II. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM…

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]

I

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?"

II

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!"

IV

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.

V

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.

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]

I

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.

II

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.

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.