We grant no
dukedoms
to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
Matthews - Poems of American Patriotism
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of American Patriotism
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Title: Poems of American Patriotism
Author: Brander Matthews (Editor)
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM ***
Produced by Robert Prince, David Starner, Juliet Sutherland
Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
POEMS OF AMERICAN PATRIOTISM
CHOSEN BY
BRANDER MATTHEWS
AN EDITION REVISED
AND EXTENDED
ILLUSTRATED BY
N. C. WYETH
TO THE MEMORY OF
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
PREFATORY NOTE
An attempt has been made in the present collection to gather
together the patriotic poems of America, those which depict
feelings as well as those which describe actions, since these
latter are as indicative of the temper of the time. It is a
collection, for the most part, of old favorites, for Americans have
been quick to take to heart a stirring telling of a daring and
noble deed; but these may be found to have gained freshness by a
grouping in order. The arrangement is chronological so far as it
might be, that the history of America as told by her poets should
be set forth. Here and there occur breaks in the story, chiefly
because there are fit incidents for song which no poet has fitly
sung as yet.
The poems have been printed scrupulously from the best accessible
text, and they have not been tinkered in any way, though some few
have been curtailed slightly for the sake of space. In a few cases,
where the whole poem has not fallen within the scope of this
volume, only a fragment is here given. When this has been done, it
is pointed out. Brief notes have been prefixed to many of the
poems, making plain the occasion of their origin, and removing any
chance obscurity of allusion.
NEW YORK, November, 1882.
In the two score years since this collection was prepared many
things have happened, and many poets have been in-spired to
celebrate men and moods and deeds. It has been found necessary to
omit a few of the less important verses in the earlier edition to
make room for the most significant of the lyric commemorations of
events almost contemporary, and therefore appealing to us more
immediately, and perhaps more poignantly.
B. M.
July 4, 1922.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOSTON, Ralph Waldo Emerson
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON, Sidney Lanier
HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson
TICONDEROGA, V. B. Wilson
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE, Oliver Wendell Holmes
WARREN'S ADDRESS, John Pierpont
THE OLD CONTINENTALS, Guy Humphrey McMaster
NATHAN HALE, Francis Miles Finch
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL, Will Carleton
MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH, William Collins
SONG OF MARION'S MEN, William Cullen Bryant
TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW, Philip Freneau
GEORGE WASHINGTON, James Russell Lowell
PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE, James Gates Percival
THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER, Francis Scott Key
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS, Thomas Dunn English
THE AMERICAN FLAG, Joseph Rodman Drake
OLD IRONSIDES, Oliver Wendell Holmes
MONTEREY, Charles Fenno Hoff man
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD, Theodore O'Hara
HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY, Edmund Clarence Stedman
APOCALYPSE, Richard Realf
THE PICKET GUARD, Ethel Lynn Beers
THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD, James Russell Lowell
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Julia Ward Howe
AT PORT ROYAL, John Greenleaf Whittier
READY, Phoebe Gary
"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY? ", Bret Harte
SONG OF THE SOLDIERS, Charles G. Halpine
JONATHAN TO JOHN, James Russell Lowell
THE CUMBERLAND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES, Edmund Clarence Stedman
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, George H. Boker
BARBARA FRIETCHIE, John Greenleaf Whittier
FREDERICKSBURG, Thomas Bailey Aldrich
MUSIC IN CAMP, John R. Thompson
KEENAN'S CHARGE, George Parsons Lathrop
THE BLACK REGIMENT, George H. Boker
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG, Bret Harte
TWILIGHT ON SUMTER, Richard Henry Stoddard
THE BAY-FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell
SHERIDAN'S RIDE, Thomas Buchanan Read
CRAVEN, Henry Newbolt
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA, Samuel H. M. Byers
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! , Walt Whitman
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, James Russell Lowell
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, Francis Miles Finch
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE, Robert Bridges
GRANT, H. C. Bunner
THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN, Richard Watson Gilder
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS, John Jerome Rooney
THE REGULAR ARMY MAN, Joseph C. Lincoln
WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN, Guy Wetmore Carryl
AD FINEM FIDELES, Guy Wetmore Carry
GROVER CLEVELAND, Joel Benton
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND, Robert Bridges
FIFTY YEARS, James Weldon Johnson
THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS, Marie Van Vorst
I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH, Alan Seeger
THE CHOICE, Rudyard Kipling
ANNAPOLIS, Waldron Kinsolving Post
YANKS, James W. Foley
ANY WOMAN TO A SOLDIER, Grace Ellery Channing
TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson
YOU AND YOU, Edith Wharton
WITH THE TIDE, Edith Wharton
AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME, Henry van Dyke
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, Angela Morgan
BOSTON
SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[sidenote: Dec. 16, 1773]
_This poem was read in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial
Anniversary of the "Boston Tea-Party," at which a band of men
disguised as Indians had quietly emptied into the sea the taxed
tea-chests of three British ships. _
The rocky nook with hill-tops three
Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.
And where they went on trade intent
They did what freemen can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
"Like us be free and bold! "
The honest waves refuse to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.
Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;--
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;--
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsmen we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union nevermore again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast:
Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said: "Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay! "
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West. "
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'T is very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call. "
"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent. "
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And Honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wit of all her wisest
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
_God with the fathers, so with us,_
Thou darling town of ours!
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[Sidenote: April 18, 1775]
_This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales of a
Wayside Inn. "_
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 to the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the 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 rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON
SIDNEY LANIER
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed all
political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and
began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a
fragment of the "Psalm of the West. "_
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 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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
Then, with a shout that awakens
All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.
Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;
And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.
Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataract's silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
'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--O, so close it made me shiver! --
Stood a fortress on the hilltop 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 red-coats' 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;
Far behind the 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 thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats 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. "
O 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 red-coats, 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.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsmen we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union nevermore again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast:
Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said: "Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay! "
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West. "
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'T is very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call. "
"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent. "
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And Honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wit of all her wisest
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
_God with the fathers, so with us,_
Thou darling town of ours!
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[Sidenote: April 18, 1775]
_This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales of a
Wayside Inn. "_
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 to the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the 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 rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON
SIDNEY LANIER
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed all
political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and
began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a
fragment of the "Psalm of the West. "_
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 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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
Then, with a shout that awakens
All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.
Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;
And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.
Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataract's silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
'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--O, so close it made me shiver! --
Stood a fortress on the hilltop 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 red-coats' 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;
Far behind the 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 thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats 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. "
O 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 red-coats, 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 backward 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 afraid there'll be more trouble afore this 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 bayonets
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, "O, 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!
WARREN'S ADDRESS
JOHN PIERPONT
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a
Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which
he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the
field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to
surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him
instantly. _
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!
by Brander Matthews (Editor)
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Title: Poems of American Patriotism
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BRANDER MATTHEWS
AN EDITION REVISED
AND EXTENDED
ILLUSTRATED BY
N. C. WYETH
TO THE MEMORY OF
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
PREFATORY NOTE
An attempt has been made in the present collection to gather
together the patriotic poems of America, those which depict
feelings as well as those which describe actions, since these
latter are as indicative of the temper of the time. It is a
collection, for the most part, of old favorites, for Americans have
been quick to take to heart a stirring telling of a daring and
noble deed; but these may be found to have gained freshness by a
grouping in order. The arrangement is chronological so far as it
might be, that the history of America as told by her poets should
be set forth. Here and there occur breaks in the story, chiefly
because there are fit incidents for song which no poet has fitly
sung as yet.
The poems have been printed scrupulously from the best accessible
text, and they have not been tinkered in any way, though some few
have been curtailed slightly for the sake of space. In a few cases,
where the whole poem has not fallen within the scope of this
volume, only a fragment is here given. When this has been done, it
is pointed out. Brief notes have been prefixed to many of the
poems, making plain the occasion of their origin, and removing any
chance obscurity of allusion.
NEW YORK, November, 1882.
In the two score years since this collection was prepared many
things have happened, and many poets have been in-spired to
celebrate men and moods and deeds. It has been found necessary to
omit a few of the less important verses in the earlier edition to
make room for the most significant of the lyric commemorations of
events almost contemporary, and therefore appealing to us more
immediately, and perhaps more poignantly.
B. M.
July 4, 1922.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOSTON, Ralph Waldo Emerson
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON, Sidney Lanier
HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson
TICONDEROGA, V. B. Wilson
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE, Oliver Wendell Holmes
WARREN'S ADDRESS, John Pierpont
THE OLD CONTINENTALS, Guy Humphrey McMaster
NATHAN HALE, Francis Miles Finch
THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL, Will Carleton
MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH, William Collins
SONG OF MARION'S MEN, William Cullen Bryant
TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW, Philip Freneau
GEORGE WASHINGTON, James Russell Lowell
PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE, James Gates Percival
THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER, Francis Scott Key
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS, Thomas Dunn English
THE AMERICAN FLAG, Joseph Rodman Drake
OLD IRONSIDES, Oliver Wendell Holmes
MONTEREY, Charles Fenno Hoff man
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD, Theodore O'Hara
HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY, Edmund Clarence Stedman
APOCALYPSE, Richard Realf
THE PICKET GUARD, Ethel Lynn Beers
THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD, James Russell Lowell
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Julia Ward Howe
AT PORT ROYAL, John Greenleaf Whittier
READY, Phoebe Gary
"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY? ", Bret Harte
SONG OF THE SOLDIERS, Charles G. Halpine
JONATHAN TO JOHN, James Russell Lowell
THE CUMBERLAND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES, Edmund Clarence Stedman
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, George H. Boker
BARBARA FRIETCHIE, John Greenleaf Whittier
FREDERICKSBURG, Thomas Bailey Aldrich
MUSIC IN CAMP, John R. Thompson
KEENAN'S CHARGE, George Parsons Lathrop
THE BLACK REGIMENT, George H. Boker
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG, Bret Harte
TWILIGHT ON SUMTER, Richard Henry Stoddard
THE BAY-FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell
SHERIDAN'S RIDE, Thomas Buchanan Read
CRAVEN, Henry Newbolt
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA, Samuel H. M. Byers
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! , Walt Whitman
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, James Russell Lowell
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, Francis Miles Finch
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE, Robert Bridges
GRANT, H. C. Bunner
THE BURIAL OF SHERMAN, Richard Watson Gilder
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS, John Jerome Rooney
THE REGULAR ARMY MAN, Joseph C. Lincoln
WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN, Guy Wetmore Carryl
AD FINEM FIDELES, Guy Wetmore Carry
GROVER CLEVELAND, Joel Benton
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND, Robert Bridges
FIFTY YEARS, James Weldon Johnson
THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS, Marie Van Vorst
I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH, Alan Seeger
THE CHOICE, Rudyard Kipling
ANNAPOLIS, Waldron Kinsolving Post
YANKS, James W. Foley
ANY WOMAN TO A SOLDIER, Grace Ellery Channing
TO PEACE, WITH VICTORY, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson
YOU AND YOU, Edith Wharton
WITH THE TIDE, Edith Wharton
AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME, Henry van Dyke
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, Angela Morgan
BOSTON
SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[sidenote: Dec. 16, 1773]
_This poem was read in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial
Anniversary of the "Boston Tea-Party," at which a band of men
disguised as Indians had quietly emptied into the sea the taxed
tea-chests of three British ships. _
The rocky nook with hill-tops three
Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.
And where they went on trade intent
They did what freemen can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
"Like us be free and bold! "
The honest waves refuse to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.
Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;--
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;--
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsmen we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union nevermore again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast:
Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said: "Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay! "
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West. "
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'T is very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call. "
"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent. "
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And Honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wit of all her wisest
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
_God with the fathers, so with us,_
Thou darling town of ours!
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[Sidenote: April 18, 1775]
_This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales of a
Wayside Inn. "_
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 to the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the 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 rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON
SIDNEY LANIER
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed all
political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and
began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a
fragment of the "Psalm of the West. "_
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 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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
Then, with a shout that awakens
All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.
Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;
And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.
Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataract's silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
'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--O, so close it made me shiver! --
Stood a fortress on the hilltop 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 red-coats' 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;
Far behind the 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 thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats 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. "
O 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 red-coats, 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.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsmen we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union nevermore again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast:
Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said: "Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay! "
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West. "
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'T is very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call. "
"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent. "
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And Honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wit of all her wisest
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
_God with the fathers, so with us,_
Thou darling town of ours!
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
[Sidenote: April 18, 1775]
_This poem is the "Landlord's Tale," the first of the "Tales of a
Wayside Inn. "_
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 to the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the 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 rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON
SIDNEY LANIER
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_The skirmish at Lexington and the fight at Concord closed all
political bickering between Great Britain and her colonies and
began the War of the Revolution. The following verses are a
fragment of the "Psalm of the West. "_
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 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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
Then, with a shout that awakens
All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.
Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;
And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.
Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataract's silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
'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--O, so close it made me shiver! --
Stood a fortress on the hilltop 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 red-coats' 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;
Far behind the 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 thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
The red-coats 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. "
O 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 red-coats, 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 backward 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 afraid there'll be more trouble afore this 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 bayonets
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, "O, 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!
WARREN'S ADDRESS
JOHN PIERPONT
[Sidenote: June 17, 1775]
_Joseph Warren was commissioned by Massachusetts as a
Major-General three days before the battle of Bunker Hill, at which
he fought as a volunteer. He was one of the last to leave the
field, and as a British officer in the redoubt called to him to
surrender, a ball struck him in the forehead, killing him
instantly. _
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!
