Poems of American Patriotism. Various

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

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      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

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      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,