hurtle,

Came to their work again.

The Forty-fourth is with them,

That first its laurels won

With stout old Abercrombie

Beneath an eastern sun.

It rushes to the battle,

And, though within the rear

Its leader is a laggard,

It shows no signs of fear.

It did not need its colonel,

For soon there came instead

An eagle-eyed commander,

And on its march he led.

'Twas Pakenham in person,

The leader of the field;

I knew it by the cheering

That loudly round him pealed;

And by his quick, sharp movement

We felt his heart was stirred,

As when at Salamanca

He led the fighting Third.

I raised my rifle quickly,

I sighted at his breast,

God save the gallant leader

And take him to his rest!

I did not draw the trigger,

I could not for my life.

So calm he sat his charger

Amid the deadly strife,

That in my fiercest moment

A prayer arose from me--

God save that gallant leader,

Our foeman though he be!

Sir Edward's charger staggers;

He leaps at once to ground.

And ere the beast falls bleeding

Another horse is found.

His right arm falls--'tis wounded;

He waves on high his left;

In vain he leads the movement,

The ranks in twain are cleft.

The men in scarlet waver

Before the men in brown,

And fly in utter panic--

The soldiers of the Crown!

I thought the work was over,

But nearer shouts were heard,

And came, with Gibbs to head it,

The gallant Ninety-third.

Then Pakenham, exulting,

With proud and joyous glance,

Cried, "Children of the tartan--

Bold Highlanders--advance!

Advance to scale the breastworks,

And drive them from their hold,

And show the stainless courage

That marked your sires of old!"

His voice as yet was ringing,

When, quick as light, there came

The roaring of a cannon,

And earth seemed all aflame.

Who causes thus the thunder

The doom of men to speak?

It is the Baratarian,

The fearless Dominique.

Down through the marshalled Scotsmen

The step of death is heard,

And by the fierce tornado

Falls half the Ninety-third.

The smoke passed slowly upward

And, as it soared on high,

I saw the brave commander

In dying anguish lie.

They bear him from the battle

Who never fled the foe;

Unmoved by death around them

His bearers softly go.

In vain their care, so gentle,

Fades earth and all its scenes;

The man of Salamanca

Lies dead at New Orleans.

But where were his lieutenants?

Had they in terror fled?

No! Keane was sorely wounded

And Gibbs as good as dead.

Brave Wilkinson commanding,

A major of brigade,

The shattered force to rally

A final effort made.

He led it up our ramparts,

Small glory did he gain--

Our captives some; some slaughtered,

And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated,

The bloody work was o'er;

The feet of the invaders

Were soon to leave our shore.

We rested on our rifles

And talked about the fight,

When came a sudden murmur

Like fire from left to right;

We turned and saw our chieftain,

And then, good friend of mine,

You should have heard the cheering

That rang along the line.

For well our men remembered

How little, when they came,

Had they but native courage,

And trust in Jackson's name;

How through the day he labored,

How kept the vigils still,

Till discipline controlled us--

A stronger power than will;

And how he hurled us at them

Within the evening hour,

That red night in December

And made us feel our power.

In answer to our shouting

Fire lit his eye of gray;

Erect, but thin and pallid,

He passed upon his bay.

Weak from the baffled fever,

And shrunken in each limb,

The swamps of Alabama

Had done their work on him;

But spite of that and fasting,

And hours of sleepless care,

The soul of Andrew Jackson

Shone forth in glory there.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding,

Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies;

Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosing

Scarlet for England.

Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightnings

Search out our earthworks, silent and portentous.

Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossing

Their lines spring forward.

Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen,

Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateers-men,

Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnel

Shriek through their columns.

Shattered in fragments, thus their right is riven;

But on our left a deadlier bolt is speeding:

Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet defeated,

Charge in their valor.

Closing their files, our cannon fire disdaining,

Dauntless they come with vict'ry on their standards;

Then slowly rise the rifles of our marksmen,

Tennessee hunters.

Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling bullets

Lay them in windrows, war's infernal harvest.

High through the onslaught Tennessee is shouting,

Joying in battle.

Pakenham falls there, Keane and his Highlanders

Close from the centre, hopeless in their courage;

Backward they stagger, dying and disabled,

Gloriously routed.

Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow louder:

War clouds sweep back in January breezes,

Showing the dreadful proof of the great triumph

God hath vouchsafed us.

That gallant war-host, England's best and bravest,

Met by raw levies, scores against its hundreds,

Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's weeping,

Reddening the meadows.

Freed are our States from European tyrants:

Lift then your voices for the little army

Led by our battle-loving Andrew Jackson,

Blest of Jehovah.

WALLACE RICE.

The British were permitted to retire unmolested to their ships,

and the sails of that mighty fleet were soon fading away along

the horizon. Neither victor nor vanquished knew that a treaty

of peace had been signed at Ghent two weeks before, and that

the battle need never have been fought.

TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS

Hail sons of generous valor,

Who now embattled stand,

To wield the brand of strife and blood,

For Freedom and the land.

And hail to him your laurelled chief,

Around whose trophied name

A nation's gratitude has twined

The wreath of deathless fame.

Now round that gallant leader

Your iron phalanx form,

And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks,

Your bosoms to the storm.

Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls,

Its fury shall be low,

For justice guides the warrior's steel,

And vengeance strikes the blow.

High o'er the gleaming columns,

The bannered star appears,

And proud amid its martial band,

His crest the eagle rears.

And long as patriot valor's arm

Shall win the battle's prize,

That star shall beam triumphantly,

That eagle seek the skies.

Then on, ye daring spirits,

To danger's tumults now,

The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown,

To grace the victor's brow;

And they who for their country die,

Shall fill an honored grave;

For glory lights the soldier's tomb,

And beauty weeps the brave.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Prominent among the forces under Jackson was a brigade of eight

hundred Kentucky riflemen, commanded by General John Coffee.

They had marched eight hundred miles through a wilderness,

having covered the last hundred miles in less than two days--a

march almost unequalled in history. Jackson spoke of this

brigade as the right arm of his army.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,

Who grace this famous city,

Just listen, if you've time to spare,

While I rehearse a ditty;

And for the opportunity

Conceive yourselves quite lucky,

For 'tis but seldom that you see

A hunter from Kentucky.

Oh! Kentucky,

The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,

Each man to fear a stranger;

Whate'er the game, we join in chase,

Despising toil and danger:

And if a daring foe annoys,

Whate'er his strength or force is,

We'll show him that Kentucky boys

Are Alligator-horses.

I s'pose you've read it in the prints,

How Pakenham attempted

To make old Hickory Jackson wince,

But soon his schemes repented;

For we, with rifles ready cock'd,

Thought such occasion lucky,

And soon around the general flock'd

The hunters of Kentucky.

I s'pose you've heard how New Orleans

Is famed for wealth and beauty;

They've gals of every hue, it seems,

From snowy white to sooty:

So Pakenham he made his brags

If he in fight was lucky,

He'd have their gals and cotton bags,

In spite of Old Kentucky.

But Jackson he was wide awake,

And wasn't scared at trifles,

For well he knew what aim we take

With our Kentucky rifles;

So he led us down to Cypress Swamp,

The ground was low and mucky;

There stood John Bull in martial pomp--

But here was Old Kentucky.

We raised a bank to hide our breasts,

Not that we thought of dying,

But then we always like to rest,

Unless the game is flying:

Behind it stood our little force--

None wish'd it to be greater,

For every man was half a horse

And half an alligator.

They didn't let our patience tire

Before they show'd their faces;

We didn't choose to waste our fire,

But snugly kept our places;

And when so near we saw them wink,

We thought it time to stop 'em,

It would have done you good, I think,

To see Kentuckians drop 'em.

They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight,

When lead was all their booty,

And so they wisely took to flight,

And left us all the beauty.

And now, if danger e'er annoys,

Remember what our trade is;

Just send for us Kentucky boys,

And we'll protect you, ladies:

Oh! Kentucky,

The hunters of Kentucky.

Another useless action, but a most remarkable one, was fought

by the famous old Constitution, near Madeira, on February 20,

1815. On the afternoon of that day she sighted and overhauled

the British 32-gun frigate Cyane and the 20-gun sloop Levant.

She attacked them simultaneously, and after a fierce fight

compelled them both to surrender.

THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT

[February 20, 1815]

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew--

Constitution, where ye bound for?

Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be had

Acrost the Western ocean.

Our captain was married in Boston town

And sailed next day to sea;

For all must go when the State says so;

Blow high, blow low, sailed we.

"Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift

When my home-bound pennant flies?

The rarest that be on land or sea

It shall be my lady's prize."

"There's never a prize on sea or land

Could bring such joy to me

As my true love sound and homeward bound

With a king's ship under his lee."

The Western ocean is wide and deep,

And wild its tempests blow,

But bravely rides "Old Ironsides,"

A-cruising to and fro.

We cruised to the east and we cruised to north,

And southing far went we,

And at last off Cape de Verd we raised

Two frigates sailing free.

Oh, God made man, and man made ships,

But God makes very few

Like him who sailed our ship that day,

And fought her, one to two.

He gained the weather-gage of both,

He held them both a-lee;

And gun for gun, till set of sun,

He spoke them fair and free;

Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail,

And ship, and sea, and shore,

And our only aim was the bursting flame

And the hidden cannon's roar.

Then a long rift in the mist showed up

The stout Cyane, close-hauled

To swing in our wake and our quarter rake,

And a boasting Briton bawled:

"Starboard and larboard, we've got him fast

Where his heels won't take him through;

Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,--

Ho, Yankee, which will you do?"

We did not luff and we did not wear,

But braced our topsails back,

Till the sternway drew us fair and true

Broadsides athwart her track.

Athwart her track and across her bows

We raked her fore and aft,

And out of the fight and into the night

Drifted the beaten craft.

The slow Levant came up too late;

No need had we to stir;

Her decks we swept with fire, and kept

The flies from troubling her.

We raked her again, and her flag came down,--

The haughtiest flag that floats,--

And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs,

With never a bark in their throats.

With never a bark and never a bite,

But only an oath to break,

As we squared away for Praya Bay

With our prizes in our wake.

Parole they gave and parole they broke,

What matters the cowardly cheat,

If the captain's bride was satisfied

With the one prize laid at her feet?

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew--

Constitution, where ye bound for?

Wherever the British prizes be,

Though it's one to two, or one to three,--

"Old Ironsides" means victory,

Acrost the Western ocean.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

News of the peace did not reach America until February 11,

1815. It was hailed with rejoicing everywhere.

SEA AND LAND VICTORIES

With half the Western world at stake,

See Perry on the midland lake,

The unequal combat dare;

Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs,

He met the foe and made him ours,

And closed the savage war.

Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain,

In ships outnumbered, guns, and men,

Saw dangers thick increase;

His trust in God and virtue's cause

He conquer'd in the lion's jaws,

And led the way to peace.

To sing each valiant hero's name

Whose deeds have swelled the files of fame,

Requires immortal powers;

Columbia's warriors never yield

To equal force by sea or field,

Her eagle never cowers.

Long as Niagara's cataract roars

Or Erie laves our Northern shores,

Great Brown, thy fame shall rise;

Outnumber'd by a veteran host

Of conquering heroes, Britain's boast--

Conquest was there thy prize.

At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band,

Where gallant Macomb held command,

The unequal host oppose;

Provost confounded, vanquished flies,

Convinced that numbers won't suffice

Where Freemen are the foes.

Our songs to noblest strains we'll raise

While we attempt thy matchless praise,

Carolina's godlike son;

While Mississippi rolls his flood,

Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood,

The palm shall be thine own.

At Orleans--lo! a savage band,

In countless numbers gain the strand,

"Beauty and spoil" the word--

There Jackson with his fearless few,

The invincibles by thousands slew,

And dire destruction poured.

O Britain! when the tale is told

Of Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled,

Should grief and madness rise,

Remember God, the avenger, reigns,

Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains,

And Hampton's female cries.

ODE TO PEACE

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world,

And bid our pains and sorrows cease;

Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd,

And may we hail thy coming, peace!

For long enough has ruin stalk'd,

With force and terror o'er our earth;

Around them hideous spectres walk'd,

And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth.

Ah! banish'd from these happy skies,

By thee, be soon these boding stars,

Which erring made mankind arise,

To deeds of sin, to blood and wars.

Philadelphia, 1816.

CHAPTER III

THE WEST

At the close of the Revolution, the country west of the

Alleghanies was still virtually an unbroken wilderness. Boone

had pushed forward into Kentucky, drawing a few settlers after

him; the trading-posts in the Illinois country, which had been

captured by George Rogers Clark, still dragged on a miserable

existence; but these were mere pin-points in the great

stretches of virgin forest, amid which the first settlers hewed

out a home.

THE SETTLER

His echoing axe the settler swung

Amid the sea-like solitude,

And, rushing, thundering, down were flung

The Titans of the wood;

Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed

From out his mossy nest, which crashed

With its supporting bough,

And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed

On the wolf's haunt below.

Rude was the garb and strong the frame

Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:

To form that garb the wildwood game

Contributed their spoil;

The soul that warmed that frame disdained

The tinsel, gaud, and glare that reigned

Where men their crowds collect;

The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,

This forest-tamer decked.

The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,

The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,

The winds that swelled their harmonies

Through those sun-hiding bowers,

The temple vast, the green arcade,

The nestling vale, the grassy glade,

Dark cave, and swampy lair;

These scenes and sounds majestic made

His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorned a pleasant spot;

Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,

And herbs and plants the woods knew not

Throve in the sun and rain.

The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,

The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,

All made a landscape strange,

Which was the living chronicle

Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at spring's first tinge,

The rose of summer spread its glow,

The maize hung out its autumn fringe,

Rude winter brought his snow;

And still the lone one labored there,

His shout and whistle broke the air,

As cheerily he plied

His garden-spade, or drove his share

Along the hillock's side.

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood

Roaring and crackling on its path,

And scorching earth, and melting wood,

Beneath its greedy wrath;

He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,

Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,

And darkening thick the day

With streaming bough and severed root,

Hurled whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,

The grim bear hushed his savage growl;

In blood and foam the panther gnashed

His fangs, with dying howl;

The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,

Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,

And, with its moaning cry,

The beaver sunk beneath the wound

Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race,

When Liberty sent forth her cry,

Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,

To fight,--to bleed,--to die!

Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,

By hope through weary years were led,

And witnessed Yorktown's sun

Blaze on a nation's banner spread,

A nation's freedom won.

ALFRED B. STREET.

Danger was ever present--and in its most hideous form.

Northwest of the Ohio dwelt the powerful Delawares and

Shawanese, ever ready to march against the border settlements

and to surprise isolated dwellings. In the incessant warfare

against the Indians, the frontier women played no little part.

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!

Stout-hearted dames were they;

With nerve to wield the battle-brand,

And join the border-fray.

Our rough land had no braver,

In its days of blood and strife--

Aye ready for severest toil,

Aye free to peril life.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!

On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil,

How shared they, with each dauntless band,

War's tempest and Life's toil!

They shrank not from the foeman,--

They quailed not in the fight,--

But cheered their husbands through the day,

And soothed them through the night.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!

Their bosoms pillowed _men_!

And proud were they by such to stand,

In hammock, fort, or glen.

To load the sure old rifle,--

To run the leaden ball,--

To watch a battling husband's place,

And fill it should he fall.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!

_Such_ were their daily deeds.

Their monument!--where does it stand?

Their epitaph!--who reads?

No braver dames had Sparta,

No nobler matrons Rome,--

Yet who or lauds or honors them,

E'en in their own green home!

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!

They sleep in unknown graves:

And had they borne and nursed a band

Of ingrates, or of slaves,

They had not been more neglected!

But their graves shall yet be found,

And their monuments dot here and there

"The Dark and Bloody Ground."

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

In 1784 Virginia ceded to the national government her claim to

the lands west of the mountains. New York, Massachusetts, and

Connecticut soon followed suit, and the tide of emigration to

the West set in with steady and ever-increasing volume.

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA AND PEOPLING THE WESTERN COUNTRY

[1784]

To western woods and lonely plains,

Palemon from the crowd departs,

Where Nature's wildest genius reigns,

To tame the soil, and plant the arts--

What wonders there shall freedom show,

What mighty states successive grow!

From Europe's proud, despotic shores

Hither the stranger takes his way,

And in our new-found world explores

A happier soil, a milder sway,

Where no proud despot holds him down,

No slaves insult him with a crown.

What charming scenes attract the eye,

On wild Ohio's savage stream!

There Nature reigns, whose works outvie

The boldest pattern art can frame;

There ages past have rolled away,

And forests bloomed but to decay.

From these fair plains, these rural seats,

So long concealed, so lately known,

The unsocial Indian far retreats,

To make some other clime his own,

Where other streams, less pleasing, flow,

And darker forests round him grow.

Great Sire of floods! whose varied wave

Through climes and countries takes its way,

To whom creating Nature gave

Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway!

No longer shall they useless prove,

Nor idly through the forests rove;

Nor longer shall your princely flood

From distant lakes be swelled in vain,

Nor longer through a darksome wood

Advance unnoticed to the main;

Far other ends the heavens decree--

And commerce plans new freights for thee.

While virtue warms the generous breast,

There heaven-born freedom shall reside,

Nor shall the voice of war molest,

Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride--

There Reason shall new laws devise,

And order from confusion rise.

Forsaking kings and regal state,

With all their pomp and fancied bliss,

The traveller owns, convinced though late,

No realm so free, so blest as this--

The east is half to slaves consigned,

Where kings and priests enchain the mind.

O come the time, and haste the day,

When man shall man no longer crush,

When Reason shall enforce her sway,

Nor these fair regions raise our blush,

Where still the African complains,

And mourns his yet unbroken chains.

Far brighter scenes a future age,

The muse predicts, these States will hail,

Whose genius may the world engage,

Whose deeds may over death prevail,

And happier systems bring to view

Than all the eastern sages knew.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

In 1788 Marietta was founded at the mouth of the Muskingum

by the Ohio Company, which had bought a great tract of land

extending to the Scioto. Later in the same year, Matthias

Denman, Robert Patterson, and John Filson laid out the town of

Losantiville, now Cincinnati. Filson had been a schoolmaster

and was responsible for the strange name, which he thought

indicated that the town was opposite the mouth of the Licking.

He was soon afterwards killed by the Indians while on an

exploring expedition.

JOHN FILSON

[1788]

John Filson was a pedagogue--

A pioneer was he;

I know not what his nation was,

Nor what his pedigree.

Tradition's scanty records tell

But little of the man,

Save that he to the frontier came

In immigration's van.

Perhaps with phantoms of reform

His busy fancy teemed,

Perhaps of new Utopias

Hesperian he dreamed.

John Filson and companions bold

A frontier village planned,

In forest wild, on sloping hills,

By fair Ohio's strand.

John Filson from three languages

With pedant skill did frame

The novel word Losantiville

To be the new town's name.

Said Filson: "Comrades, hear my words:

Ere threescore years have flown

Our town will be a city vast."

Loud laughed Bob Patterson.

Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue,

"A city fair and proud,

The Queen of Cities in the West!"

Mat Denman laughed aloud.

Deep in the wild and solemn woods

Unknown to white man's track,

John Filson went, one autumn day,

But nevermore came back.

He struggled through the solitude

The inland to explore,

And with romantic pleasure traced

Miami's winding shore.

Across his path the startled deer

Bounds to its shelter green;

He enters every lonely vale

And cavernous ravine.

Too soon the murky twilight comes,

The boding night-winds moan;

Bewildered wanders Filson, lost,

Exhausted, and alone.

By lurking foes his steps are dogged,

A yell his ear appalls!

A ghastly corpse, upon the ground,

A murdered man, he falls.

The Indian, with instinctive hate,

In him a herald saw

Of coming hosts of pioneers,

The friends of light and law;

In him beheld the champion

Of industries and arts,

The founder of encroaching roads

And great commercial marts;

The spoiler of the hunting-ground,

The plougher of the sod,

The builder of the Christian school

And of the house of God.

And so the vengeful tomahawk

John Filson's blood did spill,--

The spirit of the pedagogue

No tomahawk could kill.

John Filson had no sepulchre,

Except the wildwood dim;

The mournful voices of the air

Made requiem for him.

The druid trees their waving arms

Uplifted o'er his head;

The moon a pallid veil of light

Upon his visage spread.

The rain and sun of many years

Have worn his bones away,

And what he vaguely prophesied

We realize to-day.

Losantiville, the prophet's word,

The poet's hope fulfils,--

She sits a stately Queen to-day

Amid her royal hills!

Then come, ye pedagogues, and join

To sing a grateful lay

For him, the martyr pioneer,

Who led for you the way.

And may my simple ballad be

A monument to save

His name from blank oblivion,

Who never had a grave.

WILLIAM HENRY VENABLE.

These pioneers found the land northwest of the Ohio remarkably

fertile; but it was the hunting-ground of the warlike Delawares

and Shawanese, and the man who attempted to settle there took

his life in his hands. In the fall of 1791, a large force was

collected at Cincinnati, under General Arthur St. Clair, and

marched against the Indians. On the morning of November 4, the

Americans were surprised near the Miami villages, and routed,

with great loss. A ballad describing the defeat was written

soon afterwards, and achieved a wide popularity.

SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT

[November 4, 1791]

'Twas November the fourth, in the year of ninety-one,

We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson;

Sainclaire was our commander, which may remembered be,

For there we left nine hundred men in t' West'n Ter'tory.

At Bunker's Hill and Quebeck, there many a hero fell,

Likewise at Long Island (it is I the truth can tell),

But such a dreadful carnage may I never see again

As hap'ned near St. Mary's, upon the river plain.

Our army was attacked just as the day did dawn,

And soon was overpowered and driven from the lawn.

They killed Major Ouldham, Levin and Briggs likewise,

And horrid yells of savages resounded through the skies.

Major Butler was wounded the very second fire;

His manly bosom swell'd with rage when forc'd to retire;

And as he lay in anguish, nor scarcely could he see,

Exclaim'd, "Ye hounds of hell! Oh, revenged I will be!"

We had not been long broken when General Butler found

Himself so badly wounded, was forced to quit the ground;

"My God!" says he, "what shall we do? we're wounded every man;

Go charge them, valiant heroes, and beat them if you can."

He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath,

And like a valiant soldier sunk in the arms of death;

When blessed angels did await his spirit to convey,

And unto the celestial fields he quickly bent his way.

We charg'd again with courage firm, but soon again gave ground;

The war-whoop then redoubled, as did the foes around.

They killed Major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry,

"Our only safety is in flight, or fighting here to die."

"Stand to your guns," says valiant Ford; "let's die upon them here,

Before we let the sav'ges know we ever harbored fear!"

Our cannon-balls exhausted, and artill'ry-men all slain,

Obliged were our musketmen the enemy to sustain.

Yet three hours more we fought them, and then were forc'd to yield,

When three hundred warriors lay stretched upon the field.

Says Colonel Gibson to his men, "My boys, be not dismayed;

I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid.

"Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die than they should gain the field!"

With that he got a fatal shot, which causèd him to yield.

Says Major Clarke, "My heroes, I can here no longer stand;

We'll strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can."

The word "Retreat!" being passed around, there was a dismal cry,

Then helter-skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly.

This well-appointed army, who but a day before

Defied and braved all danger, had like a cloud passed o'er.

Alas, the dying and wounded, how dreadful was the thought!

To the tomahawk and scalping-knife in misery are brought.

Some had a thigh and some an arm broke on the field that day,

Who writhed in torments at the stake to close the dire affray.

To mention our brave officers, is what I wish to do;

No sons of Mars e'er fought more brave, or with more courage true.

To Captain Bradford I belonged, in his artillery,

He fell that day amongst the slain, a valiant man was he.

After this victory, the Indians grew bolder than ever, and

attacks on the border settlements were increasingly frequent.

More than one family was saved from surprise and death by

a queer character known as Johnny Appleseed, who travelled

through the wilderness planting apple-seeds which in time grew

into valuable orchards. The Indians thought him mad and would

not harm him.

JOHNNY APPLESEED

A BALLAD OF THE OLD NORTHWEST

A midnight cry appalls the gloom,

The puncheon door is shaken:

"Awake! arouse! and flee the doom!

Man, woman, child, awaken!

"Your sky shall glow with fiery beams

Before the morn breaks ruddy!

The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams,

Athirst for vengeance bloody!"

Alarumed by the dreadful word

Some warning tongue thus utters,

The settler's wife, like mother bird,

About her young ones flutters.

Her first-born, rustling from a soft

Leaf-couch, the roof close under,

Glides down the ladder from the loft,

With eyes of dreamy wonder.

The pioneer flings open wide

The cabin door, naught fearing;

The grim woods drowse on every side,

Around the lonely clearing.

"Come in! come in! nor like an owl

Thus hoot your doleful humors;

What fiend possesses you to howl

Such crazy, coward rumors?"

The herald strode into the room;

That moment, through the ashes,

The back-log struggled into bloom

Of gold and crimson flashes.

The glimmer lighted up a face,

And o'er a figure dartled,

So eerie, of so solemn grace,

The bluff backwoodsman startled.

The brow was gathered to a frown,

The eyes were strangely glowing,

And, like a snow-fall drifting down,

The stormy beard went flowing.

The tattered cloak that round him clung

Had warred with foulest weather;

Across his shoulders broad were flung

Brown saddlebags of leather.

One pouch with hoarded seed was packed,

From Penn-land cider-presses;

The other garnered book and tract

Within its creased recesses.

A glance disdainful and austere,

Contemptuous of danger,

Cast he upon the pioneer,

Then spake the uncouth stranger:

"Heed what the Lord's anointed saith;

Hear one who would deliver

Your bodies and your souls from death;

List ye to John the Giver.

"Thou trustful boy, in spirit wise

Beyond thy father's measure,

Because of thy believing eyes

I share with thee my treasure.

"Of precious seed this handful take;

Take next this Bible Holy:

In good soil sow both gifts, for sake

Of Him, the meek and lowly.

"Farewell! I go!--the forest calls

My life to ceaseless labors;

Wherever danger's shadow falls

I fly to save my neighbors.

"I save; I neither curse nor slay;

I am a voice that crieth

In night and wilderness. Away!

Whoever doubteth, dieth!"

The prophet vanished in the night,

Like some fleet ghost belated:

Then, awe-struck, fled with panic fright

The household, evil-fated.

They hurried on with stumbling feet,

Foreboding ambuscado;

Bewildered hope told of retreat

In frontier palisado.

But ere a mile of tangled maze

Their bleeding hands had broken,

Their home-roof set the dark ablaze,

Fulfilling doom forespoken.

The savage death-whoop rent the air!

A howl of rage infernal!

The fugitives were in Thy care,

Almighty Power eternal!

Unscathed by tomahawk or knife,

In bosky dingle nested,

The hunted pioneer, with wife

And babes, hid unmolested.

The lad, when age his locks of gold

Had changed to silver glory,

Told grandchildren, as I have told,

This western wildwood story.

Told how the fertile seeds had grown

To famous trees, and thriven;

And oft the Sacred Book was shown,

By that weird Pilgrim given.

Remember Johnny Appleseed,

All ye who love the apple;

He served his kind by Word and Deed,

In God's grand greenwood chapel.

WILLIAM HENRY VENABLE.

On August 20, 1794, General Anthony Wayne defeated the

Indians on the Maumee and compelled them to sue for peace. At

Greenville, in the following year, they ceded 25,000 square

miles to the Americans, and settlers flocked into the fertile

country thrown open to them.

THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO

The footsteps of a hundred years

Have echoed, since o'er Braddock's Road

Bold Putnam and the Pioneers

Led History the way they strode.

On wild Monongahela stream

They launched the Mayflower of the West,

A perfect State their civic dream,

A new New World their pilgrim quest.

When April robed the Buckeye trees

Muskingum's bosky shore they trod;

They pitched their tents, and to the breeze

Flung freedom's star-flag, thanking God.

As glides the Oyo's solemn flood,

So fleeted their eventful years;

Resurgent in their children's blood,

They still live on--the Pioneers.

Their fame shrinks not to names and dates

On votive stone, the prey of time;--

Behold where monumental States

Immortalize their lives sublime!

WILLIAM HENRY VENABLE.

Ohio was admitted to the Union in 1803. The serenity of the new

state was rudely shaken, in 1806, by the remarkable bugbear

known as the "Burr Conspiracy." Burr had incurred the enmity

of Jefferson and most of the other leading politicians of the

time, and they were led to believe that he was preparing an

expedition against the southwest, to set up a separate empire

there. Burr had interested in his plan--which was really

directed against Mexico--one Harmon Blennerhassett, who owned

the island of that name in the Ohio, and who undertook to

finance the expedition.

BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND

From "The New Pastoral"

Once came an exile, longing to be free,

Born in the greenest island of the sea;

He sought out this, the fairest blooming isle

That ever gemmed a river; and its smile,

Of summer green and freedom, on his heart

Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart

It lay, remote and wild; and in his breast

He fancied this an island of the blest;

And here he deemed the world might never mar

The tranquil air with its molesting jar.

Long had his soul, among the strife of men,

Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and then

Withdrew into itself: as when some fount

Finds space within, and will no longer mount,

Content to hear its own secluded waves

Make lonely music in the new-found caves.

And here he brought his household; here his wife,

As happy as her children, round his life

Sang as she were an echo, or a part

Of the deep pleasure springing in his heart--

A silken string which with the heavier cord

Made music, such as well-strung harps afford.

She was the embodied spirit of the man,

His second self, but on a fairer plan.

And here they came, and here they built their home,

And set the rose and taught the vines to roam,

Until the place became an isle of bowers,

Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers.

It was a place where one might lie and dream,

And see the naiads, from the river-stream,

Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs;

Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymns

Round rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng,

In early spring-time, and their latest song

Was given in autumn; when all else had fled,

They half forgot to go; such beauty here was spread.

It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle,

Round which the unbroken forest, many a mile,

Reached the horizon like a boundless sea;--

A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to flee

On either hand, before the westward host,

To meet no more upon its ancient coast.

But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed;

And brightest beauty is the first consumed

By envious Time; as if he crowned the brow

With loveliest flowers, before he gave the blow

Which laid the victim on the hungry shrine:--

Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine.

There came the stranger, heralded by fame,

Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame,

Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched.

A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched,

Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he won

To list his plans, with glowing words o'errun:

And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned.

Far in the South there was a glorious land

Crowned with perpetual flowers, and where repute

Pictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit--

The Persia of the West. There would he steer

His conquering course; and o'er the bright land rear

His far-usurping banner, till his home

Should rest beneath a wide, imperial dome,

Where License, round his thronèd feet, should whirl

Her dizzy mazes like an Orient girl.

His followers should be lords; their ladies each

Wear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach;

And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom,

With impotent fire of envy should consume.

Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew.

The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,--

As one in some enchanter's misty room,

His senses poisoned by the strange perfume,

Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair,

And grasps at nothing in the painted air,--

Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour,

And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power.

The isle became a rendezvous; and then

Came in the noisy rule of lawless men.

Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar,

And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star;

Continuous music rustled through the trees,

Where banners danced responsive on the breeze;

Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers,

With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers.

There clanged the mimic combat of the sword,

Like daily glasses round the festive board;

Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumèd file,

And martial splendor over-ran the isle.

Already, the shrewd leader of the sport

The shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court.

In dreams, or waking, revelling or alone,

Before him swam the visionary throne;

Until a voice, as if the insulted woods

Had risen to claim their ancient solitudes,

Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude,

Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood!

The revellers vanished, and the banners fell

Like the red leaves beneath November's spell.

Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will,

Urged by ambition, confident of skill,

As fearless to perform as to devise,

A-flush, but now he saw the glittering prize

Flame like a cloud in day's descending track;

But, lo, the sun went down and left it black!

Alone, despised, defiance in his eye,

He heard the shout, and "treason!" was the cry;

And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight,

Swept o'er the island like an arctic night.

Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell the flowers,

And desolation walked among the bowers.

This was the mansion. Through the ruined hall

The loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall,

Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors;

And winter drifts his snow along the floors,

Blown through the yawning rafters, where the stars

And moon look in as through dull prison bars.

On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,

The owl replies unto the dreary bark

Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;

And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-will

Exalts her voice, and to the traveller's ear

Proclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Soon word got abroad that a great expedition was being fitted

out at Blennerhassett; the governor of Ohio called out the

sheriffs and militia, who gathered in force, seized ten boats

laden with corn-meal, but permitted the boats containing

Blennerhassett and his followers to get away. A mob destroyed

Blennerhassett's beautiful home and desolated the "fairy isle."

THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM

OR, THE DEFEAT OF THE BURRITES

[November 30, 1806]

Ye jovial throng, come join the song

I sing of glorious feats, sirs;

Of bloodless wounds, of laurels, crowns,

Of charges, and retreats, sirs;

Of thundering guns, and honors won,

By men of daring courage;

Of such as dine on beef and wine,

And such as sup their porridge.

When Blanny's fleet, so snug and neat,

Came floating down the tide, sirs,

Ahead was seen one-eyed Clark Green,

To work them, or to guide, sirs.

Our General brave the order gave,

"To arms! To arms, in season!

Old Blanny's boats most careless float,

Brim-full of death and treason!"

A few young boys, their mothers' joys,

And five men there were found, sirs,

Floating at ease--each little sees

Or dreams of death and wound, sirs.

"Fly to the bank! on either flank!

We'll fire from every corner;

We'll stain with blood Muskingum's flood,

And gain immortal honor.

"The cannon there shall rend the air,

Loaded with broken spikes, boys;

While our cold lead, hurled by each head,

Shall give the knaves the gripes, boys.

"Let not maids sigh, or children cry,

Or mothers drop a tear, boys;

I have the Baron in my head,

Therefore you've nought to fear, boys.

"Now to your posts, this numerous host,

Be manly, firm, and steady.

But do not fire till I retire

And say when I am ready."

The Deputy courageously

Rode forth in power and pride, sirs;

Twitching his reins, the man of brains

Was posted by his side, sirs.

The men in ranks stood on the banks,

While, distant from its border,

The active aid scours the parade

And gives the general order:

"First, at command, bid them to stand;

Then, if one rascal gains out

Or lifts his poll, why, damn his soul

And blow the traitor's brains out."

The night was dark, silent came Clark

With twelve or fifteen more, sirs;

While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill,

Whooped! as was said before, sirs.

The trembling ranks along the banks

Fly into Shipman's manger;

While old Clark Green, with voice serene,

Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger.

"Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,

_Dead_ hogs I'm sure can't bite you;

Along each keel is Indian meal;

There's nothing here need fright you."

Out of the barn, still in alarm,

Came fifty men or more, sirs,

And seized each boat and other float

And tied them to the shore, sirs.

This plunder rare, they sport and share,

And each a portion grapples.

'Twas half a kneel of Indian meal,

And ten of Putnam's apples.

The boats they drop to Allen's shop,

Commanded by O'Flannon,

Where, lashed ashore, without an oar,

They lay beneath the cannon.

This band so bold, the night being cold,

And blacksmith's shop being handy,

Around the forge they drink and gorge

On whiskey and peach-brandy.

Two honest tars, who had some scars,

Beheld their trepidation;

Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack;

'Twill fright them like damnation.

"Tyler, they say, lies at Belpré,

Snug in old Blanny's quarters;

Yet this pale host tremble like ghosts

For fear he'll walk on waters."

No more was said, but off they sped

To fix what they'd begun on;

At one o'clock, firm as a rock,

They fired the spun-yarn cannon.

Trembling and wan stood every man;

Then bounced and shouted murder,

While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horse

To get the folks to order.

Ten men went out and looked about--

A hardy set of fellows;

Some hid in holes behind the coals,

And some behind the bellows.

The Cor'ner swore the western shore

He saw with muskets bristle;

Some stamp'd the ground;--'twas cannon sound,

They heard the grape-shot whistle.

The Deputy mounted "Old Bay,"

When first he heard the rattle,

Then changed his course--"Great men are scarce,

I'd better keep from battle."

The General flew to meet the crew,

His jacket flying loose, sirs;

Instead of sword, he seized his board;--

Instead of hat, his goose, sirs.

"Tyler's" he cried, "on t'other side,

Your spikes will never do it;

The cannon's bore will hold some more,"

Then thrust his goose into it.

Sol raised his head, cold spectres fled;

Each man resumed his courage;

Captain O'Flan dismissed each man

To breakfast on cold porridge.

WILLIAM HARRISON SAFFORD.

The whole party, including Burr, were arrested February 19,

1807 near Fort Stoddart, Ala., and taken to Richmond, Va.,

where Burr was put on trial for treason. The trial lasted six

months, and resulted in acquittal.

TO AARON BURR, UNDER TRIAL FOR HIGH TREASON

Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore,

Whose deeds a million hearts appall;

Thy fate shall pity's eye deplore,

Or vengeance for thy ruin call.

Thou man of soul! whose feeble form

Seems as a leaf the gales defy,

Though scattered in sedition's storm,

Yet borne by glorious hope on high.

Such did the youthful Ammon seem,

And such does Europe's scourge appear,

As, of the sun, a vertic beam,

The brightest in the golden year.

Nature, who many a gift bestowed,

The strong herculean limbs denied,

But gave--a mind, where genius glowed,

A soul, to valor's self allied.

Ambition as her curse was seen,

Thy every blessing to annoy;

To blight thy laurels' tender green;

The banner of thy fame destroy.

Ambition, by the bard defined

The fault of godlike hearts alone,

Like fortune in her frenzy, blind,

_Here_ gives a prison, _there_ a throne.

SARAH WENTWORTH MORTON.

Scarcely had this "peril" been escaped, when another far more

serious threatened the state on its western border. Tecumseh,

chief of the Shawanese, was working to unite the western and

southern Indians in war against the United States. William

Henry Harrison had been made governor of the Indiana territory,

and, collecting a force of about six hundred and fifty men, he

marched into the Indian country, and, on November 7, 1811, at

Tippecanoe, on the Wabash, routed the Indians and destroyed

their villages.

THE BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE

[November 7, 1811]

Awake! awake! my gallant friends;

To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh;

The sentinel his warning sends;

And hark! the treacherous savage cry.

Awake! to arms! the word goes round;

The drum's deep roll, the fife's shrill sound,

The trumpet's blast, proclaim through night,

An Indian band, a bloody fight.

O haste thee, Baen! alas! too late;

A red chief's arm now aims the blow

(An early, but a glorious fate);

The tomahawk has laid thee low.

Dread darkness reigns. On, Daviess, on.

Where's Boyd? And valiant Harrison,

Commander of the Christian force?

And Owen? He's a bleeding corse!

"Stand, comrades brave, stand to your post:

Here Wells, and Floyd, and Barton; all

Must now be won, or must be lost;

Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball."

Thus spake the general; when a yell

Was heard, as though a hero fell.

And, hark! the Indian whoop again--

It is for daring Daviess slain!

Oh! fearful is the battle's rage;

No lady's hand is in the fray;

But brawny limbs the contest wage,

And struggle for the victor's bay.

Lo! Spencer sinks, and Warwick's slain,

And breathless bodies strew the plain:

And yells, and groans, and clang, and roar,

Echo along the Wabash shore.

But mark! where breaks upon the eye

Aurora's beam. The coming day

Shall foil a frantic prophecy,

And Christian valor well display.

Ne'er did Constantine's soldiers see,

With more of joy for victory,

A cross the arch of heaven adorn,

Than these the blushing of the morn.

Bold Boyd led on his steady band,

With bristling bayonets burnish'd bright:

Who could their dauntless charge withstand?

What stay the warriors' matchless might?

Rushing amain, they clear'd the field,

The savage foe constrain'd to yield

To Harrison, who, near and far,

Gave form and spirit to the war.

Sound, sound the charge! spur, spur the steed,

And swift the fugitives pursue--

'Tis vain: rein in--your utmost speed

Could not o'ertake the recreant crew.

In lowland marsh, in dell, or cave,

Each Indian sought his life to save;

Whence, peering forth, with fear and ire,

He saw his prophet's town on fire.

Now the great Eagle of the West

Triumphant wing was seen to wave!

And now each soldier's manly breast

Sigh'd o'er his fallen comrade's grave.

Some dropp'd a tear, and mused the while,

Then join'd in measured march their file;

And here and there cast wistful eye,

That might surviving friend descry.

But let a foe again appear,

Or east, or west, or south, or north;

The soldier then shall dry his tear,

And fearless, gayly sally forth.

With lightning eye, and warlike front,

He'll meet the battle's deadly brunt:

Come Gaul or Briton; if array'd

For fight--he'll feel a freeman's blade.

THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE

IN COMMEMORATION OF THE BATTLE ON THE WABASH

[November 7, 1811]

When darkness prevail'd and aloud on the air

No war-whoop was heard through the deep silence yelling,

Till, fiercely, like lions just wild from their lair,

Our chiefs found the foe on their slumbers propelling.

While the mantle of night

Hid the savage from sight,

Undismay'd were our warriors slain in the fight:

But the laurel shall ever continue to wave,

And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.

Brave Daviess, legitimate offspring of fame,

Though new to the war, rush'd to battle undaunted;

And ere, bearing death, the dread rifle-ball came,

In the breast of the foe oft his weapon he planted.

Gallant Daviess, adieu!

Tears thy destiny drew;

But yet o'er thy body shall tremble no yew,

For the laurel, etc.

Great Owen, too bold from the fight to remain,

Rush'd on to the foe, every soldier's heart firing;

But he sinks, in the blood of his foes, on the plain,

The pale lamp of life in its socket expiring;

Closed in death are his eyes,

And lamented he lies;

Yet o'er the sad spot shall no cypress arise!

But the laurel, etc.

Long Warwick, McMahan, and Spencer, and Baen,

And Berry, 'mid darkness their banners defended,

But when day drew the curtain of night, they were seen

Cover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended.

Though Freedom may weep

Where they mouldering sleep,

Yet shall valor their death as a jubilee keep:

For the laurel, etc.

Ye chiefs of the Wabash, who gallantly fought,

And fearlessly heard the dread storm of war rattle,

Who lived to see conquest so terribly bought,

While your brothers were lost in the uproar of battle,

Still fearless remain,

And, though stretch'd on the plain,

You shall rise on the records of freedom again:

For the laurel, etc.

Ye sons of Columbia, when danger is nigh,

And liberty calls, round her standard to rally,

For your country, your wives, and your children to die,

Resolve undismay'd on oppression to sally.

Every hero secure

That his fame shall endure

Till eternity time in oblivion immure;

For the laurel shall ever continue to wave,

And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.

JOSEPH HUTTON.

While this struggle was waging for the country between the

Alleghanies and the Mississippi, two daring explorers traversed

the country to the west of the great river. On May 14, 1804,

Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark, of

the First Infantry, who had been appointed to seek water

communication with the Pacific Coast, entered the Missouri

River and started westward.

SA-CÁ-GA-WE-A

THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK IN THEIR EXPEDITION

TO THE PACIFIC

Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a--captive and wife was she

On the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree;

But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sun

Back to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun.

So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea,

Stayed their marvellous journey in the land of the Minnetaree

(The Red Men wondering, wary--Omaha, Mandan, Sioux--

Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through),

Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West,

Her course as true as the swan's that flew north to its reedy nest;

Her eye as keen as the eagle's when the young lambs feed below;

Her ear alert as the stag's at morn guarding the fawn and doe.

Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree,

And her foot as fleet as the antelope's when the hunter rides the lea;

In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair,

And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there--

Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest,

Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest,--

Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a led the way to the West!--

To Missouri's broad savannas dark with bison and deer,

While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled

near;

To the cataract's leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom;

The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon's hush and gloom;

By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim--

Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon's brim;

Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free,

And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea!

Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide--

Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific's tide--

There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dim

While the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim,

She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek,

With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak;

And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest,

"Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!"

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

They ascended the Missouri, crossed the mountains, and

descended the Columbia, reaching its mouth November 15, 1805.

They started on the return journey in March, 1806, and reached

St. Louis in September. On January 14, 1807, a dinner was

given at Washington to the explorers, in the course of which

the following stanzas were recited.

ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS

[January 14, 1807]

Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defy

The researches of science and time;

Let the Niger escape the keen traveller's eye,

By plunging or changing his clime.

Columbus! not so shall thy boundless domain

Defraud thy brave sons of their right;

Streams, midlands, and shorelands elude us in vain.

We shall drag their dark regions to light.

Look down, sainted sage, from thy synod of Gods;

See, inspired by thy venturous soul,

Mackenzie roll northward his earth-draining floods,

And surge the broad waves to the pole.

With the same soaring genius thy Lewis ascends,

And, seizing the car of the sun,

O'er the sky-propping hills and high waters he bends,

And gives the proud earth a new zone.

Potowmak, Ohio, Missouri had felt

Half her globe in their cincture comprest;

His long curving course has completed the belt,

And tamed the last tide of the west.

Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim,

And all ages resound the decree:

Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,

Who taught him his path to the sea.

These four brother floods, like a garland of flowers,

Shall entwine all our states in a band

Conform and confederate their wide-spreading powers,

And their wealth and their wisdom expand.

From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom,

Where war's weary banners are furl'd,

And the far scenting breezes that waft its perfume,

Shall settle the storms of the world.

Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim

And all ages resound the decree:

Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,

Who taught him his path to the sea.

JOEL BARLOW.

For many years, the East showed little interest in this far

western land--it was too indistinct, too distant. The British

Hudson Bay Company had its eye on the country, and in October,

1842, prepared to bring in a large body of immigrants to occupy

it. Dr. Marcus Whitman, of the American Board of Missions,

learned of this design, and started to ride across the country

to Washington, D. C., in order to lay the plot before the

United States government. After enduring almost incredible

fatigue and hardship, he reached Washington March 3, 1843. The

tidings he brought spurred the government to retain this great

territory.

WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON

[October, 1842-March 3, 1843]

"An empire to be lost or won!"

And who four thousand miles will ride

And climb to heaven the Great Divide,

And find the way to Washington,

Through mountain cañons, winter snows,

O'er streams where free the north wind blows?

Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla,

Four thousand miles for Oregon?

"An empire to be lost or won?

In youth to man I gave my all,

And nought is yonder mountain wall;

If but the will of Heaven be done,

It is not mine to live or die,

Or count the mountains low or high,

Or count the miles from Walla-Walla.

I, I will ride for Oregon.

III

"An empire to be lost or won?

Bring me my Cayuse pony then,

And I will thread old ways again,

Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun.

'Twas on these altars of the air

I raised the flag, and saw below

The measureless Columbia flow;

The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer,

And gave myself to God anew,

And felt my spirit newly born;

And to my mission I'll be true,

And from the vale of Walla-Walla,

I'll ride again for Oregon.

"I'm not my own, myself I've given,

To bear to savage hordes the word;

If on the altars of the heaven

I'm called to die, it is the Lord.

The herald may not wait or choose,

'Tis his the summons to obey;

To do his best, or gain or lose,

To seek the Guide and not the way.

He must not miss the cross, and I

Have ceased to think of life or death;

My ark I've builded--Heaven is nigh,

And earth is but a morning's breath;

Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring,

The hopes that seek myself are gone,

And from the vale of Walla-Walla,

I'll ride again for Oregon."

He disappeared, as not his own,

He heard the warning ice winds sigh;

The smoky sun flames o'er him shone,

On whitened altars of the sky,

As up the mountain sides he rose;

The wandering eagle round him wheeled,

The partridge fled, the gentle roes,

And oft his Cayuse pony reeled

Upon some dizzy crag, and gazed

Down cloudy chasms, falling storms,

While higher yet the peaks upraised

Against the winds their giant forms.

On, on and on, past Idaho,

On past the mighty Saline sea,

His covering at night the snow,

His only sentinel a tree.

On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights,

On where the San Juan mountains lay,

Through sunless days and starless nights,

Towards Taos and far Sante Fé.

O'er table-lands of sleet and hail,

Through pine-roofed gorges, cañons cold,

Now fording streams incased in mail

Of ice, like Alpine knights of old:

Still on, and on, forgetful on,

Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,

And far the fields of Oregon.

The winter deepened, sharper grew

The hail and sleet, the frost and snow,

Not e'en the eagle o'er him flew,

And scarce the partridge's wing below.

The land became a long white sea,

And then a deep with scarce a coast,

The stars refused their light, till he

Was in the wildering mazes lost.

He dropped the rein, his stiffened hand

Was like a statue's hand of clay;

"My trusty beast, 'tis the command,

Go on, I leave to thee the way.

I must go on, I must go on,

Whatever lot may fall to me,

On, 'tis for others' sake I ride,--

For others I may never see,--

And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide;

Not for myself, O Walla-Walla,

Not for myself, O Washington,

But for thy future, Oregon."

VII

And on and on the dumb beast pressed,

Uncertain, and without a guide,

And found the mountain's curves of rest

And sheltered ways of the Divide.

His feet grew firm, he found the way

With storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,

As keen his instincts to obey

As was his master's eye of faith.

Still on and on, still on and on,

And far and far grew Walla-Walla,

And far the fields of Oregon.

VIII

That spring, a man with frozen feet

Came to the marble halls of State,

And told his mission but to meet

The chill of scorn, the scoff of hate.

"Is Oregon worth saving?" asked

The treaty-makers from the coast;

And him the church with questions tasked,

And said, "Why did you leave your post?"

Was it for this that he had braved

The warring storms of mount and sky?

Yes!--yet that empire he had saved,

And to his post went back to die,--

Went back to die for others' sake,

Went back to die from Washington,

Went back to die for Walla-Walla,

For Idaho and Oregon.

At fair Walla-Walla one may see

The city of the Western North,

And near it graves unmarked there be

That cover souls of royal worth.

The flag waves o'er them in the sky

Beneath whose stars are cities born,

And round them mountain-castled lie

The hundred states of Oregon.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

Far to the south of the point reached by Lewis and Clark lay

the country known as California. It had been explored by the

Spaniards as early as 1540, and in 1769 an expedition under

Portala discovered San Francisco Bay.

DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY

[October 31, 1769]

Good Junipero, the Padre,

Slowly read the King's commands,

In relation to the missions

To be built in heathen lands.

And he said: "The good Saint Francis

Surely has some little claim,

Yet I find that here no mission

Is assigned unto his name."

Then the Visitador answered:

"If the holy Francis care

For a mission to his honor,

Surely he will lead you there;

And it may be by the harbor

That the Indian legends say

Lies by greenest hills surrounded

To the north of Monterey."

Spoke Junipero the Padre:

"It is not for me to tell

Of the truth of Indian legends,

Yet of this I know full well--

If there be such hidden harbor,

And our hope and trust we place

In the care of good Saint Francis,

He will guide us to the place."

Soon, the Governor Portala

Started northward, on his way

Overland, to rediscover

The lost port of Monterey.

Since the time within its waters

Viscaino anchor cast,

It remained unknown to Spaniards,

Though a century had passed.

On his journey went Portala

With his band of pioneers,

Padres, Indian guides, and soldiers,

And a train of muleteers;

And said Serra, as he blessed them,

As he wished them all Godspeed:

"Trust Saint Francis--he will guide you

In your direst hour of need."

On his journey went Portala

Till he reached the crescent bay;

But he dreamed not he was gazing

On the wished-for Monterey.

So a cross on shore he planted,

And the ground about he blessed,

And then he and his companions

Northward went upon their quest.

On his journey went Portala,

And his army northward on,

And methinks I see them marching,

Or in camp when day was done;

Or at night when stars were twinkling,

As that travel-weary band

By the log-fire's light would gather,

Telling of their far-off land.

And they told weird Indian legends,

Tales of Cortes, too, they told,

And of peaceful reign of Incas,

And of Montezuma's gold;

And they sang, as weary exiles

Sing of home and vanished years,

Sweet, heart-treasured songs that always

Bring the dumb applause of tears.

When the day was sunk in ocean,

And the land around was dim,

On the tranquil air of midnight

Rose the sweet Franciscan hymn;

And when bugle told the dawning,

And the matin prayers were done,

On his journey went Portala,

And his army northward on.

Far away they saw sierras,

Clothed with an eternal spring,

While at times the mighty ocean

In their path her spray would fling;

On amid such scenes they journeyed,

Through the dreary wastes of sand,

Through ravines dark, deep, and narrow,

And through cañons wild and grand.

And with what a thrill of pleasure,

All their toils and dangers through,

Gazed they on this scene of beauty

When it burst upon their view,

As Portala and his army,

Standing where I stand to-day,

Saw before them spread in beauty

Green-clad hills and noble bay.

Then the Governor Portala

Broke the spell of silence thus:

"To this place, through Padre Serra,

Hath Saint Francis guided us;

So the bay and all around it

For the Spanish King I claim,

And forever, in the future,

Let it bear Saint Francis' name."

Thus he spoke, and I am standing

On the self-same spot to-day,

And my eyes rest on the landscape,

And the green hills, and the bay,

And upon Saint Francis' city,

As, with youth and hope elate,

She is gazing toward the ocean,

Sitting by the Golden Gate.

Needless were such gifts as heaven

Gave to holy seers of yore,

To foretell the meed of glory,

Fairest town, for thee in store!

To foretell the seat of empire

Here will be, nor for a day,

Where Balboa's sea doth mingle

With the waters of thy bay!

RICHARD EDWARD WHITE.

In 1822 California became a province of Mexico, and in 1844

Colonel John Charles Frémont reached Sutter's Fort with an

exploring expedition. Two years later, during the war with

Mexico, he assumed command of the American forces in the

country, and established the authority of the United States

there.

JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT

Pathfinder--and Path-clincher!

Who blazed the way, indeed,

But more--who made the eternal Fact

Whereto a path had need;

Who, while our Websters set at naught

The thing that Was to Be,

Whipped-out our halting, half-way map

Full to the Other Sea!

'Twas well that there were some could read

The logic of the West!

A Kansas-edged geography,

Of provinces confessed,

Became potential Union

And took a Nation's span

When God sent Opportunity

And Benton found the Man!

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

In 1848 California was ceded to the United States by Mexico. In

the same year gold was discovered near Coloma, and within a few

months the famous rush for the new El Dorado began.

"THE DAYS OF 'FORTY-NINE"

You are looking now on old Tom Moore,

A relic of bygone days;

A Bummer, too, they call me now,

But what care I for praise?

For my heart is filled with the days of yore,

And oft I do repine

For the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold,

And the Days of 'Forty-nine.

_Refrain_--Oh, my heart is filled, etc.

I had comrades then who loved me well,

A jovial, saucy crew:

There were some hard cases, I must confess,

But they all were brave and true;

Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch,

Who never would fret nor whine,

But like good old Bricks they stood the kicks

In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.

_Refrain_--And my heart is filled, etc.

There was Monte Pete--I'll ne'er forget

The luck he always had.

He would deal for you both day and night,

So long as you had a scad.

He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling,

He would go you a hatfull Blind--

But in a game with Death Pete lost his breath

In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.

_Refrain_--Oh, my heart is filled, etc.

There was New York Jake, a butcher boy,

That was always a-getting tight;

Whenever Jake got on a spree,

He was spoiling for a fight.

One day he ran against a knife

In the hands of old Bob Cline--

So over Jake we held a wake,

In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.

_Refrain_--Oh, my heart is filled, etc.

There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roar

A Buffalo Bull, you bet!

He would roar all night, he would roar all day,

And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet!

One night he fell in a prospect-hole--

'Twas a roaring bad design--

For in that hole he roared out his soul

In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.

_Refrain_--Oh, my heart is filled, etc.

There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old case

Who never did repent.

Ches never missed a single meal,

Nor he never paid a cent.

But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest,

Did to death at last resign,

For all in his bloom he went up the Flume

In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.

_Refrain_--Oh, my heart is filled, etc.

And now my comrades all are gone,

Not one remains to toast;

They have left me here in my misery,

Like some poor wandering ghost.

And as I go from place to place,

Folks call me a "Travelling Sign,"

Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure,

From the Days of 'Forty-Nine."

_Refrain_--But my heart is filled, etc.

Most of the emigrants crossed the plains, encountering dangers

and hardships innumerable. The trails were soon marked by the

skeletons of horses and oxen, and by the graves of those who

had perished from hardship or been butchered by the Indians.

THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL

It wound through strange scarred hills, down cañons lone

Where wild things screamed, with winds for company;

Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers.

Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan,

Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea:

An epic quest it was of elder years,

For fabled gardens or for good, red gold,

The trail men strove in iron days of old.

To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast,

While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trains

Smile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian,

Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past;

Dread dramas of immitigable plains

Rebuke the softness of the modern man;

No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand;

Still westward lies a green and golden land.

For, at the magic touch of water, blooms

The wilderness, and where of yore the yoke

Tortured the toilers into dateless tombs,

Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk.

RICHARD BURTON.

The importance of the new country grew so rapidly that on

September 9, 1850, California was admitted to the Union, the

thirty-first state.

CALIFORNIA

[September 9, 1850]

Land of gold!--thy sisters greet thee,

O'er the mountain and the main;

See,--they stretch the hand to meet thee,

Youngest of our household train.

Many a form their love hath fostered

Lingers 'neath thy sunny sky,

And their spirit-tokens brighten

Every link of sympathy.

We 'mid storms of war were cradled,

'Mid the shock of angry foes;

Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,

Pallas-born,--in vigor rose.

Children of one common country,

Strong in friendship let us stand,

With united ardor earning

Glory for our Mother Land.

They of gold and they of iron,

They who reap the bearded wheat,

They who rear the snowy cotton,

Pour their treasures at her feet;

While with smiling exultation,

She, who marks their filial part,

Like the mother of the Gracchi,

Folds her jewels to her heart.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

CHAPTER IV

THROUGH FIVE ADMINISTRATIONS

Although Aaron Burr had been acquitted of the charge of

treason, the persecution of him still continued. He was

practically run out of the country, and when he returned at

last in 1812, it was in disguise, under the name of Arnat. Fate

soon afterwards dealt him a cruel blow, for in January, 1813,

his daughter, Theodosia, the idol of his heart, perished at sea

while on a voyage from Charleston to New York.

THEODOSIA BURR:

THE WRECKER'S STORY

[January, 1813]

In revel and carousing

We gave the New Year housing,

With wreckage for our firing,

And rum to heart's desiring,

Antigua and Jamaica,

Flagon and stoup and breaker.

Full cans and a ranting chorus;

Hard hearts for the bout before us--

To brave grim Death's grimaces

On dazed and staring faces.

With dirks and hangers bristling,

We for a gale went whistling,

Tornado or pampero,

To swamp the host of Pharaoh;

To goad the mad Atlantic,

And drive the skippers frantic;

To jar the deep with thunder,

And make the waste a wonder,

And plunge the coasters under,

And pile the banks with plunder.

Then the wild rack came skirling,

Ragged and crazed, and whirling

Sea-stuff and sand in breakers,

Frothing the shelvy acres:

Over the banks high bounding,

Inlet and sound confounding.

Hatteras roared and rumbled,

Currituck heaved and tumbled;

And the sea-gulls screamed like witches,

And sprawled in the briny ditches.

Shelter and rest we flouted,

Jorum and pipe we scouted,

Fiddler and wench we routed.

"Fetch out the nag!" we shouted;

For a craft in the offing struggled.

"Now for a skipper juggled;

Now for a coaster stranded,

And loot in the lockers landed!"

With lantern cheerly rocking

On the nag's head, we went mocking--

Lilting of tipsy blisses,

And Bonnibel's squandered kisses.

Straight for that hell-spark steering,

Drove the doomed craft careering;

Men on her fore-deck huddled,

Sea in her wake all cruddled,

Kitty Hawk sheer before her,

And the breakers booming o'er her.

Till the rocks in their lurking stove her,

And her riven spars went over,

And she lay on her side and shivered,

And groaned to be delivered.

Boats through the black rift storming,

Foes on her quarter swarming;

Dirks in the torchlight flashing,

And the wicked hangers slashing;

Lips that were praying mangled,

Throats that were screaming, strangled;

Souls in the surges tumbling,

Vainly for foothold fumbling;

Horror of staring faces,

Gruesome in Death's grimaces--

And God's wrath overpast us,

With never a bolt to blast us!

By the brunt of our doings daunted,

We crouched where the fore-deck slanted,

Scanning each other's faces,

Graved with that horror's traces.

One, peering aft, wild-staring,

Points through the torches flaring:

"Spook of the storm, or human?

Angel, or wraith, or woman?"

Havoc and wreck surveying,

Imploring not, nor praying,

Nor death nor life refusing;

Stony and still--accusing!

Black as our hearts the creature's

Vesture, her matchless features

White as the dead. Oh! wonder

Of women high heaven under!

So she moved down upon us

(Though Death and the Fiend might shun us),

And we made passage, cowering.

Rigid and mute and towering,

Never a frown she deigned us,

Never with curse arraigned us.

One, trembling, dropped his hanger,

And swooned at the awful clangor;

But she passed on, unharking,

Her steps _our_ doom-strokes marking,

Straight to the plank, and mounted.

"One, two, three, four!" we counted;

Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended,

Poised, her lithe arms extended.--

And the storm stood still and waited

For the stroke of the Lord, belated!

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

Oliver Hazard Perry, the victor of Lake Erie, while in command

of a squadron in the West Indies, in the summer of 1819, was

attacked by yellow fever, and died after a brief illness. His

body was brought to the United States in 1826 and buried at

Newport.

ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY

By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd.

[August 23, 1819]

How sad the note of that funereal drum,

That's muffled by indifference to the dead!

And how reluctantly the echoes come,

On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed,

Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young head

His native breezes never more shall sigh;

On his lone grave the careless step shall tread,

And pestilential vapors soon shall dry

Each shrub that buds around--each flow'r that blushes nigh.

Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing,

Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise!

Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing,

Of victory and glory!--let her gaze

On the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze,

On the red foam that crests the bloody billow;

Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days--

Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow,

And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow.

No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong:

Alike uncouth the poet and the lay;

Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song,

He floats along the current as he may,

The humble tribute of a tear to pay.

Another hand may choose another theme,

May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day,

Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame,

The wave of Trafalgar--the fields of Abraham:

But if the wild winds of thy western lake

Might teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave,

And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake,

Or give an echo from some secret cave

That opens on romantic Erie's wave,

The feeble cord would not be swept in vain;

And though the sound might never reach thy grave,

Yet there are spirits here that to the strain

Would send a still small voice responsive back again.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

The death of Joseph Rodman Drake, on September 21, 1820,

deserves mention here, not so much because of Drake's

prominence as a poet as because of the admirable lyric which it

called forth--one of the most perfect in American literature.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

[September 21, 1820]

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep,

And long where thou art lying,

Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,

Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine:

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow,

But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

In 1824, at the invitation of Congress and President Monroe,

the Marquis de Lafayette, who had played so important a part

in the revolution, visited the United States. He arrived in

New York August 15, and for the next fourteen months travelled

through the country, visiting every state, and being everywhere

received with reverence and affection. On June 17, 1825, he

laid the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.

ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT

[June 17, 1825]

Oh, is not this a holy spot?

'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth!

God of our fathers! is it not

The holiest spot of all the earth?

Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;

The robber roams o'er Sinai now;

And those old men, thy seers, abide

No more on Zion's mournful brow.

But on _this_ hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,

Since round its head the war-cloud curled,

And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt

In prayer and battle for a world.

Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:

And we, the children of the brave,

From the four winds are gathering round,

To lay our offering on their grave.

Free as the winds around us blow,

Free as the waves below us spread,

We rear a pile, that long shall throw

Its shadow on their sacred bed.

But on their deeds no shade shall fall,

While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame.

Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,

And thy right hand shall guard their fame.

JOHN PIERPONT.

Lafayette's sixty-eighth birthday was celebrated at the White

House September 6, 1825, and he sailed next day for France,

where he died May 20, 1834. The verses by Dolly Madison which

follow were only recently discovered.

LA FAYETTE

Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the pale

Of peers and princes, high in camp--at court--

He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,

Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,

Of a young people struggling to be free!

Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,

Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!

And shares the glories of its victory.

Then comes for fifty years a high romance

Of toils, reverses, sufferings, in the cause

Of man and justice, liberty and France,

Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.

Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run!

All time shall hail thee, _Europe's noblest Son_!

DOLLY MADISON.

Washington, April 25, 1848.

John Adams, second President of the United States, died at his

home in Braintree, Mass., July 4, 1826. His last words were,

"Thomas Jefferson still lives." But by a curious coincidence,

Jefferson had died at his home, Monticello, in Albemarle

County, Va., a few hours before.

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON

[July 4, 1826]

'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned,

And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land.

Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees,

Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas.

Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering

breath,

"'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death."

In his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept,

Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept,

Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud,

Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud.

In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago,

Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow--

III

Meets again the elder Adams--knowing not that far away

_He_ is waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay;

Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old,

Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold,

Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred men

Who have made themselves immortal,--breathes the ancient morn again.

Once again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds,

And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,--

Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free,"

Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality;

Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet,

Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet.

Sees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee,

Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?--it will make all nations free!

Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne.

Sign it for the world's redemption!--all mankind its truth shall own!

Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail.

Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail.

"Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may know

Man has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so."

Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen,

Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men.

Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun,

Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done."

VII

Then the dream began to vanish--burgesses, the war's red flames,

Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James,

Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away,

And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay,

And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep

near,

And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,--

VIII

"It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be

early morn;

We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn."

Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past,

Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast,

Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low,

And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow.

Rose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain,

In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again;

And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heard

Rippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird,

And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun,

"It is the Fourth?" his only question,--to the world his final one.

Silence fell on Monticello--for the last dread hour was near,

And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear.

All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod,

All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God;

Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met,

Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet.

Silent still is Monticello--he is breathing slowly now,

In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow--

Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birth

To the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth;

Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar,

Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war.

XII

Evening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls;

Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles.

'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay,

One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay.

_He_ was gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky;

Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

On September 14, 1830, the Boston _Advertiser_ contained

a paragraph asserting that the Secretary of the Navy had

recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners that the old

frigate Constitution, popularly known as "Old Ironsides," be

disposed of. Two days later appeared the famous poem by Oliver

Wendell Holmes, which instantly became a sort of national

battle-cry. Instead of being sold, the Constitution was rebuilt.

OLD IRONSIDES

[September 14, 1830]

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;--

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;--

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

Oh better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CONCORD HYMN

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE 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, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

On December 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of

shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore

near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a

reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among

others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black

Rock. I must write a ballad on this." It was written twelve

days later.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

[December 17, 1839]

It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailòr,

Had sailed to the Spanish Main,

"I pray thee, put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,

And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,

And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the Northeast,

The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither, come hither, my little daughtèr,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat

Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,

O say, what may it be?"

"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--

And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,

Oh say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,

Oh say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word,

A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow

On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

That savèd she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,

On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,

Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts, went by the board;

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The presidential campaign of 1840 was the most exciting that

had ever taken place in the United States. William Henry

Harrison was the candidate of the Whigs and Martin Van Buren of

the Democrats. Harrison was elected by an overwhelming majority.

OLD TIPPECANOE

[October, November, 1840]

Come, rouse up, ye bold-hearted Whigs of Kentucky,

And show the nation what deeds you can do;

The high-road to victory lies open before ye

While led to the charge by Old Tippecanoe.

When Indians were scalping our friends and our brothers,

To Ohio's frontier he gallantly flew;

And thousands of innocent infants, and mothers,

Were saved by the valor of Tippecanoe.

When savage Tecumseh was rallying his forces,

In innocent blood his hands to imbrue;

Our hero despis'd all his bloody associates,

And won the proud name of Old Tippecanoe.

And when this Tecumseh and his brother Proctor,

To capture Fort Meigs their utmost did do;

Our gallant old hero again play'd the Doctor,

And gave them a dose like at Tippecanoe.

And then on the Thames, on the fifth of October,

Where musket balls whizz'd as they flew;

He blasted their prospects, and rent them asunder,

Just like he had done on the Tippecanoe.

Let Greece praise the deeds of her great Alexander

And Rome boast of Cæsar and Scipio too;

Just like Cincinnatus, that noble commander,

Is our old Hero of Tippecanoe.

For when the foes of his country no longer could harm her,

To the shades of retirement he quickly withdrew;

And now at North Bend see the HONEST OLD FARMER,

Who won the green laurel at Tippecanoe.

And when to the National Council elected,

The good of his country still see him pursue,

And every poor man by him thus protected,

Should ever remember "Old Tippecanoe."

And now from retirement the People doth call him,

Because he is Honest and Qualified too;

And for One Term they soon will install him

As President--"Hero of Tippecanoe."

Let _knaves_ call him "coward," and _fools_ call him "_granny_"

To answer their _purpose_--this never will do;

When rallied around him we'll rout _little_ Vanny,

And give him a Thames--or a full _Waterloo_.

The Republican banner of Freedom is flying,

The Eagle of Liberty soars in your view;

Then rally my hearties--all slanders defying,

And thunder huzza! for "Old Tippecanoe."

Among the supporters of brave General Jackson,

There are many Republicans, honest and true,

To such we say "come out from among them,"

And "go it for" Tyler and "Tippecanoe."

Harrison was inaugurated March 4, 1841. He was at that time

sixty-eight years of age, but he took up the work of his

office with a vigor almost youthful. On March 27, however, he

contracted a chill, pneumonia developed, and he died April 4.

The vice-president, John Tyler, at once took the oath of office

as president.

THE DEATH OF HARRISON

[April 4, 1841]

What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!

Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!

Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even,"

Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven--

No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,

But rising, still rising, when passing away?

Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!

God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!

Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,

Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!

He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall--

The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall--

The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home,

Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;--

But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here--

In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier!

He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high--

As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky--

The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore--

Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er--

But Harrison's death fills the climax of story--

He went with his old stride--from glory to glory!

Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its blade

In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!

'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call--

It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all!

As calm in the council as gallant in war,

He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!"

In the path of the hero with pity he trod--

Let him pass--with his sword--to the presence of God!

What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay!

He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!

At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land--

The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand.

Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?

No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword--

No trappings--no horses?--what had he, but now?

On!--on with his ashes!--HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!

Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!

Let him sleep as he lived--with his purse at this feet!

Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day

Is the nation--whose father is taken away!

Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell--

He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!

For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,

Let us weep, in our darkness--but weep not for him!

Not for him--who, departing, leaves millions in tears!

Not for him--who has died full of honor and years!

Not for him--who ascended Fame's ladder so high

From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

CHAPTER V

THE WAR WITH MEXICO

In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the

country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made

presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they

had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in

power at the time, abolished the constitution and established

a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas,

which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted

and declared their independence. General Cos, the military

governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and

forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin

R. Milam.

THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM

[December 5-11, 1835]

_Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?_

Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;

Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cry

Went up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.

He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,

With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;

He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty

plain,

And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.

_They're the spawn of Hell!_ we heard him tell; _they will knife and lie

and cheat;

At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;

They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless

foe;

Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?_

It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,

Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.

It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,

But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!

With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;

From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;

And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:

_Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?_

Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his

beard,

While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!

But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was

thrown,

Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.

Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,

Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!

So when their names that now are Fame's--the scorner of braggart sham;--

In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BEN MILAM

Oft shall the soldier think of thee,

Thou dauntless leader of the brave,

Who on the heights of Tyranny

Won Freedom and a glorious grave.

And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,

And pray to heaven in murmurs low

That peaceful be the hero's sleep

Who conquered San Antonio.

Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,

A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;

Long as her beauteous rivers roll

Shall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.

For bravest of the Texan clime,

Who fought to make her children free,

Was Milam, and his death sublime

Linked with undying Liberty!

WILLIAM H. WHARTON.

On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two

thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a

fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and

one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for

reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days

later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling

his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific

struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of

the garrison survived.

THE MEN OF THE ALAMO

[February 23-March 6, 1836]

To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,

Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;

But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,

That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,

With Castrillon and perjured Cos, Sesmá and Almontê,

And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!

They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow

Where northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!

Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,

Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?

Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,

And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?

Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!

With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,

And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;

For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,

With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,

And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,

And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.

But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,

A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,

And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way

To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.

Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart before

In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?

But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear

To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.

God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!

For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.

The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath

To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.

For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,

And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.

His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,

And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"

And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?

They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.

Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!--

A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate,

And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,

And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.

At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;

The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.

The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;

A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.

Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red--

We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.

Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hack

The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.

Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;

Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.

And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,

So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.

But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,

And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.

And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run.

"Thermopylæ left one alive--the Alamo left none."

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO

[March 6, 1835]

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;

There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;

There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum--

Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.

The chivalry, flower of Mexico;

And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!

And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;

For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long.

"Surrender, or die!"--"Men, what will _you_ do?"

And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;

Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?

_I_ die with my wounded, in the Alamo."

The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"

Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,

Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign

Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one,

One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow

Across; to die at her post in the Alamo.

Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night

When all men silently prayed and thought

Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,

Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,

In answer to insolent Mexico,

From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.

Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!

Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;

Such an unequal fight as never had name

Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.

All day--all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,

Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.

Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead

In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath

Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,

All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;

And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know

Another like this of the Alamo?

Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"

I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!

I say that the victory, high or low,

Is given the hero who grapples with sin,

Or legion or single; just asking to know

When duty fronts death in his Alamo.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred

soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances

that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners

were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the

shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and

recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21

surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and

inflicted a terrible vengeance.

THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO

[April 21, 1836]

"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"

Said Harman, big and droll,

As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,

And puffed at his cold clay bowl;

"For we are a skulking lot," says he,

"Of land-thieves hereabout,

And the bold señores, two to one,

Have come to smoke us out."

Santa Anna and Castrillon,

Almonte brave and gay,

Portilla red from Goliad,

And Cos with his smart array.

Dulces and cigaritos,

And the light guitar, ting-tum!

Sant' Anna courts siesta--

And Sam Houston taps his drum.

The buck stands still in the timber--

"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"

The foal of the wild mare whinnies--

"Did he hear the Comanche call?"

In the brake by the crawling bayou

The slinking she-wolves howl,

And the mustang's snort in the river sedge

Has startled the paddling fowl.

A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,

And a roll not loud nor long--

We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,

Nor spoil Almonte's song.

Saddles and knives and rifles!

Lord! but the men were glad

When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"

And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"

The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,

And the fifer gripped his gun.

Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,

And we took the slope in a run!

But never a shout nor a shot we spent,

Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,

Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,

And then we blazed away.

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,

And the glory that Travis made,

With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,

And Fannin's dancing blade;

And the heart of the fighter, bounding free

In his joy so hot and mad--

When Millard charged for Alamo,

Lamar for Goliad.

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,

Into the shock and rout:

"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,

There's no sneak's back-way out!"

Muzzle or butt for Goliad,

Pistol and blade and fist!

Oh, for the knife that never glanced,

And the gun that never missed!

Dulces and cigaritos,

Song and the mandolin!

That gory swamp was a gruesome grove

To dance fandangos in.

We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd

That fell in that frantic rout;

We slew and slew till the sun set red,

And the Texan star flashed out.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once

signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it

was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was

established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to

secure recognition and proffer annexation.

SONG OF TEXAS

Make room on our banner bright

That flaps in the lifting gale,

For the orb that lit the fight

In Jacinto's storied vale.

Through clouds, all dark of hue,

It arose with radiant face;

Oh, grant to a sister true,

Ye stars, in your train a place!

The blood of the Saxon flows

In the veins of the men who cry,--

"Give ear, give ear unto those

Who pine for their native sky!

We call on our Motherland

For a home in Freedom's hall,--

While stretching forth the hand,

Oh, build no dividing wall!

"The Mexican vaunteth no more;

In strife we have tamed his pride;

The coward raps not at your door,

Speak out! shall it open wide?

Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,

That the star of Jacinto's fight

Have place in the flashing throng

That spangle your banner bright."

WILLIAM HENRY CUYLER HOSMER.

The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion

the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The

struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was

at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its

two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave

interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve

war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom,

but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.

TEXAS

VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND

Up the hillside, down the glen,

Rouse the sleeping citizen;

Summon out the might of men!

Like a lion growling low,

Like a night-storm rising slow,

Like the tread of unseen foe;

It is coming, it is nigh!

Stand your homes and altars by;

On your own free thresholds die.

Clang the bells in all your spires;

On the gray hills of your sires

Fling to heaven your signal-fires.

From Wachuset, lone and bleak,

Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,

Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.

Oh, for God and duty stand,

Heart to heart and hand to hand,

Round the old graves of the land.

Whoso shrinks or falters now,

Whoso to the yoke would bow,

Brand the craven on his brow!

Freedom's soil hath only place

For a free and fearless race,

None for traitors false and base.

Perish party, perish clan;

Strike together while ye can,

Like the arm of one strong man.

Like that angel's voice sublime,

Heard above a world of crime,

Crying of the end of time;

With one heart and with one mouth,

Let the North unto the South

Speak the word befitting both:

"What though Issachar be strong!

Ye may load his back with wrong

Overmuch and over long:

"Patience with her cup o'errun,

With her weary thread outspun,

Murmurs that her work is done.

"Make our Union-bond a chain,

Weak as tow in Freedom's strain

Link by link shall snap in twain.

"Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope

Bind the starry cluster up,

Shattered over heaven's blue cope!

"Give us bright though broken rays,

Rather than eternal haze,

Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.

"Take your land of sun and bloom;

Only leave to Freedom room

For her plough, and forge, and loom;

"Take your slavery-blackened vales;

Leave us but our own free gales,

Blowing on our thousand sails.

"Boldly, or with treacherous art,

Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;

Break the Union's mighty heart;

"Work the ruin, if ye will;

Pluck upon your heads an ill

Which shall grow and deepen still.

"With your bondman's right arm bare,

With his heart of black despair,

Stand alone, if stand ye dare!

"Onward with your fell design;

Dig the gulf and draw the line:

Fire beneath your feet the mine:

"Deeply, when the wide abyss

Yawns between your land and this,

Shall ye feel your helplessness.

"By the hearth and in the bed,

Shaken by a look or tread,

Ye shall own a guilty dread.

"And the curse of unpaid toil,

Downward through your generous soil

Like a fire shall burn and spoil.

"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,

Vines our rocks shall overgrow,

Plenty in our valleys flow;--

"And when vengeance clouds your skies,

Hither shall ye turn your eyes,

As the lost on Paradise!

"We but ask our rocky strand,

Freedom's true and brother band,

Freedom's strong and honest hand;

"Valleys by the slave untrod,

And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,

Blessèd of our fathers' God!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and

the annexation of Texas to the Union was regarded by Mexico as

an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande,

while an American army of occupation under General Zachary

Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent

hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it

was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS

Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle

On them kittle-drums o' yourn,--

'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;

Put in stiff, you fifer feller,

Let folks see how spry you be,--

Guess you'll toot till you are yeller

'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,

Hope it aint your Sunday's best;--

Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton

To stuff out a soger's chest:

Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,

Ef you must wear humps like these,

S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,

It would du ez slick ez grease.

'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,

They're a dreffle graspin' set,

We must ollers blow the bellers

Wen they want their irons het;

May be it's all right ez preachin',

But _my_ narves it kind o' grates,

Wen I see the overreachin'

O' them nigger-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,

Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth

(Helped by Yankee renegaders),

Thru the vartu o' the North!

We begin to think it's nater

To take sarse an' not be riled;--

Who'd expect to see a tater

All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,--

There you hev it plain an' flat;

I don't want to go no furder

Than my Testyment fer that;

God hez sed so plump an' fairly,

It's ez long ez it is broad,

An' you've gut to git up airly

Ef you want to take in God.

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers

Make the thing a grain more right;

'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers

Will excuse ye in His sight;

Ef you take a sword an' dror it,

An' go stick a feller thru,

Guv'ment aint to answer for it,

God'll send the bill to you.

Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'

Every Sabbath, wet or dry,

Ef it's right to go amowin'

Feller-men like oats an' rye?

I dunno but what it's pooty

Trainin' round in bobtail coats,--

But it's curus Christian dooty

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airy

Tell they're pupple in the face,--

It's a grand gret cemetary

Fer the barthrights of our race;

They jest want this Californy

So's to lug new slave-states in

To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,

An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee

Take sech everlastin' pains,

All to get the Devil's thankee

Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?

Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,

Clear ez one an' one make two,

Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers

Want to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to

Arter cipherin' plaguy smart,

An' it makes a handy sum, tu,

Any gump could larn by heart;

Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,

Hev one glory an' one shame,

Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman

Injers all on 'em the same.

'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks

You're agoin' to git your right,

Nor by lookin' down on black folks

Coz you're put upon by wite;

Slavery aint o' nary color,

'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,

All it keers fer in a feller

'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye?

I expect you'll hev to wait;

Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye

You'll begin to kal'late;

S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'

All the carkiss from your bones,

Coz you helped to give a lickin'

To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy

Wether I'd be such a goose

Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy

The eternal bung wuz loose!

She wants me fer home consumption,

Let alone the hay's to mow,--

Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,

You've a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet's crowin'

Like a cockerel three months old,--

Don't ketch any on 'em goin',

Though they _be_ so blasted bold;

_Aint_ they a prime lot o' fellers?

'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout

(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),

With the meanness bustin' out.

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'

Bigger pens to cram with slaves,

Help the men thet's ollers dealin'

Insults on your fathers' graves;

Help the strong to grind the feeble,

Help the many agin the few,

Help the men thet call your people

Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!

Massachusetts, God forgive her,

She's akneelin' with the rest,

She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever

In her grand old eagle-nest;

She thet ough' to stand so fearless

W'ile the wracks are round her hurled,

Holdin' up a beacon peerless

To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?

Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?

_Wut_'ll make ye act like freemen?

_Wut_'ll git your dander riz?

Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'

Is our dooty in this fix,

They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'

In the days o' seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple,

Call all true men to disown

The tradoocers of our people,

The enslavers o' their own;

Let our dear old Bay State proudly

Put the trumpet to her mouth,

Let her ring this messidge loudly

In the ears of all the South:--

"I'll return ye good fer evil

Much ez we frail mortils can,

But I wun't go help the Devil

Makin' man the cus o' man;

Call me coward, call me traitor,

Jest ez suits your mean idees,--

Here I stand a tyrant-hater,

An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"

Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther

We should go to work an' part,

They take one way, we take t'other,

Guess it wouldn't break my heart;

Man hed ough' to put asunder

Them thet God has noways jined;

An' I shouldn't gretly wonder

Ef there's thousands o' my mind.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where

the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked

Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their

batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with

a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found

the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at

Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the

enemy's position.

THE GUNS IN THE GRASS

[May 8, 1846]

As hang two mighty thunderclouds

Ere lightnings link the twain,

So lie we and the Mexican

On Palo Alto plain;

And silence, solemn, dread, profound,

Broods o'er the waiting battle-ground.

We see the foeman's musketeers

Deployed upon his right,

And on his left the cavalry

Stand, hungry for the fight;

But that blank centre--what? Alas,

'Tis hidden by the prairie grass!

Old Rough and Ready scans the foe;

"I would I knew," says he,

"Whether or no that lofty grass

Conceals artillery.

Could I but bring that spot in ken,

'Twere worth to me five thousand men!"

Then forward steps Lieutenant Blake,

Touches his hat, and says,

"I wait command to ride and see

What 'neath that prairie lays."

We stand amazed: no cowards, we:

But this is more than bravery!

"'Command'!" cries Taylor; "nay, I ne'er

To such a deed 'command!'"

Then bends he o'er his horse's neck

And takes as brave a hand

As e'er a loyal sabre bore:

"God bless you, Blake," he says--no more.

The soldier to his saddle springs

And gayly waves good-by,

Determination on his lips,

A proud light in his eye:

And then, as pity holds our breath,

We see him dare that road of death.

To utmost pace his steed he spurs.

Save that his sword hangs free,

It were as though a madman charged

A nation's chivalry!

On, on, he flies, his steed unreined

Till yonder hillock's crest is gained.

And now he checks his horse, dismounts,

And coolly through his glass

Surveys the phalanx of the foe

That lies beyond the grass.

A musket-flash! They move! Advance!

Halt!--'twas the sunlight on a lance!

He turns, remounts, and speeds him back.

Hark! what is that we hear?

Across the rolling prairie rings--

A gun? ah, no--a cheer!

A noble tribute sweeps the plain:

A thousand throats take up the strain.

Safe! But the secret to unveil

Taylor no longer seeks;

For with a roar that shakes the earth

That unmasked centre speaks!

'Gainst fearful odds, till set of sun,

We battle--and the field is won!

THOMAS FROST.

Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the

disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to

attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great

execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced

back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans

finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked

them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort

Brown.

RIO BRAVO--A MEXICAN LAMENT

[May 8, 1846]

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!

Saw men ever such a sight?

Since the field of Roncesvalles

Sealed the fate of many a knight.

Dark is Palo Alto's story,

Sad Reseca Palma's rout,

On those fatal fields so gory,

Many a gallant life went out.

There our best and bravest lances

Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel,

Left the valiant hearts that couched them

'Neath the Northern charger's heel.

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!

Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight

Since the field of Roncesvalles

Sealed the fate of many a knight.

Rio Bravo, fatal river,

Saw ye not while red with gore,

Torrejon all headless quiver,

A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!

Heard you not the wounded coursers

Shrieking on your trampled banks,

As the Northern winged artillery

Thundered on our shattered ranks!

There Arista, best and bravest,

There Raguena, tried and true,

On the fatal field thou lavest,

Nobly did all men could do.

Vainly there those heroes rally,

Castile on Montezuma's shore,

"Rio Bravo"--"Roncesvalles,"

Ye are names blent evermore.

Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,

For thy lover 'mid the slain,

Brave La Vega's trenchant falchion

Cleft his slayer to the brain.

Brave La Vega who all lonely,

By a host of foes beset,

Yielded up his sabre only

When his equal there he met.

Other champions not less noted

Sleep beneath that sullen wave;

Rio Bravo, thou hast floated

An army to an ocean grave.

On they came, those Northern horsemen,

On like eagles toward the sun,

Followed then the Northern bayonet,

And the field was lost and won.

Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally

His Paladins on that sad shore,

"Rio Bravo"--"Roncesvalles,"

Ye are names blent evermore.

Translated by CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN

from the Spanish of DON JOSE

DE SALTILLO.

These brilliant victories served to kindle enthusiasm for the

war throughout the whole country. Congress authorized the

enlistment of fifty thousand volunteers, and reinforcements

were promptly started to General Taylor at Matamoras.

TO ARMS

[1846]

Awake! arise, ye men of might!

The glorious hour is nigh,--

Your eagle pauses in his flight,

And screams his battle-cry.

From North to South, from East to West:

Send back an answering cheer,

And say farewell to peace and rest,

And banish doubt and fear.

Arm! arm! your country bids you arm!

Fling out your banners free--

Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,

O'er mountains, plain, and sea.

March onward from th' Atlantic shore,

To Rio Grande's tide--

Fight as your fathers fought of yore!

Die as your fathers died!

Go! vindicate your country's fame,

Avenge your country's wrong!

The sons should own a deathless name,

To whom such sires belong.

The kindred of the noble dead

As noble deeds should dare:

The fields whereon their blood was shed

A deeper stain must bear.

To arms! to arms! ye men of might;

Away from home, away!

The first and foremost in the fight

Are sure to win the day!

PARK BENJAMIN.

By the last of August, Taylor had whipped his army into shape,

and began to advance on Monterey, a town believed to be

impregnable, and where General Arista had collected an army of

ten thousand men. The American army reached the town September

19; and after two days' desperate fighting the town surrendered.

MONTEREY

[September 23, 1846]

We were not many, we who stood

Before the iron sleet that day:

Yet many a gallant spirit would

Give half his years if but he could

Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot is hail'd

In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quail'd

When wounded comrades round them wail'd

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on--still on our column kept

Through walls of flame its withering way;

Where fell the dead, the living stept,

Still charging on the guns which swept

The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoil'd aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay,

We swoop'd his flanking batteries past,

And braving full their murderous blast,

Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play:

Where orange-boughs above their grave

Keep green the memory of the brave

Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many--we who press'd

Beside the brave who fell that day--

But who of us has not confess'd

He'd rather share their warrior rest

Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

The city had cost the Americans five hundred in killed and

wounded; but the Mexican loss was nearly twice as great. Among

the American dead was Victor Galbraith, a bugler in a company

of volunteer cavalry, who was shot for disobeying orders.

VICTOR GALBRAITH

[September 23, 1846]

Under the walls of Monterey

At daybreak the bugles began to play,

Victor Galbraith!

In the mist of the morning damp and gray,

These were the words they seemed to say:

"Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

Forth he came, with a martial tread;

Firm was his step, erect his head;

Victor Galbraith,

He who so well the bugle played,

Could not mistake the words it said:

"Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,

He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!

And he said, with a steady voice and eye,

"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"

Thus challenges death

Victor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,

Six leaden balls on their errand sped;

Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead:

His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,

And they only scath

Victor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,

But he rises out of the dust again,

Victor Galbraith!

The water he drinks has a bloody stain;

"Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!"

In his agony prayeth

Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,

And the bugler has died a death of shame,

Victor Galbraith!

His soul has gone back to whence it came,

And no one answers to the name

When the Sergeant saith,

"Victor Galbraith!"

Under the walls of Monterey

By night a bugle is heard to play,

Victor Galbraith!

Through the mist of the valley damp and gray

The sentinels hear the sound, and say,

"That is the wraith

Of Victor Galbraith!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Further reinforcements were hurried forward to General Taylor.

Santa Anna had collected a great army, and Taylor fell back to

Angostura, near the village of Buena Vista. There, on February

22, Santa Anna summoned him to surrender, stating that he was

surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not avoid defeat.

Taylor tartly refused, and Santa Anna advanced to the attack,

only to be routed after a desperate two days' struggle.

BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine,

Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again;

Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride,

And rolled from BUENA VISTA back the battle's bloody tide;

Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood,

And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.

SANTANA boasted loudly that, before two hours were past,

His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:--

On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;

Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine:

With thousands upon thousands,--yea, with more than three to one,--

Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.

Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps,

And Guadalajara's chosen troops!--all veterans tried before.

Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,

Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;

And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:

To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.

Now, WOOL, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide

Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.

Now, ILLINOIS, stand steady! Now, KENTUCKY, to their aid!

For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:

Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,

And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.

One of O'Brien's guns is gone!--On, on their masses drift,

Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;

Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,

And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.

SANTANA thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,

MIÑON'S dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.

Now, LINCOLN, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,

Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.

Fire, WASHINGTON, fire fast and true! Fire, SHERMAN, fast and far!

Lo! BRAGG comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!

SANTANA thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,

And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.

NOT YET! Our brave old General comes to regain the day;

KENTUCKY, to the rescue! MISSISSIPPI, to the fray!

Again our line advances! Gallant DAVIS fronts the foe,

And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.

Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!

Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.

Ride! MAY!--To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,

And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.

Charge, ARKANSAS! KENTUCKY, charge! YELL, PORTER, VAUGHAN, are slain.

But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;

Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,

Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.

And MAY comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,

While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:

They flee amain!--Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,

Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!

For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,

Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.

Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!

Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!

What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?

We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.

Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:

They falter, halt, retreat,--Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!

In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant LANE,

And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:

Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away

The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;

For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,

SANTANA'S boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.

Now charge again, SANTANA! or the day is surely lost--

For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.

Still faster roar his batteries,--his whole reserve moves on;

More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.

Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!

Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!

Ho! HARDIN breasts it bravely! and heroic BISSELL there

Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:

The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:

HARDIN is slain; MCKEE and CLAY the last time see the sun:

And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,

Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.

Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!--for the hurricane of fire

Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!

Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again BRAGG climbs the ridge,

And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:

Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,

Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.

The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,

And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.

And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,

And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field.

While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,

Despairingly and sullenly by night SANTANA fled.

And thus on BUENA VISTA'S heights a long day's work was done,

And thus our brave old General another battle won.

Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,

And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.

SO, HONOR UNTO THOSE THAT STOOD! DISGRACE TO THOSE THAT FLED!

AND EVERLASTING GLORY UNTO BUENA VISTA'S DEAD!

ALBERT PIKE.

February 28, 1847.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,

Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;

Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"

Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain,

I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more.

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away;

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!

Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern

ball."

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on!

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?

"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,

O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou

see?

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;

But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;

With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;

But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled;

Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food.

Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691,

while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses

exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded.

Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet

That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,

The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust;

Their plumèd heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are past;

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that nevermore may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged

O'er all that stricken plain,

For never fiercer fight had waged

The vengeful blood of Spain;

And still the storm of battle blew,

Still swelled the gory tide;

Not long our stout old chieftain knew,

Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command

Called to a martyr's grave

The flower of his belovèd land,

The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their fathers' gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept,

O'er Angostura's plain--

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its mouldered slain.

The raven's scream or eagle's flight

Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone awakes each sullen height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground,

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air.

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war his richest spoil--

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield;

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave,

No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave;

Nor shall your story be forgot,

While Fame her record keeps,

Or Honor points the hallowed spot

Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell

When many a vanished age hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light

That gilds your deathless tomb.

THEODORE O'HARA.

Despite the victories, the war continued unpopular in New

England, and particularly in Massachusetts. In the campaign

of 1847, Caleb Cushing, who had raised a regiment at his own

expense and taken it to Mexico, was nominated by the Democrats

for governor, but was defeated by George Nixon Briggs, his Whig

opponent, by a majority of fourteen thousand.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

[1847]

Guvener B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,

An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat;

Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?)

An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;

But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,--

He's ben true to _one_ party,--an' thet is himself;--

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;

He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud;

Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,

But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,

With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,

We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,

An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, _he_ is our country.

An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book

Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_;

An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies;

Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_;

An' thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,

An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,

To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,--

God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,

To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

On March 9, 1847, General Winfield Scott arrived off Vera Cruz

with twelve thousand men to march against the City of Mexico.

On April 18 he met and defeated Santa Anna's army at Cerro

Gordo. On August 20 he arrived before the City of Mexico, and,

after an ill-advised armistice, advanced to storm the city on

September 8. He chose the approach guarded by the formidable

works of Malino del Rey and Chapultepec. The former was carried

by assault, after a fierce hand-to-hand battle.

BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL

[September 8, 1847]

Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,

With newspaper held in his hand--

"So they've built from El Paso a railway

That Yankees may visit our land.

As guests let them come and be welcome,

But not as they came here before;

They are rather rough fellows to handle

In the rush of the battle and roar.

"They took Vera Cruz and its castle;

In triumph they marched through the land;

We fought them with desperate daring,

But lacked the right man to command.

They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo--

Every mile in their movement it cost;

And when they arrived at Puebla,

Some thousands of men they had lost.

"Ere our capital fell, and the city

By foreign invaders was won,

We called out among its defenders

Each man who could handle a gun.

Chapultepec stood in their pathway;

Churubusco they had to attack;

The mill of the King--well, I fought there,

And they were a hard nut to crack.

"While their right was assailing the ramparts,

Our force struck their left on the field,

Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,

To love of our country appealed.

And we swore that we never would falter

Before either sabre or ball;

We would beat back the foeman before us,

Or dead on the battle-field fall.

"Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;

And so when they came up the hill,

We poured on them volley on volley,

And riddled their ranks with a will.

Their line in a moment was broken;

They closed it, and came with a cheer;

But still we fired quickly and deadly,

And felt neither pity nor fear.

"We smote the blue column with grape-shot,

But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;

At the pieces they slew our best gunners,

And took in the struggle our guns.

We sprang in a rage to retake them,

And lost nearly half of our men;

Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,

And gained our position again.

"Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing

They dressed like an arrow in line,

Then, standing there moveless a moment,

Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,

All still as the twilight in summer,

No cloud on the sky to deform,

Like the lull in the voices of nature

Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.

"We had fought them with death-daring spirit,

And courage unyielding till then;

No man could have forced us to falter,

But these were more demons than men.

Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,

We filled all the gaps they had made;

But the pall of that terrible silence

The hearts of our boldest dismayed.

"Before us no roaring of cannon,

Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;

But there on the ocean of battle

Surged steady the billow of steel.

Fierce we opened our fire on the column,

We pierced it with ball here and there;

But it swept on in pitiless sternness

Till we faltered and fled in despair.

"After that all their movements were easy;

At their storming Chapultepec fell,

And that ended the war--we were beaten:

No story is left me to tell.

And now they come back to invade us,

Though not with the bullet and blade;

They are here with their goods on a railway,

To conquer the country by trade."

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Chapultepec still remained, and on the morning of September

13 two storming parties rushed it, swarmed over the walls,

swept back the garrison, and planted the American flag on the

ramparts. The Mexican army hastened to evacuate the city, and

on September 14 the Stars and Stripes floated over the capital

of Mexico.

THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC

[September 13, 1847]

Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering,

War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering,

Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order,

Strike for the fame of your good northern border;

Forever shall history tell of the bloody check

Waiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.

Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still,

Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill,

Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story,

Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory.

Side by side, son and father with hoary head

Struggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.

Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering,

The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering;

Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging till

Proudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill.

Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder;

Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!

Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swell

Far o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl,

Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport,

Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port,

Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet,

Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!

Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament,

Shares with no rival the skies of the continent.

Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled,

Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled!

Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreck

Of her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.

While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen

W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the

territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government

at Santa Fé. He then proceeded to California, defeated the

Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.

ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO

Light up thy homes, Columbia,

For those chivalric men

Who bear to scenes of warlike strife

Thy conquering arms again,

Where glorious victories, flash on flash,

Reveal their stormy way,--

Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,

The heights of Monterey!

They pile with thousands of thy foes

Buena Vista's plain;

With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,

Swell high the list of slain!

They paint upon the Southern skies

The blaze of burning domes,--

Their laurels dew with blood of babes!

Light up, light up thy homes!

Light up your homes, O fathers!

For those young hero bands,

Whose march is still through vanquished towns,

And over conquered lands!

Whose valor, wild, impetuous,

In all its fiery glow,

Pours onward like a lava-tide,

And sweeps away the foe!

For those whose dead brows glory crowns,

On crimson couches sleeping,

And for home faces wan with grief,

And fond eyes dim with weeping.

And for the soldier, poor, unknown,

Who battled, madly brave,

Beneath a stranger soil to share

A shallow, crowded grave.

Light up thy home, young mother!

Then gaze in pride and joy

Upon those fair and gentle girls,

That eagle-eyed young boy;

And clasp thy darling little one

Yet closer to thy breast,

And be thy kisses on its lips

In yearning love impressed.

In yon beleaguered city

Were homes as sweet as thine;

Where trembling mothers felt loved arms

In fear around them twine,--

The lad with brow of olive hue,

The babe like lily fair,

The maiden with her midnight eyes,

And wealth of raven hair.

The booming shot, the murderous shell,

Crashed through the crumbling walls,

And filled with agony and death

Those sacred household halls!

Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay

The sister by the brother,

And the torn infant gasped and writhed

On the bosom of the mother!

O sisters, if ye have no tears

For fearful tales like these,

If the banners of the victors veil

The victim's agonies,

If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry

In the noisy roll of drums,

If your hearts with martial pride throb high,

Light up, light up your homes!

GRACE GREENWOOD.

The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for

peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico

accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New

Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory

the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume

debts to the amount of $3,500,000.

THE CRISIS

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,

The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;

From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,

Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;

And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,

The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.

O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;

Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;

Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,

And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;

For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,

Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.

Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down

Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!

Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,

And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;

By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,

On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.

O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,

Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;

Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,

On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;

Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,

Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!

Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores

The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;

Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,

Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;

Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers

Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!

Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:

God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.

Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?

Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?

Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,

Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?

The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,

And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;

Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,

Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;

The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,

And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!

Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow

The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?

To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,

Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?

To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,

And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?

Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,

The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?

Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,

A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?

Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?

Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?

The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,

With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!

This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;

This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;

Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,

We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!

By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;

By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;

By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast

Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;

And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,

O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.

So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;

To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,

To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;

And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:

The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,

And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the

City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest

enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so

successful a war in so short a time.

THE VOLUNTEERS

[1849]

The Volunteers! the Volunteers!

I dream, as in the by-gone years,

I hear again their stirring cheers,

And see their banners shine,

What time the yet unconquered North

Pours to the wars her legions forth,

For many a wrong to strike a blow

With mailèd hand at Mexico.

The Volunteers! Ah, where are they

Who bade the hostile surges stay,

When the black forts of Monterey

Frowned on their dauntless line?

When, undismayed amid the shock

Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,

They stood, or rushed more madly on

Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan?

On Angostura's crowded field

Their shattered columns scorned to yield,

And wildly yet defiance pealed

Their flashing batteries' throats;

And echoed then the rifle's crack,

As deadly as when on the track

Of flying foe, of yore, its voice

Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.

Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,

How grandly from the dim past comes

The roll of their victorious drums,

Their bugle's joyous notes,

When over Mexico's proud towers,

And the fair valley's storied bowers,

Fit recompense of toil and scars,

In triumph waved their flag of stars.

Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,

Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,

Of lion heart and eagle swoop,

But you alone remain;

On all the rest has fallen the hush

Of death; the men whose battle-rush

Was wild as sun-loosed torrent's flow

From Orizaba's crest of snow.

The Volunteers! the Volunteers!

God send us peace through all our years,

But if the cloud of war appears,

We'll see them once again.

From broad Ohio's peaceful side,

From where the Maumee pours its tide,

From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,

Shall spring the Volunteers once more.

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.

CHAPTER VI

FOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE

In his message to Congress at the opening of the December

session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other

things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of

Panama--a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty

years.

THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC

AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS, ON READING

THE MESSAGE OF THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT IN DECEMBER, 1847

Rend America asunder

And unite the Binding Sea

That emboldens man and tempers--

Make the ocean free.

Break the bolt that bars the passage,

That our River richly pours

Western wealth to western nations;

Let that sea be ours--

Ours by all the hardy whalers,

By the pointing Oregon,

By the west-impelled and working,

Unthralled Saxon son.

Long indeed they have been wooing,

The Pacific and his bride;

Now 'tis time for holy wedding--

Join them by the tide.

Have the snowy surfs not struggled

Many centuries in vain

That their lips might seal the Union?

Lock them main to main.

When the mighty God of nature

Made this favored continent,

He allowed it yet unsevered,

That a race be sent,

Able, mindful of his purpose,

Prone to people, to subdue,

And to bind the land with iron,

Or to force it through.

What the prophet-navigator,

Seeking straits to his Catais,

But began, now consummate it--

Make the strait and pass.

Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,

When the pointing boom shall veer,

Leading through the parted Andes,

While the nations cheer!

There at Suez, Europe's mattock

Cuts the briny road with skill,

And must Darien bid defiance

To the pilot still?

Do we breathe this breath of Knowledge

Purely to enjoy its zest?

Shall the iron arm of science

Like a sluggard rest?

Up then, at it! earnest people!

Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,

But there's fresher fame in store yet,

Glory for the spade.

What we want is naught in envy,

And for all we pioneer;

Let the keels of every nation

Through the isthmus steer.

Must the globe be always girded

Ere we get to Bramah's priest?

Take the tissues of your Lowells

Westward to the East.

Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,

Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,

Court ye patiently forever

Yon Antarctic ire?

Shall the mariner forever

Double the impending capes,

While his longsome and retracing

Needless course he shapes?

What was daring for our fathers,

To defy those billows fierce,

Is but tame for their descendants;

We are bid to pierce.

Ye that fight with printing armies,

Settle sons on forlorn track,

As the Romans flung their eagles,

But to win them back.

Who, undoubting, worship boldness,

And, if baffled, bolder rise,

Shall we lag when grandeur beckons

To this good emprize?

Let the vastness not appal us;

Greatness is thy destiny.

Let the doubters not recall us:

Venture suits the free.

Like a seer, I see her throning,

WINLAND strong in freedom's health,

Warding peace on both the waters,

Widest Commonwealth.

Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,

Guerdon for untiring pain,

For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:

Rend the land in twain.

Cleave America asunder,

This is worthy work for thee.

Hark! The seas roll up imploring

"Make the ocean free."

FRANCIS LIEBER.

The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the

United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was

dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.

THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE

[1847]

Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang

Upon the willow now,

While famine's blight and fever's pang

Stamps mis'ry on thy brow;

Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,

Though weak and low it be,

And let thy sinking heart rejoice

In friends still left to thee.

Look out! look out! across the sea

That girds thy em'rald shore,

A ship of war is bound to thee,

But with no war-like store.

Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breath

That wafts her o'er the sea;

She goes not forth to deal out death,

But bears new life to thee.

Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike

The chords of grateful praise,

Thy plaintive tone is now unlike

The voice of prouder days;

Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,

Let Erin's voice proclaim

In bardic praise on ev'ry hill

Columbia's glorious name.

SAMUEL LOVER.

On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for

the Whig nomination for the presidency.

ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY

[June 8, 1848]

Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;

O'er towers and rock-built walls,

And perished nations, floods to tempests call

With hollow sound along the sea of time:

The great man never falls.

He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime--

_They fall_ who give him not

The honor here that suits his future name--

They die and are forgot.

O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame

Is his own shadow and not cast by thee--

A shadow that shall grow

As down the heaven of time the sun descends,

And on the world shall throw

His god-like image, till it sinks where blends

Time's dim horizon with Eternity.

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD.

Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and

their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850,

while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was

driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER

[July 16, 1850]

Over his millions Death has lawful power,

But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.

After a longer struggle, in a fight

Worthy of Italy, to youth restored,

Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge

Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach

Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all

Precious on earth to thee--a child, a wife!

Proud as thou wert of her, America

Is prouder, showing to her sons how high

Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.

She would not leave behind her those she loved;

Such solitary safety might become

Others; not her; not her who stood beside

The pallet of the wounded, when the worst

Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls

Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,

Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!

Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice,

But the same language with more full appeal

Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song

Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains

Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;

Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

The following verses from _Punch_ describe various events

of 1851--the winning of the international yacht race by the

America; the project for a canal across the isthmus--and

comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.

THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE"

[_Punch_, 1851]

Yankee Doodle sent to Town

His goods for exhibition;

Everybody ran him down,

And laugh'd at his position.

They thought him all the world behind;

A goney, muff, or noodle;

Laugh on, good people,--never mind--

Says quiet Yankee Doodle.

_Chorus_--Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle Dandy!

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy!

Yankee Doodle had a craft,

A rather tidy clipper,

And he challenged, while they laughed,

The Britishers to whip her.

Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,

And that on their own water;

Of all the lot she went ahead,

And they came nowhere arter.

O'er Panamà there was a scheme

Long talked of, to pursue a

Short route--which many thought a dream--

By Lake Nicaragua.

John Bull discussed the plan on foot,

With slow irresolution,

While Yankee Doodle went and put

It into execution.

A steamer of the Collins line,

A Yankee Doodle's notion,

Has also quickest cut the brine

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

And British Agents, no ways slow

Her merits to discover,

Have been and bought her--just to tow

The Cunard packets over.

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,

But that again don't mention:

I guess that Colts' revolvers whack

Their very first invention.

By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat

Downright in Agriculture,

With his machine for reaping wheat,

Chawed up as by a vulture.

You also fancied, in your pride,

Which truly is tarnation,

Them British locks of yourn defied

The rogues of all creation;

But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,

And you must now be viewed all

As having been completely licked

By glorious Yankee Doodle.

DANIEL WEBSTER

[Died October 24, 1852]

When life hath run its largest round

Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,

How brief a storied page is found

To compass all its outward show!

The world-tried sailor tires and droops;

His flag is rent, his keel forgot;

His farthest voyages seem but loops

That float from life's entangled knot.

But when within the narrow space

Some larger soul hath lived and wrought,

Whose sight was open to embrace

The boundless realms of deed and thought,--

When, stricken by the freezing blast,

A nation's living pillars fall,

How rich the storied page, how vast,

A word, a whisper, can recall!

No medal lifts its fretted face,

Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;

Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,

A living image passes by:

A roof beneath the mountain pines;

The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;

The front of life's embattled lines;

A mound beside the heaving main.

These are the scenes: a boy appears;

Set life's round dial in the sun.

Count the swift arc of seventy years,

His frame is dust; his task is done.

Yet pause upon the noontide hour,

Ere the declining sun has laid

His bleaching rays on manhood's power,

And look upon the mighty shade.

No gloom that stately shape can hide,

No change uncrown his brow: behold!

Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,

Earth has no double from its mould!

Ere from the fields by valor won

The battle-smoke had rolled away,

And bared the blood-red setting sun,

His eyes were opened on the day.

His land was but a shelving strip,

Black with the strife that made it free;

He lived to see its banners dip

Their fringes in the Western sea.

The boundless prairies learned his name,

His words the mountain echoes knew;

The Northern breezes swept his fame

From icy lake to warm bayou.

In toil he lived; in peace he died;

When life's full cycle was complete,

Put off his robes of power and pride,

And laid them at his Master's feet.

His rest is by the storm-swept waves

Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried,

Whose heart was like the streaming caves

Of ocean, throbbing at his side.

Death's cold white hand is like the snow

Laid softly on the furrowed hill,

It hides the broken seams below,

And leaves the summit brighter still.

In vain the envious tongue upbraids;

His name a nation's heart shall keep

Till morning's latest sunlight fades

On the blue tablet of the deep!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and

Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work.

His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the

isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom

surpassed.

THE FLAG

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION

[1854]

I never have got the bearings quite,

Though I've followed the course for many a year,

If he was crazy, clean outright,

Or only what you might say was "queer."

He was just a simple sailor man.

I mind it as well as yisterday,

When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.

Lord! how the time does slip away!

That was five and thirty year ago,

And I never expect such times again,

For sailors wasn't afraid to stow

Themselves on a Yankee vessel then.

He was only a sort of bosun's mate,

But every inch of him taut and trim;

Stars and anchors and togs of state

Tailors don't build for the like of him.

He flew a no-account sort of name,

A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"

With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,

Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."

Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,--

Ballast or compass wasn't right.

Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear

Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.

But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,

When he put the flag in his hand the day

That we went ashore from the old Cyane,

On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.

Forty days in the wilderness

We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,

Losing the number of many a mess

In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.

All of us starved, and many died.

One laid down, in his dull despair;

His stronger messmate went to his side--

We left them both in the jungle there.

It was hard to part with shipmates so;

But standing by would have done no good.

We heard them moaning all day, so slow

We dragged along through the weary wood.

McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;

Not that he ever piped his eye

Or wouldn't have answered to the call

If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."

I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,

But the grit inside of him kept him strong,

Till we met relief on the river shore;

And we all broke down when it came along.

All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,

Touching his hat, and standing square:

"Captain, the Flag."--And that was all;

He just keeled over and foundered there.

"The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head--

It mightn't be much to lose at best--

Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,

And we found it folded around his breast.

He laid so calm and smiling there,

With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;

Maybe he saw his course all fair,

Only--_we_ couldn't read the chart.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic,

died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of

regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.

KANE

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,

Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,

Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll

Around the secret of the mystic zone,

A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag

Flutters alone,

And underneath, upon the lifeless front

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;

Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,

But with a rocky purpose in his soul,

Breasted the gathering snows,

Clung to the drifting floes,

By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,

Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.

Not many months ago we greeted him,

Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,

Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,

And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;

His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,

Burst from decorous quiet as he came;

Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame

Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,

Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,

From out its giant breast,

Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,

Jubilant to the sky,

Thunder'd the mighty cry,

HONOR TO KANE!

In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung

The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd

The golden wine, and round the shining board

Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung

With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!

Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased

Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,

Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,

Faded and faded! And the brave young heart

That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd

Of all its vital heat, in that long quest

For the lost captain, now within his breast

More and more faintly throbb'd.

His was the victory; but as his grasp

Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,

Death launch'd a whistling dart;

And ere the thunders of applause were done

His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!

Too late, too late the splendid prize he won

In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!

Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,

Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,

And in the burning day

Wastes peak by peak away,

Till on some rosy even

It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he

Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,

And melted into heaven.

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;

We will not weep for him who died so well,

But we will gather round the hearth, and tell

The story of his strife;

Such homage suits him well,

Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!

Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,

With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!

Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe

Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear

Crunches his prey. The insufficient share

Of loathsome food,

The lethargy of famine, the despair

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued,

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind

Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!

That awful hour, when through the prostrate band

Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few

At first, but deepening ever till they grew

Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng

Of horrors bound the hero. High the song

Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd!

Sinking himself, yet ministering aid

To all around him. By a mighty will

Living defiant of the wants that kill,

Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill

Those Polar waters, dark and desolate.

Equal to every trial, every fate,

He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,

Unlocks the icy gate,

And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,

To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore

Bearing their dying chief.

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold

From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;

The knell of old formalities is toll'd,

And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.

No grander episode doth chivalry hold

In all its annals, back to Charlemagne,

Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,

Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,

By the good Christian knight, ELISHA KANE!

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a

great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon,

of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved

discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers,

and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was

already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its

danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.

HERNDON

[September 12, 1857]

Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,

In triumph o'er that fated deck,

Grown holy by another grave--

Thou hast the captain of the wreck.

No prayer was said, no lesson read,

O'er him; the soldier of the sea:

And yet for him, through all the land,

A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.

And many an eye shall dim with tears,

And many a cheek be flushed with pride;

And men shall say, There died a man,

And boys shall learn how well he died.

Ay, weep for him, whose noble soul

Is with the God who made it great;

But weep not for so proud a death,--

We could not spare so grand a fate.

Nor could Humanity resign

That hour which bade her heart beat high,

And blazoned Duty's stainless shield,

And set a star in Honor's sky.

O dreary night! O grave of hope!

O sea, and dark, unpitying sky!

Full many a wreck these waves shall claim

Ere such another heart shall die.

Alas, how can we help but mourn

When hero bosoms yield their breath!

A century itself may bear

But once the flower of such a death;

So full of manliness, so sweet

With utmost duty nobly done;

So thronged with deeds, so filled with life,

As though with death that life begun.

It _has_ begun, true gentleman!

No better life we ask for thee;

Thy Viking soul and woman heart

Forever shall a beacon be,--

A starry thought to veering souls,

To teach it is not best to live;

To show that life has naught to match

Such knighthood as the grave can give.

S. WEIR MITCHELL.

In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of

the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied

English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations

at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded

and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the

English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their

assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

[June 25, 1859]

Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,

Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;

Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see

Lazy junks along the lazy river lag;

Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,

On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;

While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,

While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.

Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,

English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,

With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon

O'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.

We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,

White with peace was all our mission to his court,

Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrown

Seeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.

By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,

Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;

They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,

Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam--

_Boom!_ the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight

As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;

Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,

Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.

In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;

Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;

And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,

Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.

Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,

All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,

Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,

Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.

On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side--

"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,--

Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,

Men of English blood and speech--could he refuse?

_I'll be damned_, says he to Trenchard, _if old Tattnall's standing by,

Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.

Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and

die--

Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go._

Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew--

"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.

Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot

through,

Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;

But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship

Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light--

Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,

Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.

Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought--

What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?

One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,

And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.

Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,

In a British boat we speed us fast and far;

And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall

To the launches lying moaning by the bar.

Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,

See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!

Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace

From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss

How they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,

Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!

And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun

O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.

Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,

Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;

Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see

Lazy junks along the lazy river lag.

Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,

Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;

There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:

_Blood is thicker, sir, than water_, now as then.

WALLACE RICE.

In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron

Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from

September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many

attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the

Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in

progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was

injured.

BARON RENFREW'S BALL

[October, 1860]

'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,

A pageant or fête, or what you may call

A brilliant coruscation,

Where ladies and knights of noble worth

Enchanted a prince of royal birth

By a royal demonstration.

Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,

They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,

Fair ladies of rank and station,

Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,

In a tableaux style, which the artists called

A floor-all decoration.

At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,

In the brightest bouquet ever made,

For a prince's choice to falter--

Perplexed to find, where all were rare,

Which was the fairest of the fair

To cull for a queenly altar.

But soon the floor was set aright,

And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,

When, like the swell of an organ,

All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,

And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill

As he danced with Mrs. Morgan.

Then came the waltz--the Prince's Own--

And every bar and brilliant tone

Had music's sweetest grace on;

But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm

Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm,

That lovely girl, Miss Mason.

But ah! the work went bravely on,

And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won

By the magic art of the dancers;

For the daring prince's next exploit

Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,

And overcome the Lancers.

Besides these three, he deigned to yield

His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,

Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;

Miss Russell, too, was given a place--

All beauties famous for their grace

From Texas to Lake Huron.

With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"

With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,

With Mrs. Belmont capered;

With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,

He tripped a sort of royal jig,

And next Miss Butler favored.

And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,

By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,

Did they gayly quaff and revel;

Well pleased to charm a royal prince--

The only one from old England since

George Washington was a rebel.

And so the fleeting hours went by,

And watches stopped--lest Time should fly--

Or that they winding wanted;

Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,

And many a fair one was beguiled

As the prince danced on, undaunted.

'Tis now a dream--the prince's ball,

Its vanished glories, one and all,

The scenes of the fairy tales;

For Cinderella herself was there,

And Barnum keeps for trial fair

The beautiful slipper deposited there

By his highness, the Prince of Wales.

CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.

PART IV

THE CIVIL WAR

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

CHAPTER I

THE SLAVERY QUESTION

Negro slavery in the United States began in 1619, when a

cargo of Africans was sold in Virginia. It gradually spread

to all the states, but by the beginning of the nineteenth

century it had been abolished in Massachusetts, Pennsylvania,

New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York,

and New Jersey. The ordinance of 1787 forbade slavery in the

Northwest; but the purchase of Louisiana in 1803 added greatly

to slave territory. The fight over the admission of Missouri

(1817-21), resulting in the "Missouri Compromise," did much

to intensify bitterness of feeling. Finally, in December,

1833, the American Anti-Slavery Society was organized at

Philadelphia, with a platform of principles formulated by

William Lloyd Garrison.

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

[Read at the Convention which formed the American Anti-Slavery

Society, in Philadelphia, December, 1833.]

Champion of those who groan beneath

Oppression's iron hand:

In view of penury, hate, and death,

I see thee fearless stand.

Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,

In manhood sealing well the vow

And promise of thy youth.

Go on, for thou hast chosen well;

On in the strength of God!

Long as one human heart shall swell

Beneath the tyrant's rod.

Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,

As thou hast ever spoken,

Until the dead in sin shall hear,

The fetter's link be broken!

I love thee with a brother's love,

I feel my pulses thrill,

To mark thy spirit soar above

The cloud of human ill.

My heart hath leaped to answer thine,

And echo back thy words,

As leaps the warrior's at the shine

And flash of kindred swords!

They tell me thou art rash and vain,

A searcher after fame;

That thou art striving but to gain

A long-enduring name;

That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand

And steeled the Afric's heart,

To shake aloft his vengeful brand,

And rend his chain apart.

Have I not known thee well, and read

Thy mighty purpose long?

And watched the trials which have made

Thy human spirit strong?

And shall the slanderer's demon breath

Avail with one like me,

To dim the sunshine of my faith

And earnest trust in thee?

Go on, the dagger's point may glare

Amid thy pathway's gloom;

The fate which sternly threatens there

Is glorious martyrdom!

Then onward with a martyr's zeal;

And wait thy sure reward

When man to man no more shall kneel,

And God alone be Lord!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Branches of this society multiplied rapidly, and in order to

counteract their influence, a great pro-slavery meeting was

held at Charleston, S. C., September 4, 1835. The newspaper

report that "the clergy of all denominations attended in a

body, lending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding by

their presence to the impressive character of the scene," drew

a fiery protest from Whittier.

CLERICAL OPPRESSORS

[September 4, 1835]

Just God! and these are they

Who minister at thine altar, God of Right!

Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay

On Israel's Ark of light!

What! preach, and kidnap men?

Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?

Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then

Bolt hard the captive's door?

What! servants of thy own

Merciful Son, who came to seek and save

The homeless and the outcast, fettering down

The tasked and plundered slave!

Pilate and Herod, friends!

Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!

Just God and holy! is that church, which lends

Strength to the spoiler, thine?

Paid hypocrites, who turn

Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book

Of those high words of truth which search and burn

In warning and rebuke;

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!

And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord

That, from the toiling bondman's utter need,

Ye pile your own full board.

How long, O Lord! how long

Shall such a priesthood barter truth away,

And in Thy name, for robbery and wrong

At Thy own altars pray?

Is not Thy hand stretched forth

Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?

Shall not the living God of all the earth,

And heaven above, do right?

Woe, then, to all who grind

Their brethren of a common Father down!

To all who plunder from the immortal mind

Its bright and glorious crown!

Woe to the priesthood! woe

To those whose hire is with the price of blood;

Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go,

The searching truths of God!

Their glory and their might

Shall perish; and their very names shall be

Vile before all the people, in the light

Of a world's liberty.

Oh, speed the moment on

When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love

And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known

As in their home above.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

In April, 1848, an attempt was made to abduct seventy-seven

slaves from Washington in the schooner Pearl. The slaves were

speedily recaptured and sold South, while their defenders

barely escaped with their lives from an infuriated mob. The

Abolitionists in Congress determined to evoke from that body

some expression of sentiment on the subject. On the 20th of

April Senator Hale introduced a resolution implying sympathy

with the negroes. It stirred the slaveholders to unusual

intemperance of language.

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT

SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME

[April 20, 1848]

"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!

It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs;

Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,

Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;

"Human rights haint no more

Right to come on this floor,

No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',

An' you've no idee how much bother it saves;

We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',

We're _used_ to layin' the string on our slaves,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

Sez Mister Foote,

"I should like to shoot

The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.

"Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on,

It's sutthin' thet's--wha' d'ye call it?--divine,--

An' the slaves thet we ollers _make_ the most out on

Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Fer all thet," sez Mangum,

"'Twould be better to hang 'em

An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.

"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies,

Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;

It puts all the cunninest on us in office,

An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Thet's ez plain," sez Cass,

"Ez thet some one's an ass,

It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,

But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,

Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)

To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Yes," sez Davis o' Miss.,

"The perfection o' bliss

Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.

"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion,

It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;

Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)

Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

Sez Mister Hannegan,

Afore he began agin,

"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.

"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar,

_Your_ merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees,

At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;

You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

Sez Mister Jarnagin,

"They wun't hev to larn agin,

They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.

"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin',

North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance;

No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,

But they _du_ sell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

Sez Atherton here,

"This is gittin' severe,

I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.

"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,

An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,

An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,

'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt,

"Ef we Southeners all quit,

Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.

"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'

In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,

All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin,

An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Yes," sez Johnson, "in France

They're beginnin' to dance

Beëlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,

Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest

Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery

Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida,

"Wut treason is horrider

Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints

Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;

We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,

Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;--

"Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis,

"It perfectly true is

Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

On March 7, 1850, Daniel Webster delivered in the Senate

his famous speech on slavery, in which he declared for the

exclusion of slavery from new territory, but called attention

to the pledge which had been given to permit slavery south of

the line of 36° 30´, and gave his support to the fugitive slave

bill introduced by a Virginia senator. The speech created a

sensation; Webster was overwhelmed with abuse, and made the

target for one of the greatest poems of denunciation in the

language.

ICHABOD

[March 7, 1850]

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn

Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone

Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath

A snare for all;

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,

Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,

When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age,

Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark

A bright soul driven,

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,

From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him

Insult him now,

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,

Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,

From sea to lake,

A long lament, as for the dead,

In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught

Save power remains;

A fallen angel's pride of thought,

Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes

The soul has fled;

When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days

To his dead fame;

Walk backward, with averted gaze,

And hide the shame!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The feeling at the North against slavery was soon intensified

in bitterness by the execution of the fugitive slave law,

which, in a way, made Northern states participants in the

detested traffic. On April 3, 1851, a fugitive slave named

Thomas Sims was arrested at Boston, adjudged to his owner, and

put on board a vessel bound for Savannah. Other efforts to

enforce the law proved abortive, and it was soon evident that

it was, to all intents and purposes, a dead letter.

THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS

[April 3, 1851]

Souls of the patriot dead

On Bunker's height who bled!

The pile, that stands

On your long-buried bones--

Those monumental stones--

Should not suppress the groans

This day demands.

For Freedom there ye stood;

There gave the earth your blood;

There found your graves;

That men of every clime,

Faith, color, tongue, and time,

Might, through your death sublime,

Never be slaves.

Over your bed, so low,

Heard ye not, long ago,

A voice of power

Proclaim to earth and sea,

That where ye sleep should be

A home for Liberty

Till Time's last hour?

Hear ye the chains of slaves,

Now clanking round your graves?

Hear ye the sound

Of that same voice that calls

From out our Senate halls,

"Hunt down those fleeing thralls,

With horse and hound!"

That voice your sons hath swayed!

'Tis heard, and is obeyed!

This gloomy day

Tells you of ermine stained,

Of Justice's name profaned,

Of a poor bondman chained

And borne away!

Over Virginia's Springs,

Her eagles spread their wings,

Her Blue Ridge towers--

That voice--once heard with awe--

Now asks, "Who ever saw,

Up there, a higher law

Than this of ours?"

Must we obey that voice?

When God or man's the choice,

Must we postpone

Him, who from Sinai spoke?

Must we wear slavery's yoke?

Bear of her lash the stroke,

And prop her throne?

Lashed with her hounds, must we

Run down the poor who flee

From Slavery's hell?

Great God! when we do this

Exclude us from thy bliss;

At us let angels hiss

From heaven that fell!

JOHN PIERPONT.

Abolition agitation was given new fuel when, on May 30, 1854,

Congress passed the famous Kansas-Nebraska Bill, setting off

the southern portion of Nebraska into a new territory called

Kansas, and leaving the question of slavery or no-slavery to

be decided by its inhabitants. The fight for Kansas began at

once. Slaveholders from Missouri poured into the new territory,

and in New England an Emigrant Aid Society was formed, which

started large parties of Free-Soilers to Kansas. The first

party started in July, 1854, and John G. Whittier sent them a

hymn, which was sung over and over during the long journey.

THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS

[July, 1854]

We cross the prairie as of old

The pilgrims crossed the sea,

To make the West, as they the East,

The homestead of the free!

We go to rear a wall of men

On Freedom's southern line,

And plant beside the cotton-tree

The rugged Northern pine!

We're flowing from our native hills

As our free rivers flow:

The blessing of our Mother-land

Is on us as we go.

We go to plant her common schools

On distant prairie swells,

And give the Sabbaths of the wild

The music of her bells.

Upbearing, like the Ark of old,

The Bible in our van,

We go to test the truth of God

Against the fraud of man.

No pause, nor rest, save where the streams

That feed the Kansas run,

Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon

Shall flout the setting sun!

We'll tread the prairie as of old

Our fathers sailed the sea,

And make the West, as they the East,

The homestead of the free!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The pro-slavery men soon resorted to violence. In December

fifteen hundred Missourians laid siege to Lawrence, where

most of the Free-Soilers had settled. The Free-Soilers threw

up earthworks and mustered six hundred men to defend them,

among them John Brown and his four sons from Osawatomie. One

Free-Soiler, Thomas Barber, was killed under discreditable

circumstances; but the Missourians were persuaded to withdraw

before there were further hostilities.

BURIAL OF BARBER

[December 6, 1855]

Bear him, comrades, to his grave;

Never over one more brave

Shall the prairie grasses weep,

In the ages yet to come,

When the millions in our room,

What we sow in tears, shall reap.

Bear him up the icy hill,

With the Kansas, frozen still

As his noble heart, below,

And the land he came to till

With a freeman's thews and will,

And his poor hut roofed with snow!

One more look of that dead face,

Of his murder's ghastly trace!

One more kiss, O widowed one!

Lay your left hands on his brow,

Lift your right hands up, and vow

That his work shall yet be done.

Patience, friends! The eye of God

Every path by Murder trod

Watches, lidless, day and night;

And the dead man in his shroud,

And his widow weeping loud,

And our hearts, are in His sight.

Every deadly threat that swells

With the roar of gambling hells,

Every brutal jest and jeer,

Every wicked thought and plan

Of the cruel heart of man,

Though but whispered, He can hear!

We in suffering, they in crime,

Wait the just award of time,

Wait the vengeance that is due;

Not in vain a heart shall break,

Not a tear for Freedom's sake

Fall unheeded: God is true.

While the flag with stars bedecked

Threatens where it should protect,

And the Law shakes hands with Crime,

What is left us but to wait,

Match our patience to our fate,

And abide the better time?

Patience, friends! The human heart

Everywhere shall take our part,

Everywhere for us shall pray;

On our side are nature's laws,

And God's life is in the cause

That we suffer for to-day.

Well to suffer is divine;

Pass the watchword down the line,

Pass the countersign: "Endure."

Not to him who rashly dares,

But to him who nobly bears,

Is the victor's garland sure.

Frozen earth to frozen breast,

Lay our slain one down to rest;

Lay him down in hope and faith,

And above the broken sod,

Once again, to Freedom's God,

Pledge ourselves for life or death,

That the State whose walls we lay,

In our blood and tears, to-day,

Shall be free from bonds of shame,

And our goodly land untrod

By the feet of Slavery, shod

With cursing as with flame!

Plant the Buckeye on his grave,

For the hunter of the slave

In its shadow cannot rest;

And let martyr mound and tree

Be our pledge and guaranty

Of the freedom of the West!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Affairs in Kansas went from bad to worse. Bands of armed

emigrants poured into the state from the south, and such

disorder followed that on August 25, 1856, the governor

proclaimed the territory in a state of insurrection. On

September 14 a force of twenty-five hundred Missourians again

attacked Lawrence, but were beaten off.

THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE

[September 14, 1856]

All night upon the guarded hill,

Until the stars were low,

Wrapped round as with Jehovah's will,

We waited for the foe;

All night the silent sentinels

Moved by like gliding ghosts;

All night the fancied warning bells

Held all men to their posts.

We heard the sleeping prairies breathe,

The forest's human moans,

The hungry gnashing of the teeth

Of wolves on bleaching bones;

We marked the roar of rushing fires,

The neigh of frightened steeds,

The voices as of far-off lyres

Among the river reeds.

We were but thirty-nine who lay

Beside our rifles then;

We were but thirty-nine, and they

Were twenty hundred men.

Our lean limbs shook and reeled about,

Our feet were gashed and bare,

And all the breezes shredded out

Our garments in the air.

* * * * *

They came: the blessed Sabbath day,

That soothed our swollen veins,

Like God's sweet benediction, lay

On all the singing plains;

The valleys shouted to the sun,

The great woods clapped their hands,

And joy and glory seemed to run

Like rivers through the lands.

And then our daughters and our wives,

And men whose heads were white,

Rose sudden into kingly lives

And walked forth to the fight;

And we drew aim along our guns

And calmed our quickening breath,

Then, as is meet for Freedom's sons,

Shook loving hands with Death.

And when three hundred of the foe

Rode up in scorn and pride,

Whoso had watched us then might know

That God was on our side;

For all at once a mighty thrill

Of grandeur through us swept,

And strong and swiftly down the hill

Like Gideons we leapt.

And all throughout that Sabbath day

A wall of fire we stood,

And held the baffled foe at bay,

And streaked the ground with blood.

And when the sun was very low

They wheeled their stricken flanks,

And passed on, wearily and slow,

Beyond the river banks.

Beneath the everlasting stars

We bended child-like knees,

And thanked God for the shining scars

Of His large victories.

And some, who lingered, said they heard

Such wondrous music pass

As though a seraph's voice had stirred

The pulses of the grass.

RICHARD REALF.

A bill for the admission of Kansas under a constitution

permitting slavery was introduced in Congress in February,

1858, and occasioned one of the most acrimonious debates ever

heard at the Capital. In the House, a fist fight occurred

between Keitt of South Carolina, and Grow of Pennsylvania. The

bill was passed on May 4.

THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT

A FRAGMENT FROM THE GREAT AMERICAN EPIC, THE WASHINGTONIAD

[March, 1858]

Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt--

Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted--

Him that hath wopped his own niggers till Northerners all unto Keitt

Seem but as niggers to wop, and hills of the smallest potatoes.

Late and long was the fight on the Constitution of Kansas;

Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk into lighting of gas-lamps;--

Still on the floor of the house the heroes unwearied were fighting.

Dry grew palates and tongues with excitement and expectoration,

Plugs were becoming exhausted, and Representatives also.

Who led on to the war the anti-Lecomptonite phalanx?

Grow, hitting straight from the shoulder, the Pennsylvania Slasher;

Him followed Hickman, and Potter the wiry, from woody Wisconsin;

Washburne stood with his brother,--Cadwallader stood with Elihu;

Broad Illinois sent the one, and woody Wisconsin the other.

Mott came mild as new milk, with gray hairs under his broad brim,

Leaving the first chop location and water privilege near it,

Held by his fathers of old on the willow-fringed banks of Ohio.

Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and Montgomery ready for mischief.

Who against these to the floor led on the Lecomptonite legions?

Keitt of South Carolina, the clear grit, the tall, the ondaunted--

Keitt and Reuben Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;

Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and Craige from North Carolina;

Craige and scorny McQueen, and Owen, and Lovejoy, and Lamar,

These Mississippi sent to the war, "_tres juncti in uno_."

Long had raged the warfare of words; it was four in the morning;

Whittling and expectoration and liquorin' all were exhausted,

When Keitt, tired of talk, bespake Reu. Davis, "O Reuben,

Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and I've concluded to clinch him."

This said, up to his feet he sprang, and loos'ning his choker,

Straighted himself for a grip, as a b'ar-hunter down in Arkansas

Squares to go in at the b'ar, when the dangerous varmint is cornered.

"Come out, Grow," he cried, "you Black Republican puppy,

Come on the floor, like a man, and darn my eyes, but I'll show you"--

Him answered straight-hitting Grow, "Wall now, I calkilate, Keitt,

No nigger-driver shall leave his plantation in South Carolina,

Here to crack his cow-hide round this child's ears, if he knows it."

Scarce had he spoke when the hand, the chiválrous five fingers of Keitt,

Clutched at his throat,--had they closed, the speeches of Grow had been

ended,--

Never more from a stump had he stirred up the free and enlightened;--

But though smart Keitt's mauleys, the mauleys of Grow were still smarter;

Straight from the shoulder he shot,--not Owen Swift or Ned Adams

Ever put in his right with more delicate feeling of distance.

As drops hammer on anvil, so dropped Grow's right into Keitt

Just where the jugular runs to the point at which Ketch ties his

drop-knot;--

Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dollars rattled about him.

Forth sprang his friends o'er the body; first Barksdale,

waving-wig-wearer,

Craige and McQueen and Davis, the ra'al hoss of wild Mississippi;

Fiercely they gathered round Grow, catawampously up as to chaw him;

But without Potter they reckoned, the wiry from woody Wisconsin;

He, striking out right and left, like a catamount varmint and vicious,

Dashed to the rescue, and with him the Washburnes, Cadwallader, Elihu;

Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket walked Potter's one, two,--hard and

heavy;

Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, dropped Grow, and let out at Elihu.

Then like a fountain had flowed the claret of Washburne the elder,

But for Cadwallader's care,--Cadwallader, guard of his brother,

Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into Chancery soon would have drawn it.

Well was it then for Barksdale, the wig that waved over his forehead:

Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, and, the wearer releasing,

Left to the conqueror naught but the scalp of his bald-headed foeman.

Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove on the waters of trouble,

Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with his gray hair under his broad brim,

Preaching peace to deaf ears, and getting considerably damaged.

Cautious Covode in the rear, as dubious what it might come to,

Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 'gainst whoever might seem to deserve

it,--

Little it mattered to him whether Pro- or Anti-Lecompton,

So but he found in the Hall a foeman worthy his weapon!

So raged the battle of men, till into the thick of the _mêlée_,

Like to the heralds of old, stepped the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Speaker.

Only a few days later, on May 19, occurred an affair which

threw the country into convulsion. A Georgian named Charles A.

Hamilton gathered together a gang of twenty-five Missourians,

attacked the Free-Soilers in the neighborhood of Marais des

Cygnes, took eleven prisoners, marched them off to a gulch and

shot them. The pursuit of the assassins was so half-hearted

that they all escaped.

LE MARAIS DU CYGNE

[May 19, 1858]

A blush as of roses

Where rose never grew!

Great drops on the bunch-grass,

But not of the dew!

A taint in the sweet air

For wild bees to shun!

A stain that shall never

Bleach out in the sun!

Back, steed of the prairies!

Sweet song-bird, fly back!

Wheel hither, bald vulture!

Gray wolf, call thy pack!

The foul human vultures

Have feasted and fled;

The wolves of the Border

Have crept from the dead.

From the hearths of their cabins,

The fields of their corn,

Unwarned and unweaponed,

The victims were torn,--

By the whirlwind of murder

Swooped up and swept on

To the low, reedy fen-lands,

The Marsh of the Swan.

With a vain plea for mercy

No stout knee was crooked;

In the mouths of the rifles

Right manly they looked.

How paled the May sunshine,

O Marais du Cygne!

On death for the strong life,

On red grass for green!

In the homes of their rearing,

Yet warm with their lives,

Ye wait the dead only,

Poor children and wives!

Put out the red forge-fire,

The smith shall not come;

Unyoke the brown oxen,

The ploughman lies dumb.

Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,

O dreary death-train,

With pressed lips as bloodless

As lips of the slain!

Kiss down the young eyelids,

Smooth down the gray hairs;

Let tears quench the curses

That burn through your prayers.

Strong man of the prairies,

Mourn bitter and wild!

Wail, desolate woman!

Weep, fatherless child!

But the grain of God springs up

From ashes beneath,

And the crown of his harvest

Is life out of death.

Not in vain on the dial

The shade moves along,

To point the great contrasts

Of right and of wrong:

Free homes and free altars,

Free prairie and flood,--

The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,

Whose bloom is of blood!

On the lintels of Kansas

That blood shall not dry;

Henceforth the Bad Angel

Shall harmless go by;

Henceforth to the sunset,

Unchecked on her way,

Shall Liberty follow

The march of the day.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Prominent among the Kansas Free-Soilers was John Brown, a

leader in the guerrilla warfare. United States troops were

finally thrown into the territory to preserve peace, and

Brown, looking around for new fields, decided to strike a blow

in Virginia. On the night of October 16, 1859, at the head

of a small company, he surprised and captured the arsenal at

Harper's Ferry. He was attacked next day by an overwhelming

force of militia and United States marines, his men either

killed or captured, and he himself taken prisoner. He was tried

for treason and murder in the first degree, was found guilty

and hanged December 2, 1859. The men who had been captured with

him were hanged a few days later.

HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY

[October 16, 1859]

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,

Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.

There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,

Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Came homeward in the morning--to find his house burned down.

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;

Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;

And he and his brave boys vowed--so might Heaven help and speed 'em!--

They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights

the land;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.

And the Lord _did_ aid these men, and they labored day and even,

Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,

Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,--

In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;

Then Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!

Then they seized another brave boy,--not amid the heat of battle,

But in peace, behind his ploughshare,--and they loaded him with chains,

And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,

Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;

Then Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down.

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,

He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;

He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he

Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,

That Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!

Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,

And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle from afar;

And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,

Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.

So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,

Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,

Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,

Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;

For Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.

He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;

But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,

Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp's rifles;

And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.

Says Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

"Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and take the town!

"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm

them;

Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.

On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them--

These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth."

Says Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown."

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:

"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a holy night!"

It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,

With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates--black and white,

Captain Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;

Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;

Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;

Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,

And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.

Mad Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;

It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor's _coup d'état_.

"Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!" said

he,

Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,--

This Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown;

And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.

Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;

And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,

And the Shepherdstown and Winchester militia hastened whither

Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.

General Brown!

Osawatomie Brown!

Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown's durance,

And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,

When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance--

Only nineteen--thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;

So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,

Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon

whiskey,

Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.

Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!

In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;

And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,

Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.

How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;

How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house

floor;

How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;

What the brave old madman told them,--these are known the country o'er.

"Hang Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,"

Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial frown.

But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,

Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by

Southern hands;

And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the

dragon,

May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!

And Old Brown,

Osawatomie Brown,

May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed his coffin down!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

November, 1859.

THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN

[December 2, 1859]

Fresh palms for the Old Dominion!

New peers for the valiant Dead!

Never hath showered her sunshine

On a field of doughtier dread--

Heroes in buff three thousand,

And a single scarred gray head!

Fuss, and feathers, and flurry--

Clink, and rattle, and roar--

The old man looks around him

On meadow and mountain hoar;

The place, he remarks, is pleasant,

I had not seen it before.

Form, in your boldest order,

Let the people press no nigher!

Would ye have them hear to his words--

The words that may spread like fire?

'Tis a right smart chance to test him

(Here we are at the gallows-tree),

So knot the noose--pretty tightly--

Bandage his eyes, and we'll see

(For we'll keep him waiting a little),

If he tremble in nerve or knee.

There, in a string, we've got him!

(Shall the music bang and blow?)

The chivalry wheels and marches,

And airs its valor below.

Look hard in the blindfold visage

(He can't look back), and inquire

(He has stood there nearly a quarter),

If he doesn't begin to tire?

Not yet! how long will he keep us,

To see if he quail or no?

I reckon it's no use waiting,

And 'tis time that we had the show.

For the trouble--we can't see why--

Seems with us, and not with him,

As he stands 'neath the autumn sky,

So strangely solemn and dim!

But high let our standard flout it!

"Sic Semper"--the drop comes down--

And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!)

There's an end of old John Brown!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE

[December 2, 1859]

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:

"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.

But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,

With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;

And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh.

Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild,

As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child!

The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;

And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.

That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,

And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!

Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!

Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood!

Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies;

Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,

Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear.

But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale,

To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;

In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay.

She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove;

And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

In the North, Brown was considered a sainted martyr--an

estimate as untrue as the Southern one--and "John Brown's Body"

became the most popular marching song in the war which was to

follow. Charles Sprague Hall is said to have been the author of

the verses.

GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY

John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the grave,

His soul is marching on!

_Chorus_--Glory! Glory Hallelujah!

Glory! Glory Hallelujah!

His soul is marching on.

He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!

His soul is marching on.

John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back.

His soul is marching on.

His pet lambs will meet him on the way,

And they'll go marching on.

They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,

As they go marching on.

Now for the Union let's give three rousing cheers,

As we go marching on.

Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!

CHARLES SPRAGUE HALL.

A variant of the John Brown song was written by Miss Edna Dean

Proctor, and is certainly more coherent and intelligible than

the lines which formed a marching song for over a million men.

JOHN BROWN

John Brown died on the scaffold for the slave;

Dark was the hour when we dug his hallowed grave;

Now God avenges the life he gladly gave,

Freedom reigns to-day!

Glory, glory hallelujah,

Freedom reigns to-day!

John Brown sowed and the harvesters are we;

Honor to him who has made the bondsman free;

Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be,

Freedom reigns to-day!

John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;

Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner wave;

Lo! for the million he perilled all to save,

Freedom reigns to-day!

John Brown's body through the world is marching on;

Hail to the hour when oppression shall be gone;

All men will sing in the better day's dawn,

Freedom reigns to-day!

John Brown dwells where the battle's strife is o'er;

Hate cannot harm him, nor sorrow stir him more;

Earth will remember the martyrdom he bore,

Freedom reigns to-day!

John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave;

John Brown lives in the triumph of the brave;

John Brown's soul not a higher joy can crave,

Freedom reigns to-day!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX

Compassionate eyes had our brave John Brown,

And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown;

He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley,

The fool who redeemed us once of our folly,

And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown!

Too vehement, verily, was John Brown!

For waiting is statesmanlike; his the renown

Of the holy rash arm, the equipper and starter

Of freedmen; aye, call him fanatic and martyr:

He can carry both halos, our plain John Brown.

A scandalous stumbling-block was John Brown,

And a jeer; but ah! soon from the terrified town,

In his bleeding track made over hilltop and hollow,

Wise armies and councils were eager to follow,

And the children's lips chanted our lost John Brown.

Star-led for us, stumbled and groped John Brown,

Star-led, in the awful morasses to drown;

And the trumpet that rang for a nation's upheaval,

From the thought that was just, thro' the deed that was evil,

Was blown with the breath of this dumb John Brown!

Bared heads and a pledge unto mad John Brown!

Now the curse is allayed, now the dragon is down,

Now we see, clear enough, looking back at the onset,

Christianity's flood-tide and Chivalry's sunset

In the old broken heart of our hanged John Brown!

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.

The summer of 1860 swung around, and on April 23 the National

Democratic Convention met at Charleston, S. C. Antagonism at

once developed between the delegates from the South and from

the North, the committee on resolutions could not agree, and

after a week of bitter debate the Northern platform was adopted

and the Southern delegates withdrew in a body. It was the

first step toward secession. The convention adjourned to meet

at Baltimore, where Stephen A. Douglas was nominated for the

presidency.

LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE

A SONG OF THE CHARLESTON CONVENTION

[April 23, 1860]

Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade,

With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid;

All the weapons of corruption--the bribe, the threat, the lie--

All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die,

Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare,

And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden glare;

For all behind him thronging the mighty people came,

With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame--

"A Douglas and a Douglas!"

Hark to the people's cry,

Shaking the earth beneath their feet,

And thundering through the sky.

Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth,

Came old and gray Buchanan a-hungering for his death;

And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes,

John Slidell--he of Houmas--each poisoned arrow tries.

With cold and stony visage, lo! Breckinridge is there,

While old Joe Lane keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air;

But still the "Little Giant" holds unmoved his fearless way,

While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway--

"A Douglas and a Douglas!

No hand but his can guide,

In such a strait, our ship of state

Across the stormy tide."

A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang,

Crawled forward Caleb Cushing, while behind his rattles rang;

And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black,

The Alabamian Yancey dashes in with fell attack:

Lo! Bayard is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice,

While Jeff Davis plots with Bigler full many a foul device;

But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own,

While louder still and louder, the cry behind has grown--

"A Douglas and a Douglas,

Who every base trick spurns;

The people's will is sovereign still,

And that to Douglas turns."

Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banks

The blatant Barry caracoles and spurs along the ranks;

From Arkansaw comes Burrows, with his "toothpick" in its sheath,

While that jaundiced Georgian, Jackson, shows his grim and ugly teeth;

And Barksdale barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail,

And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail;

But smiling now--almost a laugh--the Douglas marches on,

While many million voices rise in chorus like to one--

"A Douglas and a Douglas"

Louder the war-song grows:

"God speed the man who fights so well

Against a thousand foes."

Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky,

Fierce were the threatening gestures--the words rang shrill and high;

In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks,

Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks

(And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt Buchanan fought),

This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought;

And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day,

The "Little Giant" held his own through all that murderous fray:

"A Douglas and a Douglas!"

Still louder grows the roar

Which swells and floats from myriad throats

Like waves on some wild shore.

Oh! a cheer for Colonel Flournoy, who to help our chief did press,

May memory perish if his name we cease to love and bless!

And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note,

Who seized old Hydra in his den, and shook him by the throat.

Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fade

The glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade;

And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crown

The "Little Giant," who has met and struck corruption down.

So a Douglas and a Douglas!

While hearts have smiles and tears,

Your name will glow, your praise shall flow,

Through all the coming years.

CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.

While the Democrats were thus divided, the Republicans had met

at Chicago, adopted a platform protesting against the extension

of slavery in the territories, and nominated for President

Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois. On November 6, 1860, Lincoln was

elected President, receiving one hundred and eighty electoral

votes.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,

Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,

She bent the strenuous heavens and came down

To make a man to meet the mortal need.

She took the tried clay of the common road--

Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,

Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;

Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.

It was a stuff to wear for centuries,

A man that matched the mountains, and compelled

The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;

The tang and odor of the primal things--

The rectitude and patience of the rocks;

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;

The courage of the bird that dares the sea;

The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;

The pity of the snow that hides all scars;

The loving-kindness of the wayside well;

The tolerance and equity of light

That gives as freely to the shrinking weed

As to the great oak flaring to the wind--

To the grove's low bill as to the Matterhorn

That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came.

From prairie cabin up to Capitol,

One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.

Forevermore he burned to do his deed

With the fine stroke and gesture of a king.

He built the rail-pile as he built the State,

Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,

The conscience of him testing every stroke,

To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with a mighty heart:

And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,

Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,

He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again

The rafters of the Home. He held his place--

Held the long purpose like a growing tree--

Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.

And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down

As when a kingly cedar green with boughs

Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,

And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

EDWIN MARKHAM.

Lincoln's election was the signal the South had been awaiting.

On December 20, 1860, the state of South Carolina unanimously

passed an ordinance of secession, and a week later, the state

troops seized Castle Pinckney and Fort Moultrie, in Charleston

harbor, and took possession of the United States arsenal at

Charleston, with seventy-five thousand stands of arms.

BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE

She has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride,--

Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!

She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,

And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,

We can never forget that our hearts have been one,--

Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,

From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch;

But we said: "She is hasty,--she does not mean much."

We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;

But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget."

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?

Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?

Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain

That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,--

Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,

Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,

And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:

In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,

Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,

As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow

Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;

Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!

Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,

The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,

There are battles with fate that can never be won!

The star-flowering banner must never be furled,

For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

Go, then, our rash sister, afar and aloof,--

Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;

But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,

Remember the pathway that leads to our door!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Georgia, Alabama, Florida, North Carolina, Mississippi, and

Louisiana followed South Carolina's lead in seceding and

seizing United States forts and arsenals. On February 4,

1861, the first Confederate congress met at Montgomery, Ala.,

and a few days later, Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was

chosen President, and Alexander H. Stephens, of Georgia,

Vice-President, of the Confederate States.

JEFFERSON D.

You're a traitor convicted, you know very well!

Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

You thought it a capital thing to rebel,

Jefferson D.!

But there's one thing I'll say:

You'll discover some day,

When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree,

There's an accident happened you didn't foresee,

Jefferson D.!

What shall be found upon history's page?

Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

When a student explores the republican age!

Jefferson D.!

He will find, as is meet,

That at Judas's feet

You sit in your shame, with the impotent plea,

That you hated the land and the law of the free,

Jefferson D.!

What do you see in your visions at night,

Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?

Does the spectacle furnish you any delight,

Jefferson D.?

Do you feel in disgrace

The black cap o'er your face,

While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee,

And freedom, insulted, approves the decree,

Jefferson D.?

Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain,

Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain,

Jefferson D.!

And at last, for the right,

We arise in our might,

A people united, resistless, and free,

And declare that rebellion no longer shall be!

Jefferson D.!

H. S. CORNWELL.

Davis was inaugurated on February 18, 1861, and declared in his

inaugural that the attitude of the Southern States was purely

one of self-defence. "All we want," he said, "is to be let

alone."

THE OLD COVE

"All we ask is to be let alone."

[February 18, 1861]

As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp,

There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,

And at everybody as passed that road

A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed.

And venever he flung his stick or his stone,

He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."

"Let me alone, for I loves to shy

These bits of things at the passers-by--

Let me alone, for I've got your tin

And lots of other traps snugly in;--

Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boat

To grab votever you've got afloat;--

In a veek or so I expects to come

And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;--

I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan:

"All I axes is--Let me alone."

Just then came along on the self-same vay,

Another Old Cove, and began for to say--

"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!--

You've _ben_ let alone a darned sight too long;--

Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!

Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)

Let go that stone! If you once show fight,

I'll knock you higher than ary kite.

You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks,

And cure you of shying them stones and sticks,--

And I'll hev my hardware back and my cash,

And knock your scow into tarnal smash,

And if ever I catches you round my ranch,

I'll string you up to the nearest branch.

"The best you can do is to go to bed,

And keep a decent tongue in your head;

For I reckon, before you and I are done,

You'll wish you had left honest folks alone."

The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old Cove

He sot quite still in his cypress grove,

And he looked at his stick revolvin' slow

Whether 'twere safe to shy it or no,--

And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,

"All that I axed vos, _let me alone_."

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

Texas, by a majority of over three to one, voted to join the

Confederacy, and seized more than a million dollars' worth of

government munitions. Some were saved by the Union troops,

notably those at Fort Duncan.

A SPOOL OF THREAD

[March, 1861]

Well, yes, I've lived in Texas since the spring of '61;

And I'll relate the story, though I fear, sir, when 'tis done,

'Twill be little worth your hearing, it was such a simple thing,

Unheralded in verses that the grander poets sing.

There had come a guest unbidden, at the opening of the year,

To find a lodgment in our hearts, and the tenant's name was fear;

For secession's drawing mandate was a call for men and arms,

And each recurring eventide but brought us fresh alarms.

They had notified the General that he must yield to fate,

And all the muniments of war surrender to the state,

But he sent from San Antonio an order to the sea

To convey on board the steamer all the fort's artillery.

Right royal was his purpose, but the foe divined his plan,

And the wily Texans set a guard to intercept the man

Detailed to bear the message; they placed their watch with care

That neither scout nor citizen should pass it unaware.

Well, this was rather awkward, sir, as doubtless you will say,

But the Major, who was chief of staff, resolved to have his way

Despite the watchful provost guard; so he asked his wife to send,

With a box of knick-knacks, a letter to her friend;

And the missive held one sentence I remember to this day:

"The thread is for your neighbor, Mr. French, across the way."

He dispatched a youthful courier. Of course, as you will know,

The Texans searched him thoroughly and ordered him to show

The contents of the letter. They read it o'er and o'er,

But failed to find the message they had hindered once before.

So it reached the English lady, and she wondered at the word,

But gave the thread to Major French, explaining that she heard

He wished a spool of cotton, and great was his surprise

At such a trifle sent, unasked, through leagues of hostile spies.

"There's some hidden purpose, doubtless, in the curious gift," he said.

Then he tore away the label, and inside the spool of thread

Was Major Nichol's order, bidding him convey to sea

All the arms and ammunition from Fort Duncan's battery.

"Down to Brazon speed your horses," thus the Major's letter ran,

"Shift equipments and munitions, and embark them if you can."

Yes, the transfer was effected, for the ships lay close at hand,

Ere the Texans guessed their purpose, they had vanished from the land.

Do I know it for a fact, sir? 'Tis no story that I've read--

I was but a boy in war time, and I carried him the thread.

SOPHIE E. EASTMAN.

On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated President

of the United States. In his address he stated that he had no

intention of interfering with slavery in the states; but that

acts of violence within any state against the authority of the

United States were insurrectionary and would be repressed. In

the Confederate States this announcement was construed to mean

war.

GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT

[March 4, 1861]

All hail! Unfurl the Stripes and Stars!

The banner of the free!

Ten times ten thousand patriots greet

The shrine of Liberty!

Come, with one heart, one hope, one aim,

An undivided band,

To elevate, with solemn rites,

The ruler of our land!

Not to invest a potentate

With robes of majesty,--

Not to confer a kingly crown,

Nor bend a subject knee.

We bow beneath no sceptred sway,

Obey no royal nod:--

Columbia's sons, erect and free,

Kneel only to their God!

Our ruler boasts no titled rank,

No ancient, princely line,--

No regal right to sovereignty,

Ancestral and divine.

A patriot,--at his country's call,

Responding to her voice;

One of the people,--he becomes

A sovereign by our choice!

And now, before the mighty pile

We've reared to Liberty,

He swears to cherish and defend

The charter of the free!

God of our country! seal his oath

With Thy supreme assent.

God save the Union of the States!

God save our President!

FRANCIS DEHAES JANVIER.