Ballads of the Revolution.[1]

Great Britain’s lords[2] were planning— So ran the world’s report— To tax the colonies more and more,[4] And treat our sires as if they wore The liveries at the court. “The colonies’ hope is union,” Said Franklin,[3] by and by; “Not one of them that stands alone Can hold its own against the throne. We[3] join,” he wrote, “or die.” And “Freedom[4] is a birthright Our fathers handed down; Blood-bought,” James Otis[4] boldly said: “One king of theirs it cost his head; And one his throne and crown.[5] “Were we to lose it, England Would share in our mishap[6]; For not a net can harm us here, But threatens every English peer, Whom yet it may entrap. “Our laws are in our charters For scores of years enjoy’d; Nor has the King, or Parliament, Or both without our own consent The power to make them void.[5] “By them, the Magna Charta, And all our Saxon rights; By claims of nature, mind, descent, We ought to send to Parliament[7] And show it what it slights.” A protest then we sent it.[7] But back came sail on sail;[8] And less had leaves of law-books grave Torn out and flung to wind and wave Shown law could not prevail. They broke up our assembly;[9] Supreme their army[10] made; Removed the judge[11] who check’d their greed; And on the church our fathers freed The hands of bishops laid.[12] “Shall we, whose fathers won us Our rights, abide their loss? Nay,” Mayhew said;[13] “though these to take Our Pharoah’s hosts of red-coats make Blood-red the sea they cross. “The Lord o’errules the waters, And He will guard our cause: And Parliament—let Plymouth Rock To whelm them all throw back the shock— Will bid the tyrant pause.” “God guide the House of Commons,” We cried with lifted eyes. God guided it and us, alas, But how He scorch’d our heaven to pass His finger through the skies! The Commons framed the Stamp-Act.[14] It legal writs refused, And made our bargains go for naught, Unless, in all we sold or bought, Their stamps were bought and used. “The stamps are only vouchers,” Wrote Green,[15] “to license knaves!” “To tax, against their own consent, Where none,” said Adams,[16] “represent Our people, brands them slaves.” “Our charter’d free assemblies, To which our laws entrust[17] The right to tax us, and to pay Each crown-official,—only they Can ever keep him just.” Quoth Thomas Chase:[18] “They only! But British agents curse To find that our assemblies true Have something nobler here to do Than fill a noble’s purse.” “The admiralty,” said Hancock,[21] “To swell the navy’s pelf, Have pass’d a law that it empowers[19] To seek in every ship of ours A bounty for itself. “Would we dispute the seizure, Our loss can be discuss’d And righted but in England’s courts,[20] And by a judge whom it supports;— And that, they say, is just. “No fleet of mine[21] shall carry A stamp, though all I lose. I choose, ere it, to save my soul!” The whole land heard, and soon the whole Had sworn no stamps to use. New York had lived by commerce. Her merchants vow’d, they all,[22] Ere stamps they bought, would sail no boats, And sell no goods, and pass no notes— They would not live in thrall. Said Isaac Sears:[23] “No wonder These human lords combine The masses’ rivalling wealth to steal! Let them be stript, my lord may feel His decency divine. “For years, to gild the peerage Have England’s ports been made[24] The marts by law for all we bought.— Alas! in what that we have wrought Have they not check’d our trade? “The nobles, while their winnings Like nuggets clog the sieve That ours drop through, would not eschew Their royal rule: ‘To others do What makes them humbly live.’ “And shall we not live humbly Who but our pride restrain? And buy at home more homely goods?”— “Buy homespun!”[25] rang from bay to woods. Then rang the looms[25] amain. But keen and crafty tories, They prowl’d around at night, And plotted long, and bought and sold, And hoax’d and coax’d the young and old Their homespun league to slight.[26] “We must not wait till England Shall send the stamps,” wrote Edes.[27] “Once let our tories own a few, They soon were sown the whole land through To grow like seeds of weeds.” The Boston Stamp-man’s image Men burn’d before his face. Their roars, like thunder, threaten’d storm; And torches flash’d; the air was warm; The man resign’d his place. “Resign!” erelong the echo Had roll’d to every town.[28] None dared resist the people’s plea, And none dared hold a stamp, or be The stamp-man of the crown. “Our governors,” growl’d the tories, “Will sell the stamps to us.” The governors vow’d this course to take;[29] But we, we vow’d, our lives the stake, They should not thwart us thus. The night before the Stamp-Act Should rule the colony, We slept not much; we melted lead; We whetted steel; we plann’d ahead, We “Sons of Liberty.”[30] Then, when the morn was breaking,[31] On every hill and plain, In all the towns, we toll’d the bells,[31] That all began with doleful knells, As though for Freedom slain. Anon, they rang out madly[31] What might have peal’d to be The land’s alarm-bell—only now They peal’d to hail the new-born vow Of men that would be free. New York went wild to hear them.[32] Men flooded every way: They left their shops; they stopt their mills; And farmers flock’d from all the hills, And sailors from the bay. Now who would buy a stamp here? Was ask’d in all the ways. But not a shop was not shut to; For all had wiser work to do On this, our day of days. “We would not, and we will not Submit,” said Isaac Sears.[33] The governor said: “You fill the street, But here a fort and there a fleet May yet awake your fears.” “Our stamps,” cried James,[34] his major, “Our stamps, if loaded down Our cannon here, and scatter’d thence Among the crowd, would soon commence To circulate in town.” “Aha,” said Sears in answer, “For this you soldiers came? For this our wily governor here Pretended border wars to fear—[35] Aha, were we his game? “To tax us indirectly,— Was it for this, the crown Bade your imported troopers make Our town[35] support you?—for the sake Of being thus kept down? “To kill our leaders, was it, The crown made them be rank’d By Braddock’s braggarts, who could run And leave a man like Washington[36] By their commands outflank’d? “Yes, yes, in genuine danger We know who[37] win the day; And whose the coin and blood we miss, That, from our fathers’ time to this, Have held our foes at bay. “And need we now your army? You know—your sovereign too, Our wars are his—He[37] France attacks And here her colony—when he lacks Excuse for sending you. “How strong, think you, our patience? How long ere it shall tire?— Ah, Britain’s lion’s whelp may get So tough by cuffs like this, as yet To turn and rend her sire!” “Sheer treason!” cried the major; And “Treason!” cried his chief. Our spokesman’s eye their fury brook’d, Then calmly toward his friends he look’d, And gave his thoughts relief. “Nay, theirs are loyal spirits, But when the wrong is great, And forms of law do not deserve Their soul’s allegiance, then they serve The spirit of the state.” With this, he told those courtiers Their words would he report. They heard the people’s groans that rose To greet the words he bore, and chose To seek, near by, the fort.[38] Then from the fort the cannon Were turn’d upon the town. But “If you fire,” the people cried, “We hang the governor here outside, Or burn your quarters down.” The governor urged his honor; “Had pledged,” he said, “his oath,”[39] And ought to further Britain’s aims.“— We thought New York had equal claims On oath and honor both.[39] “And let him pledge his honor To let the stamps alone,” Said Isaac Sears; and all the crowd Who heard him say it, shouted loud To make his words their own. The people waited long then, And hoped the strife would end; But, when this course had nothing won, No man[40] could check a course begun The governor’s will to bend. At night, the boys with torches Came trooping out for sport. They sought the house of James,[41] and took The army flags his fear forsook, And march’d them round the fort. The governor own’d his coaches, And one a coach of state. They burst his barn-door in with cries[42] And dragg’d them off before his eyes, As trophies of their hate. An image of the devil, And of the governor too[42] They made, and made them both careen, While, side by side, through Bowling Green, They wheel’d them into view. At last, of all the coaches They form’d a funeral pyre; And, full in face of all the town, Who only roar’d its roar to drown, They set the whole on fire. Then came a wake and wailing, As ashes cover’d all; And not a clause in laws unjust The man had thought on us to thrust But some one would recall. “A foe[43] is he of England!” “A foe to all of us!” “In Scotland went with Jacobites!” “Has vow’d to murder here our rights!— Ere that we toast him thus!” The colony’s council[44] pass’d then A vote opposed by none,— That England had the stamps assign’d To agents who had all resign’d, Nor was the governor one. At this the governor waver’d, And wrote a message thus: “I wait the dawn of further light.” Cried Sears then: “Keep the fox in sight! He waits till free from us. “Now send we back this answer: ‘Awhile the town will wait, But four and twenty hours from now[45] Will hold the stamps or else will vow To hold no more debate.’” The governor begg’d the army,[46] The army begg’d the fleet, To take the stamps and save the fort; But neither cared to brave the sport Of those who fill’d the street. The courage of the courtiers Had bow’d to wisdom higher: The power of right that ruled the street Had overawed the fort and fleet— They did not dare to fire. They did not dare to kindle[46] A spark that, should it flame, Would shed no glory round a throne Where prince and peer would flush alone To blush for their own shame. So nothing now was left them Except to yield us all.[47] Our mayor took the stamps, at last, And bore them off, and lock’d them fast Within the City Hall. And loud the people shouted;[48] They felt that right was done; Cried “Liberty and Property! No stamps to curse the Colony!” And parted, one by one. The next day all the papers[49] Without the stamps appear’d. Men took no notes, but trusted men. Our ships were off to sea again; And none the navy fear’d. And none had bought a stamp there, Or seal’d himself a slave; And half of England, trust my word, Were thrill’d with joy, when they had heard How we ourselves could save.[50] At last there came a daybreak When all the thankful kneel’d; And bells were rung, and banners hung; And England’s weal was drunk and sung—[51] The Stamp Act was repeal’d. Great Britain’s lords in council Had talked of fire and ball; But, when they touch’d our liberties, Met manhood in the colonies They could not thus inthrall.

One windy day in March,[1] Ghost-white against the gray, A cruiser fleet, through snow and sleet, Made Narraganset Bay. There were smugglers in the bay, And smugglers on the shore; But loyal still to the royal will Ten times as many more,— Ten times as many more, Though every smuggler there But thrived because of England’s laws[2] And taxes none could bear. Yet the cruiser’s captain drawl’d, The while he quaft his ale, “These islands low are full you know, Of fellows fled from jail, “Of Puritans fled from law And kings they curse and fear. Aha!” he laugh’d, “our loyal craft Has brought the Cavalier! “Our guns will speak in tones To make the whole bay ring; And teach to each within their reach The reverence due the king. “Their ships upon the bay Shall heed our cannon’s call, And dip their flags,[3] or sail in rags, And yield us bounties all.[4] “Their sheep upon the shore, A royal tax will be.[4] No lack of food or kindling wood Is here,” quoth he, “for me!” There were smugglers in the bay, And smugglers on the shore; This craft, I ken, a band of men Ten times as lawless bore. Our sheriff[5] went and warn’d Their captain, o’er and o’er, To keep in sight the bounds of right, And not to plunder more. The captain waved his hand, Said he: “The fleet has made A vow devout to carry out The English ‘Acts of Trade.’”[6] Judge Hopkins[7] wrote him then: “Our men demand their due.” “I write because you break our laws,” Wrote Governor Wanton[7] too. The captain bade them go To Boston with their plea; “Not his affair; the admiral[7] there Had sent the ship to sea.” And then he turn’d away. One heard him mutter near: “I think I see the one they fee[8] Ship back his bounties here.” The judge and governor wrote The admiral, who but swore His fleet would hang[9] the island gang, If they should vex him more. “The navy[10] know their trade,” His clerk to Wanton wrote; “In mere pretence and insolence[11] You board the sovereign’s[12] boat.” Wrote Wanton: “We shall ask The throne[13] to judge your note; And every time you hint of crime,[13] Shall board the sovereign’s boat. “The English crown should serve The English people’s cause, And honor those, nor make them foes, Who stand by English laws.” But months and months went on. The cruiser fired away. None plied an oar, lived near the shore, But feared to be her prey.[4] Cried Captain Lindsey[14] then: “This outrage none should bide! Rhode Island grit must yet outwit, And trip the scoundrel’s pride. “He knows my packet here, And where I sail, and why; And if he will may sink me, still His guns will I defy. “If down we go, the law, Will float to stand upon; If that go too, this case is through; But, Britain, more anon!” So high his flag[15] he flew; And wide his jib he spread. The cruiser fired; her crew grew tired, Her captain wroth and red. “All hands aloft!” he cried; “All sail!” and at the words, The masts were fill’d with sailors drill’d To climb and cling like birds. Wide flew each flapping sheet, And sagg’d and bagg’d the gale, And cloud-like lash’d the waves that dash’d As if they felt a flail. When off of Nauquit[16] Point, Shrewd Lindsey knew his ground; He steer’d afar, and clear’d the bar; And then the ship swung round.[16] Up toss’d her canvas high; And dipp’d, as round she ran, The saucy way that seems to say Now catch me if you can. The cruiser’s captain look’d, And mouth’d an awful oath: “Now catch I not, let fire and shot Or bottom catch us both. “Mind not the bar,” he cried, “Straight on! With depth to spare,[15] The tide is high, and, sailing by, We head them off up there.” Deep plow’d the cruiser’s prow The broken waves below, So bows a bull whose pride is full To toss a stubborn foe. She plung’d and reel’d and roll’d. Ah, better had she tack’d! The water flew the bulwark through. The mainmast bent and crack’d. The wind, it whistled there; The boatswain whistled here. The captain swore; the mainsail tore; The jib had ript its gear. A flood was on the deck. The crew were floundering round. Then, clean and chill, and safe and still, The cruiser lay aground.[15] When Lindsey saw her fate, So loudly cheer’d his men, The hostile crew, that heard them, flew To man their guns again. But Lindsey kept his course— He now could do no more— And told ere night the cruiser’s plight To those he met on shore.[17] “There stays the ship,” said he, “Till lifted by the tide.” “Till Providence shall lift her thence,” John Brown,[17] his friend, replied. And Providence, at dusk, Was routed out to greet The drumming fierce of Daniel Pierce[18] Who cried in every street: “The cruiser lies aground! High tide at three[18] o’clock! Who care to go and meet her so, Come all to Fenner’s[19] dock!” They came to Fenner’s dock; And found, awaiting there, Eight[19] yawls, that Brown[19] had lent the town, In Captain Whipple’s[19] care. The crews that mann’d the yawls Had muffled[19] every oar; And they, and men who join’d them then,[20] All told, were sixty-four.[21] Their arms were pick’d with care From all their friends could loan; And all the yawls, for cannon balls, Were stock’d with paving-stone.[22] They battled wind and tide, Three hours[23] amid the gloom. The midnight pass’d.[23] They saw, at last, The cruiser’s bulwarks loom. “Who comes?” her watch call’d out. “Who comes!” her captain cried. Then swift alarm’d, in tones that arm’d, Her crew that toward him hied. “Move off!” her captain roar’d, His pistol aiming well; Then fired[23]—alack! fire answer’d back; He started, stagger’d, fell. And then, as dark and fierce As tidal waves, where fleets Are whelm’d and whirl’d and downward hurl’d Till death their deed completes, Our men, at Whipple’s[19] cry, “Up, up!” clear’d every check; And dash’d and leapt and slash’d and swept Across the cruiser’s deck. But hold!—her men were gone. Ours held the deck alone; Their work had done, nor fired a gun; The cruiser’s crew had flown.[24] “Surrender here!” rang out; And out the cabin glanced At first a few, then all the crew; Then one and all advanced. “First know,” said Whipple then, “That here you sail no more; And next prepare your yawls to bear Yourselves and yours ashore.”[25] The sailors went and came, They came with bags and coats. They call’d their roll, and said the whole They own’d was in their boats. Meantime our men themselves[26] The captain’s wound had dress’d; And row’d him, sore but safe, ashore With all that he possess’d.[27] “All hands embark!” rang out; And all the yawls were full; Save one whose crew had more to do While off the rest should pull. This crew the cruiser fired,[28] Till smoke, well under way, Flew up the mast as white and fast As e’er, of old, the spray. Then swiftly they embark’d, And swiftly they withdrew; As flash’d the fire, and, streaming higher, The red flag redder flew. The cruiser burn’d in state, Until she burst at last[28] With every ball she bore and all Her powder in the blast. It fill’d the heaven above, But not to heaven was given: A wounded cloud roar’d long and loud; Then back the whole was driven. When all was o’er, there seem’d Faint sparks to fill the place— “There comes,” said one, “the morning sun; A new day dawns apace!” It dawn’d for these, at least; When soon they hove in sight Of pier on pier pack’d full to cheer Those heroes of the night. But hist! the cheers were check’d. “Keep mum!” the murmur spread; The crown, to get these men, had set A price on every head. “Five hundred dollars down,[29] For him who tells of one,” Was first proclaim’d: but no one named A man who aught had done. “Five thousand,”[30] then were pledged, “To know who took the lead; And half as much to know of such As join’d him in the deed.” The King’s commission,[31] last, Sat half a year or more; But not a word it ever heard About the sixty-four. Forgotten were they then? They might have pass’d by day, Without a wink to make you think, Or hint that it was they. But, when the night had come; And door and blind were lock’d, And window fast, and blew the blast Till all the chimney rock’d; When, safe from eyes and ears, In homes where all were true, The way those men were feasted then A king, full well, might rue. And when the board was bare; And round the roaring fire, The nuts were crack’d and cider smack’d Till tooth and tongue would tire; When each his tale would tell About that ship and night, And still the way he dodg’d, each day, The British spy and spite; The boys who husk’d the corn Would forward bend, and spring, And draw the ears, like swords, with cheers, To make the rafters ring! The host who stirr’d the fire Would stab it through and through: You might have thought the flames he brought Had burn’d a cruiser too. The girls would fancy then It was the cruiser flared; And round the walls would aim like balls The apples red they pared. “To arms!” would cry the men; And each a maid purloin; While mother’s yarn would snap, and darn The dance that all would join. Ah, so we hush’d the tale! Yet spies that nigh would roam Could not decoy the smallest boy To tell what pass’d at home. We hush’d it, till the hush Became our countersign To save from those we knew were foes, And make our men combine. We hush’d it, till we learn’d That thousands would be free, And long’d to know which way to go And when the call would be. We hush’d it, till we heard What Concord had to bear; Then shouted loud, a mighty crowd, “Our heroes lead us there!”

“New trouble brews in Boston,” Was told us half the year; Yet every week the postman came With something new to fear. “Our freedom,” so they wrote soon, “Such progress here begets That England seeks to check it[2] With swords and bayonets. “Their foreign ‘Board of Customs,’[3] Past our laws’ reach, they say, Here pluck from us their living, As vultures from their prey. Ah! would we keep our freedom, We must not basely yield, But claim our rights,[4] as when of old The Stamp Act was repeal’d.” We read, and thought together That something must be done; And we were those to do it, We boys of Lebanon. The words of Samuel Adams[4] We heard a neighbor quote: “They silence our Assembly;[5] A sword is at its throat; Our charter is their target, Our judgment-seat their fort,[6] Our men they rob for rations, Our boys they shoot for sport; Our faith that their horizon burst And zenith held not down, Their Toleration Law[7] would force To cringe beneath the crown. I care not what to others A loyal feeling brings; To me it still will loyal be To serve the King of kings.”[8] We heard, and swore together That work must be begun; And we were those to do it, We boys of Lebanon. We signed a pledge of “Union.” To all the land we wrote. We went to meet the postman. We read the Boston note: “In Union only is there strength; And strength is all our stay. Alas that some divide us! Alas that some give way! Once none would touch a thing they tax; To-day the weak agree, And say: ‘Enough if none will taste, If none will trade in tea.’[9] The lords have found our weakness out; And now are talking thus: That India’s losing traders May bring tea free to us.[10] Ay, ay, as if these would not heap Her lap with tribute gold, ‘Let them,’ says England, ‘take the tax; Let them the duties hold.’ “Already bound for Boston, May tea be on the waves, A bait flung out to tempt us To touch, and then be slaves. And if our strong men falter, Nor thrust this bait away, How can the weak be kept from all That makes us England’s prey? “And yet, if we in Boston To thwart the throne conspire, Our town may prove an altar, Our fortunes melt in fire. The sacrifice is ready; Yet first we wait reply,[11] To know we own a country To save, before we die.”[12] We met, and swore together, If fighting must be done, In Boston we would do it, We boys of Lebanon. We started out at midnight, And took the Indian suits, Our fathers’ trophies from the wars Where all had been recruits. We pack’d them up in knapsacks, And then with each a gun And tomahawk away we walk’d In pairs or one by one. By day we kept the forests; But when the sun was down, We hurried on to Boston, And scatter’d through the town. We hunted out our cousins. We told them why we came. “Aha,” said they, “we plot the same. We join you in the game.” They show’d us then, at morning, The “Tree of Liberty,” Where those who plann’d the Stamp Act[13] Had hung in effigy. A pole was now beside it; A flag it bore flew high;[14] The church bells all were ringing; A crowd had gather’d nigh. “To see this tree, the agent Of stamps,” we heard, “resign’d. Here too East India’s agent Should learn the people’s mind: The tea sent here to tax us Untouch’d away shall go; Or all will brand its consignee, Our own, our country’s foe.”[15] The people cheer’d the purpose; From lip to lip it pass’d; The crowd about went homeward; The sky was overcast. Each agent heard the message; No promise would he sign.[16] Again the town demanded one; Again did each decline.[17] Then Boston’s grand “Committee[18] Of Correspondence,” wrote To ask the farmers, “Would they stand By what the town would vote?” From every hill and valley Came back, as though one word, What Samuel Adams read with pride Where all the people heard: “Without a voice dissenting, We swear by you to stand. Our wealth or life preventing, The tea shall never land.”[18] Then dawn’d the stirring Sunday[19] When swift the news was pass’d, That one tea-ship they waited for, Was in the port at last. Not many went to church then; But all began to pray, With eyes to duty open wide— The Puritanic way. In haste we met together, Our work must be begun; We plann’d, then, how to do it, We boys of Lebanon. With Proctor[20] for our captain, We vow’d on hand to be, And cling like air and water there About the ship with tea. The Town-Select-Men waited on The vessel’s consignees; But these were waiting on the fort,[21] Well lock’d with English keys. True courtiers, they would tender The governor there their tea. The governor tried his council; The council[22] said: “Not we; Our homes are with the people; And we are not the ones To hold the cup of serfdom To them, ourselves, or sons.” The consignees were waiting Until, in forms of law, Their tea was enter’d at the port, When none could it withdraw.[23] So quick the Town-Committee Had made and seal’d a writ, And pledg’d the vessel’s owner’s word Not yet to enter it.[24] At Faneuil Hall,[25] next morning, While all the bells were rung, Men swarm’d, like bees, to buzz before, Prepar’d to die, they stung. The sheriff[26] came and cried aloud: “You meet unlawfully!” His cry but made them busier buzz, With Saxon loyalty. The consignees were summon’d; “The tea,” they wrote, “we stack.”[27] “The tea shall sail for England,” The people answer’d back. And then to ports in England, And those at home they wrote: “Tea-taxers here, or traders, Our country’s foes we vote.[28] Think not our men will waver, Our wives their vows abate; The herbs they steep for tea will keep Less bitter than their hate.” Two tea-ships more were sighted.[29] Our guards, like nerves, were strung[30] From bay to every belfry’s bell, The slightest move had rung. Then spoke the vessels’ owners: “Our tea is legal prey For fort and fleet, if enter’d not Before the twentieth[31] day.” “Then send it off to sea again,” The Town-Committee said. “Too much you ask,” was answer’d, “For then would blood be shed. The port’s collector warns us We must not clear the port. Without his ‘Writ of Clearance,’ We dare not brook the fort.” They pointed down the harbor: There lay the fleet,[32] alas, Like prongs along the channel, To rake whate’er should pass. They pointed toward the castle, And all the guns within Bespoke how they would treat a prey That sought the sea to win. At this our Town-Committee The port’s collector sought;[33] The governor,[33] too, exulting[34] To think his trap had caught. “You mark the fleet and castle; Should trouble brew,” said he; “Your Hancocks, Rowes, and Phillips[34] Might risk as much as we.” But Molineux[35] said only: “They more would risk if slaves; For all they then could wish, would be Enough to give them graves.” “‘If slaves’!” the governor answer’d, And rail’d against their cause; “Aha!—you talk of ‘slaves,’ forsooth, Because your land has laws! And you would dare to break them?— And reason, what of it?— I trust in human nature, When reason should submit.” “We trust in human nature,” Said Young,[36] who near him stood; “And peace that brooks oppression, It does not deem a good. We trust in human nature; The conscience, ruling there, May guard the right, full well as kings With crowns their dearest care. Love rules in human nature, For, all of history through, The slaves have been the many, The tyrants been the few.” The governor turn’d in anger: “Well, well, we then shall see. Your hint of flint can wring no ‘Writ Of Clearance’ here from me.” Then met the town together, Their final vote to take. Not one, of seven thousand[38] there, Desired the peace to break. Said Quincy:[37] “Crowds and shoutings Can never end our strife. But sadder scenes and sounds await Our loss of wealth and life. The structures fair of freedom Men rear beneath the sky, Press down on deep foundations, Where thousands buried lie. Our course we well may ponder: Hope’s rainbow in the cloud May lure a march beneath its arch To flash and bolt and shroud.” The people paused and ponder’d; But not a single hand,[38] When call’d to vote, but voted, “The tea shall never land.” And then we met together; If fighting must be done, We knew we now should do it, We boys of Lebanon. In one day more—one only—[39] The fleet and fort would hold The tea that none could longer keep From being bought and sold. Close by we sought our quarters; And from our knapsacks quick We took our Indian guises; And stain’d our cheeks with brick. Anon, we half were ready, With tomahawks in hand[40]; And half, with muskets only,[40] And heard our last command. A moment then we waited; We knew the danger there; We looked above for courage; We bent below in prayer. We swore by God in heaven, To keep our names from all; We swore to stand together, Till all in death should fall; We swore, by truth and honor, Should half essay to flee, To cast that half the harbor in To perish with the tea.[40] The twilight long had tarried; The darkness deeper grew; In old South Church, the people Still ponder’d what to do. The dimness veil’d our coming. We listen’d near the door, Till Samuel Adams rose and said,[41] “We here can do no more.” And then we pass’d the word on: “To Griffin’s wharf now!—run!” For we knew where to do the rest, We boys of Lebanon. Then off flew some as pickets To stand and sound alarms, Should coming spies or soldiers Compel resort to arms. The twilight long had tarried; The darkness deeper grew; “Full time,” said we, “to take our tea!” The people thought so too. To Griffin’s wharf we led them; We row’d, and reach’d the ships; No captain there, nor sailor, Dared open once his lips. We crowded every gangway; We brought out every chest; We smash’d and dash’d it overboard. The bay did all the rest. No time was there for shouting, No wish was there for strife; Three hours we wrought in silence, And thank’d the Lord for life. Anon, the work was ended; Anon, we back could row; The heaven was black above us; The harbor black below. None thought on shore to cheer us,[42] Though all had waited there; Their silence match’d the silence, Where souls have flown to prayer. Their silence match’d the silence Of war’s reserves, whose breath Is hush’d to hear the order, That orders all to death. Their silence match’d the silence Of heavens, close and warm, Ere, like a shell incasing hell, They burst and free a storm. As hush’d as on a Sabbath,[42] The people homeward went; Their eyes alone transparent, To show their souls’ content. But we, we met together, When all our work was done, To toast the dawn of freedom, We boys of Lebanon. Then, early stirr’d at morning, We left with Paul Revere,[43] Who through the south went riding off To bear, from Boston, cheer. We spread through all the country; We told, how all was done; Till all the shoremen stored away A tomahawk and gun. Throughout the land, no Tory Would brave their sworn attack; East India found no agent; The tea that came went back. But, better far for freedom,[44] There ran from mouth to mouth, From soul to soul, a tide to roll, And flow from north to south. Beyond the power of local pride Or envy to withstand, It burst each colony’s borders To form one common land.[44] Before men talk’d of Union; But now was Union won, When everywhere each village square Held boys of Lebanon.

“A galloping horse is coming[1] Across the field!—do you mark?”— We woke and flew to the window, We peer’d away in the dark. The cloud-black night was bringing The stir of a storm to fear. What flash’d and clash’d!—who brought it?— “I, I!” cried Paul Revere.[1] “The British are off for Concord[1] To seize the colony’s arms! And Dawes[1] and I stole over The river and over the farms.” “Wait, wait,” we cried, “a moment; You trust our lead awhile! A cross-cut here to the highway Will save you more than a mile!” “Come quick!” said Paul. “Their plan is To bear the arms away, And store them safe in Boston Before the break of day.” “Yet wait you, Paul, and, waiting, Tell how does Boston fare?” “Alas,” he sigh’d, “no telling How many will breakfast there. “You know that, since the Port-Bill[2] Laid up our merchant-fleet, We had starved, unless the farmers[3] Had sent us food to eat. “To stop this, chains of pickets Are strung on Boston Neck; Our bay is black with frigates, And all our trade they check. “And thus they vow to treat us, Till, humbled by their might, We hold no courts nor meetings,[4] And yield each charter’d right. “Ay, ay, and let our leaders, For serving us too well, Be borne in chains to Britain,[5] To fill some dungeon-cell. “The men who call’d our Congress[6] They swear to seize to-day.— High time to rouse the country! High time to save the prey!” “Off, off!” we cried, and parted; Then dragg’d from under the hay[7] The guns our goods had cover’d When borne from Boston Bay. Our wives pour’d out the treasure They too had brought from town,[7] The powder, flint, and bullets Well tuck’d in box and gown. We arm’d in haste, but hardly Had left with pouch and gun, Before the bell rang, telling Of Paul in Lexington. At midnight saw he Charlestown; Not two had struck the clock[8] Yet here the trembling belfry Was rallying all its flock. They sought the green together; Set guards on every road; Then sought the inn to measure The fate they might forebode. Ten times their band in number Were those they watch’d before; And here should they withstand them? Or fly to join with more? “Stand here!” said Jonas Parker[19]; “The law has arm’d the town.” “And here,” said Clark,[9] their pastor, “Be right, and shame the crown. “What, though they fire, and fight us?— Make every heart rain blood? Their guns, if heard in Concord, May save it from the flood. “And if the blood we give them Shall save the colony-stores, Like fruit shall we be falling, Red-ripe to all our cores. “And if the blood we give them Be given to make us free, The court may learn a lesson And let our charters be. “We are few, but what are numbers?— This church may proof supply That right may move to triumph With only one—to die!” He paused—the door flew open; All heard a watch call out: “Full drive a horseman coming! Perhaps an army-scout!” And out they flew to face him; But on the charger fleet No enemy, only a neighbor,[10] Came galloping up the street. “The foe are coming!” he stammer’d; “They capture all they meet; I dodg’d a man and musket; And hark!—you hear their feet!” We hush’d and heard a tramping That well might bring despair, And cause the nerves to tremble Their loads of fear to bear. “Sound drum[11] and gun,” said Parker,[10] “And bell! If they but halt, Where time is all we plan for, We win without an assault.” They halted,[12] then drew nearer;— What need of halting more? They came, a veteran army; We never had fought before. We stood but sixty farmers,[13] Our homes and wives between, Whose hands, up waved or wringing, Seem’d fringing half the green. “Be theirs the blame,” said Parker[14]; “Fire not till they fire first. God’s house is here, and heaven, If worse should come to worst.” Athwart the gray of morning, None knew how large a force Came crowding against the common, With cries and orders hoarse. But yet across the common, And just beyond the church, We form’d a line to check there The crown’s illegal search. At double quick, and onward, With bayonets fix’d, they came; Then wide and wild their red coats About us burst like flame. Before them rode their leader, And cried with many a curse: “Lay down your arms, you villains![15] You villains you, disperse!” But, true to law and country, Scarce one his musket dropt[16]; And then their column falter’d, Broke up, moved slower, stopt. “You rebels!” roar’d the leader, While up his pistol came—[17] A hint his minions welcomed; We saw them all take aim. We saw them, but we waited, Till “Fire!” their leader cried,[17] And shot, and howl’d, “Surround them!” And round us turn’d to ride. They fired and surged about us,[18] Ah me, a fiery flood!— All overwhelm’d, our brothers Were falling, drench’d in blood. “Serve God before the Briton!” Cried Parker,[19] where he bled; And nine of us were wounded; And seven of us were dead.[20] “Away!” a voice repeated,[21] “Away while yet we may. To stay were now but murder! To wall and fence away!” Off sped we then to shoot them, Like Indians, one by one, But walls, in smoke between us, They deem’d it wise to shun. They cheer’d[22] and left for Concord. Our wounded home we bore: Then we too left for Concord, To meet them there once more.[23]

The Concord men had warning,[1] And flew from all their farms, Long hours before the daybreak, To save the colony’s arms. And, days before the warning, Our Salem Congress, too, Had known their stores were menaced, And here had left but few.[2] Yet these to drag and bury[1] Or hide in woods and rills, Men flock’d to town and from it, Like ants about their hills. But soon, when came the morning, The “red-coats”[3] rose in sight, With guns above them flashing Like surf in seas of light. Then, one by one, escaping What could but bode them ill, The farmers cross’d the river, And climb’d, anon, a hill.[4] To the hill there came from Bedford,[4] And Littleton, and Carlisle, And Lincoln, Chelmsford, Westford, More men through each defile. To the hill there came a rumor[5] How Lexington had fared, But no one spoke of yielding, And all for strife prepared. From the hill they watch’d the village,[6] Where every house to scout, Like busy bees the red-coats[3] Went bustling in and out. Despite our wives protesting, Their hostile blows would shower, Till scores of barrels, bursting, Beclouded all with flour.[7] Ere long, they spiked our cannon, And fill’d our pond with balls,[7] And piled the cannon’s wagons To block the roads like walls. And then this foe that fear’d it, Our “liberty-pole” cut down,[7] And burn’d it with the wagons That yet might burn the town. Soon seem’d our court-house burning,[7] With none the flames to stay;[8] But “Justice,” cried our leader, “Will house in heaven to-day. “Now wait we till these troopers Of luck have had their fill, And part of them drift hither, Or all assault our hill. “The hill, if they move up it, Their lines can never take; Like waves that dash at headlands, Their wavering ranks will break.” Just then, they most had started, Though some were plundering still, To seize two bridges crossing The stream beneath the hill.[9] To seize them was to sever Our women from our men, Our homes from those who own’d them, And what would follow then? “The north bridge,”—argued Hosmer[10]; “Keep back from it the foe!” “No man of mine from Acton,” Said Davis,[10] “fears to go.” And then our leader Barrett[11] The order “Forward!” gave, Where moved the men of Acton[11] Behind their captain brave. With arms beside them trailing, In double file and slow,[12] Not daunted by the danger, These farmers faced their foe. The British ran to ruin The bridge, and then retire.[13] “Hold!” cried our Major Buttrick[14]; They answer’d but to fire. Dead Davis fell, and Hosmer.[15] “In God’s name,” Buttrick[16] cried, “Fire, fire!”—and two fell dying Upon the British side. Thus Heaven, where hung the purpose A grander man to mould, Had Saxon hurl’d on Saxon, The new world on the old. Our foe in haste retreated.[17] Their colonel, where they sped, March’d forth to reinforce them; Then all for Boston led.[18] But now our men from Reading[19] And Sudbury hurried out, And Woburn, wild to flank them: Their march became a rout.[19] We had but half their number[20]; But, wrongs avenging thus, Their red coats had been safer With Spanish bulls than us. Though guards at every turning, Would cover well their flanks; Our smoke, from ambush leaping,[21] Shot, ghost-like, through their ranks. From Dedham, Essex, Danvers, From Chelsea, Marblehead, From Dorchester, and Brookline,[22] Our men to meet them sped. Back slunk their line before us, A weary, wounded snake: Up hill, down dale, round river, It wound and bled and brake. The whole reserve in Boston[23] Pour’d out to help them back; But all the trees and houses Were haunting now their track. They turn’d to shoot our mothers; They turn’d our babes to kill; Our vengeance rose at Cambridge,[24] And raged at Prospect Hill.[25] Down sweeping, Heath and Warren A charge to break them led; Then Pickering’s men from Salem[25] Burst, flood-like o’er their head.[26] Full night had known its fullest, Ere all their fears were still’d; Full ninescore had we wounded, And more than threescore kill’d.[27] Nor, till they touched the river,[28] And by the fleet had pass’d, Our eyes that faced the danger Were once behind us cast. And then, alas to view it! Hot, bitter tears we shed; Full thirty found we wounded, And wellnigh sixty dead.[27] Our wives had lost their husbands; Our mothers lost their boys; Our homes were fill’d with mourning, And gone were all our joys. Yet, when we clasp’d those corpses, As over Huns of old, It seem’d the skies were filling With souls for ours enroll’d. Our prayers when all were buried, Were vows to Heaven o’erhead, From hearts that hail’d the glory Of joining there their dead. Then, too, we held our weapons; Had foil’d the British aims; And held our homes:—our women[29] Had quench’d the court-house flames. Our men had met the army, And fought, and from that hour They all had grown to soldiers, Who knew and felt their power. And so, despite the anguish That fill’d the morrow’s morn, The voice that wept betoken’d A nation, newly born. “And I,” said Samuel Adams,[30] “Thank God this day to see!” “And I,” came back from Hancock[30]; “It makes the new world free!”

The bell that rang at Lexington Had call’d our men to arms; And but their wives and children now Were home to work the farms. But soon, like words men whisper forth Near foes who plot their death, From farm to farm bad news was borne On hush’d and trembling breath. “Fill’d full of ‘red-coats,’[1] Boston seem’d,” They said, “a wounded prey That yet drank in fresh draughts of blood[1] From fleets that fill’d the bay; “To check their march, like mushrooms grew Our earthworks, night by night; But, if attack’d, our men would not Have arms with which to fight.”[2] At Hartford our Assembly met,[3] And heard this; nor in vain. It sent men off to seize what fill’d The fort on Lake Champlain. These pass’d to Pittsfield,[4] there were join’d By Easton, Brown, and more; Then on to Bennington,[5] and there Could muster full twoscore. Too few were they to brave a fort Well mann’d at every gun; Yet those who slight the light of stars But seldom see their sun. The sun that dawn’d before them here, And brought them help indeed, Was Ethan Allen’s[5] blade, that flash’d His mountain troops to lead. And thick as rills that rift in spring Each bond the sun destroys, Came pouring over all those hills His grand Green Mountain Boys. Two hundred[6] hardy men they were As ever mountains rear’d; They fought with bears and frost at home, And naught abroad they fear’d. Erelong, a shout went ringing out; For all had made their choice, And all had chosen Allen chief; And “Forward!” call’d his voice.[7] But one who heard his order, spurr’d His charger from the rear, And cried: “In me your leader see,[8] For Cambridge sent me here.” “And Cambridge, Cambridge, what would she?” Cried Mott[3] and Phelps, “Nay, Nay!— ’Twas Hartford sent us forth, and we Bade Allen lead the way.” “And we,” cried those Vermonters true, “We came with Allen here; And all agree that none but he Shall lead the mountaineer.” The other hush’d when this he heard; And give them honor all: They faced the traitor Arnold[8] thus, Who thus began his fall. Give honor due to Allen too; High compliment it is, That, when the traitor train’d with him, He was no friend of his. Three days they tramp’d, then Allen said: “We near the lake I see. Let some go north and some go south, And some straight on with me.[9] “Let those that push for north and south Row off with all that floats, And make for Shoreham, where we all Will cross when come the boats.[9] “And let the others fall in line Behind my lantern’s glare. Beyond, Ticonderoga waits; At morn, we breakfast there.” Then, down the hunter’s trail, our line Wound on as winds a snake, And, late at night, prepared to spring, Lay coil’d beside the lake. “Now off,” said Allen, “north and south, And hail each coming oar.” Alas, to think that Heaven above Should favor man no more! To north and south we scatter’d far, We listened o’er and o’er, But not a sound, from north or south, The empty breezes bore. A few there were could cross at last,— Alas, but all too few! Night sped, and Allen, by the fort Could count scarce eighty-two.[10] “My men,” he mutter’d,[11] “look—the dawn!— Before can cross the lake One boat again for other men, The day in full will break. “Yet note the wall. You know it well; Ten times our force, if seen, Though clad in mail, could never scale Those cannon thick between. “And here the boats.—What vote you all?— Your guns lift up,—no breath.[11] The lake cross here?—or weapons there? Face cowardice?—or death? “Your guns all up?[12] your hearts all true? How well! Had one turn’d back,[13] Yon mounts were his no longer save To hedge and hide his track. “He easier might have faced, at home, When snows were all aflame, The sun! than wives and little ones Whose cheeks would fire with shame. “How oft have you, when driven off The land you once had bought,[14] Too poor to buy again a home For those for whom you wrought; “How oft, when all was torn from you,[14] And you had urged in vain Your chartered rights, the common law, And all that God makes plain; “How oft then have you pray’d aloud That Heaven would send you down A chance from off your country’s brow To hurl the hated crown! “That chance has come! But once for all Can dawn a day like this. And those who will not use their light Will all life’s glory miss. “But if one win it, yonder sun Sheds not a splendor fit With which to rise above his name, Or earth that welcomes it! “Yes, earth! For they forgot, our lords, They dealt with Puritans, True sons of those whom Cromwell led, Whose right means every man’s; “Who take their individual ills For proofs of general pain, And, where one prince has made them wince, Fight all, that man may reign. “And they forgot, that mountaineers, High rangers, like the Swiss, Would learn to value freedom’s world By looking down on this! “And yet should prove it! Ay, my men, To-day they all shall see How freemen, forced to care for self, Take care to keep it free. “Now quick, but quiet; start with steel— Nor fire till sure to hit— First through the gate, if through we may; If not, then over it. “I lead. You follow. Should I fall, Move on: my corpse may give At least a vantage ground! Move up: The cause, it is, must live!” Then Allen turn’d, and Arnold[15] too, His foremost rival still, Then Brown and Easton,—all the line Stole softly up the hill.[16] A startled sentry seized his gun, And aim’d at Allen’s face[17]; The flint miss’d fire, and Allen rush’d, And wrench’d it from its place. The sentry dodg’d, and darted down A passage through the mound.[17] In pour’d our men; you might have thought The sentry would be drown’d. Swift, one by one, by Allen led, They plung’d along the gloom: No fear of those who, just beyond, Might make the place their tomb. On ran the sentry; on, our men.— Their mountains gave no game, Nor guide so quick to apprehend The grounds on which they came. At last, uploom’d in dusky light, And choking all the way, A man who poised his bayonet[17] To hold them all at bay. “Take heed!” he call’d. “We take it, man,” Hiss’d Allen, where he sped; Whose clashing sword had glanced the gun, And gash’d the soldier’s head. “Have mercy!” groan’d the wounded wretch. Said Allen: “Drop your gun. Hist, hist, my men! The walls are ours. Now seize the barrack—run!” No need to bid them! In a trice Our boys had crown’d their race; And closed, with shouts like thousands, round The startled sleeping-place.[18] Meantime, “The captain!” Allen cried; And scarce the word had said, Ere on a door he pounded loud[19] To rouse his foe from bed. It open’d partly, where behold! In robes as white as fleece, The chief, beside his blushing bride, A picture stood of peace.[20] “Surrender!”[20] order’d Allen then; “If not, by Him on high, Your garrison—without a hope For quarter from us—die!” The captain’s anger now had burst The spell of night’s repose. “Surrender?” hiss’d he—then turn’d pale To hear loud shouts that rose. “And who are you?” he stammer’d out. “And whose is this ado? And whose the name in which you come And bid us yield to you?” “The name of Great Jehovah,[21] and”— Said Allen, drawing nigh, “The Continental Congress!”—then He flash’d his sword on high. “Jehovah?—Congress?” growl’d his foe; But, cow’d by Allen’s eye,[20] Jehovah, in the man, at least, He did not dare defy. The day was won; the garrison Filed out across the green. More generous welcome where they came, I think were seldom seen. Not one who bore a cumbering gun Or lugg’d a weighty sword, But we to ease him of his load, Would our relief afford. Alack, we stack’d our shoulders full, Relieving them of care, Then proved our good-will, Arab-like, By taking breakfast there. For days and days we never ceas’d Attending to them thus, Until, as pride escorts a bride, We walk’d them home with us.[22] And then the fort—ah me, to see The trouble rare it took To clear the space, and give the place A less unfriendly look! Tenscore of cannon, mounds of flint,[23] And tons of guns and balls— We waited weeks, to find the means To cart them out the walls. But first, we mail’d a message home; And I have heard it said, In many a place, the floor was wet With tears when it was read. At Cambridge, at the news, the air With such a shout was rent, It almost equal’d there the roar Of guns our fort had sent. And Allen?—Allen lived and thrived, And conquer’d all that tract, Where Britain could not hold a fort[24] That once our boys attack’d. But war has tricks; and life has turns; Misfortunes find the true; And Allen once, across the sea, Was borne a prisoner too.[25] Yet heroes’ homes are human hearts, And England’s crowds would cling About the form of him they felt Was grander than their king. He came back home, and church bells rang— You might, in truth, have thought[25] A second Christmas day had come, And Saviour’s advent brought;— And guns were fired; and, hail’d with cheers, Vermont bade all men call This bravest, brightest of her sons, The General of them all.[25] And all the people while he lived, They loved his eagle eye[26]; And when he died—ah, friends, you know Such spirits cannot die! To-day, go search those mountain woods And valleys, humbly trod By souls whose pure, strong faith holds on To country, home, and God; Ask men who own those towering trees, Or plant the hillock steep; The school-boys, bounding back from school, Or watching well the sheep; The housewives, where in thrifty homes The generous meals are spread; The sisters, gently handing down The Book when prayers are said; Ask all, who value aught they own, Whose fame all value most?— The flashing eye and flushing cheek Will figure him they boast.

“Lord Prescott, down in Newport,” Brave William Barton[1] said, “Would make all show his colors, though Their own blood dyed them red. “Perhaps he thinks our natives, On England’s footstool here, Did they not feel his lordly heel, Might deem him not a peer.” “Say footpath here,” said Potter[8]; “Just now their doorsteps go To pave the way[2] where, once a day, His lordship walks, you know. “And then if those who meet him Go by, nor doff their caps,[3] Aha, his cane will fall like rain, To make them mend their lapse.” “Small spite! and yet,” said Barton: “A wrinkle shows the will. A grazing ass that kicks but grass Has tricks that yet may kill. “Who minds it, though a Quaker, Forsooth, lift not his hat; Yet one in town, he first rode down,[4] Then had him chain’d for that. “And Tripp[5]—when spies had jail’d him; And none knew what it meant; And when, half dead with fear, they said, His wife to see him went; “Said Prescott: ‘Come and see him When hang’d[5] and no dispute.’ Who domineers o’er woman’s tears Is less a man than brute! “And I, for one, would enter This British lion’s lair, And volunteer to fetch him here, Or die beside him there.” “Sure death!” his comrades mutter’d; “The troops guard every road. A man to try your scheme should fly; We know no other mode.” “He quarters now,” said Barton, “At Overton’s,[6] the Friend’s, Whose house is by the bay-road nigh Where by the bay it bends. “The roads are block’d by soldiers; We cannot reach him thus. What then?—A way across the bay May yet remain for us. “I know three frigates guard it.[7] But when, some moonless night, By clouds beset, the wind and wet Have swept the sky of light; “And when the breeze and breakers Out-sound a rowlock’s beat, Amid the roar a muffled oar Might safely pass the fleet.” His comrades hush’d and heard him; Then swore to try the feat; And soon with more each held an oar To row him past the fleet.[8] The night was dark and stormy; The bay was wild and wide; And, deftly weigh’d, each paddle-blade Like velvet stroked the tide. They near’d the English frigates, They heard their sentries’ feet, They heard a bell, and then “All’s well”[9] Re-echo’d through the fleet. They pull’d around a guard-boat[9]; They struck the land, and then Filed softly out, and moved about, Like shadows more than men. They split in three small parties[10]; And each stole softly round, A sentry near a guard-house here, And there a camping ground. At last the three were guarding The house on every side, With six or eight before the gate[13] They just had open’d wide. “Your countersign!” a sentry[11] Call’d out; and Barton said: “Have none to-night”;—his tone was light— “Have here deserters fled?” “Ah, from the boats?” the guard said. “Yes,” Barton hiss’d, “from one!” But as he hiss’d he clutch’d, nor miss’d, The sentry’s throat and gun. The sentry gasp’d and gave it; Lay gunless, gagg’d, and bound. Our men had pass’d the door, at last, Nor yet had roused a sound. The Quaker sat there reading[12] “What would you have?” he said; Then, when they ask’d for Prescott, cast His eyes up o’er his head. As whist as cats the captors Crept up each tell-tale stair,[13] And cross’d the floor to where a door Was lock’d, nor time to spare. Then one of them—Jack Sisson,[13] A burly, patriot black— Bent down his frame, and, taking aim, Burst through, and flung it back. They saw the general starting,[14] And bounding forth from bed, And seizing hold his watch of gold That hung beside his head. “Let darkness take you robbers From sword,” he cried, “and shot!” “No robber harms; put up those arms,” He heard, nor left the spot. “We came to take you captive, Alive,” he heard, “or dead. If you alarm the camp, the harm Will fall on you,” they said.[14] “Move on.”—“I dress,” he told them.[15] But they, in tones polite, Replied: “Not so. We came, you know, Without our wives to-night. “Your cloak is all you need now, The night is black and hot. Your last resort—our time too short!— Thank God you were not shot.” Down stairs they march’d their captive. But hark! In some far room A window crash’d—and Barton dash’d Out doors and through the gloom. No harm was done; for others Had swiftly caught and bound The general’s aid, just where he made A leap to reach the ground.[16] So now they held three captives; And these, by daggers led, They slipt about the camp and out, As needles flit with thread. At last they reach’d the water, At last, row’d o’er the tide; None heard their oars upon the shores, Or boats by which they hied. They pass’d the English frigates, They heard their sentries’ feet, They heard, “All’s well!” call’d out to tell How fool’d had been the fleet.[9] And then their stroke was bolder: For Warwick Point[17] they bore. A coach and pair were there to bear Their captive far from shore. Here[17] Prescott broke the silence: “Your push was boldly plann’d.” Said Barton: “Yes, and with success”; And took the reins in hand. Success it was for Newport. The foe knew all it meant; They lock’d no more a prison door Against our innocent. Success it was for Barton. In days like those of old No envy rife, nor party strife, Would slur a deed so bold. Through all our homes in Newport, Through all our camps afar, Men praised his name, and hoped he came As victory’s morning star. Where Freedom’s day was dawning, The man, whose light so shone To bless the land, appear’d more grand Because he rose alone. Erelong, a grateful Congress Chose one that for him brought A sword on which inscriptions rich Recorded all they thought.[18] In green Vermont they gave him A generous land-grant too.[18] A part of what we all had got By fighting, seem’d his due. But what by far was fittest, And cheer’d in every tent, Were words that raised this man we praised To lead our regiment.[19] Where few and frail the forces Our land could call its own, All felt that he would steadfast be, And fight, though left alone.