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Title: Poems of American History
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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  _My country, 'tis of thee,
  Sweet land of liberty,
      Of thee I sing;
  Land where my fathers died,
  Land of the pilgrims' pride,
  From every mountain-side
      Let freedom ring._

  _My native country, thee,
  Land of the noble free,
      Thy name I love;
  I love thy rocks and rills,
  Thy woods and templed hills;
  My heart with rapture thrills
      Like that above._

  _Let music swell the breeze,
  And ring from all the trees
      Sweet freedom's song;
  Let mortal tongues awake,
  Let all that breathe partake,
  Let rocks their silence break,--
      The sound prolong._

  _Our fathers' God, to Thee,
  Author of liberty,
      To Thee we sing;
  Long may our land be bright
  With freedom's holy light;
  Protect us by Thy might,
      Great God, our King._

               SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH.

                      POEMS OF
                  AMERICAN HISTORY

                COLLECTED AND EDITED




             The Riverside Press Cambridge

                 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

                 The Riverside Press
                PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.


All rights on poems in this volume are reserved by the holders of
the copyright. The publishers and others named in the following list
are the proprietors, either in their own right or as agents for the
authors, of the poems of which the authorship and titles are given,
and of which the ownership is thus specifically noted and is hereby

Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., New York.--William Cullen Bryant: "The
Green Mountain Boys," "Seventy-Six," "Song of Marion's Men," "Oh
Mother of a Mighty Race," "Our Country's Call," "Abraham Lincoln,"
"Centennial Hymn."

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

The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis.--Charles Edward Russell:
"The Fleet at Santiago," from "Such Stuff as Dreams."

The Century Company, New York.--Richard Watson Gilder: "At the
President's Grave," "Charleston," "The White City," "The Comfort
of the Trees"; Robert Underwood Johnson: "Dewey at Manila";
Silas Weir Mitchell: "Herndon," "How the Cumberland went down,"
"Kearsarge," "Lincoln," "The Song of the Flags." From the Century
Magazine.--William Tuckey Meredith: "Farragut"; Helen F. More:
"What's in a Name"; Will Henry Thompson: "The High Tide at

The Robert Clarke Company, Cincinnati.--William Davis Gallagher:
"The Mothers of the West"; William Haines Lytle: "The Siege of
Chapultepec," "The Volunteers."

Messrs. Henry T. Coates & Co., Philadelphia.--Ethel Lynn Beers: "The
Picket-Guard"; Charles Fenno Hoffman: "Rio Bravo," "Monterey."

Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York.--Ernest McGaffey: "Little Big
Horn," "Geronimo"; William Henry Venable: "John Filson," "Johnny
Appleseed," "The Founders of Ohio," "El Emplazado," "Battle-Cry,"
"National Song."

The R. R. Donnelly & Sons Company, Chicago.--Francis Brooks: "Down
the Little Big Horn."

Messrs. Dana Estes & Co., Boston.--Hezekiah Butterworth: "The
Thanksgiving for America," "The Legend of Waukulla," "The Fountain
of Youth," "Verazzano," "Ortiz," "Five Kernels of Corn," "The
Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor," "Roger Williams," "Whitman's Ride for
Oregon," "The Death of Jefferson," "Garfield's Ride at Chickamauga,"
"The Church of the Revolution."

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

Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York.--Wallace Bruce: "Parson Allen's
Ride"; Will Carleton: "The Prize of the Margaretta," "Across the
Delaware," "The Little Black-Eyed Rebel," "Cuba to Columbia," "The
Victory-Wreck"; William Dean Howells: "The Battle in the Clouds";
Herman Melville: "Malvern Hill," "The Victor of Antietam," "The
Cumberland," "Running the Batteries," "A Dirge for McPherson,"
"Sheridan at Cedar Creek," "The Fall of Richmond," "The Surrender
at Appomattox," "At the Cannon's Mouth." From Harper's Magazine and
Harper's Weekly.--Guy Wetmore Carryl: "When the Great Gray Ships come
in"; Joseph B. Gilder: "The Parting of the Ways"; Thomas A. Janvier:
"Santiago"; Thomas Dunn English: "Arnold at Stillwater," "The Charge
by the Ford," "The Fall of Maubila," "The Battle of the Cowpens,"
"The Battle of New Orleans"; John Eliot Bowen: "The Man who rode to

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.--Thomas Bailey Aldrich:
"Fredericksburg," "By the Potomac," "The Bells at Midnight," "An Ode
on the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial," "Unguarded Gates"; Phoebe
Cary: "Ready," "Peace"; John White Chadwick: "Mugford's Victory,"
"Full Cycle"; Mrs. Florence Earle Coates: "Columbus," "Buffalo," "By
the Conemaugh"; Christopher Pearse Cranch: "After the Centennial";
Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Concord Hymn," "Boston Hymn"; Annie Fields:
"Cedar Mountain"; Louise Imogen Guiney: "John Brown"; Francis Bret
Harte: "Caldwell of Springfield," "The Reveille," "John Burns of
Gettysburg," "A Second Review of the Grand Army," "An Arctic Vision,"
"Chicago"; John Hay: "Miles Keogh's Horse"; Oliver Wendell Holmes:
"A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party," "Lexington," "Grandmother's
Story of Bunker-Hill Battle," "Old Ironsides," "Daniel Webster,"
"Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline," "Sherman's in
Savannah," "After the Fire," "Welcome to the Nations," "On the
Death of President Garfield," "Additional Verses to Hail Columbia";
Mrs. Julia Ward Howe: "Our Country," "Battle-Hymn of the Republic,"
"Robert E. Lee," "Pardon," "Parricide," "J. A. G."; William Dean
Howells: "The Battle in the Clouds"; Lucy Larcom: "Mistress Hale of
Beverly," "The Nineteenth of April," "The Sinking of the Merrimack";
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "The Skeleton in Armor," "Sir Humphrey
Gilbert," "The War-Token," "The Expedition to Wessagusset,"
"Prologue," "The Proclamation," "Prologue," "The Trial," "The Battle
of Lovell's Pond," "A Ballad of the French Fleet," "The Embarkation,"
"Paul Revere's Ride," "Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem," "The
Wreck of the Hesperus," "Victor Galbraith," "The Cumberland," "The
Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face," "President Garfield," "The Republic";
James Russell Lowell: "Flawless his Heart," "The New-Come Chief,"
"Mr. Hosea Biglow speaks," "What Mr. Robinson thinks," "Jonathan to
John," "The Washers of the Shroud," "Ode recited at the Harvard
Commemoration"; William Vaughn Moody: "On a Soldier fallen in the
Philippines," "An Ode in Time of Hesitation"; Nora Perry: "Running
the Blockade"; Edna Dean Proctor: "Columbus Dying," "The Captive's
Hymn," "The Lost War-Sloop," "Sa-cá-ga-we-a," "John Brown,"
"The Brooklyn Bridge"; Margaret Junkin Preston: "The Mystery of
Cro-a-tàn," "The Last Meeting of Pocahontas and the Great Captain,"
"The First Proclamation of Miles Standish," "The First Thanksgiving
Day," "Dirge for Ashby," "Under the Shade of the Trees," "Virginia
Capta," "Acceptation"; John Godfrey Saxe: "How Cyrus laid the Cable";
Edward Rowland Sill: "The Dead President"; Harriet Prescott Spofford:
"How we became a Nation," "Can't"; Edmund Clarence Stedman: "Peter
Stuyvesant's New Year's Call," "Salem," "Aaron Burr's Wooing," "How
Old Brown took Harper's Ferry," "Sumter," "Wanted--A Man," "Kearny
at Seven Pines," "Treason's Last Device," "Gettysburg," "Abraham
Lincoln," "Israel Freyer's Bid for Gold," "Custer," "Liberty
Enlightening the World," "Cuba," "Hymn of the West"; Bayard Taylor:
"Through Baltimore," "Lincoln at Gettysburg," "The National Ode";
Joseph Russell Taylor: "Breath on the Oat"; Edith M. Thomas: "A
Christopher of the Shenandoah," "To Spain--A Last Word"; Maurice
Thompson: "The Ballad of Chickamauga"; J. T. Trowbridge: "Columbus at
the Convent"; Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward: "Conemaugh"; Mrs. A. D.
T. Whitney: "Peace"; John G. Whittier: "The Norsemen," "Norembega,"
"John Underhill," "Cassandra Southwick," "The King's Missive," "St.
John," "Pentucket," "Lexington," "The Vow of Washington," "Skipper
Ireson's Ride," "Texas," "The Angels of Buena Vista," "The Crisis,"
"To William Lloyd Garrison," "Ichabod," "The Kansas Emigrants,"
"Burial of Barber," "Le Marais du Cygne," "Brown of Ossawatomie,"
"Barbara Frietchie," "The Battle Autumn of 1862," "At Port Royal,"
"To John C. Frémont," "Astræa at the Capitol," "The Proclamation,"
"Laus Deo," "To the Thirty-Ninth Congress," "The Cable Hymn,"
"Chicago," "Centennial Hymn," "On the Big Horn," "The Bartholdi
Statue"; Forceythe Willson: "Boy Brittan"; Constance Fenimore
Woolson: "Kentucky Belle." From the Atlantic Monthly.--George
Houghton: "The Legend of Walbach Tower"; Henry Newbolt: "Craven";
Thomas William Parsons: "Dirge."

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

The Ladies' Home Journal, Philadelphia.--Virginia Woodward Cloud:
"The Ballad of Sweet P."

The J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.--George Henry Boker:
"Upon the Hill before Centreville," "Dirge for a Soldier," "Zagonyi,"
"On Board the Cumberland," "The Cruise of the Monitor," "The Ballad
of New Orleans," "The Varuna," "Hooker's Across," "Before Vicksburg,"
"The Black Regiment," "The Battle of Lookout Mountain"; William C.
Elam: "The Mecklenburg Declaration"; Robert Loveman: "Hobson and
his Men"; Marion Manville: "The Surrender of New Orleans," "Lee's
Parole"; Henry Peterson: "The Death of Lyon"; Thomas Buchanan Read:
"The Rising," "Valley Forge," "Blennerhassett's Island," "The
Attack," "Sheridan's Ride," "The Eagle and Vulture"; Francis Orrery
Ticknor: "The Virginians of the Valley," "A Battle Ballad," "Our
Left," "Little Giffen."

The Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, Boston.--Richard Burton: "The Old
Santa Fé Trail"; Paul Hamilton Hayne: "Macdonald's Raid," "Beyond
the Potomac," "Vicksburg," "The Battle of Charleston Harbor,"
"Charleston," "The Stricken South to the North," "South Carolina
to the States of the North," "Yorktown Centennial Lyric"; William
Hamilton Hayne: "The Charge at Santiago."

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

Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago.--Kate Brownlee Sherwood:
"Albert Sidney Johnston," "Thomas at Chickamauga."

The Macmillan Company, New York.--Hamlin Garland: "Logan at Peach
Tree Creek"; George Edward Woodberry: "Our First Century," "Essex
Regiment March," "The Islands of the Sea," "O Land Beloved."

The Mershon Company, New York.--John Boyle O'Reilly:
"Crispus Attucks," "At Fredericksburg," "Chicago," "Boston,"
"Midnight--September 19, 1881," "The Ride of Collins Graves,"

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

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

Messrs. L. C. Page & Co., Boston.--Charles G. D. Roberts: "Brooklyn
Bridge," "In Apia Bay," "A Ballad of Manila Bay."

Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.--Louis James Block: "The Final
Struggle"; Guy Wetmore Carryl: "When the Great Gray Ships come in."

Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.--William Ernest Henley:
"Romance"; George Parsons Lathrop: "Keenan's Charge"; Sidney
Lanier: "The Story of Vinland," "The Triumph," "Lexington," "Land
of the Wilful Gospel," "The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson," "The
Centennial Meditation of Columbia"; Thomas Nelson Page: "The Dragon
of the Seas"; James Jeffrey Roche: "Panama"; Richard Henry Stoddard:
"Abraham Lincoln," "Men of the North and West," "The Little Drummer."

Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.--Richard Hovey: "The Word
of the Lord from Havana," "The Battle of Manila"; Walt Whitman:
"Ethiopia Saluting the Colors," "O Captain! My Captain!" "The Sobbing
of the Bells."

Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Co., Chicago.--John Williamson Palmer:
"The Fight at San Jacinto."

The Whitaker & Ray Company, San Francisco.--Joaquin Miller:
"Columbus," "The Defence of the Alamo," "Alaska," "Rejoice,"
"Cuba Libre," "San Francisco," "Resurge San Francisco." The
Youth's Companion, Boston.--Mary A. P. Stansbury: "The Surprise at
Ticonderoga"; Thomas Tracy Bouvé: "The Shannon and the Chesapeake."

In addition to the above, the compiler begs to acknowledge express
permission from the following authors for the use of such of their
poems as appear in this volume:

Joel Benton, Louis James Block, Virginia Fraser Boyle, Robert
Bridges, Wallace Bruce, Richard Burton, S. H. M. Byers, Will
Carleton, Madison Cawein, Robert W. Chambers, John Vance Cheney,
Joseph I. C. Clarke, Virginia Woodward Cloud, Florence Earle Coates,
Kinahan Cornwallis, F. Marion Crawford, Mrs. Ernest Crosby (for
Ernest Crosby), Caroline Duer, Barrett Eastman, Francis Miles Finch,
Hamlin Garland, Joseph D. Gilder, Richard Watson Gilder, Arthur
Guiterman, Sharlot M. Hall, Edward Everett Hale, William Hamilton
Hayne (for himself and Paul Hamilton Hayne), Caroline Hazard, Rupert
Hughes, Minna Irving, Thomas A. Janvier, Tudor Jenks, John Howard
Jewett, Robert Underwood Johnson, Walter Learned, Robert Loveman,
Charles F. Lummis, Ernest McGaffey, Edwin Markham, John James Meehan,
Lloyd Mifflin, William Vaughn Moody, Thomas Nelson Page, Mrs. John
W. Palmer (for John Williamson Palmer), John James Piatt, Wallace
Rice, Laura E. Richards, Edwin Arlington Robinson, James Jeffrey
Roche, John Jerome Rooney, Alfred D. Runyon, Charles Edward Russell,
Clinton Scollard, Mrs. Katherine Brownlee Sherwood, Lewis Worthington
Smith, Joseph Russell Taylor, Richard H. Titherington, William Henry
Venable, Robert Burns Wilson.


The Editor is indebted to the following authors and publishers for
permission to use the poems mentioned, all rights in which are

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

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

Dana Burnet: "Marching Song."

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

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

Eleanor Rogers Cox: "The Return."

George H. Doran Company: "The White Ships and the Red," from _Main
Street, and Other Poems_, by Joyce Kilmer, copyright 1917.

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

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

Daniel Henderson: "The Road to France."

Houghton Mifflin Company: "Victory Bells," from _Wilderness Songs_,
by Grace Hazard Conkling.

Robert Underwood Johnson: "To the Returning Brave."

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

Richard Le Gallienne: "After the War."

Vachel Lindsay: "Abraham Lincoln walks at Midnight."

J. Corson Miller: "Epicedium."

Randall Parrish: "Your Lad and My Lad."

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

Charles Scribner's Sons: "A Call to Arms," by Mary Raymond Shipman
Andrews; "Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for
France," by Alan Seeger; "Mare Liberum," by Henry van Dyke.

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

Henry van Dyke: "Mare Liberum."

Willard Wattles: "The Family of Nations."

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


  E. B. S.


One who underrates the significance of our literature, prose or
verse, as both the expression and stimulant of national feeling, as
of import in the past and to the future of America, and therefore
of the world, is deficient in that critical insight which can judge
even of its own day unwarped by personal taste or deference to public
impression. He shuts his eyes to the fact that at times, notably
throughout the years resulting in the Civil War, this literature has


The poetry relating to American history falls naturally into two
classes: that written, so to speak, from the inside, on the spot,
and that written from the outside, long afterwards. Of the first
class, "The Star-Spangled Banner" is the most famous example, as
well as perhaps the best. Even at this distant day, reading it with
a knowledge of the circumstances which produced it, it has a power
of touching the heart and gripping the imagination which goes far
toward proving the genuineness of its art. Of the second class,
"Paul Revere's Ride" is probably the most widely known, though Mr.
Longfellow's own "Ballad of the French Fleet" is a better poem.

It is evident that, in compiling an anthology such as this, different
standards must be used in judging these two classes. The first, aside
from any quality as poetry which it may have, is of value because of
its historical or political interest, because it is an expression
and an interpretation of the hour which gave it birth. With it,
poetic merit is not the first consideration, which is, perhaps, as
well. Yet, however slight their merit as poetry may be, many of the
early ballads possess an admirable energy, directness, and aptness
of phrase, and there is about them a childlike simplicity impossible
of reproduction in this sophisticated age--as where Stephen Tilden,
in his epitaph on Braddock, requests the great commanders who have
preceded that unfortunate soldier to the grave to

  "Edge close and give him room."

With the retrospective ballad, on the other hand, poetic merit is a
sine qua non. It has little value historically, however accurate its
facts. It differs from the contemporary ballad in the same way that
the "New Canterbury Tales" differ from Froissart; or as the "Idylls
of the King" differ from "Le Morte Arthur." It is less authentic,
less convincing, less vital. It may have atmosphere, but there is no
infallible way of telling whether the atmosphere is right. Unless
it is something more, then, than mere metrical history, the modern
ballad has little claim to consideration.

These are the two principles which the present compiler has had
constantly in mind. Yet the second principle has been violated more
than once, since, in a collection such as this, one must cut one's
coat according to the cloth; or, rather, one must make sure that
one is decently covered, though the covering may here and there be
somewhat inferior in quality. So it has been necessary, in order to
keep the thread of history unbroken, to admit some strands anything
but silken; and if the choice has sometimes been of ills, rather than
of goods, the compiler can only hope that he chose wisely.

The most difficult and trying portion of his task has been, not
to get his material together, but to compress it into reasonable
limits. Especially in the colonial period was the temptation great to
include more early American verse. Peter Folger's "A Looking-Glass
for the Times," Benjamin Tompson's "New England's Crisis," Michael
Wigglesworth's "God's Controversy with New England," the "Sot-Weed
Factor," and many others, which it is recalling an old sorrow to name
here, were excluded only after long and bitter debate. No doubt other
exclusions will be noticed by nearly every reader of the volume--and
it may interest him to know that the material gathered together would
have made four such books as this.

The thread of narrative upon which the poems have been strung
together has been made as slight as possible, just strong enough
to carry the reader understandingly from one poem to the next. The
notes, too, have been limited to the explanation of such allusions
as are not likely to be found in the ordinary works of reference,
with here and there an account of the circumstances which caused the
lines to be written, or an indication of source, where the source
is unusual. Every available source has been drawn upon--the works
of all the better known and many of the minor American and English
poets, anthologies, newspaper collections, magazines, collections
of Americana and especially of broadsides--in a word, American and
English poetry generally.

In this connection, the compiler wishes to make grateful
acknowledgment of the assistance he has received on every hand,
especially from Mr. Herbert Putnam and Miss Margaret McGuffey, of
the Library of Congress; Mr. N. D. C. Hodges, librarian of the
Cincinnati, Ohio, Public Library; Mr. C. B. Galbreath, librarian
of the Ohio State Library; Mr. Charles F. Lummis, librarian of the
Los Angeles, California, Public Library; Dr. Edward Everett Hale,
Mr. William Henry Venable, Mr. Isaac R. Pennypacker, Mr. Arthur
Guiterman, and Mr. Wallace Rice. He might add that it is a matter of
deep personal gratification to him that in no instance has any author
refused to permit the use of his work in this collection. On the
contrary, many of them have been most helpful in suggestions.

A special effort has been made to secure accuracy of text,--no light
task, especially with the early ballads. Where the text varied, as
was often the case, that has been followed which seemed to have the
greater authority, except that obvious misprints have been corrected.
In this, the compiler has had the coöperation of The Riverside Press,
and has had frequent occasion to admire the care and knowledge of the
corrector and his assistants.

               B. E. S.

CHILLICOTHE, OHIO, July 23, 1908.




  AMERICA, Arthur Cleveland Coxe                                     2


  _The Discovery of America_

  THE STORY OF VINLAND, Sidney Lanier                                3
  THE NORSEMEN, John Greenleaf Whittier                              4
  THE SKELETON IN ARMOR, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                  6
  PROPHECY, Luigi Pulci                                              7
  THE INSPIRATION, James Montgomery                                  8
  COLUMBUS, Lydia Huntley Sigourney                                  9
  COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND, Philip Freneau                              9
  COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT, John T. Trowbridge                       10
  THE FINAL STRUGGLE, Louis James Block                             11
  STEER, BOLD MARINER, ON, Friedrich von Schiller                   12
  THE TRIUMPH, Sidney Lanier                                        12
  COLUMBUS, Joaquin Miller                                          14
  THE THANKSGIVING FOR AMERICA, Hezekiah Butterworth                15
  COLUMBUS IN CHAINS, Philip Freneau                                17
  COLUMBUS DYING, Edna Dean Proctor                                 18
  COLUMBUS, Edward Everett Hale                                     18
  COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER, Lord Houghton                         18


  _In the Wake of Columbus_

  THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT, Unknown                           19
  THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA, Hezekiah Butterworth                      19
  THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, Hezekiah Butterworth                       21
  PONCE DE LEON, Edith M. Thomas                                    22
  BALBOA, Nora Perry                                                23
  WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO, W. W. Campbell                             24
  THE LUST OF GOLD, James Montgomery                                24
  VERAZZANO, Hezekiah Butterworth                                   25
  ORTIZ, Hezekiah Butterworth                                       26
  THE FALL OF MAUBILA, Thomas Dunn English                          27
  QUIVÍRA, Arthur Guiterman                                         31
  NOREMBEGA, John Greenleaf Whittier                                32
  SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                  34
  THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS, Wallace Rice                          34


  _The Settlement of Virginia_

  THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN, Margaret Junkin Preston                 36
  JOHN SMITH'S APPROACH TO JAMESTOWN, James Barron Hope             38
  POCAHONTAS, William Makepeace Thackeray                           38
  POCAHONTAS, George Pope Morris                                    39
  BERMUDAS, Andrew Marvell                                          39
  NEWES FROM VIRGINIA, Richard Rich                                 40
  TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE, Michael Drayton                          42
  THE MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS, Mrs. M. M. Webster                    43
      Junkin Preston                                                43
  THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN, Thomas Dunn English                     44
  BACON'S EPITAPH, Unknown                                          45
  ODE TO JAMESTOWN, James Kirke Paulding                            46
  THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY, Benjamin Franklin                         48
  FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC, Edward Everett Hale                     49


  _The Dutch at New Amsterdam_

  HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST, Burton Egbert Stevenson                     50
  THE DEATH OF COLMAN, Thomas Frost                                 50
  ADRIAN BLOCK'S SONG, Edward Everett Hale                          51
  THE PRAISE OF NEW NETHERLAND, Jacob Steendam                      52
  THE COMPLAINT OF NEW AMSTERDAM, Jacob Steendam                    53
  PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL, Edmund Clarence Stedman       54


  _The Settlement of New England_

  THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME, Jeremiah Eames Rankin             56
  SONG OF THE PILGRIMS, Thomas Cogswell Upham                       57
  LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS, Felicia Hemans                    57
      Preston                                                       58
  THE MAYFLOWER, Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth                          59
  THE PEACE MESSAGE, Burton Egbert Stevenson                        60
  THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY, Margaret Junkin Preston               60
  THE WAR-TOKEN, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                         61
  FIVE KERNELS OF CORN, Hezekiah Butterworth                        62
  THE EXPEDITION TO WESSAGUSSET, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow         63
  NEW ENGLAND'S ANNOYANCES, Unknown                                 65
  THE PILGRIM FATHERS, William Wordsworth                           66
  THE PILGRIM FATHERS, John Pierpont                                66
  THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR, Hezekiah Butterworth           67
  THE FIRST THANKSGIVING, Clinton Scollard                          68
  NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH, William Bradford                            69
  THE ASSAULT ON THE FORTRESS, Timothy Dwight                       70
  DEATH SONG, Alonzo Lewis                                          70
  OUR COUNTRY, Julia Ward Howe                                      71


  _Religious Persecutions in New England_

  PROLOGUE, from "John Endicott," Henry Wadsworth Longfellow        71
  ROGER WILLIAMS, Hezekiah Butterworth                              72
  GOD MAKES A PATH, Roger Williams                                  72
  CANONICUS AND ROGER WILLIAMS, Unknown                             73
  ANNE HUTCHINSON'S EXILE, Edward Everett Hale                      73
  JOHN UNDERHILL, John Greenleaf Whittier                           74
  THE PROCLAMATION, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                      76
  CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK, John Greenleaf Whittier                      77
  THE KING'S MISSIVE, John Greenleaf Whittier                       80


  _King Philip's War and the Witchcraft Delusion_

  THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT, Caroline Hazard                            83
  THE SUDBURY FIGHT, Wallace Rice                                   85
  KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND, Clinton Scollard                        88
  PROLOGUE, from "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms," Henry Wadsworth
      Longfellow                                                    88
  SALEM, Edmund Clarence Stedman                                    89
  THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE, Rose Terry Cooke                        90
  A SALEM WITCH, Ednah Proctor Clarke                               91
  THE TRIAL, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                             92
  GILES COREY, Unknown                                              96
  MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY, Lucy Larcom                             97


  _The Struggle for the Continent_

  ST. JOHN, John Greenleaf Whittier                                 99
  THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE, William Douw Schuyler-Lighthall        101
  THE SACK OF DEERFIELD, Thomas Dunn English                       102
  PENTUCKET, John Greenleaf Whittier                               105
  LOVEWELL'S FIGHT, Unknown                                        106
  LOVEWELL'S FIGHT, Unknown                                        108
  THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow          109
  LOUISBURG, Unknown                                               110
  A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow         110
  THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED, Stephen Tilden                          111
  THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN, Unknown                              112
  BRADDOCK'S FATE, Stephen Tilden                                  112
  NED BRADDOCK, John Williamson Palmer                             114
  ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA, Unknown                  114
  THE EMBARKATION, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                      115
  ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG, Unknown                117
      Hopkinson                                                    118
  FORT DUQUESNE, Florus B. Plimpton                                119
  HOT STUFF, Edward Botwood                                        121
  HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND, James Wolfe                         121
  BRAVE WOLFE, Unknown                                             122
  THE DEATH OF WOLFE, Unknown                                      123
  THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN, Edna Dean Proctor                            123
  A PROPHECY, Arthur Lee                                           125



  FLAWLESS HIS HEART, James Russell Lowell                         128


  _The Coming of Discontent_

  THE VIRGINIA SONG, Unknown                                       129
  THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, Unknown                            130
  A SONG, Unknown                                                  130
  THE LIBERTY POLE, Unknown                                        131
  THE BRITISH GRENADIER, Unknown                                   132
  CRISPUS ATTUCKS, John Boyle O'Reilly                             132
  UNHAPPY BOSTON, Paul Revere                                      134
  ALAMANCE, Seymour W. Whiting                                     135
  A NEW SONG CALLED THE GASPEE, Unknown                            135
  A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY, Oliver Wendell Holmes          136
  A NEW SONG, Unknown                                              137
  HOW WE BECAME A NATION, Harriet Prescott Spofford                138
  A PROCLAMATION, Unknown                                          138
  THE BLASTED HERB, Mesech Weare                                   139
  EPIGRAM, Unknown                                                 140
  THE DAUGHTER'S REBELLION, Francis Hopkinson                      140
      Unknown                                                      140
  FREE AMERICA, Joseph Warren                                      140
  LIBERTY TREE, Thomas Paine                                       141
  THE MOTHER COUNTRY, Benjamin Franklin                            142
  PENNSYLVANIA SONG, Unknown                                       142
  MARYLAND RESOLVES, Unknown                                       142
  MASSACHUSETTS SONG OF LIBERTY, Mercy Warren                      143
  EPIGRAM, Unknown                                                 144
  TO THE BOSTON WOMEN, Unknown                                     144
  PROPHECY, Gulian Verplanck                                       144


  _The Bursting of the Storm_

  PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                   144
  WHAT'S IN A NAME, Helen F. More                                  146
  LEXINGTON, Sidney Lanier                                         146
  LEXINGTON, Oliver Wendell Holmes                                 147
  NEW ENGLAND'S CHEVY CHASE, Edward Everett Hale                   148
  THE KING'S OWN REGULARS, Unknown                                 150
  MORGAN STANWOOD, Hiram Rich                                      151
  THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO, Wallace Rice                        152
  LEXINGTON, John Greenleaf Whittier                               153
  THE RISING, Thomas Buchanan Read                                 154
  THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA, Will Carleton                       155
  THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION, William C. Elam                     156
  A SONG, Unknown                                                  157


  _The Colonists take the Offensive_

  THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS, William Cullen Bryant                   157
  THE SURPRISE AT TICONDEROGA, Mary A. P. Stansbury                157
  THE YANKEE'S RETURN FROM CAMP, Edward Bangs                      159
  TOM GAGE'S PROCLAMATION, Unknown                                 160
  THE EVE OF BUNKER HILL, Clinton Scollard                         161
  THE BALLAD OF BUNKER HILL, Edward Everett Hale                   162
  BUNKER HILL, George H. Calvert                                   162
      Holmes                                                       163
  THE DEATH OF WARREN, Epes Sargent                                166
  THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, Unknown                               167
  THE NEW-COME CHIEF, James Russell Lowell                         168
  THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE, Unknown                                   169
  WAR AND WASHINGTON, Jonathan Mitchell Sewall                     170
  THE BOMBARDMENT OF BRISTOL, Unknown                              171
  MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC, Clinton Scollard                           171
  A SONG, Unknown                                                  172
  MUGFORD'S VICTORY, John White Chadwick                           174
  OFF FROM BOSTON, Unknown                                         176



  EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE, Philip Freneau             176
  RODNEY'S RIDE, Unknown                                           177
  AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE, Francis Hopkinson                         178
  THE FOURTH OF JULY, John Pierpont                                179
  INDEPENDENCE DAY, Royall Tyler                                   179
  ON INDEPENDENCE, Jonathan Mitchell Sewall                        179
  THE AMERICAN PATRIOT'S PRAYER, Unknown                           180
  COLUMBIA, Timothy Dwight                                         180


  _The First Campaign_

  THE BOASTING OF SIR PETER PARKER, Clinton Scollard               181
  A NEW WAR SONG BY SIR PETER PARKER, Unknown                      182
  THE MARYLAND BATTALION, John Williamson Palmer                   183
  HAARLEM HEIGHTS, Arthur Guiterman                                183
  NATHAN HALE, Unknown                                             185
  NATHAN HALE, Francis Miles Finch                                 186
  THE BALLAD OF SWEET P, Virginia Woodward Cloud                   186
  ACROSS THE DELAWARE, Will Carleton                               188
  THE BATTLE OF TRENTON, Unknown                                   188
  TRENTON AND PRINCETON, Unknown                                   188
  ASSUNPINK AND PRINCETON, Thomas Dunn English                     189
  SEVENTY-SIX, William Cullen Bryant                               191
  BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG, Minna Irving                                191
  THE AMERICAN FLAG, Joseph Rodman Drake                           192


  "_The Fate of Sir Jack Brag_"

  THE RIFLEMAN'S SONG AT BENNINGTON, Unknown                       193
  THE MARCHING SONG OF STARK'S MEN, Edward Everett Hale            193
  PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE, Wallace Bruce                               194
  THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON, Thomas P. Rodman                       195
  BENNINGTON, W. H. Babcock                                        196
  THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY, Charles D. Helmer                        198
  SAINT LEGER, Clinton Scollard                                    199
  THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG, Unknown                           200
  ARNOLD AT STILLWATER, Thomas Dunn English                        200
  THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE, Unknown                               202
  SARATOGA'S SONG, Unknown                                         202


  _The Second Stage_

  LORD NORTH'S RECANTATION, Unknown                                204
  A NEW BALLAD, Unknown                                            205
  GENERAL HOWE'S LETTER, Unknown                                   205
  CARMEN BELLICOSUM, Guy Humphreys McMaster                        206
  VALLEY FORGE, Thomas Buchanan Read                               207
      Hopkinson                                                    208
  THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL, Will Carleton                       209
  THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, Unknown                                  210
  THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, Thomas Dunn English                      211
  MOLLY PITCHER, Kate Brownlee Sherwood                            213
  MOLLY PITCHER, Laura E. Richards                                 213
  RUNNING THE BLOCKADE, Nora Perry                                 215
  BETTY ZANE, Thomas Dunn English                                  216
  THE WYOMING MASSACRE, Uriah Terry                                217


  _The War on the Water_

  THE CRUISE OF THE FAIR AMERICAN, Unknown                         219
  ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS BIDDLE, Philip Freneau          220
  THE YANKEE PRIVATEER, Arthur Hale                                221
  PAUL JONES, Unknown                                              222
  THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR, Unknown                                   223
  PAUL JONES--A NEW SONG, Unknown                                  224
  PAUL JONES, Unknown                                              224
  THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND SERAPIS, Philip Freneau                 225
  BARNEY'S INVITATION, Philip Freneau                              226
  SONG ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY, Philip Freneau                 227
  THE SOUTH CAROLINA, Unknown                                      228


  _New York and the "Neutral Ground"_

  THE STORM OF STONY POINT, Arthur Guiterman                       230
  WAYNE AT STONY POINT, Clinton Scollard                           230
  AARON BURR'S WOOING, Edmund Clarence Stedman                     231
  THE MODERN JONAS, Unknown                                        232
  CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD, Bret Harte                              232
  THE COW-CHACE, John André                                        233
  BRAVE PAULDING AND THE SPY, Unknown                              237
  ARNOLD THE VILE TRAITOR, Unknown                                 238
  EPIGRAM, Unknown                                                 238
  ANDRÉ'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON, Nathaniel Parker Willis           238
  ANDRÉ, Charlotte Fiske Bates                                     239
  SERGEANT CHAMPE, Unknown                                         239
  A NEW SONG, Joseph Stansbury                                     240
  THE LORDS OF THE MAIN, Joseph Stansbury                          241
  THE ROYAL ADVENTURER, Philip Freneau                             241
  THE DESCENT ON MIDDLESEX, Peter St. John                         242


  _The War in the South_

      Longfellow                                                   245
  ABOUT SAVANNAH, Unknown                                          245
  A SONG ABOUT CHARLESTON, Unknown                                 246
  THE SWAMP FOX, William Gilmore Simms                             247
  SONG OF MARION'S MEN, William Cullen Bryant                      248
  MACDONALD'S RAID, Paul Hamilton Hayne                            248
  SUMTER'S BAND, J. W. Simmons                                     250
  THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN, Unknown                           251
  THE BATTLE OF THE COWPENS, Thomas Dunn English                   252
  THE BATTLE OF EUTAW, William Gilmore Simms                       254
  EUTAW SPRINGS, Philip Freneau                                    255
  THE DANCE, Unknown                                               256
  CORNWALLIS'S SURRENDER, Unknown                                  256
  THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS, Unknown                             257
  NEWS FROM YORKTOWN, Lewis Worthington Smith                      257
  AN ANCIENT PROPHECY, Philip Freneau                              258



  ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL, Unknown                           259
      Freneau                                                      260
  ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH, Philip Freneau                     261
  ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782, Alfred Tennyson                     262
  ON DISBANDING THE ARMY, David Humphreys                          262
  EVACUATION OF NEW YORK BY THE BRITISH, Unknown                   262
      ON HIS WAY TO HIS RESIDENCE IN VIRGINIA, Philip Freneau      263
  THE AMERICAN SOLDIER'S HYMN, Unknown                             264
  THANKSGIVING HYMN, Unknown                                       264
  LAND OF THE WILFUL GOSPEL, Sidney Lanier                         265



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


  _The New Nation_

  A RADICAL SONG OF 1786, St. John Honeywood                       269
  THE FEDERAL CONVENTION, Unknown                                  269
  TO THE FEDERAL CONVENTION, Timothy Dwight                        270
  THE NEW ROOF, Francis Hopkinson                                  270
  CONVENTION SONG, Unknown                                         271
  THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION, William Milns                          272
  THE FIRST AMERICAN CONGRESS, Joel Barlow                         273
  WASHINGTON, James Jeffrey Roche                                  274
  THE VOW OF WASHINGTON, John Greenleaf Whittier                   274
  ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Philip Freneau                275
  GEORGE WASHINGTON, John Hall Ingham                              275
  WASHINGTON, Lord Byron                                           276
  ADAMS AND LIBERTY, Robert Treat Paine                            276
  HAIL COLUMBIA, Joseph Hopkinson                                  277
  YE SONS OF COLUMBIA, Thomas Green Fessenden                      278
  TRUXTON'S VICTORY, Unknown                                       279
  THE CONSTELLATION AND THE INSURGENTE, Unknown                    280
  WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT, Unknown                                   280
  HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA, Barrett Eastman                  281
  REUBEN JAMES, James Jeffrey Roche                                282
  SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE, John Greenleaf Whittier                   283
  A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON, Charles Timothy Brooks                  284


  _The Second War with England_

  THE TIMES, Unknown                                               285
  REPARATION OR WAR, Unknown                                       286
  TERRAPIN WAR, Unknown                                            286
  FAREWELL, PEACE, Unknown                                         287
  COME, YE LADS, WHO WISH TO SHINE, Unknown                        287
  HULL'S SURRENDER, Unknown                                        287
  THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUERRIÈRE, Unknown                      288
  HALIFAX STATION, Unknown                                         289
  ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIÈRE, Philip Freneau                  290
  FIRSTFRUITS IN 1812, Wallace Rice                                291
  THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTOWN, William Banker, Jr.                    292
  THE WASP'S FROLIC, Unknown                                       293
  THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN, Unknown                        293
  THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN, Unknown                        294
  JACK CREAMER, James Jeffrey Roche                                295
  YANKEE THUNDERS, Unknown                                         296
  THE GENERAL ARMSTRONG, Unknown                                   296
  CAPTURE OF LITTLE YORK, Unknown                                  298
  THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE, Laughton Osborn                       299
  OLD FORT MEIGS, Unknown                                          300
  THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE, Thomas Tracy Bouvé               300
  CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON, Unknown                                  301
  DEFEAT AND VICTORY, Wallace Rice                                 302
  ENTERPRISE AND BOXER, Unknown                                    302
  PERRY'S VICTORY, Unknown                                         303
  THE BATTLE OF ERIE, Unknown                                      303
  PERRY'S VICTORY--A SONG, Unknown                                 305
  THE FALL OF TECUMSEH, Unknown                                    305
  THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER, George Houghton                     306
  THE BATTLE OF VALPARAISO, Unknown                                307
  THE BATTLE OF BRIDGEWATER, Unknown                               308
  THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER, Charles L. S. Jones                     309
  THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON, Philip Freneau                         309
  THE OCEAN-FIGHT, Unknown                                         310
  THE LOST WAR-SLOOP, Edna Dean Proctor                            311
  ON THE BRITISH INVASION, Philip Freneau                          312
  THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN, Philip Freneau                     312
  THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY, Clinton Scollard                   313
  THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG, Unknown                                314
  THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE, Unknown                                 315
  FORT MCHENRY, Unknown                                            316
  THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER, Francis Scott Key                      317
  YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND, Unknown                                318
  THE BOWER OF PEACE, Robert Southey                               318
  REID AT FAYAL, John Williamson Palmer                            319
  THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER, James Jeffrey Roche        319
  THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL, Wallace Rice                             321
  FORT BOWYER, Charles L. S. Jones                                 323
  THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS, Thomas Dunn English                   323
  JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS, Wallace Rice                             325
  TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS, Joseph Rodman Drake             326
  THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY, Unknown                                 326
  THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT, James Jeffrey Roche               327
  SEA AND LAND VICTORIES, Unknown                                  328
  ODE TO PEACE, Unknown                                            329


  _The West_

  THE SETTLER, Alfred B. Street                                    329
  THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST, William Davis Gallagher                 330
  ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, Philip Freneau                     331
  JOHN FILSON, William Henry Venable                               331
  SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT, Unknown                                     332
  JOHNNY APPLESEED, William Henry Venable                          334
  THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO, William Henry Venable                      335
  BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND, Thomas Buchanan Read                    335
  THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM, William Harrison Safford                337
      Morton                                                       338
  THE BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE, Unknown                                339
  THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE, Joseph Hutton                             339
  SA-CÁ-GA-WE-A, Edna Dean Proctor                                 340
  ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS, Joel Barlow                 341
  WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON, Hezekiah Butterworth                  342
  DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY, Richard Edward White             343
  JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT, Charles F. Lummis                          345
  "THE DAYS OF 'FORTY-NINE," Unknown                               345
  THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL, Richard Burton                           346
  CALIFORNIA, Lydia Huntley Sigourney                              346


  _Through Five Administrations_

  THEODOSIA BURR, John Williamson Palmer                           346
      Brainard                                                     347
  ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, Fitz-Greene Halleck         348
      Pierpont                                                     348
  LA FAYETTE, Dolly Madison                                        349
  THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON, Hezekiah Butterworth                     349
  OLD IRONSIDES, Oliver Wendell Holmes                             351
  CONCORD HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson                                351
  THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow            351
  OLD TIPPECANOE, Unknown                                          353
  THE DEATH OF HARRISON, Nathaniel Parker Willis                   353


  _The War with Mexico_

  THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM, Clinton Scollard                         354
  BEN MILAM, William H. Wharton                                    355
  THE MEN OF THE ALAMO, James Jeffrey Roche                        355
  THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO, Joaquin Miller                         357
  THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO, John Williamson Palmer                 357
  SONG OF TEXAS, William Henry Cuyler Hosmer                       358
  TEXAS, John Greenleaf Whittier                                   358
  MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS, James Russell Lowell                    360
  THE GUNS IN THE GRASS, Thomas Frost                              361
  RIO BRAVO--A MEXICAN LAMENT, Charles Fenno Hoffman               362
  TO ARMS, Park Benjamin                                           363
  MONTEREY, Charles Fenno Hoffman                                  363
  VICTOR GALBRAITH, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                     364
  BUENA VISTA, Albert Pike                                         364
  THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA, John Greenleaf Whittier               366
  THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD, Theodore O'Hara                         368
  WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS, James Russell Lowell                   369
  BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL, Thomas Dunn English                   370
  THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC, William Haines Lytle                   371
  ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO, Grace Greenwood            371
  THE CRISIS, John Greenleaf Whittier                              372
  THE VOLUNTEERS, William Haines Lytle                             374


  _Fourteen Years of Peace_

    Lieber                                                         374
  THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE, Samuel Lover                              375
  ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY, William Wilberforce Lord            376
      Walter Savage Landor                                         376
  THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE," Unknown                    376
  DANIEL WEBSTER, Oliver Wendell Holmes                            377
  THE FLAG, James Jeffrey Roche                                    378
  KANE, Fitz-James O'Brien                                         379
  HERNDON, S. Weir Mitchell                                        380
  BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER, Wallace Rice                        380
  BARON RENFREW'S BALL, Charles Graham Halpine                     382



  BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC, Julia Ward Howe                     384


  _The Slavery Question_

  TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, John Greenleaf Whittier               385
  CLERICAL OPPRESSORS, John Greenleaf Whittier                     385
  THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT, James Russell Lowell                   386
  ICHABOD, John Greenleaf Whittier                                 388
  THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS, John Pierpont                            388
  THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS, John Greenleaf Whittier                    389
  BURIAL OF BARBER, John Greenleaf Whittier                        389
  THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE, Richard Realf                           390
  THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY OF KEITT, Unknown                        391
  LE MARAIS DU CYGNE, John Greenleaf Whittier                      392
  HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY, Edmund Clarence Stedman       393
  THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN, Henry Howard Brownell                 395
  BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE, John Greenleaf Whittier                    396
  GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN BROWN'S BODY, Charles Sprague Hall     397
  JOHN BROWN, Edna Dean Proctor                                    397
  JOHN BROWN: A PARADOX, Louise Imogen Guiney                      397
  LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE, Charles Graham Halpine                398
  LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE, Edwin Markham                    399
      Holmes                                                       400
  JEFFERSON D., H. S. Cornwell                                     401
  THE OLD COVE, Henry Howard Brownell                              401
  A SPOOL OF THREAD, Sophie E. Eastman                             402
  GOD SAVE OUR PRESIDENT, Francis DeHaes Janvier                   403


  _The Gauntlet_

  BOB ANDERSON, MY BEAU, Unknown                                   403
  ON FORT SUMTER, Unknown                                          403
  SUMTER, Edmund Clarence Stedman                                  404
  THE BATTLE OF MORRIS' ISLAND, Unknown                            404
  SUMTER--A BALLAD OF 1861, Unknown                                405
  THE FIGHT AT SUMTER, Unknown                                     407
  SUMTER, Henry Howard Brownell                                    408
  THE GREAT BELL ROLAND, Theodore Tilton                           408
  MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST, Richard Henry Stoddard                409
  OUT AND FIGHT, Charles Godfrey Leland                            409
  NO MORE WORDS, Franklin Lushington                               410
  OUR COUNTRY'S CALL, William Cullen Bryant                        410
  DIXIE, Albert Pike                                               411
  A CRY TO ARMS, Henry Timrod                                      411
  "WE CONQUER OR DIE," James Pierpont                              412
  "CALL ALL," Unknown                                              412
  THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG, Annie Chambers Ketchum                     413
  I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE, Unknown                           413


  _The North gets its Lesson_

  THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, Lucy Larcom                             414
  THROUGH BALTIMORE, Bayard Taylor                                 414
  MY MARYLAND, James Ryder Randall                                 415
  ELLSWORTH, Unknown                                               416
  COLONEL ELLSWORTH, Richard Henry Stoddard                        416
  ON THE DEATH OF "JACKSON," Unknown                               417
  THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY, Francis Orrery Ticknor             417
  BETHEL, A. J. H. Duganne                                         417
  DIRGE, Thomas William Parsons                                    419
  WAIT FOR THE WAGON, Unknown                                      419
  UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE, George Henry Boker             420
  MANASSAS, Catherine M. Warfield                                  423
  A BATTLE BALLAD, Francis Orrery Ticknor                          424
  THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION, Unknown                          425
  ON TO RICHMOND, John R. Thompson                                 426
  CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED, Unknown                            427
  SHOP AND FREEDOM, Unknown                                        428
  THE C. S. A. COMMISSIONERS, Unknown                              428
  DEATH OF THE LINCOLN DESPOTISM, Unknown                          429
  JONATHAN TO JOHN, James Russell Lowell                           430
  A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE, Unknown                               432


  _The Grand Army of the Potomac_

  CIVIL WAR, Charles Dawson Shanly                                 432
  THE PICKET-GUARD, Ethel Lynn Beers                               433
  TARDY GEORGE, Unknown                                            433
  HOW MCCLELLAN TOOK MANASSAS, Unknown                             434
  WANTED--A MAN, Edmund Clarence Stedman                           435
  THE GALLANT FIGHTING "JOE," James Stevenson                      436
  KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES, Edmund Clarence Stedman                   437
  THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ, John R. Thompson                           437
  THE CHARGE BY THE FORD, Thomas Dunn English                      438
  DIRGE FOR ASHBY, Margaret Junkin Preston                         439
  MALVERN HILL, Herman Melville                                    439
  A MESSAGE, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps                               440
  THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE, James Sloan Gibbons                 440
  CEDAR MOUNTAIN, Annie Fields                                     441
  "OUR LEFT," Francis Orrery Ticknor                               441
  DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, George Henry Boker                          442
  THE REVEILLE, Bret Harte                                         442
  BEYOND THE POTOMAC, Paul Hamilton Hayne                          443
  BARBARA FRIETCHIE, John Greenleaf Whittier                       444
  MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND, George Parsons Lathrop                   445
  THE VICTOR OF ANTIETAM, Herman Melville                          445
  THE CROSSING AT FREDERICKSBURG, George Henry Boker               446
  AT FREDERICKSBURG, John Boyle O'Reilly                           447
  FREDERICKSBURG, Thomas Bailey Aldrich                            449
  BY THE POTOMAC, Thomas Bailey Aldrich                            449
  THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD, James Russell Lowell                  450


  _The War in the West_

  THE LITTLE DRUMMER, Richard Henry Stoddard                       451
  THE DEATH OF LYON, Henry Peterson                                453
  ZAGONYI, George Henry Boker                                      453
  BATTLE OF SOMERSET, Cornelius C. Cullen                          454
  ZOLLICOFFER, Henry Lynden Flash                                  454
  BOY BRITTAN, Forceythe Willson                                   455
  ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Kate Brownlee Sherwood                   456
  ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Francis Orrery Ticknor                   457
  BEAUREGARD, Mrs. C. A. Warfield                                  457
  THE EAGLE OF CORINTH, Henry Howard Brownell                      458
  THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO, Kinahan Cornwallis                   459
  LITTLE GIFFEN, Francis Orrery Ticknor                            460
  THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862, John Greenleaf Whittier               460


  _The Coast and the River_

  AT PORT ROYAL, John Greenleaf Whittier                           461
  READY, Phoebe Cary                                               461
  THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT, Clinton Scollard                   462
  THE TURTLE, Unknown                                              462
  THE ATTACK, Thomas Buchanan Read                                 463
  THE CUMBERLAND, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                       464
  ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, George Henry Boker                      464
  THE CUMBERLAND, Herman Melville                                  466
  HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN, S. Weir Mitchell                   466
  THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR, George Henry Boker                    467
  THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK, Lucy Larcom                        468
  THE RIVER FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell                           468
  THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS, George Henry Boker                    472
  THE VARUNA, George Henry Boker                                   474
  THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS, Marion Manville                    475
  MUMFORD, Ina M. Porter                                           476
  BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION, Paul Hamilton Hayne                       476



  TO JOHN C. FRÉMONT, John Greenleaf Whittier                      477
  ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL, John Greenleaf Whittier                   478
  BOSTON HYMN, Ralph Waldo Emerson                                 478
  THE PROCLAMATION, John Greenleaf Whittier                        480
  TREASON'S LAST DEVICE, Edmund Clarence Stedman                   480
  LAUS DEO, John Greenleaf Whittier                                481


  _The "Grand Army's" Second Campaign_

  MOSBY AT HAMILTON, Madison Cawein                                482
  JOHN PELHAM, James Ryder Randall                                 482
  HOOKER'S ACROSS, George Henry Boker                              483
  STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY, John Williamson Palmer                  483
  KEENAN'S CHARGE, George Parsons Lathrop                          484
  "THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR," Unknown                        485
  STONEWALL JACKSON, Henry Lynden Flash                            486
  THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON, Sidney Lanier              486
  UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES, Margaret Junkin Preston            486
  THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY, Unknown                               487
  RIDING WITH KILPATRICK, Clinton Scollard                         488
  GETTYSBURG, Edmund Clarence Stedman                              489
  THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG, Will Henry Thompson                 491
  GETTYSBURG, James Jeffrey Roche                                  492
  THE BATTLE-FIELD, Lloyd Mifflin                                  492
  JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG, Bret Harte                             493
  KENTUCKY BELLE, Constance Fenimore Woolson                       494
  THE DRAFT RIOT, Charles de Kay                                   496
  LINCOLN AT GETTYSBURG, Bayard Taylor                             497


  _With Grant on the Mississippi_

  RUNNING THE BATTERIES, Herman Melville                           498
  BEFORE VICKSBURG, George Henry Boker                             499
  VICKSBURG, Paul Hamilton Hayne                                   499
  THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM, George Frederick Root                 500
  THE BLACK REGIMENT, George Henry Boker                           500
  THE BALLAD OF CHICKAMAUGA, Maurice Thompson                      501
  THOMAS AT CHICKAMAUGA, Kate Brownlee Sherwood                    502
  GARFIELD'S RIDE AT CHICKAMAUGA, Hezekiah Butterworth             503
  THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN, George Henry Boker               505
  THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS, William Dean Howells                   506
  CHARLESTON, Henry Timrod                                         507
  THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR, Paul Hamilton Hayne             507
  BURY THEM, Henry Howard Brownell                                 508
  TWILIGHT ON SUMTER, Richard Henry Stoddard                       509


  _The Final Struggle_

  PUT IT THROUGH, Edward Everett Hale                              509
  LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK, Hamlin Garland                        510
  A DIRGE FOR MCPHERSON, Herman Melville                           511
  WITH CORSE AT ALLATOONA, Samuel H. M. Byers                      511
  ALLATOONA, Unknown                                               512
  SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA, Samuel H. M. Byers                   512
  THE SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY, Charles Graham Halpine               513
  MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA, Henry Clay Work                        513
  ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS, Walt Whitman                       514
  SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH, Oliver Wendell Holmes                     514
  SAVANNAH, Alethea S. Burroughs                                   514
  CAROLINA, Henry Timrod                                           515
  CHARLESTON, Paul Hamilton Hayne                                  515
  ROMANCE, William Ernest Henley                                   516
  THE FOE AT THE GATES, John Dickson Bruns                         516
  ULRIC DAHLGREN, Kate Brownlee Sherwood                           517
  LEE TO THE REAR, John Randolph Thompson                          518
  CAN'T, Harriet Prescott Spofford                                 519
  OBSEQUIES OF STUART, John Randolph Thompson                      519
  A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH, Edith M. Thomas                 520
  SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK, Herman Melville                         521
  SHERIDAN'S RIDE, Thomas Buchanan Read                            521
  THE YEAR OF JUBILEE, Henry Clay Work                             522
  VIRGINIA CAPTA, Margaret Junkin Preston                          523
  THE FALL OF RICHMOND, Herman Melville                            523
  THE SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX, Herman Melville                     524
  LEE'S PAROLE, Marion Manville                                    524
  ROBERT E. LEE, Julia Ward Howe                                   524


  _Winslow and Farragut_

  THE EAGLE AND VULTURE, Thomas Buchanan Read                      525
  KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA, Unknown                                   526
  KEARSARGE, S. Weir Mitchell                                      526
  THE ALABAMA, Maurice Bell                                        527
  CRAVEN, Henry Newbolt                                            527
  FARRAGUT, William Tuckey Meredith                                528
  THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY, Unknown                              529
  THE BAY FIGHT, Henry Howard Brownell                             530
  "ALBEMARLE" CUSHING, James Jeffrey Roche                         535
  AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH, Herman Melville                           537


  _The Martyr President_

  LINCOLN, S. Weir Mitchell                                        537
  O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! Walt Whitman                              537
  THE DEAD PRESIDENT, Edward Rowland Sill                          538
  ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Edmund Clarence Stedman                         538
  PARDON, Julia Ward Howe                                          539
  THE DEAR PRESIDENT, John James Piatt                             539
  ABRAHAM LINCOLN, William Cullen Bryant                           540
  ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Richard Henry Stoddard                          540
  PARRICIDE, Julia Ward Howe                                       542
  ABRAHAM LINCOLN, Tom Taylor                                      543



  "STACK ARMS," Joseph Blynth Alston                               545
  JEFFERSON DAVIS, Walker Meriwether Bell                          545
  IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING, Daniel B. Lucas              546
  ACCEPTATION, Margaret Junkin Preston                             547
  THE CONQUERED BANNER, Abram J. Ryan                              547
  PEACE, Adeline D. T. Whitney                                     547
  PEACE, Phoebe Cary                                               548
  A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY, Bret Harte                    548
  WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME, Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore       549
  DRIVING HOME THE COWS, Kate Putnam Osgood                        550
      Lowell                                                       550



  THE EAGLE'S SONG, Richard Mansfield                              558


  _Reconstruction and After_

  TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS, John Greenleaf Whittier            559
      Halpine                                                      559
  THADDEUS STEVENS, Phoebe Cary                                    560
      Hayne                                                        561
  KU-KLUX, Madison Cawein                                          562
  THE REAR GUARD, Irene Fowler Brown                               562
  THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, Francis Miles Finch                       563
  THE STRICKEN SOUTH TO THE NORTH, Paul Hamilton Hayne             564
  HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE, John Godfrey Saxe                      565
  THE CABLE HYMN, John Greenleaf Whittier                          565
  AN ARCTIC VISION, Bret Harte                                     566
  ALASKA, Joaquin Miller                                           567
  ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD, Edmund Clarence Stedman            567
  CHICAGO, John Greenleaf Whittier                                 568
  CHICAGO, Bret Harte                                              569
  CHICAGO, John Boyle O'Reilly                                     569
  BOSTON, John Boyle O'Reilly                                      570
  THE CHURCH OF THE REVOLUTION, Hezekiah Butterworth               570
  AFTER THE FIRE, Oliver Wendell Holmes                            571
  THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES, John Boyle O'Reilly                  571


  _The Year of a Hundred Years_

  OUR FIRST CENTURY, George Edward Woodberry                       572
  CENTENNIAL HYMN, John Greenleaf Whittier                         573
  THE CENTENNIAL MEDITATION OF COLUMBIA, Sidney Lanier             573
  CENTENNIAL HYMN, William Cullen Bryant                           574
  WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, Oliver Wendell Holmes                    574
  THE NATIONAL ODE, Bayard Taylor                                  575
  OUR NATIONAL BANNER, Dexter Smith                                578
  AFTER THE CENTENNIAL, Christopher Pearse Cranch                  578


  _The Conquest of the Plains_

  THE PACIFIC RAILWAY, C. R. Ballard                               579
  AFTER THE COMANCHES, Unknown                                     579
  DOWN THE LITTLE BIG HORN, Francis Brooks                         580
  LITTLE BIG HORN, Ernest McGaffey                                 581
  CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE, Frederick Whittaker                        582
  CUSTER, Edmund Clarence Stedman                                  583
  THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow      583
  MILES KEOGH'S HORSE, John Hay                                    584
  ON THE BIG HORN, John Greenleaf Whittier                         585
  THE "GREY HORSE TROOP," Robert W. Chambers                       585
  GERONIMO, Ernest McGaffey                                        586
  THE LAST RESERVATION, Walter Learned                             586
  INDIAN NAMES, Lydia Huntley Sigourney                            587


  _The Second Assassination_

  REJOICE, Joaquin Miller                                          587
  THE BELLS AT MIDNIGHT, Thomas Bailey Aldrich                     588
  J. A. G., Julia Ward Howe                                        589
  MIDNIGHT--SEPTEMBER 19, 1881, John Boyle O'Reilly                589
  AT THE PRESIDENT'S GRAVE, Richard Watson Gilder                  590
  ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD, Oliver Wendell Holmes        590
  PRESIDENT GARFIELD, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                   591
  YORKTOWN CENTENNIAL LYRIC, Paul Hamilton Hayne                   592
  THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE, Edna Dean Proctor                           593
  BROOKLYN BRIDGE, Charles George Douglas Roberts                  593
  CHARLESTON, Richard Watson Gilder                                594
  MAYFLOWER, John Boyle O'Reilly                                   594
  FAIREST OF FREEDOM'S DAUGHTERS, Jeremiah Eames Rankin            594
  LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD, Edmund Clarence Stedman          595
  THE BARTHOLDI STATUE, John Greenleaf Whittier                    595
  ADDITIONAL VERSES TO HAIL COLUMBIA, Oliver Wendell Holmes        596
  NEW NATIONAL HYMN, Francis Marion Crawford                       596
  IN APIA BAY, Charles George Douglas Roberts                      597
  AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE, Caroline T. Duer                       598
  BY THE CONEMAUGH, Florence Earle Coates                          599
  THE MAN WHO RODE TO CONEMAUGH, John Eliot Bowen                  599
  A BALLAD OF THE CONEMAUGH FLOOD, Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley      600
  CONEMAUGH, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward                          601
  "THE WHITE CITY," Richard Watson Gilder                          602
  THE KEARSARGE, James Jeffrey Roche                               602
  TENNESSEE, Virginia Fraser Boyle                                 603
      Aldrich                                                      603
  THE KLONDIKE, Edwin Arlington Robinson                           604


  _The War with Spain_

  APOSTROPHE TO THE ISLAND OF CUBA, James Gates Percival           606
  THE GALLANT FIFTY-ONE, Henry Lynden Flash                        606
  CUBA, Edmund Clarence Stedman                                    607
  THE GOSPEL OF PEACE, James Jeffrey Roche                         607
  CUBA, Harvey Rice                                                608
  CUBA TO COLUMBIA, Will Carleton                                  608
  CUBA LIBRE, Joaquin Miller                                       609
  THE PARTING OF THE WAYS, Joseph B. Gilder                        609
  THE MEN OF THE MAINE, Clinton Scollard                           609
  THE WORD OF THE LORD FROM HAVANA, Richard Hovey                  610
  HALF-MAST, Lloyd Mifflin                                         611
  THE FIGHTING RACE, Joseph I. C. Clarke                           611
  ON THE EVE OF WAR, Danske Dandridge                              612
  TO SPAIN--A LAST WORD, Edith M. Thomas                           612
  THE MARTYRS OF THE MAINE, Rupert Hughes                          612
  EL EMPLAZADO, William Henry Venable                              613
  BATTLE SONG, Robert Burns Wilson                                 613
  GREETING FROM ENGLAND, Unknown                                   614
  BATTLE CRY, William Henry Venable                                614
  JUST ONE SIGNAL, Unknown                                         614
  DEWEY AT MANILA, Robert Underwood Johnson                        615
  DEWEY AND HIS MEN, Wallace Rice                                  617
  "OFF MANILLY," Edmund Vance Cooke                                618
  MANILA BAY, Arthur Hale                                          618
  A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY, Charles George Douglas Roberts           618
  THE BATTLE OF MANILA, Richard Hovey                              619
  DEWEY IN MANILA BAY, R. V. Risley                                620
  "MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN," Madison Cawein                    620
  THE SPIRIT OF THE MAINE, Tudor Jenks                             621
  THE DRAGON OF THE SEAS, Thomas Nelson Page                       621
  THE SAILING OF THE FLEET, Unknown                                622
  "CUT THE CABLES," Robert Burns Wilson                            622
  THE RACE OF THE OREGON, John James Meehan                        624
  BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON, Wallace Rice                          624
  STRIKE THE BLOW, Unknown                                         625
  EIGHT VOLUNTEERS, Lansing C. Bailey                              626
  THE MEN OF THE MERRIMAC, Clinton Scollard                        626
  THE VICTORY-WRECK, Will Carleton                                 627
  HOBSON AND HIS MEN, Robert Loveman                               627
  THE CALL TO THE COLORS, Arthur Guiterman                         627
  ESSEX REGIMENT MARCH, George Edward Woodberry                    628
  THE GATHERING, Herbert B. Swett                                  629
  COMRADES, Henry R. Dorr                                          629
  WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO, Wallace Rice                      629
  DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO, Clinton Scollard                     630
  THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO, William Hamilton Hayne                   630
  PRIVATE BLAIR OF THE REGULARS, Clinton Scollard                  631
  WHEELER AT SANTIAGO, James Lindsay Gordon                        631
  SPAIN'S LAST ARMADA, Wallace Rice                                632
  SANTIAGO, Thomas A. Janvier                                      633
  THE FLEET AT SANTIAGO, Charles E. Russell                        634
  THE DESTROYER OF DESTROYERS, Wallace Rice                        635
  THE BROOKLYN AT SANTIAGO, Wallace Rice                           636
  THE RUSH OF THE OREGON, Arthur Guiterman                         637
  THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS, John Jerome Rooney                      637
  CERVERA, Bertrand Shadwell                                       638
  MCILRATH OF MALATE, John Jerome Rooney                           639
  WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN, Guy Wetmore Carryl            640
  FULL CYCLE, John White Chadwick                                  640
  BREATH ON THE OAT, Joseph Russell Taylor                         641
  THE ISLANDS OF THE SEA, George Edward Woodberry                  641
  BALLADE OF EXPANSION, Hilda Johnson                              642
  "REBELS," Ernest Crosby                                          643
  ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES, William Vaughn Moody     643
  THE BALLAD OF PACO TOWN, Clinton Scollard                        644
  THE DEED OF LIEUTENANT MILES, Clinton Scollard                   644
  AGUINALDO, Bertrand Shadwell                                     645
  THE FIGHT AT DAJO, Alfred E. Wood                                645
  AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION, William Vaughn Moody               646


  _The New Century_

  A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND, Robert Bridges                       649
  BUFFALO, Florence Earle Coates                                   649
  MCKINLEY, Unknown                                                649
  FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, Richard Handfield Titherington              650
  THE COMFORT OF THE TREES, Richard Watson Gilder                  650
  OUTWARD BOUND, Edward Sydney Tylee                               650
  PANAMA, James Jeffrey Roche                                      651
  DARIEN, Edwin Arnold                                             651
  PANAMA, Amanda T. Jones                                          652
  A SONG OF PANAMA, Alfred Damon Runyon                            652
  HYMN OF THE WEST, Edmund Clarence Stedman                        653
  BRITANNIA TO COLUMBIA, Alfred Austin                             654
  THOSE REBEL FLAGS, John H. Jewett                                654
  THE SONG OF THE FLAGS, S. Weir Mitchell                          655
  ARIZONA, Sharlot M. Hall                                         655
  SAN FRANCISCO, Joaquin Miller                                    657
  SAN FRANCISCO, John Vance Cheney                                 657
  TO SAN FRANCISCO, S. J. Alexander                                657
  RESURGE SAN FRANCISCO, Joaquin Miller                            658
  GROVER CLEVELAND, Joel Benton                                    658
  UNGUARDED GATES, Thomas Bailey Aldrich                           659
  NATIONAL SONG, William Henry Venable                             659
  AD PATRIAM, Clinton Scollard                                     660
  O LAND BELOVED, George Edward Woodberry                          660
  THE REPUBLIC, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow                         660


  _The World War_

  SONNETS WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914, George Edward Woodberry     661
  ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT, Vachel Lindsay                661
  THE "WILLIAM P. FRYE," Jeanne Robert Foster                      662
  THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED, Joyce Kilmer                        663
  MARE LIBERUM, Henry van Dyke                                     664
      Alan Seeger                                                  664
  REPUBLIC TO REPUBLIC, Witter Bynner                              666
  TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Robert Bridges                  666
  THE CAPTIVE SHIPS AT MANILA, Dorothy Paul                        666
  THE ROAD TO FRANCE, Daniel Henderson                             667
  PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE, Amelia Josephine Burr         667
  YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD, Randall Parrish                            668
  A CALL TO ARMS, Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews                     668
  THE FIRST THREE, Clinton Scollard                                669
      Walker                                                       670
  ROUGE BOUQUET, Joyce Kilmer                                      670
  MARCHING SONG, Dana Burnet                                       671
  OUR MODEST DOUGHBOYS, Charlton Andrews                           671
  SEICHEPREY                                                       672
  A BALLAD OF REDHEAD'S DAY, Richard Butler Glaenzer               672
  VICTORY BELLS, Grace Hazard Conkling                             673
  EPICEDIUM, J. Corson Miller                                      673
  THE DEAD, David Morton                                           674
  THE UNRETURNING, Clinton Scollard                                674
  THE STAR, Marion Couthouy Smith                                  674
  BREST LEFT BEHIND, John Chipman Farrar                           674
  TO THE RETURNING BRAVE, Robert Underwood Johnson                 675
  THE RETURN, Eleanor Rogers Cox                                   676
  KING OF THE BELGIANS, Marion Couthouy Smith                      676
  THE FAMILY OF NATIONS, Willard Wattles                           677
  THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS, Mary Siegrist                             677
  BEYOND WARS, David Morton                                        678
  "WHEN THERE IS PEACE," Austin Dobson                             678
  AFTER THE WAR, Richard Le Gallienne                              678

  NOTES                                                            681

  INDEX OF AUTHORS                                                 699

  INDEX OF FIRST LINES                                             705

  INDEX OF TITLES                                                  713




  Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore,
  How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore;
  How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine,
  They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine?

  Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive,
  Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave,
  And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil,
  While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil.

  And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd,
  That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud,
  How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reign
  Ere came with Columbus those galleys of Spain?

  'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,--
  By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,--
  Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide,
  Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride.

  Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West,
  Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest;
  Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe--with his ring,
  To wed sweet Matoäka, child of a king.

  Undaunted they came, every peril to dare,
  Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair;
  Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay;
  Of their terror by night and their arrow by day.

  And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles,
  Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals,
  Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest,
  Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West.

  The clime that from ocean to ocean expands,
  The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands,
  The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain,
  Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain.

  And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned,
  'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned,
  'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran;
  They held--to be free is the birthright of man.

  So oft the old lion, majestic of mane,
  Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign;
  Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye,
  He gave them the spirit his own to defy.





    Bjarni, son of Herjulf, speeding westward from Iceland in 986,
    to spend the Yuletide in Greenland with his father, encountered
    foggy weather and steered by guesswork for many days. At last
    he sighted land, but a land covered with dense woods,--not
    at all the land of fiords and glaciers he was seeking. So,
    without stopping, he turned his prow to the north, and ten days
    later was telling his story to the listening circle before the
    blazing logs in his father's house at Brattahlid. The tale
    came, in time, to the ears of Leif, the famous son of Red Eric,
    and in the year 1000 he set out from Greenland, with a crew of
    thirty-five, in search of the strange land to the south. He
    reached the barren coast of Labrador and named it Helluland, or
    "slate-land;" south of it was a coast so densely wooded that
    he named it Markland, or "woodland." At last he ran his ship
    ashore at a spot where "a river, issuing from a lake, fell
    into the sea." Wild grapes abounded, and he named the country


From "Psalm of the West"

                  Far spread, below,
  The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flow
  All secrets of Atlantis' drownèd woe
    Lay bound about with night on every hand,
    Save down the eastern brink a shining band
    Of day made out a little way from land.
  Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:
  _Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh why
  Dost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?_
    But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,
    And never a wave doth good for man, or ill,
    And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;
  And like as grim-beaked pelicans level file
  Across the sunset toward their nightly isle
  On solemn wings that wave but seldom while,
    So leanly sails the day behind the day
    To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,
    And down its mortal fissures sinks away.

  Master, Master, break this ban:
    The wave lacks Thee.
  Oh, is it not to widen man
    Stretches the sea?
  Oh, must the sea-bird's idle van
    Alone be free?

  Into the Sea of the Dark doth creep
    Björne's pallid sail,
  As the face of a walker in his sleep,
    Set rigid and most pale,
  About the night doth peer and peep
    In a dream of an ancient tale.

  Lo, here is made a hasty cry:
    _Land, land, upon the west!--
  God save such land! Go by, go by:
    Here may no mortal rest,
  Where this waste hell of slate doth lie
    And grind the glacier's breast._

  The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!
    Round eastward slanteth the mast;
  As the sleep-walker waked with pain,
    White-clothed in the midnight blast,
  Doth stare and quake, and stride again
    To houseward all aghast.

  Yet as--_A ghost!_ his household cry:
    _He hath followed a ghost in flight.
  Let us see the ghost_--his household fly
    With lamps to search the night--
  So Norsemen's sails run out and try
    The Sea of the Dark with light.

  Stout Are Marson, southward whirled
    From out the tempest's hand,
  Doth skip the sloping of the world
    To Huitramannaland,
  Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curled
    Wave by the shining strand,

  And sway in sighs from Florida's Spring
    Or Carolina's Palm--
  What time the mocking-bird doth bring
    The woods his artist's-balm,
  Singing the Song of Everything
    Consummate-sweet and calm--

  Land of large merciful-hearted skies,
    Big bounties, rich increase,
  Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,
    For o'er-beat brains surcease,
  For Love the dear woods' sympathies,
    For Grief the wise woods' peace.

  For Need rich givings of hid powers
    In hills and vales quick-won,
  For Greed large exemplary flowers
    That ne'er have toiled nor spun,
  For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,
    For Cold the neighbor sun.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,
    To the South of the West doth flee--
  Past slaty Helluland is sped,
    Past Markland's woody lea,
  Till round about fair Vinland's head,
    Where Taunton helps the sea,

  The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,
    The mariners hurry a-strand:
  They wassail with fore-drunken skals
    Where prophet wild grapes stand;
  They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls,
    They stride about the land--

  New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wine
    As blood doth stretch each vein,
  And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,
    Through peril and all pain
  To grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,
    And, once ahold, remain--

  Land where the strenuous-handed Wind
    With sarcasm of a friend
  Doth smite the man would lag behind
    To frontward of his end;
  Yea, where the taunting fall and grind
    Of Nature's Ill doth send

  Such mortal challenge of a clown
    Rude-thrust upon the soul,
  That men but smile where mountains frown
    Or scowling waters roll,
  And Nature's front of battle down
    Do hurl from pole to pole.

  Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers low
  With sails from Northland flickering to and fro--
  Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,
    Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bed
    Slain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,
    Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,
  Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,
  Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,
  And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;
    And leanly sails the day behind the day
    To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,
    And down its mortal fissures sinks away,
  As when the grim-beaked pelicans level file
  Across the sunset to their seaward isle
  On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.

               SIDNEY LANIER.

[1] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

    Leif and his crew spent the winter in Vinland, and in the
    following spring took back to Greenland news of the pleasant
    country they had discovered. Other voyages followed, but the
    newcomers became embroiled with the natives, who attacked
    them in such numbers that all projects of colonization were
    abandoned; and finally, in 1012, the Norsemen sailed away
    forever from this land of promise.


[On a fragment of statue found at Bradford.]

  Gift from the cold and silent Past!
  A relic to the present cast;
  Left on the ever-changing strand
  Of shifting and unstable sand,
  Which wastes beneath the steady chime
  And beating of the waves of Time!
  Who from its bed of primal rock
  First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?
  Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,
  Thy rude and savage outline wrought?

  The waters of my native stream
  Are glancing in the sun's warm beam;
  From sail-urged keel and flashing oar
  The circles widen to its shore;
  And cultured field and peopled town
  Slope to its willowed margin down.
  Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing
  The home-life sound of school-bells ringing,
  And rolling wheel, and rapid jar
  Of the fire-winged and steedless car,
  And voices from the wayside near
  Come quick and blended on my ear,--
  A spell is in this old gray stone,
  My thoughts are with the Past alone!

  A change!--The steepled town no more
  Stretches along the sail-thronged shore;
  Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,
  Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:
  Spectrally rising where they stood,
  I see the old, primeval wood;
  Dark, shadow-like, on either hand
  I see its solemn waste expand;
  It climbs the green and cultured hill,
  It arches o'er the valley's rill,
  And leans from cliff and crag to throw
  Its wild arms o'er the stream below.
  Unchanged, alone, the same bright river
  Flows on, as it will flow forever!
  I listen, and I hear the low
  Soft ripple where its waters go;
  I hear behind the panther's cry,
  The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,
  And shyly on the river's brink
  The deer is stooping down to drink.

  But hark!--from wood and rock flung back,
  What sound comes up the Merrimac?
  What sea-worn barks are those which throw
  The light spray from each rushing prow?
  Have they not in the North Sea's blast
  Bowed to the waves the straining mast?
  Their frozen sails the low, pale sun
  Of Thulë's night has shone upon;
  Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep
  Round icy drift, and headland steep.
  Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters
  Have watched them fading o'er the waters,
  Lessening through driving mist and spray,
  Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!

  Onward they glide,--and now I view
  Their iron-armed and stalwart crew;
  Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,
  Turned to green earth and summer sky.
  Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside
  Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide;
  Bared to the sun and soft warm air,
  Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.
  I see the gleam of axe and spear,
  A sound of smitten shields I hear,
  Keeping a harsh and fitting time
  To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;
  Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,
  His gray and naked isles among;
  Or muttered low at midnight hour
  Round Odin's mossy stone of power.
  The wolf beneath the Arctic moon
  Has answered to that startling rune;
  The Gael has heard its stormy swell,
  The light Frank knows its summons well;
  Iona's sable-stoled Culdee
  Has heard it sounding o'er the sea,
  And swept, with hoary beard and hair,
  His altar's foot in trembling prayer!

  'Tis past,--the 'wildering vision dies
  In darkness on my dreaming eyes!
  The forest vanishes in air,
  Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;
  I hear the common tread of men,
  And hum of work-day life again;
  The mystic relic seems alone
  A broken mass of common stone;
  And if it be the chiselled limb
  Of Berserker or idol grim,
  A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,
  The stormy Viking's god of War,
  Or Praga of the Runic lay,
  Or love-awakening Siona,
  I know not,--for no graven line,
  Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,
  Is left me here, by which to trace
  Its name, or origin, or place.
  Yet, for this vision of the Past,
  This glance upon its darkness cast,
  My spirit bows in gratitude
  Before the Giver of all good,
  Who fashioned so the human mind,
  That, from the waste of Time behind,
  A simple stone, or mound of earth,
  Can summon the departed forth;
  Quicken the Past to life again,
  The Present lose in what hath been,
  And in their primal freshness show
  The buried forms of long ago.
  As if a portion of that Thought
  By which the Eternal will is wrought,
  Whose impulse fills anew with breath
  The frozen solitude of Death,
  To mortal mind were sometimes lent,
  To mortal musings sometimes sent,
  To whisper--even when it seems
  But Memory's fantasy of dreams--
  Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,
  Of an immortal origin!


    This, in mere outline, is the story of Vinland, as told in the
    Icelandic Chronicle. Of its substantial accuracy there can be
    little doubt. Many proofs of Norse occupation have been found
    on the shores of Massachusetts Bay. The "skeleton in armor,"
    however, which was unearthed in 1835 near Fall River, Mass.,
    was probably that of an Indian.


  "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
  Who, with thy hollow breast
  Still in rude armor drest,
      Comest to daunt me!
  Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
  But with thy fleshless palms
  Stretched, as if asking alms,
      Why dost thou haunt me?"

  Then, from those cavernous eyes
  Pale flashes seemed to rise,
  As when the Northern skies
      Gleam in December;
  And, like the water's flow
  Under December's snow,
  Came a dull voice of woe
      From the heart's chamber.

  "I was a Viking old!
  My deeds, though manifold,
  No Skald in song has told,
      No Saga taught thee!
  Take heed, that in thy verse
  Thou dost the tale rehearse,
  Else dread a dead man's curse;
      For this I sought thee.

  "Far in the Northern Land,
  By the wild Baltic's strand,
  I, with my childish hand,
      Tamed the gerfalcon;
  And, with my skates fast-bound,
  Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
  That the poor whimpering hound
      Trembled to walk on.

  "Oft to his frozen lair
  Tracked I the grisly bear,
  While from my path the hare
      Fled like a shadow;
  Oft through the forest dark
  Followed the were-wolf's bark,
  Until the soaring lark
      Sang from the meadow.

  "But when I older grew,
  Joining a corsair's crew,
  O'er the dark sea I flew
      With the marauders.
  Wild was the life we led;
  Many the souls that sped,
  Many the hearts that bled,
      By our stern orders.

  "Many a wassail-bout
  Wore the long winter out;
  Often our midnight shout
      Set the cocks crowing,
  As we the Berserk's tale
  Measured in cups of ale,
  Draining the oaken pail,
      Filled to o'erflowing.

  "Once as I told in glee
  Tales of the stormy sea,
  Soft eyes did gaze on me,
      Burning yet tender;
  And as the white stars shine
  On the dark Norway pine,
  On that dark heart of mine
      Fell their soft splendor.

  "I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
  Yielding, yet half afraid,
  And in the forest's shade
      Our vows were plighted.
  Under its loosened vest
  Fluttered her little breast,
  Like birds within their nest
      By the hawk frighted.

  "Bright in her father's hall
  Shields gleamed upon the wall,
  Loud sang the minstrels all,
      Chanting his glory;
  When of old Hildebrand
  I asked his daughter's hand,
  Mute did the minstrels stand
      To hear my story.

  "While the brown ale he quaffed,
  Loud then the champion laughed,
  And as the wind-gusts waft
      The sea-foam brightly,
  So the loud laugh of scorn,
  Out of those lips unshorn,
  From the deep drinking-horn
      Blew the foam lightly.

  "She was a Prince's child,
  I but a Viking wild,
  And though she blushed and smiled,
      I was discarded!
  Should not the dove so white
  Follow the sea-mew's flight,
  Why did they leave that night
      Her nest unguarded?

  "Scarce had I put to sea,
  Bearing the maid with me,
  Fairest of all was she
      Among the Norsemen!
  When on the white sea-strand,
  Waving his armèd hand,
  Saw we old Hildebrand,
      With twenty horsemen.

  "Then launched they to the blast,
  Bent like a reed each mast,
  Yet we were gaining fast,
      When the wind failed us;
  And with a sudden flaw
  Came round the gusty Skaw,
  So that our foe we saw
      Laugh as he hailed us.

  "And as to catch the gale
  Round veered the flapping sail,
  'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
      'Death without quarter!'
  Mid-ships with iron keel
  Struck we her ribs of steel!
  Down her black hulk did reel
      Through the black water!

  "As with his wings aslant,
  Sails the fierce cormorant,
  Seeking some rocky haunt,
      With his prey laden.--
  So toward the open main,
  Beating to sea again,
  Through the wild hurricane,
      Bore I the maiden.

  "Three weeks we westward bore,
  And when the storm was o'er,
  Cloud-like we saw the shore
      Stretching to leeward;
  There for my lady's bower
  Built I the lofty tower,
  Which, to this very hour,
      Stands looking seaward.

  "There lived we many years;
  Time dried the maiden's tears;
  She had forgot her fears,
      She was a mother;
  Death closed her mild blue eyes,
  Under that tower she lies;
  Ne'er shall the sun arise
      On such another!

  "Still grew my bosom then,
  Still as a stagnant fen!
  Hateful to me were men,
      The sunlight hateful!
  In the vast forest here,
  Clad in my warlike gear,
  Fell I upon my spear,
      Oh, death was grateful!

  "Thus, seamed with many scars,
  Bursting these prison bars,
  Up to its native stars
      My soul ascended!
  There from the flowing bowl
  Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
  _Skoal!_ to the Northland! _skoal!_"
      Thus the tale ended.


    The centuries passed, and no more of the white-skinned race
    came to the New World. But a new era was at hand; the day drew
    near when a little fleet was to put out from Spain and turn its
    prows westward on the grandest voyage the world has ever known.


From "Il Morgante Maggiore"


                            His bark
  The daring mariner shall urge far o'er
  The Western wave, a smooth and level plain.
  Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.
  Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,
  And Hercules might blush to learn how far
  Beyond the limits he had vainly set
  The dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.
  Man shall descry another hemisphere,
  Since to one common centre all things tend.
  So earth, by curious mystery divine
  Well balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.
  At our antipodes are cities, states,
  And throngèd empires, ne'er divined of yore.
  But see, the sun speeds on his western path
  To glad the nations with expected light.

               LUIGI PULCI.

    About 1436 a son was born to Dominico Colombo, wool-comber, of
    Genoa, and in due time christened Cristoforo. Of his boyhood
    little is known save that he early went to sea. About 1470
    he followed his brother Bartholomew to Lisbon, and in 1474
    he was given a map by Toscanelli, the Florentine astronomer,
    showing Japan and the Indies directly west of Portugal,
    together with a long letter in which Toscanelli explained his
    reasons for believing that by sailing west one could reach the
    East. Columbus, studying the problem month by month, became
    convinced of the feasibility of such a route to the Indies, and
    determined himself to traverse it.


From "The West Indies"

  Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd;
  Light came from heaven,--the magnet was reveal'd,
  A surer star to guide the seaman's eye
  Than the pale glory of the northern sky;
  Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day,
  Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray;
  Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll,
  Still with strong impulse turning to the pole,
  True as the sun is to the morning true,
  Though light as film, and trembling as the dew.

  Then man no longer plied with timid oar,
  And failing heart, along the windward shore;
  Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail,
  Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale,
  Bared to the storm his adamantine breast,
  Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest;
  While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep,
  His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep;
  From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam,
  The waves his heritage, the world his home.

  Then first Columbus, with the mighty hand
  Of grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land;
  The floods o'erbalanced:--where the tide of light,
  Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night,
  There seem'd one waste of waters:--long in vain
  His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main;
  When sudden, as creation burst from nought,
  Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought,
  Light, order, beauty!--While his mind explored
  The unveiling mystery, his heart adored;
  Where'er sublime imagination trod,
  He heard the voice, he saw the face of God.

  Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye,
  O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky:
  In calm magnificence the sun declined,
  And left a paradise of clouds behind:
  Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold,
  The billows in a sea of glory roll'd.

  "--Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail,
  Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veil
  That hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies,
  Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!"

  Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone;
  Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone,
  The eye of evening, brightening through the west
  Till the sweet moment when it shut to rest:
  "Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled?
  Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed;
  Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawn
  Pursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn;
  Thy beauty noon and midnight never see,
  The morn and eve divide the year with thee."

  Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bow
  Crested the furthest wave, then sunk below:
  "Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night,
  Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight,
  What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn,
  What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?"

  Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all serene
  The starry firmament alone was seen;
  Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the host
  Of midnight suns in western darkness lost,
  Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne,
  Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the morn
  Danced on the mountains:--"Lights of heaven!" he cried,
  "Lead on;--I go to win a glorious bride;
  Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way,
  Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey:
  Hope swells my sail;--in spirit I behold
  That maiden-world, twin-sister of the old,
  By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea,
  Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me."

               JAMES MONTGOMERY.

    In 1484 Columbus laid his plan before King John II, of
    Portugal, but became so disgusted with his treachery and
    double-dealing, that he left Portugal and entered the service
    of Ferdinand and Isabella. The Spanish monarchs listened to him
    with attention, and ordered that the greatest astronomers and
    cosmographers of the kingdom should assemble at Salamanca and
    pass upon the feasibility of the project.


[January, 1487]

  St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud
    In learning's pomp that day,
  For there a robed and stately crowd
    Pressed on in long array.
  A mariner with simple chart
    Confronts that conclave high,
  While strong ambition stirs his heart,
  And burning thoughts of wonder part
    From lip and sparkling eye.

  What hath he said? With frowning face,
    In whispered tones they speak,
  And lines upon their tablets trace,
    Which flush each ashen cheek;
  The Inquisition's mystic doom
    Sits on their brows severe,
  And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
  Sad heresy from burning tomb
    Groans on the startled ear.

  Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
    Thy splendid dream shall crown;
  Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,
    Where unshorn forests frown,
  The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,
    The Indian hunter's bow,
  Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
  And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou
    To thankless Spain shalt show.

  Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
    In Fate's unfolding scroll,
  Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,
    That rack the noble soul.
  On! on! Creation's secrets probe,
    Then drink thy cup of scorn,
  And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,
  Sleep like that master of the globe,
    All glorious,--yet forlorn.


    The council convened at Salamanca and examined Columbus; but
    it presented to him an almost impenetrable wall of bigotry and
    prejudice. Long delays and adjournments followed; and for three
    years the suppliant was put off with excuses and evasions.
    At last, worn out with waiting and anxiety, he appealed to
    Ferdinand to give him a definite answer.


[January, 1491]

  Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,
  Too long I wait permission to depart;
  Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear--
  Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.

  While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,
  Grant his request to pass the western main:
  Reserve this glory for thy native soil,
  And what must please thee more--for thy own reign.

  Of this huge globe, how small a part we know--
  Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?--
  How disproportion'd to the mighty deep
  The lands that yet in human prospect lie!

  Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,
  Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,
  And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,
  The natives dancing on the lightsome green?--

  Should the vast circuit of the world contain
  Such wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?--
  'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,
  I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.

  Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round
  To light the waves and monsters of the seas?--
  No--be there must beyond the billowy waste
  Islands, and men, and animals, and trees.

  An unremitting flame my breast inspires
  To seek new lands amidst the barren waves,
  Where falling low, the source of day descends,
  And the blue sea his evening visage laves.

  Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:
  "_The time shall come, when numerous years are past,
  The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things,
  And an extended region rise at last;_

  "_And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land
  Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;
  Nor shall the world's remotest region be
  Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore._"

  Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,
  Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail;
  He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;
  Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

  Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,
  Though far from land the reeling galley stray,
  And skies above and gulphy seas below
  Be the sole objects seen for many a day.

  Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain
  The mystic magnet to the mortal eye:
  So late have we the guiding needle plann'd
  Only to sail beneath our native sky?

  Ere this was found, the ruling power of all
  Found for our use an ocean in the land,
  Its breadth so small we could not wander long,
  Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand.

  Short was the course, and guided by the stars,
  But stars no more shall point our daring way;
  The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,
  And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,

  When southward we shall steer--O grant my wish,
  Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,
  He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,
  Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    Early in 1491 the council of Salamanca reported that the
    proposed enterprise was vain and impossible of execution, and
    Ferdinand accepted the decision. Indignant at thought of the
    years he had wasted, Columbus started for Paris, to lay his
    plan before the King of France. He was accompanied by his son,
    Diego, and stopped one night at the convent of La Rabida, near
    Palos, to ask for food and shelter. The prior, Juan Perez de
    Marchena, became interested in his project, detained him, and
    finally secured for him another audience of Isabella.


[July, 1491]

  Dreary and brown the night comes down,
    Gloomy, without a star.
  On Palos town the night comes down;
  The day departs with a stormy frown;
    The sad sea moans afar.

  A convent-gate is near; 'tis late;
    Ting-ling! the bell they ring.
  They ring the bell, they ask for bread--
  "Just for my child," the father said.
    Kind hands the bread will bring.

  White was his hair, his mien was fair,
    His look was calm and great.
  The porter ran and called a friar;
  The friar made haste and told the prior;
    The prior came to the gate.

  He took them in, he gave them food;
    The traveller's dreams he heard;
  And fast the midnight moments flew,
  And fast the good man's wonder grew,
    And all his heart was stirred.

  The child the while, with soft, sweet smile
    Forgetful of all sorrow,
  Lay soundly sleeping in his bed.
  The good man kissed him then, and said:
    "You leave us not to-morrow!

  "I pray you rest the convent's guest;
    The child shall be our own--
  A precious care, while you prepare
  Your business with the court, and bear
    Your message to the throne."

  And so his guest he comforted.
    O wise, good prior! to you,
  Who cheered the stranger's darkest days,
  And helped him on his way, what praise
    And gratitude are due!

               JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.

    Isabella and Ferdinand were with their army before Granada,
    and received Columbus well; but his demands for emoluments and
    honors in the event of success were pronounced absurd; the
    negotiations were broken off, and again Columbus started for
    France. The few converts to his theories were in despair, and
    one of them, Luis de Santangel, receiver of the ecclesiastical
    revenues of Aragon, obtained an audience of the Queen, and
    enkindled her patriotic spirit. When Ferdinand still hesitated,
    she exclaimed, "I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of
    Castile. I will pledge my jewels to raise the money that is
    needed!" Santangel assured her that he himself was ready to
    provide the money, and advanced seventeen thousand florins from
    the coffers of Aragon, so that Ferdinand really paid for the
    expedition, after all.


From "The New World"

[January 6--April 17, 1492]

    Yet had his sun not risen; from his lips
      Fell in swift fervid accents his desire,
      And Talavera's eyes of smouldering fire
    Shone with a myriad doubts, a dark eclipse
    Of faith hung round him, and the longed-for ships
      Ploughed but the ocean of his star-lit dreams;
    Time had not tried his soul enough with whips
      And scorns, for so the rigid Master deems
          He makes his servants fit
          For the hard toils which knit
      The perfect garment, firm and without seams,
      The world shall wear at last; his hurt brain teems
    With indignation and he turns away
    Undaunted, and he girds him for the fray
  Once more; but first he hears the words of his good friend,
  Marchena, strong with trust in the far-shining end.

    His wanderings reached at last the lonely door
      Of calm La Rabida; there the silence came
      Grateful upon his grief's consuming flame;
    The simple cloisters gave him peace once more,
    And the live ocean rolled up to the shore
      In ceaseless voice of promise; through the pines
    The sun looked down benignant, and the roar
      Of the far world of rivalries declines
          Into an inward murmur
          With each day growing firmer,
      Whose sense is conquest at the last; as shines
      A lamp across a rocky path's confines,
    Making the outlet clear, Juan Perez' faith
    Who heard him and conceived his words no wraith
  Of fevered fancy but the very truth, was light
  To bring the Queen to know his purposes aright.

    O noble priest and friend! you reached the court
      And turned the Queen from conquest's mid career
      To hearken; other triumphs glittered clear
    Before her, and again from Huelva's port
    The seeker came; he saw Granada's fort
      Open its gates reluctant, and the King,
    El Zogoibi, bewail his bitter sort
      And loss which made the rich _Te Deums_ ring
          When on La Vela's tower
          The cross bloomed like a flower
      Of heaven's own growing; but the sudden spring,
      Loud with birds silent long that strove to sing,
    After the winter's weary voiceless reign,
    Was overcast with storms of cold disdain;
  Haughtily forth he fared and reached Granada's gates
  When the clouds lifted and the persecuting fates

    Relented from their fury; for the Queen
      Listened unto the urgings manifold
      Of Santangel, and counsel, wise and bold,
    Of the far-seeing Marchioness, whose keen
    Divinings pierced the misty ocean's screen
      And felt the deed must surely come to pass;
    So they recalled him, and his life's changed scene
      Grew bright with blooms and smile of thickening grass;
          O royal woman then
          Your hand received again
      The keys of a great realm; in the clear glass
      Of actions yet to be whose fires amass
    Infinite stores of impulse toward the good,
    Your image permanent lies; forth from the wood
  Of beasts malicious and the unrelenting dread
  You showed the way, but sought not from the gloom to tread.

    The wind was fair, the ships lay in the bay,
      And the blue sky looked down upon the earth;
      Prophetic time laughed toward the nearing birth
    Of the strong child with whom should come a day
    That dulled all earlier hours. Forth on the way
      With holy blessings said, and bellied sails,
    And mounting joy that knows not let nor stay!
      Lo! the undaunted purpose never fails!
          O patient master, seer,
          For whom the far is near,
      The vision true, and the mere present pales
      Its lustre, what mild seas and blossomed vales
    Awaited you? haply a paradise
    But not the one which drew your swerveless eyes;
  Could you have known what lands were there beyond the main,
  You surelier would have turned to gladsomeness from pain.

               LOUIS JAMES BLOCK.

    With the greatest difficulty, Columbus managed to secure three
    little vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the Niña, and
    to enlist about a hundred and twenty men for the enterprise.
    Early in the morning of Friday, August 3, 1492, this tiny
    fleet sailed out from Palos and turned their prows to the west.


[August 3, 1492]

  Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee,
  And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm.
  Ever and ever to westward! there must the coast be discovered,
  If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind.
  Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent;
  Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood.
  Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting;
  What is promised by one, surely the other performs.


    The fleet reached the Canaries without misadventure, but
    when the shores of Ferro sank from sight, the sailors gave
    themselves up for lost. Their terror increased day by day; the
    compass behaved strangely, the boats became entangled in vast
    meadows of floating seaweed; and finally the trade-winds wafted
    them so steadily westward that they became convinced they could
    never return. By October 4 there were ominous signs of mutiny,
    and finally, on the 11th, affairs reached a crisis.


From "Psalm of the West"

[Dawn, October 12, 1492]

  Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave,
    Thy Pinta far abow, thy Niña nigh astern:
  Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave,
    Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn.
  Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave,
    Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn:--

  "'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smite
    With prickly seconds, or less tolerably
    With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me.
  Wait, Heart! Time moves.--Thou lithe young Western Night,
  Just-crownèd king, slow riding to thy right,
    Would God that I might straddle mutiny
    Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea,
  Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight,
  Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls,
    Nor dropp'st one coronal star above thy brow
    Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn!
  Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawls
    No damage taking from their If and How,
      Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn!

  "My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never break?
    How if this West by other Wests is pieced,
    And these by vacant Wests on Wests increased--
  One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on ache
  Throbbing and ceasing not for Christ's own sake?--
    Big perilous theorem, hard for king and priest:
    _Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis East!_
  Oh, if this watery world no turning take!
    Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams,
    Provings of that which is by that which seems,
  Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, patiences, droughts, tears,
  Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled years,
    Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and gain,--
    This earth, no sphere, be all one sickening plane!

  "Or, haply, how if this contrarious West,
    That me by turns hath starved, by turns hath fed,
    Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited,
  Have no fixed heart of Law within his breast,
  Or with some different rhythm doth e'er contest
    Nature in the East? Why, 'tis but three weeks fled
    I saw my Judas needle shake his head
  And flout the Pole that, East, he Lord confessed!
    God! if this West should own some other Pole,
    And with his tangled ways perplex my soul
  Until the maze grow mortal, and I die
    Where distraught Nature clean hath gone astray,
    On earth some other wit than Time's at play,
  Some other God than mine above the sky!

  "Now speaks mine other heart with cheerier seeming:
    _Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crew
    Against thyself, thyself far overfew
  To front yon multitudes of rebel scheming?_
  Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly dreaming!
    Come, ye wild weeks since first this canvas drew
    Out of vexed Palos ere the dawn was blue,
  O'er milky waves about the bows full-creaming!
  Come set me round with many faithful spears
    Of confident remembrance--how I crushed
    Cat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, hushed
  Scared husbands' heart-break cries on distant wives,
  Made cowards blush at whining for their lives,
  Watered my parching souls, and dried their tears.

  "Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried,
    _Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead,
    From Portugal, to take us: we are dead!_--
  _Hold Westward, pilot,_ calmly I replied.
  So when the last land down the horizon died,
    _Go back, go back!_ they prayed: _our hearts are lead_.--
    _Friends, we are bound into the West_, I said.
  Then passed the wreck of a mast upon our side.
  _See_ (so they wept) _God's Warning! Admiral, turn!_--
    _Steersman_, I said, _hold straight into the West_.
  Then down the night we saw the meteor burn.
    _So do the very heavens in fire protest:
  Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear Spain!_--
  _Hold straight into the West_, I said again.

  "Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea.
    _Lo! here beneath_ (another coward cries)
    _The cursèd land of sunk Atlantis lies!
  This slime will suck us down--turn while thou'rt free!_--
  _But no!_ I said, _Freedom bears West for me!_
    Yet when the long-time stagnant winds arise,
    And day by day the keel to westward flies,
  My Good my people's Ill doth come to be:
    _Ever the winds into the West do blow;
    Never a ship, once turned, might homeward go;
  Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome main.
    For Christ's sake, parley, Admiral! Turn, before
  We sail outside all bounds of help from pain!_--
    _Our help is in the West_, I said once more.

  "So when there came a mighty cry of _Land!_
    And we clomb up and saw, and shouted strong
    _Salve Regina!_ all the ropes along,
  But knew at morn how that a counterfeit band
  Of level clouds had aped a silver strand;
    So when we heard the orchard-bird's small song,
    And all the people cried, _A hellish throng
  To tempt us onward by the Devil planned,
  Yea, all from hell--keen heron, fresh green weeds,
  Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds,
    Lie-telling lands that ever shine and die
    In clouds of nothing round the empty sky.
  Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, and rest!_--
  _Steersman,_ I said, _hold straight into the West_.

  "I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night,
    From its big circling ever absently
    Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee.
  _Maria!_ Star? No star: a Light, a Light!
  Wouldst leap ashore, Heart? Yonder burns--a Light.
    Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me.
    I prithee stand and gaze about the sea:
  What seest? _Admiral, like as land--a Light!_
  Well! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try:
  What seest? _Admiral, naught but sea and sky!_
    Well! but _I_ saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun!
    Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done!
  Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand--
  God's, East--mine, West: good friends, behold my Land!"

               SIDNEY LANIER.

[2] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

    At daybreak of Friday, October 12 (N. S. October 22), the boats
    were lowered and Columbus, with a large part of his company,
    went ashore, wild with exultation. They found that they were on
    a small island, and Columbus named it San Salvador. It was one
    of the Bahamas, but which one is not certainly known.


  Behind him lay the gray Azores,
    Behind the Gates of Hercules;
  Before him not the ghost of shores,
    Before him only shoreless seas.
  The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
    For lo! the very stars are gone.
  Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"
    "Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

  "My men grow mutinous day by day;
    My men grow ghastly wan, and weak."
  The stout mate thought of home; a spray
    Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
  "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
    If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
  "Why, you shall say at break of day,
    'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

  They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
    Until at last the blanched mate said:
  "Why, now not even God would know
    Should I and all my men fall dead.
  These very winds forget their way,
    For God from these dread seas is gone.
  Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"--
    He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

  They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
    "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.
  He lifts his lip, he lies in wait,
    With lifted teeth, as if to bite!
  Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
    What shall we do when hope is gone?"
  The words leapt like a leaping sword:
    "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

  Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
    And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
  Of all dark nights! And then a speck--
    A light! a light! a light! a light!
  It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
    It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
  He gained a world; he gave that world
    Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

               JOAQUIN MILLER.

    Columbus reached Spain again on March 15, 1493, and at once
    sent word of his arrival to Ferdinand and Isabella, who were
    at Barcelona. He was summoned to appear before them and was
    received with triumphal honors. The King and Queen arose at his
    approach, directed him to seat himself in their presence, and
    listened with intense interest to his story of the voyage. When
    he had finished, they sank to their knees, as did all present,
    and thanked God for this mark of his favor.


[Barcelona, April, 1493]


      'Twas night upon the Darro.
  The risen moon above the silvery tower
  Of Comares shone, the silver sun of night,
  And poured its lustrous splendors through the halls
  Of the Alhambra.
      The air was breathless,
  Yet filled with ceaseless songs of nightingales,
  And odors sweet of falling orange blooms;
  The misty lamps were burning odorous oil;
  The uncurtained balconies were full of life,
  And laugh and song, and airy castanets
  And gay guitars.
      Afar Sierras rose,
  Domes, towers, and pinnacles, over royal heights,
  Whose crowns were gemmed with stars.
      The Generaliffe,
  The summer palace of old Moorish kings
  In vanished years, stood sentinel afar,
  A pile of shade, as brighter grew the moon,
  Impearling fountain sprays, and shimmering
  On seas of citron orchards cool and green,
  And terraces embowered with vernal vines
  And breathing flowers.
      In shadowy arcades
  Were loitering priests, and here and there
  A water-carrier passed with tinkling bells.
      There came a peal of horns
  That woke Granada, city of delights,
  From its long moonlight reverie. Again:--
  The suave lute ceased to play, the castanet;
  The water-bearer stopped, and ceased his song
  The wandering troubadour.
      Then rent the air
  Another joyous peal, and oped the gates
  And entered there a train of cavaliers,
  Their helmets glittering in the low red moon,
      The streets and balconies
  All danced with wondering life. The train moved on,
  And filled the air again the horns melodious,
  And loud the heralds shouted:--

  "_Thy name, O Fernando, through all earth shall be sounded,
  Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!_"

      A silence followed.
  Could such tidings be? Men heard and whispered,
  Eyes glanced to eyes, feet uncertain moved,
  Never on mortal ears had fallen words
  Like these. And was the earth a star?
      On marched the cavaliers,
  And pealed again the horns, and again cried
  The heralds:--

  "_Thy name, Isabella, through all earth shall be sounded,
  Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!_"

      All hearts were thrilled.
  "Isabella!" That name breathed faith and hope
  And lofty aim. Emotion swayed the crowds:
  Tears flowed, and acclamations rose, and rushed
  The wondering multitudes toward the plaza.
  "Isabella! Isabella!" it filled
  The air--that one word "Isabella!"
      And now
  'Tis noon of night. The moon hangs near the earth--
  A golden moon in golden air; the peaks
  Like silver tents of shadowy sentinels
  Glint 'gainst the sky. The plaza gleams and surges
  Like a sea. The joyful horns peal forth again,
  And falls a hush, and cry the heralds:--

  "_Thy name, Isabella, shall be praised by all the living;
  Haste, haste to Barcelona, and join the Great Thanksgiving!_"

      What nights had seen Granada!
  Yet never one like this! The moon went down
  And fell the wings of shadow, yet the streets
  Still swarmed with people hurrying on and on.


      Morn came,
  With bursts of nightingales and quivering fires.
  The cavaliers rode forth toward Barcelona.
  The city followed, throbbing with delight.
  The happy troubadour, the muleteer,
  The craftsmen all, the boy and girl, and e'en
  The mother--'twas a soft spring morn;
  The fairest skies of earth those April morns
  In Andalusia. Long was the journey,
  But the land was flowers and the nights were not,
  And birds sang all the hours, and breezes cool
  Fanned all the ways along the sea.
      The roads were filled
  With hurrying multitudes. For well 'twas known
  That he, the conqueror, viceroy of the isles,
  Was riding from Seville to meet the king.
  And what were conquerors before to him whose eye
  Had seen the world a star, and found the star a world?
      Once he had walked
  The self-same ways, roofless and poor and sad,
  A beggar at old convent doors, and heard
  The very children jeer him in the streets,
  And ate his crust and made his roofless bed
  Upon the flowers beside his boy, and prayed,
  And found in trust a pillow radiant
  With dreams immortal. Now?


      That was a glorious day
  That dawned on Barcelona. Banners filled
  The thronging towers, the old bells rung, and blasts
  Of lordly trumpets seemed to reach the sky
  Cerulean. All Spain had gathered there,
  And waited there his coming; Castilian knights,
  Gay cavaliers, hidalgos young, and e'en the old
  Puissant grandees of far Aragon,
  With glittering mail, and waving plumes, and all
  The peasant multitude with bannerets
  And charms and flowers.
      Beneath pavilions
  Of brocades of gold, the Court had met.
  The dual crowns of Leon old and proud Castile
  There waited him, the peasant mariner.
      The trumpets waited
  Near the open gates; the minstrels young and fair
  Upon the tapestried and arrased walls,
  And everywhere from all the happy provinces
  The wandering troubadours.
      Afar was heard
  A cry, a long acclaim. Afar was seen
  A proud and stately steed with nodding plumes,
  Bridled with gold, whose rider stately rode,
  And still afar a long and sinuous train
  Of silvery cavaliers. A shout arose,
  And all the city, all the vales and hills,
  With silver trumpets rung.
      He came, the Genoese,
  With reverent look and calm and lofty mien,
  And saw the wondering eyes and heard the cries
  And trumpet peals, as one who followed still
  Some Guide unseen.
      Before his steed
  Crowned Indians marched with lowly faces,
  And wondered at the new world that they saw;
  Gay parrots shouted from their gold-bound arms,
  And from their crests swept airy plumes.
        The sun
  Shone full in splendor on the scene, and here
  The old and new world met. But--


      Hark! the heralds!
  How they thrill all hearts and fill all eyes with tears!
  The very air seems throbbing with delight;
  Hark! hark! they cry, in chorus all they cry:--

  "_Á Castilla y á Leon, á Castilla y á Leon,
  Nuevo mundo dio Colon!_"

      Every heart now beats with his,
  The stately rider on whose calm face shines
  A heaven-born inspiration. Still the shout:
  "_Nuevo mundo dio Colon!_" how it rings!
  From wall to wall, from knights and cavaliers,
  And from the multitudinous throngs,
  A mighty chorus of the vales and hills!
  "_Á Castilla y á Leon!_"
      And now the golden steed
  Draws near the throne; the crowds move back, and rise
  The reverent crowns of Leon and Castile;
  And stands before the tear-filled eyes of all
  The multitudes the form of Isabella.
  Semiramis? Zenobia? What were they
  To her, as met her eyes again the eyes of him
  Into whose hands her love a year before
  Emptied its jewels!
      He told his tale:
  The untried deep, the green Sargasso Sea,
  The varying compass, the affrighted crews,
  The hymn they sung on every doubtful eve,
  The sweet hymn to the Virgin. How there came
  The land birds singing, and the drifting weeds,
  How broke the morn on fair San Salvador,
  How the _Te Deum_ on that isle was sung,
  And how the cross was lifted in the name
  Of Leon and Castile. And then he turned
  His face towards Heaven, "O Queen! O Queen!
  There kingdoms wait the triumphs of the cross!"


      Then Isabella rose,
  With face illumined: then overcome with joy
  She sank upon her knees, and king and court
  And nobles rose and knelt beside her,
  And followed them the sobbing multitude;
  Then came a burst of joy, a chorus grand,
  And mighty antiphon--

  "_We praise thee, Lord, and, Lord, acknowledge thee,
  And give thee glory!--Holy, Holy, Holy!_"

  Loud and long it swelled and thrilled the air,
  That first Thanksgiving for the new-found world!


      The twilight roses bloomed
  In the far skies o'er Barcelona.
  The gentle Indians came and stood before
  The throne, and smiled the queen, and said:
  "I see my gems again." The shadow fell,
  And trilled all night beneath the moon and stars
  The happy nightingales.


    Royal favor is capricious and Columbus had his full share of
    enemies at court. These, in the end, succeeded in gaining the
    King's ear; Columbus was arrested in San Domingo and sent back
    to Spain in chains. Isabella ordered them struck off, and
    promised him that he should be reimbursed for his losses and
    restored to all his dignities; but the promise was never kept.


[August, 1500]

  Are these the honors they reserve for me,
  Chains for the man who gave new worlds to Spain!
  Rest here, my swelling heart!--O kings, O queens,
  Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,
  Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!
  Why was I seated by my prince's side,
  Honor'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?
  Was it that I might fall most suddenly
  From honor's summit to the sink of scandal?
  'Tis done, 'tis done!--what madness is ambition!
  What is there in that little breath of men,
  Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave
  To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss
  Which is the lot of happy ignorance,
  Less glorious aims, and dull humility?--
  Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honor,
  And on the strength and vigor of the mind
  Vainly depending, court a monarch's favor,
  Pointing the way to vast extended empire;
  First count your pay to be ingratitude,
  Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!
  Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,
  And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,
  Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    On November 7, 1504, Columbus landed in Spain after a fourth
    voyage to America, during which he had endured sufferings and
    privations almost beyond description. He was a broken man,
    and the last blow was the death of Isabella, nineteen days
    after he reached Seville. Her death left him without patron or
    protector, and the last eighteen months of his life were spent
    in sickness and poverty. He died at Valladolid, May 20, 1506.


[May 20, 1506]

  Hark! do I hear again the roar
    Of the tides by the Indies sweeping down?
  Or is it the surge from the viewless shore
    That swells to bear me to my crown?
  Life is hollow and cold and drear
    With smiles that darken and hopes that flee;
  And, far from its winds that faint and veer,
    I am ready to sail the vaster sea!

  Lord, Thou knowest I love Thee best;
    And that scorning peril and toil and pain,
  I held my way to the mystic West,
    Glory for Thee and Thy Church to gain.
  And Thou didst lead me, only Thou,
    Cheering my heart in cloud and calm,
  Till the dawn my glad, victorious prow
    Greeted Thine isles of bloom and balm.

  And then, O gracious, glorious Lord,
    I saw Thy face, and all heaven came nigh
  And my soul was lost in that rich reward,
    And ravished with hope of the bliss on high,
  So, I can meet the sovereign's frown--
    My dear Queen gone--with a large disdain;
  For the time will come when his chief renown
    Will be that I sailed from his realm of Spain.

  I have found new Lands--a World, maybe,
    Whose splendor will yet the Old outshine;
  And life and death are alike to me,
    For earth will honor, and heaven is mine
  Is mine!--What songs of sweet accord!
    What billows that nearer, gentler roll!
  Is mine!--Into Thy hands, O Lord,
    Into Thy hands I give my soul!

               EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.


      Give me white paper!
  This which you use is black and rough with smears
  Of sweat and grime and fraud and blood and tears,
  Crossed with the story of men's sins and fears,
  Of battle and of famine all these years,
      When all God's children had forgot their birth,
      And drudged and fought and died like beasts of earth.

      "Give me white paper!"
  One storm-trained seaman listened to the word;
  What no man saw he saw; he heard what no man heard.
      In answer he compelled the sea
      To eager man to tell
      The secret she had kept so well!
  Left blood and guilt and tyranny behind,--
  Sailing still West the hidden shore to find;
    For all mankind that unstained scroll unfurled,
    Where God might write anew the story of the World.

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.


  O little fleet! that on thy quest divine
  Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn,
  Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne
  A freight of faith and hope to match with thine?

  Say, too, has Heaven's high favor given again
  Such consummation of desire as shone
  About Columbus when he rested on
  The new-found world and married it to Spain?

  Answer,--thou refuge of the freeman's need,--
  Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out,
  Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,--
  Thou simple Mayflower of the salt-sea mead!

  When thou wert wafted to that distant shore,
  Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odors met thee not,
  Stern Nature hailed thee to a sterner lot,--
  God gave free earth and air, and gave no more.

  Thus to men cast in that heroic mould
  Came empire such as Spaniard never knew,
  Such empire as beseems the just and true;
  And at the last, almost unsought, came gold.

  But He who rules both calm and stormy days,
  Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health,
  Safe on the perilous heights of power and wealth,
  As in the straitness of the ancient ways.

               LORD HOUGHTON.



    The news of Columbus's discoveries soon spread through western
    Europe, and in May, 1497, John Cabot sailed from Bristol,
    England, in the Matthew, and discovered what he supposed to
    be the Chinese coast on June 24. The thrifty Henry VII gave
    him the sum of £10 as a reward for this achievement. Cabot was
    the first European since the vikings to set foot on the North
    American continent.



  "He chases shadows," sneered the British tars.
  "As well fling nets to catch the golden stars
  As climb the surges of earth's utmost sea."
  But for the Venice pilot, meagre, wan,
  His swarthy sons beside him, life began
  With that slipt cable, when his dream rode free.

  And Henry, on his battle-wrested throne,
  The Councils done, would speak in musing tone
  Of Cabot, not the cargo he might bring.
  "Man's heart, though morsel scant for hungry crow,
  Is greater than a world can fill, and so
  Fair fall the shadow-seekers!" quoth the king.

    Colonies were planted by the Spaniards in Cuba and Hispaniola,
    but the New World continued to be for them a land of wonder and
    mystery. They were quite ready to believe any marvel,--among
    others, that somewhere to the north lay an island named Bimini,
    on which was a fountain whose waters gave perpetual youth to
    all who bathed therein.



  Through darkening pines the cavaliers marched on their sunset way,
  While crimson in the trade-winds rolled far Appalachee Bay,
  Above the water-levels rose palmetto crowns like ghosts
  Of kings primeval; them, behind, the shadowy pines in hosts.
    "O cacique, brave and trusty guide,
    Are we not near the spring,
  The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The fount is fair,

  "But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
  And never youth's departed days come back to age again;
  The future in the spirit lies, the earthly life is brief,
  'Tis _you_ that say the fount hath life," so said the Indian chief.
    "Nay, Indian king; nay, Indian king,
    Thou knowest well the spring,
  And thou shalt die if thou dost fail our feet to it to bring."
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The spring is bright,

  Then said the guide, "O men of Spain, a wondrous fountain flows
  From deep abodes of gods below, and health on men bestows.
  Blue are its deeps and green its walls, and from its waters gleam
  The water-stars, and from it runs the pure Waukulla's stream.
    But men of Spain, but men of Spain,
    'Tis _you_ who say that spring
  Eternal youth and happiness to men again will bring."
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The fount is clear,

  "March on, the land enchanted is; march on, ye men of Spain;
  Who would not taste the bliss of youth and all its hopes again.
  Enchanted is the land; behold! enchanted is the air;
  The very heaven is domed with gold; there's beauty everywhere!"
    So said De Leon. "Cavaliers,
    We're marching to the spring,
  The fountain of eternal youth that health to age will bring!"
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The fount is pure,

  Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, the deep magnolia shades,
  The clear Waukulla swift pursues its way through floral glades;
  Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, beneath night's falling shade,
  Beneath the low and dusky moon still marched the cavalcade.
    "The river widens," said the men;
    "Are we not near the spring,
  The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The spring is near,

  "The fount is fair and bright and clear, and pure its waters run;
  Waukulla, lovely in the moon and beauteous in the sun.
  But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
  And never youth's departed days come back to man again.
    O men of Spain! O men of Spain!
    'Tis you that say the spring
  Eternal youth and happiness to withered years will bring!"
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The fount is deep,

  The river to a grotto led, as to a god's abode;
  There lay the fountain bright with stars; stars in its waters flowed;
  The mighty live-oaks round it rose, in ancient mosses clad;
  De Leon's heart beat high for joy; the cavaliers were glad,
    "O men of Spain! O men of Spain!
    This surely is the spring,
  The fountain fair that health and joy to faces old doth bring!"
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The spring is old,

  "Avalla, O my trusty friend that we this day should see!
  Strip off thy doublet and descend the glowing fount with me!"
  "The saints! I will," Avalla said. "Already young I feel,
  And younger than my sons shall I return to old Castile."
    Then plunged De Leon in the spring
    And then Avalla old,
  Then slowly rose each wrinkled face above the waters cold.
      The cacique sighed,
      And Indian guide,
      "The fount is false,

  O vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
  And never youth's departed days come back to man again;
  The crowns Castilian could not bring the withered stalk a leaf,
  But came a sabre flash that morn, and fell the Indian chief.
    Another sabre flash, and then
    The guide beside him lay,
  And red the clear Waukulla ran toward Appalachee Bay.
      Then from the dead
      The Spaniards fled,
      And cursed the spring,

  "Like comrades life was left behind, the years shall o'er me roll,
  For all the hopes that man can find lies hidden in the soul.
  Ye white sails lift, and drift again across the southern main;
  There wait for me, there wait us all, the hollow tombs of Spain!"
    Beneath the liquid stars the sails
    Arose and went their way,
  And bore the gray-haired cavaliers from Appalachee Bay.
      The young chief slept,
      The maiden wept,
      Beside the bright


    In 1512 Juan Ponce de Leon received a grant to discover
    and settle this fabulous island. He sailed from Porto Rico
    in search of it in March, 1513, and found an island but no
    fountain. Pushing on, he discovered the mainland March 27, and,
    on April 2, landed and took possession of the country for the
    King of Spain, calling it Florida.





  A story of Ponce de Leon,
    A voyager, withered and old,
  Who came to the sunny Antilles,
    In quest of a country of gold.
  He was wafted past islands of spices,
    As bright as the Emerald seas,
  Where all the forests seem singing,
    So thick were the birds on the trees;
  The sea was as clear as the azure,
    And so deep and so pure was the sky
  That the jasper-walled city seemed shining
    Just out of the reach of the eye.
  By day his light canvas he shifted,
    And rounded strange harbors and bars;
  By night, on the full tides he drifted,
    'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars.
  Near the glimmering gates of the sunset,
    In the twilight empurpled and dim,
  The sailors uplifted their voices,
    And sang to the Virgin a hymn.
  "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,
    At the close of the rounded refrain;
  "Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses
    The ocean-swept banner of Spain!
  The shadowy world is behind us,
    The shining Cèpango, before;
  Each morning the sun rises brighter
    On ocean, and island, and shore.
  And still shall our spirits grow lighter,
    As prospects more glowing enfold;
  Then on, merry men! to Cèpango,
    To the west, and the regions of gold!"


  There came to De Leon, the sailor,
    Some Indian sages, who told
  Of a region so bright that the waters
    Were sprinkled with islands of gold.
  And they added: "The leafy Bimini,
    A fair land of grottos and bowers,
  Is there; and a wonderful fountain
    Upsprings from its gardens of flowers.
  That fountain gives life to the dying,
    And youth to the aged restores;
  They flourish in beauty eternal,
    Who set but their foot on its shores!"
  Then answered De Leon, the sailor:
    "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old;
  I would rather discover that fountain
    Than a country of diamonds and gold."


  Away sailed De Leon, the sailor;
    Away with a wonderful glee,
  Till the birds were more rare in the azure,
    The dolphins more rare in the sea.
  Away from the shady Bahamas,
    Over waters no sailor had seen,
  Till again on his wondering vision,
    Rose clustering islands of green.
  Still onward he sped till the breezes
    Were laden with odors, and lo!
  A country embedded with flowers,
    A country with rivers aglow!
  More bright than the sunny Antilles,
    More fair than the shady Azores.
  "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor
    As feasted his eye on the shores,
  "We have come to a region, my brothers,
    More lovely than earth, of a truth;
  And here is the life-giving fountain,--
    The beautiful Fountain of Youth."


  Then landed De Leon, the sailor,
    Unfurled his old banner, and sung;
  But he felt very wrinkled and withered,
    All around was so fresh and so young.
  The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming,
    Their blossoms e'en margined the seas;
  O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers
    Hung deep from the branches of trees.
  "Praise the Lord!" sung De Leon, the sailor;
    His heart was with rapture aflame;
  And he said: "Be the name of this region
    By Florida given to fame.
  'Tis a fair, a delectable country.
    More lovely than earth, of a truth;
  I soon shall partake of the fountain,--
    The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"


  But wandered De Leon, the sailor,
    In search of that fountain in vain;
  No waters were there to restore him
    To freshness and beauty again.
  And his anchor he lifted, and murmured,
    As the tears gathered fast in his eye,
  "I must leave this fair land of the flowers,
    Go back o'er the ocean, and die."
  Then back by the dreary Tortugas,
    And back by the shady Azores,
  He was borne on the storm-smitten waters
    To the calm of his own native shores.
  And that he grew older and older,
    His footsteps enfeebled gave proof,
  Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain,
    The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

       *       *       *       *       *


  One day the old sailor lay dying
    On the shores of a tropical isle,
  And his heart was enkindled with rapture,
    And his face lighted up with a smile.
  He thought of the sunny Antilles,
    He thought of the shady Azores,
  He thought of the dreamy Bahamas,
    He thought of fair Florida's shores.
  And, when in his mind he passed over
    His wonderful travels of old,
  He thought of the heavenly country,
    Of the city of jasper and gold.
  "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,
    "Thank the Lord for the light of the truth,
  I now am approaching the fountain,
    The beautiful Fountain of Youth."


  The cabin was silent: at twilight
    They heard the birds singing a psalm,
  And the wind of the ocean low sighing
    Through groves of the orange and palm.
  The sailor still lay on his pallet,
    'Neath the low-hanging vines of the roof;
  His soul had gone forth to discover
    The beautiful Fountain of Youth.


    In March, 1521, De Leon led a large party to Florida and
    attempted to plant a colony there, but they were driven away
    by the Indians. De Leon himself was wounded in the thigh by
    an arrow. The wound was unskillfully treated, and the old
    adventurer died of it in Cuba shortly afterwards.



  You that crossed the ocean old,
  Not from greed of Inca's gold,
  But to search by vale and mount,
  Wood and rock, the wizard fount
  Where Time's harm is well undone,--
  Here's to Ponce de Leon,
  And your liegemen every one!
  Surely, still beneath the sun,
  In some region further west,
  You live on and have your rest,
  While the world goes spinning round,
  And the sky hears the resound
  Of a thousand shrill new fames,
  Which your jovial silence shames!
  Strength and joy your days endow,
  Youth's eyes glow beneath your brow;
  Wars and vigils are forgot,
  And the Scytheman threats you not.
  Tell us, of your knightly grace,
  Tell us, left you not some trace
  Leading to that wellspring true
  Where old souls their age renew?

               EDITH M. THOMAS.

    The Spaniards, meanwhile, had pushed on across the Caribbean
    Sea and founded Darien, whither, in 1510, came one Vasco Nuñez
    Balboa. He made numerous explorations, and, learning from the
    Indians that there was a great sea to the south, determined to
    search for it. He started from Darien September 1, 1513, and on
    the 25th reached the top of a mountain from which he first saw
    the Pacific. He gained the shore four days later, and, wading
    into the water, took possession of it for the King of Spain.


[September 25, 1513]

  With restless step of discontent,
  Day after day he fretting went
  Along the old accustomed ways
  That led to easeful length of days.

  But far beyond the fragrant shade
  Of orange groves his glances strayed
  To where the white horizon line
  Caught from the sea its silvery shine.

  He knew the taste of that salt spray,
  He knew the wind that blew that way;
  Ah, once again to mount and ride
  Upon that pulsing ocean tide,--

  To find new lands of virgin gold,
  To wrest them from the savage hold,
  To conquer with the sword and brain
  Fresh fields and fair for royal Spain!

  This was the dream of wild desire
  That set his gallant heart on fire,
  And stirred with feverish discontent
  That soul for nobler issues meant.

  Sometimes his children's laughter brought
  A thrill that checked his restless thought;
  Sometimes a voice more tender yet
  Would soothe the fever and the fret.

  Thus day by day, until one day
  Came news that in the harbor lay
  A ship bound outward to explore
  The treasures of that western shore,

  Which bold adventurers as yet
  Had failed to conquer or forget;
  "Yet where they failed, and failing died,
  My will shall conquer!" Balboa cried.

  But when on Darien's shore he stept,
  And fast and far his vision swept,
  He saw before him, white and still,
  The Andes mocking at his will.

  Then like a flint he set his face;
  Let others falter from their place,
  His hand and foot, his sturdy soul
  Should seek and gain that distant goal!

  With speech like this he fired the land,
  And gathered to his bold command
  A troop of twenty score or more,
  To follow where he led before.

  They followed him day after day
  O'er burning lands where ambushed lay
  The waiting savage in his lair,
  And fever poisoned all the air.

  But like a sweeping wind of flame
  A conqueror through all he came;
  The savage fell beneath his hand,
  Or led him on to seek the land

  That richer yet for golden gain
  Stretched out beyond the mountain chain.
  Steep after steep of rough ascent
  They followed, followed, worn and spent,

  Until at length they came to where
  The last peak lifted near and fair;
  Then Balboa turned and waved aside
  His panting troops. "Rest here," he cried,

  "And wait for me." And with a tread
  Of trembling haste, he quickly sped
  Along the trackless height, alone
  To seek, to reach, his mountain throne.

  Step after step he mounted swift;
  The wind blew down a cloudy drift;
  From some strange source he seemed to hear
  The music of another sphere.

  Step after step; the cloud-winds blew
  Their blinding mists, then through and through
  Sun-cleft, they broke, and all alone
  He stood upon his mountain throne.

  Before him spread no paltry lands,
  To wrest with spoils from savage hands;
  But, fresh and fair, an unknown world
  Of mighty sea and shore unfurled

  Its wondrous scroll beneath the skies.
  Ah, what to this the flimsy prize
  Of gold and lands for which he came
  With hot ambition's sordid aim!

  Silent he stood with streaming eyes
  In that first moment of surprise,
  Then on the mountain-top he bent,
  This conqueror of a continent,

  In wordless ecstasy of prayer,--
  Forgetting in that moment there,
  With Nature's God brought face to face,
  All vainer dreams of pomp and place.

  Thus to the world a world was given.
  Where lesser men had vainly striven,
  And striving died,--this gallant soul,
  Divinely guided, reached the goal.

               NORA PERRY.

    In 1518 a great expedition, under Hernando Cortez, sailed from
    Cuba in search of a land of marvellous wealth which was said to
    exist somewhere north of Darien. The result was the discovery
    of Mexico, which the Spaniards subdued with indescribable



  "Mater á Dios, preserve us
    And give us the Mexican gold,
  Viva España forever!"
    Light-hearted, treacherous, bold,
  With clashing of drums and of cymbals,
    With clatter of hoofs and of arms,
  Into the Tezcucan city,
    Over the Tezcucan farms;
  In through the hordes of Aztecs,
    Past glitter of city and lake,
  Brave for death or for conquest,
    And the Mother of God's sweet sake.

  Perchance from distant Granada,
    Perchance from the Danube's far blue,
  He had fought with Moor and Saracen,
    Where the death hail of battle-fields flew.
  Down through the smoke and the battle,
    Trolling an old Moorish song,
  Chanting an Ave or Pater,
    To whiten the red of his wrong,
  Dreaming of Seville, Toledo,
    And dark, soft catholic eyes,
  Light-hearted, reckless, and daring,
    He rides under Mexican skies.

  Child of valor and fortune,
    Nurtured to ride and to strike,
  Fearless in defeat or in conquest,
    Of man and of devil alike;
  Out through the clamor of battle,
    Up through rivers of blood,
  "Viva España forever!
    God and the bold Brotherhood!
  Strike for the memories left us,
    Strike for the lives that we keep,
  Strike for the present and future,
    In the name of our comrades who sleep;
  Strike! for Jesus' sweet Mother,
    For the arms and the vows that we hold;
  Strike for fortune and lover,
    God, and the Mexican gold!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  At morning gay, careless in battle,
    With love on his lips, in his eyes;
  At even stretched pallid and silent,
    Out under Mexican skies.
  And far in some old Spanish city,
    Two dark eyes wait patient and long
  For a lover who sailed to the westward,
    Trolling an old Moorish song.

               W. W. CAMPBELL.

    Shortly afterwards, Pizarro completed the conquest of Peru.
    Heavily-laden treasure-ships were sent homeward across the
    Atlantic, and at last the Spanish lust of gold seemed in a fair
    way to be satisfied.


From "The West Indies"

                          Rapacious Spain
  Follow'd her hero's triumphs o'er the main,
  Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried,
  Where Moor and Christian desperately died.
  A rabid race, fanatically bold,
  And steel'd to cruelty by lust of gold,
  Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored,
  The cross their standard, but their faith the sword;
  Their steps were graves; o'er prostrate realms they trod;
  They worshipp'd Mammon while they vow'd to God.

  Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell
  How Cortez conquer'd, Montezuma fell;
  How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew
  The sun's resplendent empire in Peru;
  How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood,
  And raised his voice against a sea of blood,
  Whose chilling waves recoil'd while he foretold
  His country's ruin by avenging gold.
  --That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell,
  That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell,
  Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doom'd to shed
  Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head;
  For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away,--
  His gold and he were every nation's prey.

  But themes like these would ask an angel-lyre,
  Language of light and sentiment of fire;
  Give me to sing, in melancholy strains,
  Of Charib martyrdoms and Negro chains;
  One race by tyrants rooted from the earth,
  One doom'd to slavery by the taint of birth!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Dreadful as hurricanes, athwart the main
  Rush'd the fell legions of invading Spain;
  With fraud and force, with false and fatal breath
  (Submission bondage, and resistance death),
  They swept the isles. In vain the simple race
  Kneel'd to the iron sceptre of their grace,
  Or with weak arms their fiery vengeance braved;
  They came, they saw, they conquer'd, they enslaved,
  And they destroy'd;--the generous heart they broke,
  They crush'd the timid neck beneath the yoke;
  Where'er to battle march'd their fell array,
  The sword of conquest plough'd resistless way;
  Where'er from cruel toil they sought repose,
  Around the fires of devastation rose.
  The Indian, as he turn'd his head in flight,
  Beheld his cottage flaming through the night,
  And, midst the shrieks of murder on the wind,
  Heard the mute bloodhound's death-step close behind.

  The conflict o'er, the valiant in their graves,
  The wretched remnant dwindled into slaves;
  Condemn'd in pestilential cells to pine,
  Delving for gold amidst the gloomy mine.
  The sufferer, sick of life-protracting breath,
  Inhaled with joy the fire-damp blast of death:
  --Condemn'd to fell the mountain palm on high,
  That cast its shadow from the evening sky,
  Ere the tree trembled to his feeble stroke,
  The woodman languish'd, and his heart-strings broke;
  --Condemn'd in torrid noon, with palsied hand,
  To urge the slow plough o'er the obdurate land,
  The laborer, smitten by the sun's quick ray,
  A corpse along the unfinish'd furrow lay.
  O'erwhelm'd at length with ignominious toil,
  Mingling their barren ashes with the soil,
  Down to the dust the Charib people pass'd,
  Like autumn foliage withering in the blast:
  The whole race sunk beneath the oppressor's rod,
  And left a blank among the works of God.

               JAMES MONTGOMERY.

    Although Pope Alexander VI had, in 1493, issued a bull
    dividing the New World between Spain and Portugal, neither
    France nor England paid any heed to it. One of France's most
    active corsairs was Giovanni da Verazzano. In 1524 he crossed
    the Atlantic, and, sighting the coast at Cape Fear, turned
    northward, discovered the Hudson, landed at Rhode Island, and
    kept on, perhaps, as far as Newfoundland.




  In the tides of the warm south wind it lay,
    And its grapes turned wine in the fires of noon,
  And its roses blossomed from May to May,
    And their fragrance lingered from June to June.

  There dwelt old heroes at Ilium famed,
    There, bards reclusive, of olden odes;
  And so fair were the fields of roses, they named
    The bright sea-garden the Isle of Rhodes.

  Fair temples graced each blossoming field,
    And columned halls in gems arrayed;
  Night shaded the sea with her jewelled shield,
    And sweet the lyres of Orpheus played.

  The Helios spanned the sea: its flame
    Drew hither the ships of Pelion's pines,
  And twice a thousand statues of fame
    Stood mute in twice a thousand shrines.

  And her mariners went, and her mariners came,
    And sang on the seas the olden odes,
  And at night they remembered the Helios' flame,
    And at morn the sweet fields of the roses of Rhodes.

  From the palm land's shade to the land of pines,
    A Florentine crossed the Western Sea;
  He sought new lands and golden mines,
    And he sailed 'neath the flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

  He saw at last in the sunset's gold,
    A wonderful island so fair to view
  That it seemed like the Island of Roses old
    That his eyes in his wondering boyhood knew.

  'Twas summer time, and the glad birds sung
    In the hush of noon in the solitudes;
  From the oak's broad arms the green vines hung;
    Sweet odors blew from the resinous woods.

  He rounded the shores of the summer sea,
    And he said as his feet the white sands pressed,
  And he planted the flag of the Fleur-de-lis:
    "I have come to the Island of Rhodes in the West.

  "While the mariners go, and the mariners come,
    And sing on lone waters the olden odes
  Of the Grecian seas and the ports of Rome,
    They will ever think of the roses of Rhodes."

  To the isle of the West he gave the name
    Of the isle he had loved in the Grecian sea;
  And the Florentine went away as he came,
    'Neath the silver flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

  O fair Rhode Island, thy guest was true,
    He felt the spirit of beauteous things;
  The sea-wet roses were faint and few,
    But memory made them the gardens of kings.

  The Florentine corsair sailed once more,
    Out into the West o'er a rainy sea,
  In search of another wonderful shore
    For the crown of France and the Fleur-de-lis.

  But returned no more the Florentine brave
    To the courtly knights of fair Rochelle;
  'Neath the lilies of France he found a grave,
    And not 'neath the roses he loved so well.

  But the lessons of beauty his fond heart bore
    From the gardens of God were never lost;
  And the fairest name of the Eastern shore
    Bears the fairest isle of the Western coast.


    The Spaniards still dreamed of a great empire somewhere in
    Florida, and in 1528 Pánfilo de Narvaez set out with an
    expedition in search of it. Only four members of the party got
    back to Cuba alive, the others having been killed or captured
    by the Indians. Among those captured and enslaved was Juan
    Ortiz. He was rescued by De Soto nearly ten years later.



  "Go bring the captive, he shall die,"
    He said, with faltering breath;
  "Him stretch upon a scaffold high,
    And light the fire of death!"
  The young Creeks danced the captive round,
    And sang the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  They brought the fagots for the flame,
    The braves and maids together,
  When came the princess--sweet her name:
    The Red Flamingo Feather.
  Then danced the Creeks the scaffold round,
    And sang the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  In shaded plumes of silver gray,
    The young Creeks danced together,
  But she danced not with them that day,
    The Red Flamingo Feather.
  Wild sped the feet the scaffold round,
    Wild rose the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  They stretched the stranger from the sea,
    Above the fagots lighted,--
  Ortiz,--a courtly man was he,
    With deeds heroic knighted.
  And sped the feet the scaffold round,
    And rose the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  The white smoke rose, the braves were gay,
    The war drums beat together,
  But sad in heart and face that day
    Was Red Flamingo Feather.
  They streaked with flames the dusky air,
    They streaked the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  "Dance, dance, my girl, the torches gleam,
    Dance, dance, the gray plumes gather,
  Dance, dance, my girl, the war-hawks scream,
    Dance, Red Flamingo Feather!"
  More swiftly now the torches sped,
    Amid the Dance of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  She knelt upon the green moss there,
    And clasped her father's knees:
  "My heart is weak, O father, spare
    The wanderer from the seas!"
  Like madness now swept on the dance,
    And rose the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Ye wings of the warrior's plume!"

  "Grand were the men who sailed away,
    And he is young and brave;
  'Tis small in heart the weak to slay,
    'Tis great in heart to save."
  He saw the torches sweep the air,
    He heard the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  "My girl, I know thy heart would spare
    The wanderer from the sea."
  "The man is fair, and I am fair,
    And thou art great," said she.
  The dance of fire went on and on,
    And on the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

  The dark chief felt his pride abate:
    "I will the wanderer spare,
  My Bird of Peace, since I am great,
    And he, like thee, is fair!"
  They dropped the torches, stopped the dance,
    And died the Song of Doom,--
  "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
    _Away_ with the warrior's plume!"


    In 1538 Hernando de Soto was appointed governor of Cuba and
    Florida, with orders to explore and settle the latter country.
    He landed at Tampa Bay with nearly a thousand men and started
    into the interior. He was forced to fight his way across the
    country against the tribes of the Creek confederacy, and in
    October, 1540, had a desperate battle with them at a palisaded
    village called Maubila, at the mouth of the Alabama River.


[October 18, 1540]

  Hearken the stirring story
    The soldier has to tell,
  Of fierce and bloody battle,
    Contested long and well.
  Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,
    Before our forces fell.

  Now many years have circled
    Since that October day,
  When proudly to Maubila
    De Soto took his way,
  With men-at-arms and cavaliers
    In terrible array.

  Oh, never sight more goodly
    In any land was seen;
  And never better soldiers
    Than those he led have been,
  More prompt to handle arquebus,
    Or wield their sabres keen.

  The sun was at meridian,
    His hottest rays fell down
  Alike on soldier's corselet
    And on the friar's gown;
  The breeze was hushed as on we rode
    Right proudly to the town.

  First came the bold De Soto,
    In all his manly pride,
  The gallant Don Diego,
    His nephew, by his side;
  A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,
    Interpreter and guide.

  Baltasar de Gallegos,
    Impetuous, fierce and hot;
  Francisco de Figarro,
    Since by an arrow shot;
  And slender Juan de Guzman, who
    In battle faltered not.

  Luis Bravo de Xeres,
    That gallant cavalier;
  Alonzo de Carmono,
    Whose spirit knew no fear;
  The marquis of Astorga, and
    Vasquez, the cannoneer.

  Andres de Vasconcellos,
    Juan Cales, young and fair,
  Roma de Cardenoso,
    Him of the yellow hair--
  Rode gallant in their bravery,
    Straight to the public square.

  And there, in sombre garments,
    Were monks of Cuba four,
  Fray Juan de Gallegos,
    And other priests a score,
  Who sacramental bread and wine
    And holy relics bore.

  And next eight hundred soldiers
    In closest order come,
  Some with Biscayan lances,
    With arquebuses some,
  Timing their tread to martial notes
    Of trump and fife and drum.

  Loud sang the gay Mobilians,
    Light danced their daughters brown;
  Sweet sounded pleasant music
    Through all the swarming town;
  But 'mid the joy one sullen brow
    Was lowering with a frown.

  The haughty Tuscaloosa,
    The sovereign of the land,
  With moody face, and thoughtful,
    Rode at our chief's right hand,
  And cast from time to time a glance
    Of hatred at the band.

  And when that gay procession
    Made halt to take a rest,
  And eagerly the people
    To see the strangers prest,
  The frowning King, in wrathful tones,
    De Soto thus addressed:

  "To bonds and to dishonor
    By faithless friends trepanned,
  For days beside you, Spaniard,
    The ruler of the land
  Has ridden as a prisoner,
    Subject to your command.

  "He was not born the fetters
    Of baser men to wear,
  And tells you this, De Soto,
    Hard though it be to bear--
  Let those beware the panther's rage
    Who follow to his lair.

  "Back to your isle of Cuba!
    Slink to your den again,
  And tell your robber sovereign,
    The mighty lord of Spain,
  Whoso would strive this land to win
    Shall find his efforts vain.

  "And, save it be your purpose
    Within my realm to die,
  Let not your forces linger
    Our deadly anger nigh,
  Lest food for vultures and for wolves
    Your mangled forms should lie."

  Then, spurning courtly offers
    He left our chieftain's side,
  And crossing the enclosure
    With quick and lengthened stride,
  He passed within his palace gates,
    And there our wrath defied.

  Now came up Charamilla,
    Who led our troop of spies,
  And said unto our captain,
    With tones that showed surprise,
  "A mighty force within the town,
    In wait to crush us, lies.

  "The babes and elder women
    Were sent at break of day
  Into the forest yonder,
    Five leagues or more away:
  Within yon huts ten thousand men
    Wait eager for the fray."

  "What say ye now, my comrades?"
    De Soto asked his men;
  "Shall we, before these traitors,
    Go backward, baffled, then;
  Or, sword in hand, attack the foe
    Who crouches in his den?"

  Before their loud responses
    Had died upon the ear,
  A savage stood before them,
    Who said, in accents clear,
  "Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!
    Assassin Spaniards, hear!

  "No longer shall our sovereign,
    Born noble, great, and free,
  Be led beside your master,
    A shameful sight to see,
  While weapons here to strike you down
    Or hands to grasp them be."

  As spoke the brawny savage,
    Full wroth our comrades grew--
  Baltasar de Gallegos
    His heavy weapon drew,
  And dealt the boaster such a stroke
    As clove his body through.

  Then rushed the swart Mobilians
    Like hornets from their nest;
  Against our bristling lances
    Was bared each savage breast;
  With arrow-head and club and stone,
    Upon our band they prest.

  "Retreat in steady order!
    But slay them as ye go!"
  Exclaimed the brave De Soto,
    And with each word a blow
  That sent a savage soul to doom
    He dealt upon the foe.

  "Strike well who would our honor
    From spot or tarnish save!
  Strike down the haughty Pagan,
    The infidel and slave!
  Saint Mary Mother sits above,
    And smiles upon the brave.

  "Strike! all my gallant comrades!
    Strike! gentlemen of Spain!
  Upon the traitor wretches
    Your deadly anger rain,
  Or never to your native land
    Return in pride again!"

  Then hosts of angry foemen
    We fiercely held at bay,
  Through living walls of Pagans
    We cut our bloody way;
  And though by thousands round they swarmed,
    We kept our firm array.

  At length they feared to follow;
    We stood upon the plain,
  And dressed our shattered column;
    When, slacking bridle rein,
  De Soto, wounded as he was,
    Led to the charge again.

  For now our gallant horsemen
    Their steeds again had found,
  That had been fastly tethered
    Unto the trees around,
  Though some of these, by arrows slain,
    Lay stretched upon the ground.

  And as the riders mounted,
    The foe, in joyous tones,
  Gave vent to shouts of triumph,
    And hurled a shower of stones;
  But soon the shouts were changed to wails,
    The cries of joy to moans.

  Down on the scared Mobilians
    The furious rush was led;
  Down fell the howling victims
    Beneath the horses' tread;
  The angered chargers trod alike
    On dying and on dead.

  Back to the wooden ramparts,
    With cut and thrust and blow,
  We drove the panting savage,
    The very walls below,
  Till those above upon our heads
    Huge rocks began to throw.

  Whenever we retreated
    The swarming foemen came--
  Their wild and matchless courage
    Put even ours to shame--
  Rushing upon our lances' points,
    And arquebuses' flame.

  Three weary hours we fought them,
    And often each gave way;
  Three weary hours, uncertain
    The fortune of the day;
  And ever where they fiercest fought
    De Soto led the fray.

  Baltasar de Gallegos
    Right well displayed his might;
  His sword fell ever fatal,
    Death rode its flash of light;
  And where his horse's head was turned
    The foe gave way in fright.

  At length before our daring
    The Pagans had to yield,
  And in their stout enclosure
    They sought to find a shield,
  And left us, wearied with our toil,
    The masters of the field.

  Now worn and spent and weary,
    Our force was scattered round,
  Some seeking for their comrades,
    Some seated on the ground,
  When sudden fell upon our ears
    A single trumpet's sound.

  "Up! ready make for storming!"
    That speaks Moscoso near;
  He comes with stainless sabre,
    He comes with spotless spear;
  But stains of blood and spots of gore
    Await his weapons here.

  Soon, formed in four divisions,
    Around the order goes--
  "To front with battle-axes!
    No moment for repose.
  At signal of an arquebus,
    Rain on the gates your blows."

  Not long that fearful crashing,
    The gates in splinters fall;
  And some, though sorely wounded,
    Climb o'er the crowded wall:
  No rampart's height can keep them back,
    No danger can appall.

  Then redly rained the carnage--
    None asked for quarter there;
  Men fought with all the fury
    Born of a wild despair;
  And shrieks and groans and yells of hate
    Were mingled in the air.

  Four times they backward beat us,
    Four times our force returned;
  We quenched in bloody torrents
    The fire that in us burned;
  We slew who fought, and those who knelt
    With stroke of sword we spurned.

  And what are these new forces,
    With long, black, streaming hair?
  They are the singing maidens
    Who met us in the square;
  And now they spring upon our ranks
    Like she-wolves from their lair.

  Their sex no shield to save them,
    Their youth no weapon stayed;
  De Soto with his falchion
    A lane amid them made,
  And in the skulls of blooming girls
    Sank battle-axe and blade.

  Forth came a wingèd arrow,
    And struck our leader's thigh;
  The man who sent it shouted,
    And looked to see him die;
  The wound but made the tide of rage
    Run twice as fierce and high.

  Then came our stout camp-master,
    "The night is coming down;
  Already twilight darkness
    Is casting shadows brown;
  We would not lack for light on strife
    If once we burned the town."

  With that we fired the houses;
    The ranks before us broke;
  The fugitives we followed,
    And dealt them many a stroke,
  While round us rose the crackling flame,
    And o'er us hung the smoke.

  And what with flames around them,
    And what with smoke o'erhead,
  And what with cuts of sabre,
    And what with horses' tread,
  And what with lance and arquebus,
    The town was filled with dead.

  Six thousand of the foemen
    Upon that day were slain,
  Including those who fought us
    Outside upon the plain--
  Six thousand of the foemen fell,
    And eighty-two of Spain.

  Not one of us unwounded
    Came from the fearful fray;
  And when the fight was over
    And scattered round we lay,
  Some sixteen hundred wounds we bore
    As tokens of the day.

  And through that weary darkness,
    And all that dreary night,
  We lay in bitter anguish,
    But never mourned our plight,
  Although we watched with eagerness
    To see the morning light.

  And when the early dawning
    Had marked the sky with red,
  We saw the Moloch incense
    Rise slowly overhead
  From smoking ruins and the heaps
    Of charred and mangled dead.

  I knew the slain were Pagans,
    While we in Christ were free,
  And yet it seemed that moment
    A spirit said to me:
  "Henceforth be doomed while life remains
    This sight of fear to see."

  And ever since that dawning
    Which chased the night away,
  I wake to see the corses
    That thus before me lay:
  And this is why in cloistered cell
    I wait my latter day.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Early in 1540 a great expedition under Francisco de Coronado
    started northward from Mexico in search of the Seven Cities of
    Cibola, of whose glories and riches many stories had been told.
    The cities were really the pueblos of the Zuñis, and the ballad
    tells the story of the march.



    Francisco Coronado rode forth with all his train,
    Eight hundred savage bowmen, three hundred spears of Spain,
    To seek the rumored glory that pathless deserts hold--
    The city of Quivíra whose walls are rich with gold.

  Oh, gay they rode with plume on crest and gilded spur at heel,
  With gonfalon of Aragon and banner of Castile!
  While High Emprise and Joyous Youth, twin marshals of the throng,
  Awoke Sonora's mountain peaks with trumpet-note and song.

    Beside that brilliant army, beloved of serf and lord,
    There walked as brave a soldier as ever smote with sword,
    Though nought of knightly harness his russet gown revealed--
    The cross he bore as weapon, the missal was his shield.

  But rugged oaths were changed to prayers, and angry hearts grew tame,
  And fainting spirits waxed in faith where Fray Padilla came;
  And brawny spearmen bowed their heads to kiss the helpful hand
  Of him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.

    What pen may paint their daring--those doughty cavaliers!
    The cities of the Zuñi were humbled by their spears.
    Wild Arizona's barrens grew pallid in the glow
    Of blades that won Granada and conquered Mexico.

  They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blown
  Where Colorado rushes down through God-hewn walls of stone;
  Still, North and East, where deserts spread, and treeless prairies
  A Fairy City lured them on with pinnacles of gold.

    Through all their weary marches toward that flitting goal
    They turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul.
    He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made;
    He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.

  Two thousand miles of war and woe behind their banners lay:
  And sadly fever, drought and toil had lessened their array,
  When came a message fraught with hope to all the steadfast band:
  "Good tidings from the northward, friends! Quivíra lies at hand!"

    How joyously they spurred them! How sadly drew the rein!
    There shone no golden palace, there blazed no jewelled fane.
    Rude tents of hide of bison, dog-guarded, met their view--
    A squalid Indian village; the lodges of the Sioux!

  Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men:
  "Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again.
  And would to God that I might give that phantom city's pride
  In ransom for the gallant souls that here have sunk and died!"

    Back, back to Compostela the wayworn handful bore;
    But sturdy Fray Padilla took up the quest once more.
    His soul still longed for conquest, though not by lance and sword;
    He burned to show the Heathen the pathway to the Lord.

  Again he trudged the flinty hills and dazzling desert sands,
  And few were they that walked with him, and weaponless their hands--
  But and the trusty man-at-arms, Docampo, rode him near
  Like Great Heart, guarding Christian's way through wastes of Doubt and

    Where still in silken harvests the prairie-lilies toss,
    Among the dark Quivíras Padilla reared his cross.
    Within its sacred shadow the warriors of the Kaw
    In wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.

  They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's gold
  The warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told,
  While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children played
  And shot their arrows at his shield and rode his guarded blade.

    When thrice the silver crescent had filled its curving shell,
    The Friar rose at dawning and spake his flock farewell:
    "--And if your Brothers northward be cruel, as ye say,
    My Master bids me seek them--and dare I answer 'Nay'?"

  Again he strode the path of thorns; but ere the evening star
  A savage cohort swept the plain in paint and plumes of war.
  Then Fray Padilla spake to them whose hearts were most his own:
  "My children, bear the tidings home--let me die here alone."

    He knelt upon the prairie, begirt by yelling Sioux.--
    "Forgive them, oh, my Father! they know not what they do!"
    The twanging bow-strings answered. Before his eyes, unrolled
    The City of Quivíra whose streets are paved with gold.

               ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

    The Spaniards were not the only people who searched in vain for
    fabulous cities. South of Cape Breton lay a country which the
    early French explorers named Norembega, and there was supposed
    to exist, somewhere within its boundaries, a magnificent
    city of the same name. Roberval and Jacques Cartier spent a
    number of years after 1541 seeking it, and in 1604 Champlain
    explored the Penobscot River, on whose banks it was supposed
    to be situated, but found no trace of it, nor any evidence of
    civilization except a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.


[c. 1543]

  The winding way the serpent takes
    The mystic water took,
  From where, to count its beaded lakes,
    The forest sped its brook.

  A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore,
    For sun or stars to fall,
  While evermore, behind, before,
    Closed in the forest wall.

  The dim wood hiding underneath
    Wan flowers without a name;
  Life tangled with decay and death,
    League after league the same.

  Unbroken over swamp and hill
    The rounding shadow lay,
  Save where the river cut at will
    A pathway to the day.

  Beside that track of air and light,
    Weak as a child unweaned,
  At shut of day a Christian knight
    Upon his henchman leaned.

  The embers of the sunset's fires
    Along the clouds burned down;
  "I see," he said, "the domes and spires
    Of Norembega town."

  "Alack! the domes, O master mine,
    Are golden clouds on high;
  Yon spire is but the branchless pine
    That cuts the evening sky."

  "Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are these
    But chants and holy hymns?"
  "Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees
    Through all their leafy limbs."

  "Is it a chapel bell that fills
    The air with its low tone?"
  "Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills,
    The insect's vesper drone."

  "The Christ be praised!--He sets for me
    A blessed cross in sight!"
  "Now, nay, 'tis but yon blasted tree
    With two gaunt arms outright!"

  "Be it wind so sad or tree so stark,
    It mattereth not, my knave;
  Methinks to funeral hymns I hark,
    The cross is for my grave!

  "My life is sped; I shall not see
    My home-set sails again;
  The sweetest eyes of Normandie
    Shall watch for me in vain.

  "Yet onward still to ear and eye
    The baffling marvel calls;
  I fain would look before I die
    On Norembega's walls.

  "So, haply, it shall be thy part
    At Christian feet to lay
  The mystery of the desert's heart
    My dead hand plucked away.

  "Leave me an hour of rest; go thou
    And look from yonder heights;
  Perchance the valley even now
    Is starred with city lights."

  The henchman climbed the nearest hill,
    He saw nor tower nor town,
  But, through the drear woods, lone and still,
    The river rolling down.

  He heard the stealthy feet of things
    Whose shapes he could not see,
  A flutter as of evil wings,
    The fall of a dead tree.

  The pines stood black against the moon,
    A sword of fire beyond;
  He heard the wolf howl, and the loon
    Laugh from his reedy pond.

  He turned him back; "O master dear,
    We are but men misled;
  And thou hast sought a city here
    To find a grave instead."

  "As God shall will! what matters where
    A true man's cross may stand,
  So Heaven be o'er it here as there
    In pleasant Norman land?

  "These woods, perchance, no secret hide
    Of lordly tower and hall;
  Yon river in its wanderings wide
    Has washed no city wall;

  "Yet mirrored in the sullen stream
    The holy stars are given:
  Is Norembega, then, a dream
    Whose waking is in Heaven?

  "No builded wonder of these lands
    My weary eyes shall see;
  A city never made with hands
    Alone awaiteth me--

  "'_Urbs Syon mystica_;' I see
    Its mansions passing fair,
  '_Condita coelo_;' let me be,
    Dear Lord, a dweller there!"

  Above the dying exile hung
    The vision of the bard,
  As faltered on his failing tongue
    The song of good Bernard.

  The henchman dug at dawn a grave
    Beneath the hemlocks brown,
  And to the desert's keeping gave
    The lord of fief and town.

  Years after, when the Sieur Champlain
    Sailed up the unknown stream,
  And Norembega proved again
    A shadow and a dream,

  He found the Norman's nameless grave
    Within the hemlock's shade,
  And, stretching wide its arms to save,
    The sign that God had made,

  The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot
    And made it holy ground:
  He needs the earthly city not
    Who hath the heavenly found.


    Until the middle of the sixteenth century, Spain was the only
    nation which had succeeded in establishing colonies in the
    New World. In 1583 Sir Humphrey Gilbert secured permission
    from Queen Elizabeth to set out on a voyage of discovery and
    colonization, for the glory of England. He landed at St.
    John's, Newfoundland, August 5, and established there the first
    English colony in North America. Then he sailed away to explore
    further, and met the fate described in the poem. The colony
    proved a failure.



  Southward with fleet of ice
    Sailed the corsair Death;
  Wild and fast blew the blast,
    And the east-wind was his breath.

  His lordly ships of ice
    Glisten in the sun;
  On each side, like pennons wide,
    Flashing crystal streamlets run.

  His sails of white sea-mist
    Dripped with silver rain;
  But where he passed there were cast
    Leaden shadows o'er the main.

  Eastward from Campobello
    Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
  Three days or more seaward he bore,
    Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

  Alas! the land-wind failed,
    And ice-cold grew the night;
  And nevermore, on sea or shore,
    Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

  He sat upon the deck,
    The Book was in his hand;
  "Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"
    He said, "by water as by land!"

  In the first watch of the night,
    Without a signal's sound,
  Out of the sea, mysteriously,
    The fleet of Death rose all around.

  The moon and the evening star
    Were hanging in the shrouds;
  Every mast, as it passed,
    Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

  They grappled with their prize,
    At midnight black and cold!
  As of a rock was the shock;
    Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

  Southward through day and dark,
    They drift in close embrace,
  With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
    Yet there seems no change of place.

  Southward, forever southward,
    They drift through dark and day;
  And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
    Sinking, vanish all away.


    With the destruction of the Armada in 1588, Spain's sea power
    was so shattered that the Atlantic ceased to be a battleground.
    English sailors could come and go with a fair degree of safety,
    and before long the American coast was alive with these daring
    and adventurous voyagers.


  _Five fearless knights of the first renown
    In Elizabeth's great array,
  From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down--
    American sailors they;
      Who went to the West,
      For they all knew best
        Where the silver was gray
          As a moonlit night,
          And the gold as bright
        As a midsummer day--
            A-sailing away
    Through the salt sea spray,
      The first American sailors._

    _And Devon was heaven to him_,
  He loved the sea as he loved the sun
    _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--
        Hated him up to the brim_:
  In Holland the Spanish hide he tanned,
  He roughed and routed their braggart band,
  And God was with him on sea and land;
    Newfoundland knew him, and all that coast
    For he was one of America's host--
  And now there is nothing but English speech
  For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
    From near the Equator away to the Pole;
    While the billows beat and the oceans roll
        On the Three Americas.

  Sir FRANCIS DRAKE, and he was TWO
    _And Devon was heaven to him_,
  He loved in his heart the waters blue
    _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--
        Hated him up to the brim_!
  At Cadiz he singed the King's black beard,
  The Armada met him and fled afeard,
  Great Philip's golden fleece he sheared;
    Oregon knew him, and all that coast,
    For he was one of America's host--
  And now there is nothing but English speech
  For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
    From California away to the Pole;
    While the billows beat and the oceans roll
        On the Three Americas.

    _And Devon was heaven to him_,
  There was nothing he loved so well as the sea--
    _He hated the Don as the Devil's limb--
        Hated him up to the brim_!
  He settled full many a Spanish score,
  Full many's the banner his bullets tore
  On English, American, Spanish shore;
    Guiana knew him, and all that coast,
    For he was one of America's host--
  And now there is nothing but English speech
  For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
    From Guiana northward to the Pole;
    While the billows beat and the oceans roll
        On the Three Americas.

    _And Devon was heaven to him_,
  He loved the waves and their windy roar
    _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--
        Hated him up to the brim_!
  He whipped him on land and mocked him at sea,
  He laughed to scorn his sovereignty,
  And with the Revenge beat his fifty-three;
    Virginia knew him, and all that coast,
    For he was one of America's host--
  And now there is nothing but English speech
  For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
    From the Old Dominion away to the Pole;
    While the billows beat and the oceans roll
        On the Three Americas.

  And Sir JOHN HAWKINS, he was FIVE
    _And Devon was heaven to him_,
  He worshipped the water while he was alive
    _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb--
        Hated him up to the brim_!
  He chased him over the Spanish Main,
  He scoffed and defied the navies of Spain--
  His cities he ravished again and again;
    The Gulf it knew him, and all that coast,
    For he was one of America's host--
  And now there is nothing but English speech
  For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
    From the Rio Grandè away to the Pole;
    While the billows beat and the oceans roll
        On the Three Americas.

  _Five fearless knights have filled gallant graves
    This many and many a day,
  Some under the willows, some under the waves--
    American sailors they;
      And still in the West
      Is their valor blest,
        Where a banner bright
          With the ocean's blue
          And the red wrack's hue
        And the spoondrift's white
            Is smiling to-day
    Through the salt sea spray
      Upon American sailors._

               WALLACE RICE.



    England laid claim to the continent of North America by virtue
    of the discoveries of John Cabot in 1497, but little effort
    was made toward colonization until 1584, when an expedition
    sent out by Sir Walter Raleigh explored Albemarle Sound and the
    adjacent coast, and brought back so glowing a description of
    the country that Elizabeth named the whole region Virginia, in
    honor of her maidenhood. An abortive attempt to settle Roanoke
    Island was made in 1585, and in 1587 another expedition under
    John White landed there. White returned to England in the fall
    to represent the needs of the settlement, leaving behind him
    his daughter and little granddaughter,--Virginia Dare, the
    first white child born in America. He promised to return within
    a year, but was intercepted by Spaniards, and it was not until
    August, 1590, that he again dropped anchor off the island. When
    he went ashore next day, not a trace of the colonists could be
    found, nor was their fate ever certainly discovered.



[August 27, 1587]

  The home-bound ship stood out to sea,
    And on the island's marge,
  Sir Richard waited restlessly
    To step into the barge.

  "The Governor tarrieth long," he chode,
    "As he were loth to go:
  With food before, and want behind,
    There should be haste, I trow."

  Even as he spake, the Governor came:--
    "Nay, fret not, for the men
  Have held me back with frantic let,
    To have them home again.

  "The women weep;--'Ay, ay, the ship
    Will come again' (he saith),
  'Before the May;--Before the May
    We shall have starved to death!'

  "I've sworn return by God's dear leave,
    I've vowed by court and crown,
  Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou,
    Mayhap, canst soothe them down."

  Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched
    Impatient hands abroad:--
  "Have ye no trust in man?" he cried,
    "Have ye no faith in God?

  "Your Governor goes, as needs he must,
    To bear through royal grace,
  Hither, such food-supply, that want
    May never blench a face.

  "Of freest choice ye willed to leave
    What so ye had of ease;
  For neither stress of liege nor law
    Hath forced you over seas.

  "Your Governor leaves fair hostages
    As costliest pledge of care,--
  His daughter yonder, and her child,
    The child Virginia Dare!

  "Come hither, little sweetheart! Lo!
    Thou'lt be the first, I ween,
  To bend the knee, and send through me
  Thy birthland's virgin fealty
    Unto its Virgin Queen.

  "And now, good folk, for my commands:
    If ye are fain to roam
  Beyond this island's narrow bounds,
    To seek elsewhere a home,--

  "Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk
    Score deep the Indian name
  Of tribe or village where ye haunt,
    That we may read the same.

  "And if ye leave your haven here
    Through dire distress or loss,
  Cut deep within the wood above
    The symbol of the cross.

  "And now on my good blade, I swear,
    And seal it with this sign,
  That if the fleet that sails to-day
  Return not hither by the May,
    The fault shall not be mine!"


[August 15, 1590]

  The breath of spring was on the sea;
    Anon the Governor stepped
  His good ship's deck right merrily,--
    His promise had been kept.

  "See, see! the coast-line comes in view!"
    He heard the mariners shout,--
  "We'll drop our anchors in the Sound
    Before a star is out!"

  "Now God be praised!" he inly breathed,
    "Who saves from all that harms;
  The morrow morn my pretty ones
    Will rest within my arms."

  At dawn of day they moored their ship,
    And dared the breakers' roar:
  What meant it? not a man was there
    To welcome them ashore!

  They sprang to find the cabins rude;
    The quick green sedge had thrown
  Its knotted web o'er every door,
    And climbed the chimney-stone.

  The spring was choked with winter's leaves,
    And feebly gurgled on;
  And from the pathway, strewn with wrack,
    All trace of feet was gone.

  Their fingers thrid the matted grass,
    If there, perchance, a mound
  Unseen might heave the broken turf;
    But not a grave was found.

  They beat the tangled cypress swamp,
    If haply in despair
  They might have strayed into its glade:
    But found no vestige there.

  "The pine! the pine!" the Governor groaned;
    And there each staring man
  Read in a maze, one single word,
    Deep carven,--CRO-A-TÀN!

  But cut above, no cross, no sign,
    No symbol of distress;
  Naught else beside that mystic line
    Within the wilderness!

  And where and what was "CRO-A-TÀN"?
    But not an answer came;
  And none of all who read it there
    Had ever heard the name.

  The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve
    Across his misty eyes;
  "Some land, maybe, of savagery
    Beyond the coast that lies;

  "And skulking there the wily foe
    In ambush may have lain:
  God's mercy! Could such sweetest heads
    Lie scalped among the slain?

  "O daughter! daughter! with the thought
    My harrowed brain is wild!
  Up with the anchors! I must find
    The mother and the child!"

  They scoured the mainland near and far:
    The search no tidings brought;
  Till mid a forest's dusky tribe
    They heard the name they sought.

  The kindly natives came with gifts
    Of corn and slaughtered deer;
  What room for savage treachery
    Or foul suspicion here?

  Unhindered of a chief or brave,
    They searched the wigwam through;
  But neither lance nor helm nor spear,
  Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear,
    Could furnish forth a clue.

  How could a hundred souls be caught
    Straight out of life, nor find
  Device through which to mark their fate,
    Or leave some hint behind?

  Had winter's ocean inland rolled
    An eagre's deadly spray,
  That overwhelmed the island's breadth
    And swept them all away?

  In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search!
    No tidings reached them more;
  No record save that silent word
    Upon that silent shore.

  The mystery rests a mystery still,
    Unsolved of mortal man:
  Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold
    The tale of CRO-A-TÀN!


    In April, 1606, James I sanctioned the formation of two
    Virginia colonies, and the first colony set sail on the
    following New Year's day--three vessels, with one hundred and
    five men, under command of Christopher Newport. Twelve weeks
    later, they landed at a place they named "Point Comfort," and
    proceeded up a great river which they named the King's and
    afterwards the James. On May 13, 1607, the colonists landed
    on a low peninsula fifty miles up the river, and Captain
    Newport selected this, against many protests, as the site for
    the settlement. They christened the place Jamestown. Captains
    Newport, Gosnold, Smith, and Sickelmore were named as the
    resident council for the colony, but time soon proved Smith the
    ablest man in the company, and the leadership fell to him.


[May 13, 1607]

  I pause not now to speak of Raleigh's dreams,
  Though they might give a loftier bard fit themes:
  I pause not now to tell of Ocracock,
  Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock;
  Nor of my native river which glides down
  Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town;
  But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay,
  Resume my story in the month of May,
  Where England's cross--St. George's ensign--flowed
  Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed;
  Where English breasts throbbed fast as English eyes
  Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise,--
  Looked gladly out upon the varied scene
  Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green;
  Flinging great shadows, beautiful and vast
  As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast.
  Turn where they would, in what direction rove,
  They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove,
  On which they coasted through those forests dim,
  Wherein they heard the never-ceasing hymn
  That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines,--
  Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines.

  For though no priest their solitudes had trod,
  The trees were vocal in their praise of God.
  And then, when, capes and jutting headlands past,
  The sails were furled against each idle mast,
  They saw the sunset in its pomp descend,
  And sky and water gloriously contend
  For gorgeousness of colors, red and gold,
  And tints of amethyst together rolled,
  Making a scene of splendor and of rest
  As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West.
  And when the light grew faint on wave and strand,
  New beauties woke in this enchanted land,
  For through heaven's lattice-work of crimson bars
  Like angels looked the bright eternal stars,
  And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown,
  A golden sickle, reaping darkness down,
  The new moon shone above the lofty trees,
  Which made low music in the evening breeze,--
  The breeze which floating blandly from the shore
  The perfumed breath of flowering jasmine bore;
  For smiling Spring had kissed its clustering vines,
  And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines.

               JAMES BARRON HOPE.

    Captain Smith proved himself an energetic and effective leader,
    and led numerous expeditions into the country in search of
    food. On one of these, in December, 1607, he was taken prisoner
    and was conducted to the camp of Powhatan, over-king of the
    tribes from the Atlantic coast to the "falls of the river."
    According to the story he sent to England a few months later,
    he was well treated, and was sent back to Jamestown with an
    escort. Eight years afterwards, when writing an account of
    Powhatan's younger daughter, Pocahontas, who was then in
    England, for the entertainment of Queen Anne, he embellished
    this plain and probably truthful tale with the romantic
    incidents so long received as history.


[January 5, 1608]

  Wearied arm and broken sword
    Wage in vain the desperate fight;
  Round him press a countless horde,
    He is but a single knight.
  Hark! a cry of triumph shrill
    Through the wilderness resounds,
    As, with twenty bleeding wounds,
  Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

  Now they heap the funeral pyre,
    And the torch of death they light;
  Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire!
    Who will shield the captive knight?
  Round the stake with fiendish cry
    Wheel and dance the savage crowd,
    Cold the victim's mien and proud,
  And his breast is bared to die.

  Who will shield the fearless heart?
    Who avert the murderous blade?
  From the throng with sudden start
    See, there springs an Indian maid.
  Quick she stands before the knight:
    "Loose the chain, unbind the ring!
    I am daughter of the king,
  And I claim the Indian right!"

  Dauntlessly aside she flings
    Lifted axe and thirsty knife,
  Fondly to his heart she clings,
    And her bosom guards his life!
  In the woods of Powhatan,
    Still 'tis told by Indian fires
    How a daughter of their sires
  Saved a captive Englishman.


    The way in which the Pocahontas incident has been handled by
    the poets is an interesting and joyous study. These stanzas of
    Morris's are too delicious to be omitted.


  Upon the barren sand
    A single captive stood;
  Around him came, with bow and brand,
    The red men of the wood.
  Like him of old, his doom he hears,
    Rock-bound on ocean's brim--
  The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
    And breathed a prayer for him.

  Above his head in air
    The savage war-club swung:
  The frantic girl, in wild despair,
    Her arms about him flung.
  Then shook the warriors of the shade,
    Like leaves on aspen limb,
  Subdued by that heroic maid
    Who breathed a prayer for him!

  "Unbind him!" gasped the chief:
    "It is your king's decree!"
  He kiss'd away the tears of grief,
    And set the captive free!
  'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm
    Hope's star to man grows dim,
  An angel kneels, in woman's form,
    And breathes a prayer for him.

               GEORGE POPE MORRIS.

    The colony did not flourish as had been hoped, and in May,
    1609, the King granted a new charter with larger powers and
    privileges, and a new company was formed, of which Sir Thomas
    Gates, Lord De La Warr, and Sir George Somers were made the
    officers. A large expedition sailed from England June 2, 1609,
    in charge of Gates, Somers, and Captain Newport, who were on
    the Sea Venture. During a violent hurricane, their ship was
    separated from the rest of the fleet and cast ashore upon the
    Bermudas, whose beauties were so eloquently sung by Andrew


  Where the remote Bermudas ride
  In the ocean's bosom unespied,
  From a small boat, that rowed along,
  The listening winds received this song:

  "What should we do but sing His praise,
  That led us through the watery maze,
  Unto an isle so long unknown,
  And yet far kinder than our own?
  Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
  That lift the deep upon their backs,
  He lands us on a grassy stage,
  Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage.
  He gave us this eternal Spring
  Which here enamels every thing,
  And sends the fowls to us in care,
  On daily visits through the air;
  He hangs in shades the orange bright,
  Like golden lamps in a green night,
  And does in the pomegranates close
  Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;
  He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
  And throws the melons at our feet;
  But apples plants of such a price,
  No tree could ever bear them twice.
  With cedars chosen by His hand
  From Lebanon He stores the land,
  And makes the hollow seas that roar
  Proclaim the ambergris on shore;
  He cast (of which we rather boast)
  The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
  And in these rocks for us did frame
  A temple where to sound His name.
  Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
  Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
  Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
  Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

  Thus sung they, in the English boat,
  A holy and a cheerful note:
  And all the way, to guide their chime,
  With falling oars they kept the time.

               ANDREW MARVELL.

    The passengers and crew of the Sea Venture managed to get to
    land, and finally built two pinnaces, in which they reached
    Virginia May 24, 1610. They found the colonists in a desolate
    and miserable condition, and only the timely arrival of Lord
    De La Warr in the following month (June 9, 1610), with fresh
    supplies and colonists, prevented them from burning the town
    and sailing back to England. Among the passengers on the Sea
    Venture was one Richard Rich. He shared in all the adventures
    and hardships of the voyage, and finally got back to England in
    the fall of 1610. On October 1 he published an account of the
    voyage, called "Newes from Virginia," the first poem written by
    a visitor to America.


[September, 1610]

  It is no idle fabulous tale, nor is it fayned newes:
  For Truth herself is heere arriv'd, because you should not muse.
  With her both Gates and Newport come, to tell Report doth lye,
  Which did divulge unto the world, that they at sea did dye.

  Tis true that eleaven months and more, these gallant worthy wights
  War in the shippe Sea-venture nam'd depriv'd Virginia's sight.
  And bravely did they glyde the maine, till Neptune gan to frowne,
  As if a courser proudly backt would throwe his ryder downe.

  The seas did rage, the windes did blowe, distressèd were they then;
  Their ship did leake, her tacklings breake, in daunger were her men.
  But heaven was pylotte in this storme, and to an iland nere,
  Bermoothawes call'd, conducted then, which did abate their feare.

  But yet these worthies forcèd were, opprest with weather againe,
  To runne their ship betweene two rockes, where she doth still remaine.
  And then on shoare the iland came, inhabited by hogges,
  Some foule and tortoyses there were, they only had one dogge.

  To kill these swyne, to yeild them foode that little had to eate,
  Their store was spent, and all things scant, alas! they wanted meate.
  A thousand hogges that dogge did kill, their hunger to sustaine,
  And with such foode did in that ile two and forty weekes remaine.

  And there two gallant pynases did build of seader-tree;
  The brave Deliverance one was call'd; of seaventy tonne was shee.
  The other Patience had to name, her burthen thirty tonne;
  Two only of their men which there pale death did overcome.

  And for the losse of these two soules, which were accounted deere,
  A son and daughter then was borne, and were baptizèd there.
  The two and forty weekes being past, they hoyst sayle and away;
  Their ships with hogges well freighted were, their harts with mickle joy.

  And so unto Virginia came, where these brave soldiers finde
  The English-men opprest with greife and discontent in minde.
  They seem'd distracted and forlorne, for those two worthyes losse,
  Yet at their home returne they joy'd, among'st them some were crosse.

  And in the mid'st of discontent came noble Delaware;
  He heard the greifes on either part, and sett them free from care.
  He comforts them and cheeres their hearts, that they abound with joy;
  He feedes them full and feedes their souls with Gods word every day.

  A discreet counsell he creates of men of worthy fame,
  That noble Gates leiftenant was the admirall had to name.
  The worthy Sir George Somers knight, and others of commaund;
  Maister Georg Pearcy, which is brother unto Northumberland.

  Sir Fardinando Wayneman Knight, and others of good fame,
  That noble lord his company, which to Virginia came,
  And landed there; his number was one hundred seaventy; then
  Ad to the rest, and they make full foure hundred able men.

  Where they unto their labour fall, as men that meane to thrive;
  Let's pray that heaven may blesse them all, and keep them long alive.
  Those men that vagrants liv'd with us, have there deserved well;
  Their governour writes in their praise, as divers letters tel.

  And to th' adventurers thus he writes be not dismayed at all,
  For scandall cannot doe us wrong, God will not let us fall.
  Let England knowe our willingnesse, for that our worke is goode;
  Wee hope to plant a nation, where none before hath stood.

  To glorifie the lord tis done; and to no other end;
  He that would crosse so good a work, to God can be no friend.
  There is no feare of hunger here for corne much store here growes,
  Much fish the gallant rivers yeild, tis truth without suppose.

  Great store of fowle, of venison, of grapes and mulberries,
  Of chestnuts, walnuts, and such like, of fruits and strawberries,
  There is indeed no want at all, but some, condiciond ill,
  That wish the worke should not goe on with words doe seeme to kill.

  And for an instance of their store, the noble Delaware
  Hath for the present hither sent, to testify his care
  In mannaging so good a worke, to gallant ships, by name,
  The Blessing and the Hercules, well fraught, and in the same

  Two ships, as these commodities, furres, sturgeon, caviare,
  Black walnut-tree, and some deale boards, with such they laden are;
  Some pearle, some wainscot and clapboards, with some sassafras wood,
  And iron promist, for tis true their mynes are very good.

  Then maugre scandall, false report, or any opposition,
  Th' adventurers doe thus devulge to men of good condition,
  That he that wants shall have reliefe, be he of honest minde,
  Apparel, coyne, or any thing, to such they will be kinde.

  To such as to Virginia do purpose to repaire;
  And when that they shall hither come, each man shall have his share.
  Day wages for the laborer, and for his more content,
  A house and garden plot shall have; besides, tis further ment

  That every man shall have a part, and not thereof denaid,
  Of generall profit, as if that he twelve pounds ten shillings paid;
  And he that in Virginia shall copper coyne receive,
  For hyer or commodities, and will the country leave

  Upon delivery of such coyne unto the Governour,
  Shall by exchange at his returne be by their treasurer
  Paid him in London at first sight, no man shall cause to grieve,
  For tis their generall will and wish that every man should live.

  The number of adventurers, that are for this plantation,
  Are full eight hundred worthy men, some noble, all of fashion.
  Good, discreete, their worke is good, and as they have begun,
  May Heaven assist them in their worke, and thus our newes is done.

               RICHARD RICH.

    Lord Delaware's stay in Virginia marked the turning-point in
    the fortunes of the colony. New settlements were made, tobacco
    culture was begun, and Virginia seemed at last fairly started
    on the road to prosperity.



  You brave heroic minds,
  Worthy your country's name,
    That honor still pursue,
    Go and subdue,
  Whilst loitering hinds
  Lurk here at home, with shame.

  Britons, you stay too long:
  Quickly aboard bestow you,
    And with a merry gale
    Swell your stretch'd sail,
  With vows as strong
  As the winds that blow you.

  Your course securely steer,
  West and by south forth keep!
    Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
    When Eolus scowls,
  You need not fear,
  So absolute the deep.

  And cheerfully at sea,
  Success you still entice,
    To get the pearl and gold,
    And ours to hold
  Earth's only paradise.

  Where nature hath in store
  Fowl, venison, and fish,
    And the fruitful'st soil,
    Without your toil,
  Three harvests more,
  All greater than your wish.

  And the ambitious vine
  Crowns with his purple mass
    The cedar reaching high
    To kiss the sky,
  The cypress, pine,
  And useful sassafras.

  To whom the Golden Age
  Still nature's laws doth give,
    No other cares attend,
    But them to defend
  From winter's rage,
  That long there doth not live.

  When as the luscious smell
  Of that delicious land,
    Above the seas that flows,
    The clear wind throws,
  Your hearts to swell
  Approaching the dear strand;

  In kenning of the shore
  (Thanks to God first given)
    O you the happiest men,
    Be frolic then!
  Let cannons roar,
  Frighting the wide heaven;

  And in regions far
  Such heroes bring ye forth
    As those from whom we came,
    And plant our name
  Under that star
  Not known unto our North;

  And as there plenty grows
  Of laurel everywhere,--
    Apollo's sacred tree,--
    You it may see,
  A poet's brows
  To crown, that may sing there.

  Thy _Voyages_ attend
  Industrious Hackluit,
    Whose reading shall inflame
    Men to seek fame,
  And much commend
  To after-times thy wit.

               MICHAEL DRAYTON.

    Among the planters at Jamestown was John Rolfe, a zealous
    Christian, who became interested in Pocahontas. Finally, either
    captivated by her grace and beauty as the romancists believe,
    or in spite of personal scruples and "for the good of the
    colony," as Hamor wrote, he proposed marriage. The Princess was
    willing, her father consented, though he refused to be present
    at the ceremony (April 5, 1614), and the bride was given away
    by her uncle Opachisco. They had one son, Thomas Rolfe, whose
    descendants are still living in Virginia.


[April 5, 1614]

  That balmy eve, within a trellised bower,
  Rudely constructed on the sounding shore,
  Her plighted troth the forest maiden gave
  Ere sought the skiff that bore them o'er the wave
  To the dark home-bound ship, whose restless sway
  Rocked to the winds and waves, impatient of delay.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Short was the word that pledged triumphant love;
  That vow, that claims its registry above.
  And low the cadence of that hymn of praise
  Whose hallowed incense rose, as rose its lays;
  And few the worshippers 'neath that pure cope
  Which emblems to the soul eternal hope.

  One native maiden waited the command
  Of the young Princess of Virginia's strand;
  And that dark youth, the Page of Cedar Isle,
  Who wept her woes, and shared her sad exile,
  With his loved bride, who owned the royal blood,
  And near the forest Queen majestically stood.

  Some others bent beside the rural shrine
  In adoration to the Power divine;
  When at the altar knelt, with minds serene,
  The gallant Soldier and the dark-browed Queen.

  These, for the love they bore her guileless youth,
  Paid the high fealty of the warm heart's truth;
  And with its homage satisfied, gone o'er
  Each vision bright that graced their natal shore.

  Those, with forebodings dread and brimful eyes,
  Bade holy angels guard the destinies
  Of one on whom had fallen the chrism of light
  With unction pure; the youthful neophyte
  Of that fair clime where millions yet unborn
  Shall raise the choral hymn from eve till morn.

               MRS. M. M. WEBSTER.

    In 1616 Pocahontas was taken to England, where she was received
    with marked attention by the Queen and court. She renewed her
    acquaintance with Captain John Smith, who was busy weaving
    fairy tales about her, had her portrait painted and led a
    fashionable life generally. It did not agree with her, she
    developed consumption, and died at Gravesend, March 27, 1617.


[June, 1616]

  In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green,
  Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen,
  For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen.

  There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air
  All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere,
  Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair.

  As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command,
  Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "_Welcome, welcome, to my land!_"
  But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand.

  "What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee?
  I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea;
  On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished _but for thee_.

  "Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget!
  I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet;
  I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet.

  "Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man,
  Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran
  To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan."

  With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there,
  While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare;
  But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair.

  All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf,
  And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden
  Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief.

  At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell,
  And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell
  Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.

  But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head,
  Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said:
  "White man's tongue is false. It told me--told me--_that my brave was

  "And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves
  (Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice within her
  Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves.

  "Call me 'child' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean;
  Never shadow, _Nenemoosa_, our twain hearts shall come between;
  Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen."


    In 1676 the colony was shaken by a struggle which presaged that
    other one which was to occur just a century later. An Indian
    war had broken out along the frontier, but Governor Berkeley
    disbanded the forces gathered to repress it. Whereupon a young
    man named Nathaniel Bacon gathered a force of his own, marched
    against the Indians, and was proclaimed a rebel and traitor
    by the royal governor, who had collected at Jamestown a force
    of nearly a thousand men. Bacon, after a campaign in which
    the hostile Indians were practically wiped out of existence,
    marched back to Jamestown and besieged the place. After a sally
    in which he was repulsed, Berkeley sailed away and left the
    town to its fate. Bacon entered it next morning (September 19,
    1676), and, deciding that he could not hold it, set fire to it
    that evening. It was totally destroyed.


[September 19, 1676]

  Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers,
    And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore,
  He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears,
    And lord it again as he lorded before:
      It was--"Traitors, be dumb!"
      And--"Surrender, ye scum!"
  And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.

  A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne;
    For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life;
  But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan
    When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife,
      And shrink from the fray,
      Was not the man's way--
  It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.

  On the outer plantations the savages burst,
    And scattered around desolation and woe;
  And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst,
    Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow;
      Though when, weapons in hand,
      We made our demand,
  He sullenly suffered our forces to go.

  Then while we were doing our work for the crown,
    And risking our lives in the perilous fight,
  He sent lying messengers out, up and down,
    To denounce us as outlaws--mere malice and spite;
      Then from Accomac's shore
      Brought a thousand or more,
  Who swaggered the country around, day and night.

  Returning in triumph, instead of reward
    For the marches we made and the battles we won,
  There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword--
    Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done?
      When this madman abhorred
      Appealed to the sword,
  And our leader said "fight!" did he think we would run?

  Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were,
    We feared not to combat with lord or with lown,
  So we took the old wretch at his word--that was fair;
    But he dared not come out from his hold in the town
      Where he lay with his men,
      Like a wolf in his den;
  And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.

  He made a fierce sally,--his force was so strong
    He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight,--
  But we met in close column his ruffianly throng,
    And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright;
      Then while ready we lay
      For the storming next day,
  He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.

  The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no!
    Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return;
  But one course was left us to baffle the foe--
    The birds would not come if the nest we should burn;
      So the red, crackling fire
      Climbed to roof-top and spire,
  A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.

  That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised
    On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame?
  That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised
    The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame?
      That we smiled when there lay
      Smoking ruins next day,
  And nothing was left of the town but its name?

  We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died;
    The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then;
  And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride
    To give to the gallows the best of our men;
      But while the grass grows
      And the clear water flows,
  The town shall not rise from its ashes again.

  So, you come for your victim! I'm ready; but, pray,
    Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring.
  Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say
    With the last drink I take. Here's a health to the King,
      Who reigns o'er a land
      Where, against his command,
  The rogues rule and ruin, while honest men swing.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Jamestown soon avenged itself. Before Bacon left the place he
    was ill with fever, and on the first day of October, at the
    house of a friend in Gloucester County, he "surrendered up that
    fort he was no longer able to keep, into the hands of the grim
    and all-conquering Captain, Death." His death was celebrated in
    a poem which is perhaps the most brilliant example of sustained
    poetic art produced in Colonial America. It was written "by his
    man," of whom absolutely nothing is known.


[October 1, 1676]

  Death, why so cruel? What! no other way
  To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay
  Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,
  Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fall
  To its late chaos? Had thy rigid force
  Been dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,
  Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,
  Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain,
  Whose lives and safeties did so much depend
  On him their life, with him their lives must end.
    If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can be
  We must be guilty; say 'twas bribery
  Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes,
  To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owes
  Deservèd plagues, dreading their just desert,
  Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art
  Him to destroy; whose well-tried courage such,
  Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.
    Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood
  The Heathen made, and drew into a flood?
  Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum,
  Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumb
  And cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong)
  Will want the aid of his commanding tongue,
  Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew
  Only the outward frame; this could subdue
  The rugged works of nature. Souls replete
  With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat
  Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word,
  Mars and Minerva both in him concurred
  For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike
  As Cato's did, may admiration strike
  Into his foes; while they confess withal
  It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.
  Only this difference does from truth proceed:
  They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.
  While none shall dare his obsequies to sing
  In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring
  Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free
  To sound his praises to posterity.
    Here let him rest; while we this truth report,
  He's gone from hence unto a higher Court
  To plead his cause, where he by this doth know
  Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.

    Jamestown never recovered from the blow which Bacon dealt it.
    The location was so unhealthy that it could not attract new
    settlers, and though some of the houses which had been burned
    were subsequently rebuilt, the town's day of greatness was
    past. The seat of government was removed to Williamsburg, and
    the old settlement dropped gradually to decay.


    Old cradle of an infant world,
      In which a nestling empire lay,
    Struggling awhile, ere she unfurled
      Her gallant wing and soared away;
  All hail! thou birthplace of the glowing west,
  Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruined nest!

    What solemn recollections throng,
      What touching visions rise,
    As, wandering these old stones among,
      I backward turn mine eyes,
  And see the shadows of the dead flit round,
  Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

    The wonders of an age combined
      In one short moment memory supplies;
    They throng upon my wakened mind,
      As time's dark curtains rise.
  The volume of a hundred buried years,
  Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

    I hear the angry ocean rave,
      I see the lonely little bark
    Scudding along the crested wave,
      Freighted like old Noah's ark,
  As o'er the drownèd earth 'twas hurled,
  With the forefathers of another world.

    I see the train of exiles stand,
      Amid the desert, desolate,
    The fathers of my native land,
      The daring pioneers of fate,
  Who braved the perils of the sea and earth,
  And gave a boundless empire birth.

    I see the sovereign Indian range
      His woodland empire, free as air;
    I see the gloomy forest change,
      The shadowy earth laid bare;
  And where the red man chased the bounding deer,
  The smiling labors of the white appear.

    I see the haughty warrior gaze
      In wonder or in scorn,
    As the pale faces sweat to raise
      Their scanty fields of corn,
  While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,
  By sport, or hair-brained rapine, wins his food.

    A moment, and the pageant's gone;
      The red men are no more;
    The pale-faced strangers stand alone
      Upon the river's shore;
  And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdained,
  Finds but a bloody grave where once he reigned.

    The forest reels beneath the stroke
      Of sturdy woodman's axe;
    The earth receives the white man's yoke,
      And pays her willing tax
  Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,
  And all that nature to blithe labor yields.

    Then growing hamlets rear their heads,
      And gathering crowds expand,
    Far as my fancy's vision spreads,
      O'er many a boundless land,
  Till what was once a world of savage strife
  Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

    Empire to empire swift succeeds,
      Each happy, great, and free;
    One empire still another breeds,
      A giant progeny,
  Destined their daring race to run,
  Each to the regions of yon setting sun.

    Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace
      The fount whence these rich waters sprung,
    I glance towards this lonely place,
      And find it these rude stones among.
  Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round,
  The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

    Their names have been forgotten long;
      The stone, but not a word, remains;
    They cannot live in deathless song,
      Nor breathe in pious strains.
  Yet this sublime obscurity to me
  More touching is than poet's rhapsody.

    They live in millions that now breathe;
      They live in millions yet unborn,
    And pious gratitude shall wreathe
      As bright a crown as e'er was worn,
  And hang it on the green-leaved bough,
  That whispers to the nameless dead below.

    No one that inspiration drinks,
      No one that loves his native land,
    No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,
      Can mid these lonely ruins stand
  Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear
  Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

    The mighty shade now hovers round,
      Of him whose strange, yet bright career
    Is written on this sacred ground
      In letters that no time shall sere;
  Who in the Old World smote the turbaned crew,
  And founded Christian empires in the New.

    And she! the glorious Indian maid,
      The tutelary of this land,
    The angel of the woodland shade,
      The miracle of God's own hand,
  Who joined man's heart to woman's softest grace,
  And thrice redeemed the scourges of her race.

    Sister of charity and love,
      Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,
    Dear goddess of the sylvan grove,
      Flower of the forest, nature's pride,
  He is no man who does not bend the knee,
  And she no woman who is not like thee!

    Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed rock
      To me shall ever sacred be,--
    I care not who my themes may mock,
      Or sneer at them and me.
  I envy not the brute who here can stand
  Without a thrill for his own native land.

    And if the recreant crawl her earth,
      Or breathe Virginia's air,
    Or in New England claim his birth,
      From the old pilgrims there,
  He is a bastard if he dare to mock
  Old Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.

               JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.

    In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a
    thriving trade along the American coast. One of the most
    redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as
    "Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he
    was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together
    with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor
    Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad
    said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.


[November 22, 1718]

  Will you hear of a bloody Battle,
    Lately fought upon the Seas?
  It will make your Ears to rattle,
    And your Admiration cease;
  Have you heard of _Teach_ the Rover,
    And his Knavery on the Main;
  How of Gold he was a Lover,
    How he lov'd all ill-got Gain?

  When the Act of Grace appeared,
    Captain _Teach_, with all his Men,
  Unto _Carolina_ steered,
    Where they kindly us'd him then;
  There he marry'd to a Lady,
    And gave her five hundred Pound,
  But to her he prov'd unsteady,
    For he soon march'd off the Ground.

  And returned, as I tell you,
    To his Robbery as before,
  Burning, sinking Ships of value,
    Filling them with Purple Gore;
  When he was at _Carolina_,
    There the Governor did send
  To the Governor of _Virginia_,
    That he might assistance lend.

  Then the Man-of-War's Commander,
    Two small Sloops he fitted out,
  Fifty Men he put on board, Sir,
    Who resolv'd to stand it out;
  The Lieutenant he commanded
    Both the Sloops, and you shall hear
  How, before he landed,
    He suppress'd them without fear.

  Valiant _Maynard_ as he sailed,
    Soon the Pirate did espy,
  With his Trumpet he then hailed,
    And to him they did reply:
  Captain _Teach_ is our Commander,
    _Maynard_ said, he is the Man
  Whom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir,
    Let him do the best he can.

  _Teach_ replyed unto _Maynard_,
    You no Quarter here shall see,
  But be hang'd on the Mainyard,
    You and all your Company;
  _Maynard_ said, I none desire
    Of such Knaves as thee and thine,
  None I'll give, _Teach_ then replyed,
    My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.

  He took the Glass, and drank Damnation
    Unto _Maynard_ and his Crew;
  To himself and Generation,
    Then the Glass away he threw;
  Brave _Maynard_ was resolv'd to have him,
    Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten;
  _Teach_ a broadside quickly gave him,
    Killing sixteen valiant Men.

  _Maynard_ boarded him, and to it
    They fell with Sword and Pistol too;
  They had Courage, and did show it,
    Killing of the Pirate's Crew.
  _Teach_ and _Maynard_ on the Quarter,
    Fought it out most manfully,
  _Maynard's_ Sword did cut him shorter,
    Losing his head, he there did die.

  Every Sailor fought while he, Sir,
    Power had to wield the Sword,
  Not a Coward could you see, Sir,
    Fear was driven from aboard;
  Wounded Men on both Sides fell, Sir,
    'Twas a doleful Sight to see,
  Nothing could their Courage quell, Sir,
    O, they fought courageously.

  When the bloody Fight was over,
    We're informed by a Letter writ,
  _Teach's_ Head was made a Cover,
    To the Jack Staff of the Ship;
  Thus they sailed to _Virginia_,
    And when they the Story told,
  How they kill'd the Pirates many,
    They'd Applause from young and old.

               BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. (?)

    On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O.
    S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to
    Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby was christened
    George, and lived to become the most famous personage in
    American history.


[February 11, 1732]


  Do you know how the people of all the land
  Knew at last that the time was at hand
  When He should be sent to give command
  To armies and people, to father and son!
  How the glad tidings of joy should run
  Which tell of the birth of Washington?

  Three women keep watch of the midnight sky
    Where Potomac ripples below;
  They watch till the light in the window hard by
    The birth of the child shall show.
      Is it peace? Is it strife?
      Is it death? Is it life?
    The light in the window shall show!
        Weal or woe!
        We shall know!

  The women have builded a signal pile
    For the birthday's welcome flame,
  That the light may show for many a mile
    To tell when the baby came!
      And south and north
      The word go forth
      That the boy is born
      On that blessèd morn;
    The boy of deathless fame!


  The watchmen have waited on Capitol Hill
    And they light the signal flame;
  And at Baltimore Bay they waited till
    The welcome tidings came;
  And then across the starlit night,
  At the head of Elk the joyful light
    Told to the Quaker town the story
    Of new-born life and coming glory!
  To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn Height
  They sent the signal clear and bright,
      And far away,
      Before the day,
  To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flame
  And everywhere the message came,
      As the signal flew
      The people knew
  That the man of men was born!


  So it is, they say, that the men in the bay,
    In winter's ice and snow,
  See the welcome light on Wachusett Height
    While the Merrimac rolls below.
      The cheery fire
      Rose higher and higher,
  Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,
  And on and on, and on it came,
      And as men look
        Far away in the north
        The word goes forth,
      To Agiochook.
      The welcome fire
      Flashed higher and higher
  To our mountain ways,
  And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!

  So the farmers in the Intervale
  See the light that shall never fail,
  The beacon light which shines to tell
    To all the world to say
      That the boy has been born
      On that winter's morn
    By Potomac far away.
      Whose great command
      Shall bless that land
      Whom the land shall bless
      In joy and distress
    Forever and a day!

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.



    On the fourth day of April, 1609, there put out from the port
    of Amsterdam a little craft of about eighty tons, called the
    Half Moon. It had been chartered by the Dutch East India
    Company to search for the Northwest Passage. Its captain was
    Henry Hudson, and on September 3 he cast anchor inside Sandy



    Out from the harbor of Amsterdam
      The Half Moon turned her prow to sea;
    The coast of Norway dropped behind,
      Yet Northward still kept she
    Through the drifting fog and the driving snow,
    Where never before man dared to go:
  "O Pilot, shall we find the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"
  "A waste of ice before us lies--we must turn back," said he.

    Westward they steered their tiny bark,
      Westward through weary weeks they sped,
    Till the cold gray strand of a stranger-land
      Loomed through the mist ahead.
    League after league they hugged the coast,
    And their Captain never left his post:
  "O Pilot, see you yet the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"
  "I see but the rocks and the barren shore; no strait is there," quoth he.

    They sailed to the North--they sailed to the South--
      And at last they rounded an arm of sand
    Which held the sea from a harbor's mouth--
      The loveliest in the land;
    They kept their course across the bay,
    And the shore before them fell away:
  "O Pilot, see you not the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"
  "Hold the rudder true! Praise Christ Jesu! the strait is here," said he.

    Onward they glide with wind and tide,
      Past marshes gray and crags sun-kist;
    They skirt the sills of green-clad hills,
      And meadows white with mist--
    But alas! the hope and the brave, brave dream!
    For rock and shallow bar the stream:
  "O Pilot, can this be the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"
  "Nay, Captain, nay; 'tis not this way; turn back we must," said he.

    Full sad was Hudson's heart as he turned
      The Half Moon's prow to the South once more;
    He saw no beauty in crag or hill,
      No beauty in curving shore;
    For they shut him away from that fabled main
    He sought his whole life long, in vain:
  "O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?"
  "God's crypt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time,"
      quoth he.


    A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September
    6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman
    named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small
    boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who
    sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows
    pierced Colman's throat, killing him.


[September 6, 1609]

  'Twas Juet spoke--the Half Moon's mate
  And they who Holland's ship of state
  Compass'd with wisdom, listening sate:

  Discovery's near-extinguished spark
    Flared up into a blaze,
  When Man-na-hat-ta's virgin hills,
    Enriched by Autumn's days,
  First fell on our impatient sight,
  And soothed us with a strange delight.

  Bidden by fevered trade, our keel
    Had ploughed unbeaten deeps;
  From many a perfume-laden isle
    To the dark land that sleeps
  Forever in its winter robe,
  Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.

  But we, who sought for China's strand
    By ocean ways untried,
  Forgot our mission when we cast
    Our anchor in a tide
  That kissed a gem too wondrous fair
  For any eastern sea to wear!

  Entranced, we saw the golden woods
    Slope gently to the sands;
  The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfed
    Their kin of other lands;
  And from the shore the balmy wind
  Blew sweeter than the spice of Ind.

  As he whose eyes, though opened wide,
    Are fixed upon a dream,
  So Colman--one who long had held
    Our Hudson's warm esteem--
  Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,
  "Ere even's shades are overspread,

  "Proudly our flag on yonder height
    Shall tell of Holland's gain;
  Proclaiming her to all the earth
    The sovereign of the main."
  And quickly from the Half Moon's bow
  We turned the longboat's yielding prow.

  The measured flashing of the oars
    Broke harshly on the ear;
  And eye asked eye--for lips were mute--
    What Holland hearts should fear;
  For true it is our hearts were soft,
  Save his, who held the flag aloft.

  And suddenly our unshaped dread
    Took direful form and sound.
  For from a near nook's rocky shade,
    Swift as pursuing hound,
  A savage shallop sped, to hold
  From stranger feet that strand of gold.

  And rageful cries disturbed the peace
    That on the waters slept;
  And Echo whispered on the hills,
    As though an army crept,
  With flinty axe and brutal blade,
  Through the imperforate forest shade.

  "What! are ye cravens?" Colman said;
    For each had shipped his oar.
  He waved the flag: "For Netherland,
    Pull for yon jutting shore!"
  Then prone he fell within the boat,
  A flinthead arrow through his throat!

  And now full many a stealthy skiff
    Shot out into the bay;
  And swiftly, sadly, pulled we back
    To where the Half Moon lay;
  But he was dead--our master wept--
  He smiled, brave heart, as though he slept.

  Then to the seaward breeze our sail
    With woful hearts we threw;
  And anchored near a sandy strip
    That looks o'er ocean blue:
  And there we kissed and buried him,
  While surges sang his funeral hymn.

  And many a pitying glance we gave,
    And many a prayer we said,
  As from that grave we turned, and left
    The dark sea with her dead;
  For--God of Waves!--none could repress
  One choking thought--_the loneliness_!

               THOMAS FROST.

    Hudson ascended the river to a point a little above the present
    town of Albany, then turned back and returned to Holland. His
    report of the rich country he had discovered was received with
    enthusiasm there, and preparations were begun on an extensive
    scale to colonize the new country. Dutch voyagers explored all
    the adjacent coasts, among the most active being Adrian Block.


[July, 1615]

    Hard aport! Now close to shore sail!
    Starboard now, and drop your foresail!
  See, boys, what yon bay discloses,
  What yon open bay discloses!
  Where the breeze so gently blows is
  Heaven's own land of ruddy roses.

    Past the Cormorant we sail,
    Past the rippling Beaver Tail,
  Green with summer, red with flowers,
  Green with summer, fresh with showers,
  Sweet with song and red with flowers,
  Is this new-found land of ours!

    Roses close above the sand,
    Roses on the trees on land,
  I shall take this land for my land,
  Rosy beach and rosy highland,
  And I name it Roses Island.

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

    But troubles at home prevented any extensive effort at
    colonization until 1621, when the States-General chartered the
    Dutch West India Company, which in 1623 sent Captain Cornelius
    Jacobsen Mey, with thirty families, to start the colony.


  With sharpened pen and wit, one tunes his lays,
  To sing the vanity of fame and praise;
  His moping thoughts, bewildered in a maze,
            In darkness wander.
  What brings disgrace, what constitutes a wrong,
  These form the burden of the tuneful song:
  And honor saved, his senses then among
            The dark holes ponder.
  For me, it is a nobler thing I sing.
  New Netherland springs forth my heroine;
  Where Amstel's folk did erst their people bring,
            And still they flourish.
  New Netherland, thou noblest spot of earth,
  Where Bounteous Heaven ever poureth forth
  The fulness of His gifts, of greatest worth,
            Mankind to nourish.
  Whoe'er to you a judgment fair applies,
  And knowing, comprehends your qualities,
  Will justify the man who, to the skies,
            Extols your glories.
  Who studies well your natural elements,
  And with the plumb of science, gains a sense
  Of all the four: fails not in their defence,
            Before free juries.
  Your _Air_, so clear, so sharp to penetrate,
  The western breezes softly moderate;
  And, tempering the heat, they separate
            It from all moisture.
  From damp, and mist, and fog, they set it free;
  From smells of pools, they give it liberty:
  The struggling stenches made to mount on high,
            And be at peace there.
  No deadly pest its purity assails,
  To spread infection o'er your hills and vales,
  Save when a guilty race, great sins bewails
            In expiating.
  Your Sun, th' original of _Fire_ and heat,
  The common nutriment of both to eat,
  Is warm and pure; in plants most delicate,
            Much sap creating.
  Nor turf, nor dried manure,--within your doors,
  Nor coal, extracted from earth's secret stores,
  Nor sods, uplifted from the barren moors,
            For fuel given;
  Which, with foul stench the brain intoxicate,
  And thus, by the foul gas which they create.
  The intellects of many, wise and great,
            Men are out-driven.
  The forests do, with better means, supply
  The hearth and house; the stately hickory,
  Not planted, does the winter fell defy,--
            A valiant warden;
  So closely grained, so rich with fragrant oil,
  Before its blaze both wet and cold recoil;
  And sweetest perfumes float around the while,
            Like 'n Eden's garden.
  The _Water_ clear and fresh, and pure and sweet,
  Springs up continually beneath the feet,
  And everywhere the gushing fountains meet,
            In brooks o'erflowing,
  Which animals refresh, both tame and wild;
  And plants conduce to grow on hill and field;
  And these to man unnumbered comforts yield,
            And quickly growing.
  The _Earth_ in soils of different shades appears,
  Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bears
  Abundant harvests; and, what pleases, spares
            Not to surrender.
  No bounds exist to their variety.
  They nourishment afford most plenteously
  To creatures which, in turn, man's wants supply
            And health engender.
  O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind,
  Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,--
  Its proper value to each gift assigned,
            Will soon discover,
  If ever land perfection have attained,
  That you in all things have that glory gained;
  Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained,
            Would pass you over.
  In North America, behold your _Seat_,
  Where all that heart can wish you satiate,
  And where oppressed with wealth inordinate,
            You have the power
  To bless the people with whate'er they need,
  The melancholy, from their sorrows lead,
  The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede,
            Who never cower.
  The _Ocean_ laves secure the outer shore,
  Which, like a dyke, is raised your fields before;
  And streams, like arteries, all veinèd o'er,
            The woods refreshing;
  And rolling down from mountains and the hills,
  Afford, upon their banks, fit sites for mills;
  And furnish, what the heart with transport fills,
            The finest fishing.

               JACOB STEENDAM.

    Other expeditions followed, but though the colony prospered,
    the mother country could provide little means of defence, and
    it was practically at the mercy of the English--the "swine" of
    Steendam's verses.



    I'm a grandchild of the gods
  Who on th' Amstel have abodes;
  Whence their orders forth are sent,
  Swift for aid and punishment.
    I, of Amsterdam, was born,
  Early of her breasts forlorn;
  From her care so quickly weaned
  Oft have I my fate bemoaned.
    From my youth up left alone,
  Naught save hardship have I known;
  Dangers have beset my way
  From the first I saw the day.
    Think you this a cause for marvel?
  This will then the thread unravel,
  And the circumstances trace,
  Which upon my birth took place.
    Would you ask for my descent?
  Long the time was it I spent
  In the loins of warlike Mars.
  'T seems my mother, seized with fears,
    Prematurely brought me forth.
  But I now am very loth
  To inform how this befel;
  Though 'twas thus, I know full well,
    Bacchus, too,--it is no dream,--
  First beheld the daylight's beam
  From the thigh of Jupiter.
  But my reasons go too far.
    My own matter must I say,
  And not loiter by the way,
  E'en though Bacchus oft has proven
  Friend to me in my misfortune.
    Now the midwife who received me,
  Was Bellona; in suspense, she
  Long did sit in trembling fear,
  For the travail was severe.
    From the moment I was born,
  Indian neighbors made me mourn.
  They pursued me night and day,
  While my mother kept away.
    But my sponsors did supply
  Better my necessity;
  They sustained my feeble life;
  They procured a bounteous wife
    As my nurse, who did not spare
  To my lips her paps to bear.
  This was Ceres; freely she
  Rendered what has nurtured me.
    Her most dearly I will prize;
  She has made my horns to rise;
  Trained my growth through tender years,
  'Midst my burdens and my cares.
    True both simple 'twas and scant,
  What I had to feed my want.
  Oft 'twas naught except Sapawn
  And the flesh of buck or fawn.
    When I thus began to grow,
  No more care did they bestow,
  Yet my breasts are full and neat,
  And my hips are firmly set.
    Neptune shows me his good will;
  Merc'ry, quick, exerts his skill
  Me t' adorn with silk and gold;
  Whence I'm sought by suitors bold.
    Stricken by my cheek's fresh bloom,
  By my beauteous youthful form,
  They attempt to seize the treasure
  To enjoy their wanton pleasure.
    They, my orchards too, would plunder,
  Truly 'tis a special wonder,
  That a maid with such a portion
  Does not suffer more misfortune:
    For, I venture to proclaim,
  No one can a maiden name
  Who with richer land is blessed
  Than th' estate by me possessed.
    See: two streams my garden bind,
  From the East and North they wind,--
  Rivers pouring in the sea,
  Rich in fish, beyond degree.
    Milk and butter: fruits to eat
  No one can enumerate;
  Ev'ry vegetable known;
  Grain the best that e'er was grown.
    All the blessings man e'er knew,
  Here does Our Great Giver strew
  (And a climate ne'er more pure),
  But for me,--yet immature,
    Fraught with danger, for the swine
  Trample down these crops of mine;
  Up-root, too, my choicest land;
  Still and dumb, the while, I stand,
    In the hope, my mother's arm
  Will protect me from the harm.
  She can succor my distress.
  Now my wish, my sole request,--
    Is for men to till my land;
  So I'll not in silence stand.
  I have lab'rors almost none;
  Let my household large become;
    I'll my mother's kitchen furnish
  With my knick-knacks, with my surplus;
  With tobacco, furs and grain;
  So that Prussia she'll disdain.

               JACOB STEENDAM,
                  noch vaster.

    In spite of this neglect, the new town thrived apace. Friendly
    relations were established with the settlers at Plymouth, and
    the colony seemed to be moving steadily toward a golden future.
    In May, 1647, there arrived from Holland the new director,
    Peter Stuyvesant. He ruled supreme until 1664, when New
    Amsterdam surrendered to an English fleet.


[I. Jan. A. C. 1661]

  Where nowadays the Battery lies,
    New York had just begun,
  A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,
    In Sixteen Sixty-One.
  They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,
    Those burghers grave and stately,
  And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,
    Lived out their lives sedately.

  Two windmills topped their wooden wall,
    On Stadthuys gazing down,
  On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all
    The quaintly gabled town;
  These flapped their wings and shifted backs,
    As ancient scrolls determine,
  To scare the savage Hackensacks,
    Paumanks, and other vermin.

  At night the loyal settlers lay
    Betwixt their feather-beds;
  In hose and breeches walked by day,
    And smoked, and wagged their heads.
  No changeful fashions came from France,
    The freulen to bewilder,
  And cost the burgher's purse, perchance,
    Its every other guilder.

  In petticoats of linsey-red,
    And jackets neatly kept,
  The vrouws their knitting-needles sped
    And deftly spun and swept.
  Few modern-school flirtations there
    Set wheels of scandal trundling,
  But youths and maidens did their share
    Of staid, old-fashioned bundling.

  --The New Year opened clear and cold;
    The snow, a Flemish ell
  In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold
    And Wolfert's frozen well.
  Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,
    Drew on his Holland leather,
  Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,
    Beshrewing all such weather.

  But--after herring, ham, and kraut--
    To all the gathered town
  The Dominie preached the morning out,
    In Calvinistic gown;
  While tough old Peter Stuyvesant
    Sat pewed in foremost station,--
  The potent, sage, and valiant
    Third Governor of the nation.

  Prayer over, at his mansion hall,
    With cake and courtly smile,
  He met the people, one and all,
    In gubernatorial style;
  Yet missed, though now the day was old,
    An ancient fellow-feaster,--
  Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold
    Brewer and burgomeester;

  Who, in his farmhouse, close without
    The picket's eastern end,
  Sat growling at the twinge of gout
    That kept him from his friend.
  But Peter strapped his wooden peg,
    When tea and cake were ended
  (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg
    Its high jack-boot defended),

  A woolsey cloak about him threw,
    And swore, by wind and limb,
  Since Govert kept from Peter's view,
    Peter would visit him;
  Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,
    While many a humbler greeter
  Stood wondering whereaway so fast
    Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.

  Past quay and cowpath, through a lane
    Of vats and mounded tans,
  He puffed along, with might and main,
    To Govert Loockermans;
  Once there, his right of entry took,
    And hailed his ancient crony:
  "Myn Gód! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,
    Ve gets more snow as money!"

  To which, and after whiffs profound,
    With doubtful wink and nod,
  There came at last responsive sound:
    "Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gód!"
  Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest
    Beneath the chimney-gable,
  And courtesied, bustling at her best
    To spread the New Year's table.

  She brought the pure and genial schnapps,
    That years before had come--
  In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps--
    To cheer the settlers' home;
  The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll
    Of pressed and crispy Spanish;
  Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,
    Nor long delayed to vanish.

  Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,
    And honors of the day,
  The trader mixed the Governor's drink
    As evening sped away.
  That ancient room! I see it now:
    The carven nutwood dresser;
  The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw
    Begrudged their rich possessor;

  The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,
    Brass-nailed at every seam;
  Six others, ranged in equal pairs;
    The bacon hung abeam;
  The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;
    The hearty wooden fire;
  The picture, on the steaming delft,
    Of David and Goliah.

  I see the two old Dutchmen sit
    Like Magog and his mate,
  And hear them, when their pipes are lit,
    Discuss affairs of state:
  The clique that would their sway demean;
    The pestilent importation
  Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean
    And losel Yankee nation.

  But when the subtle juniper
    Assumed its sure command,
  They drank the buxom loves that were,--
    They drank the Motherland;
  They drank the famous Swedish wars,
    Stout Peter's special glory,
  While Govert proudly showed the scars
    Of Indian contests gory.

  Erelong, the berry's power awoke
    Some music in their brains,
  And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,
    Rang long-forgotten strains,--
  Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,
    Of phantom ships and battle;
  And Peter, with his leg of wood,
    Made floor and casement rattle.

  Then round and round the dresser pranced,
    The chairs began to wheel,
  And on the board the punch-bowl danced
    A Netherlandish reel;
  Till midnight o'er the farmhouse spread
    Her New Year's skirts of sable,
  And inch by inch, each puzzled head
    Dropt down upon the table.

  But still to Peter, as he dreamed,
    The table spread and turned;
  The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed
    To circle as it burned;
  The town into the vision grew
    From ending to beginning;
  Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,
    All widening and spinning.

  The cowpaths, leading to the docks,
    Grew broader, whirling past,
  And checkered into shining blocks,--
    A city fair and vast;
  Stores, churches, mansions, overspread
    The metamorphosed island,
  While not a beaver showed his head
    From Swamp to Kalchook highland.

  Eftsoons the picture passed away;
    Hours after, Peter woke
  To see a spectral streak of day
   Gleam in through fading smoke;
  Still slept old Govert, snoring on
    In most melodious numbers;
  No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One
    Commingled with his slumbers.

  But Peter, from the farmhouse door,
    Gazed doubtfully around,
  Rejoiced to find himself once more
    On sure and solid ground.
  The sky was somewhat dark ahead,
    Wind east, the morning lowery;
  And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread,
    To breakfast at his Bouwery.




    The Northern or Plymouth Branch of the Virginia Company, which
    had been chartered by James I in 1606, did, to some extent,
    for the north what the sister company did for the south. Sir
    Ferdinando Gorges was its Raleigh, and sent out a number of
    exploring ships, one of which made what is now reckoned the
    first permanent settlement in New England. Captain George
    Popham was in command, and in August, 1607, three months
    after the planting of Jamestown, built Fort Popham, or Fort
    St. George, at the mouth of the Kennebec. But it is not this
    settlement which has been celebrated in song and story. It is
    that made at New Plymouth in the winter of 1620 by a shipload
    of Separatists from the Church of England, who have come down
    through history as the "Pilgrim Fathers."

    Driven from England by religious persecution, the Separatist
    congregation from the little town of Scrooby, about a hundred
    in number, had fled to Amsterdam, and finally, in 1609, to
    Leyden. But they were not in sympathy with the Dutch, and
    their thoughts turned to America. The Plymouth company was
    approached, but could not guarantee religious freedom. It gave
    the suppliants to understand, however, that there was little
    likelihood they would be interfered with, and after long debate
    and hesitation, they decided to take the risk.


[August 15 (N. S.), 1620]

  The word of God to Leyden came,
    Dutch town by Zuyder Zee:
  Rise up, my children of no name,
    My kings and priests to be.
  There is an empire in the West,
    Which I will soon unfold;
  A thousand harvests in her breast,
    Rocks ribbed with iron and gold.

  Rise up, my children, time is ripe!
    Old things are passed away.
  Bishops and kings from earth I wipe;
    Too long they've had their day.
  A little ship have I prepared
    To bear you o'er the seas;
  And in your souls my will declared
    Shall grow by slow degrees.

  Beneath my throne the martyrs cry;
    I hear their voice, How long?
  It mingles with their praises high,
    And with their victor song.
  The thing they longed and waited for,
    But died without the sight;
  So, this shall be! I wrong abhor,
    The world I'll now set right.

  Leave, then, the hammer and the loom,
    You've other work to do;
  For Freedom's commonwealth there's room,
    And you shall build it too.
  I'm tired of bishops and their pride,
    I'm tired of kings as well;
  Henceforth I take the people's side,
    And with the people dwell.

  Tear off the mitre from the priest,
    And from the king, his crown;
  Let all my captives be released;
    Lift up, whom men cast down.
  Their pastors let the people choose,
    And choose their rulers too;
  Whom they select, I'll not refuse,
    But bless the work they do.

  The Pilgrims rose, at this, God's word,
    And sailed the wintry seas:
  With their own flesh nor blood conferred,
    Nor thought of wealth or ease.
  They left the towers of Leyden town,
    They left the Zuyder Zee;
  And where they cast their anchor down,
    Rose Freedom's realm to be.


    A vessel of one hundred and eighty tons, named the Mayflower,
    was fitted out, and, on August 5 (N. S. 15), 1620, the
    emigrants sailed from Southampton, whither they had gone to
    join the ship. There were ninety persons aboard the Mayflower
    and thirty aboard a smaller vessel, the Speedwell. But the
    Speedwell proved unseaworthy, and after twice putting back
    for repairs, twelve of her passengers were crowded into the
    Mayflower, which finally, on September 6 (N. S. 16), turned her
    prow to the west, and began the most famous voyage in American
    history, after that of Columbus.


[September 16 (N. S.), 1620]

  The breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
  The blue waves curl beneath the gale,
  And, bounding with the wave and wind,
  We leave Old England's shores behind--
    Leave behind our native shore,
    Homes, and all we loved before.

  The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
  The storm spread out its wings of woe,
  Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
  Hung in the folds of every cloud;
    Still, as long as life shall last,
    From that shore we'll speed us fast.

  For we would rather never be,
  Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
  But bows beneath a despot's rod
  Even where it seeks to worship God.
    Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
    Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

  O see what wonders meet our eyes!
  Another land, and other skies!
  Columbian hills have met our view!
  Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu!
    Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
    Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.

  As long as yonder firs shall spread
  Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,--
  As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
  Where join the ocean and the land,--
    Shall those cliffs and mountains be
    Proud retreats for liberty.

  Now to the King of kings we'll raise
  The pæan loud of sacred praise;
  More loud than sounds the swelling breeze,
  More loud than speak the rolling seas!
    Happier lands have met our view!
    England's shores, adieu! adieu!


    On November 19 (N. S.), nine weeks after leaving Plymouth,
    land was sighted, and in the evening of that day, the "band of
    exiles moored their bark" in Cape Cod harbor.


[November 19 (N. S.), 1620]

  The breaking waves dashed high
    On the stern and rock-bound coast,
  And the woods, against a stormy sky,
    Their giant branches tossed;

  And the heavy night hung dark
    The hills and waters o'er,
  When a band of exiles moored their bark
    On the wild New England shore.

  Not as the conqueror comes,
    They, the true-hearted, came:
  Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
    And the trumpet that sings of fame;

  Not as the flying come,
    In silence and in fear,--
  They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
    With their hymns of lofty cheer.

  Amidst the storm they sang,
    And the stars heard, and the sea;
  And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
    To the anthem of the free!

  The ocean-eagle soared
    From his nest by the white wave's foam,
  And the rocking pines of the forest roared:
   This was their welcome home!

  There were men with hoary hair
    Amidst that pilgrim band;
  Why have they come to wither there,
    Away from their childhood's land?

  There was woman's fearless eye,
    Lit by her deep love's truth;
  There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
    And the fiery heart of youth.

  What sought they thus afar?
    Bright jewels of the mine?
  The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
    They sought a faith's pure shrine!

  Aye, call it holy ground,
    The soil where first they trod!
  They have left unstained what there they found--
    Freedom to worship God!

               FELICIA HEMANS.

    Two days later, on Saturday, November 21, the Mayflower dropped
    her anchor in what is now the harbor of Provincetown, and a
    force of sixteen, "every one his Musket, Sword and Corslet,
    under the command of Captaine Myles Standish," went ashore
    to explore. The next day, being Sunday, praise service was
    held on board, and on the following Monday occurred the first


[November 23 (N. S.), 1620]

  "Ho, Rose!" quoth the stout Miles Standish,
    As he stood on the Mayflower's deck,
  And gazed on the sandy coast-line
    That loomed as a misty speck

  On the edge of the distant offing,--
    "See! yonder we have in view
  Bartholomew Gosnold's 'headlands.'
    'Twas in sixteen hundred and two

  "That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored
    Just there where the beach is broad,
  And the merry old captain named it
    (Half swamped by the fish)--Cape Cod.

  "And so as his mighty 'headlands'
    Are scarcely a league away,
  What say you to landing, sweetheart,
    And having a washing-day?

  "For did not the mighty Leader
    Who guided the chosen band
  Pause under the peaks of Sinai,
    And issue his strict command--

  "(For even the least assoilment
    Of Egypt the spirit loathes)--
  Or ever they entered Canaan,
    The people should wash their clothes?

  "The land we have left is noisome,--
    And rank with the smirch of sin;
  The land that we seek should find us
    Clean-vestured without and within."

  "Dear heart"--and the sweet Rose Standish
    Looked up with a tear in her eye;
  She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen
    Where she watched, in the days gone by,

  Her mother among her maidens
    (She should watch them no more, alas!),
  And saw as they stretched the linen
    To bleach on the Suffolk grass.

  In a moment her brow was cloudless,
    As she leaned on the vessel's rail,
  And thought of the sea-stained garments,
    Of coif and of farthingale;

  And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel,
    The tuckers and homespun gowns,
  And the piles of the hosen knitted
    From the wool of the Devon downs.

  So the matrons aboard the Mayflower
    Made ready with eager hand
  To drop from the deck their baskets
    As soon as the prow touched land.

  And there did the Pilgrim Mothers,
    "On a Monday," the record says,
  Ordain for their new-found England
    The first of her washing-days.

  And there did the Pilgrim Fathers,
    With matchlock and axe well slung,
  Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles
    That propt on the crotches hung.

  For the trail of the startled savage
    Was over the marshy grass,
  And the glint of his eyes kept peering
    Through cedar and sassafras.

  And the children were mad with pleasure
    As they gathered the twigs in sheaves,
  And piled on the fire the fagots,
    And heaped up the autumn leaves.

  "Do the thing that is next," saith the proverb,
    And a nobler shall yet succeed:--
  'Tis the motive exalts the action;
    'Tis the doing, and not the deed;

  For the earliest act of the heroes
    Whose fame has a world-wide sway
  Was--to fashion a crane for a kettle,
    And order a washing-day!


    A shallop which the Pilgrims had brought with them in the
    Mayflower was put together, and in it a party explored the
    neighboring shores, in search of a suitable place for the
    settlement. They finally selected Plymouth Harbor, and on
    Monday, December 21 (O. S. 11), they "marched into the land and
    found divers corn-fields and little running brooks,--a place
    (as they supposed) fit for situation; at least it was the best
    they could find."


  Down in the bleak December bay
  The ghostly vessel stands away;
  Her spars and halyards white with ice,
  Under the dark December skies.
  A hundred souls, in company,
  Have left the vessel pensively,--
  Have reached the frosty desert there,
  And touched it with the knees of prayer.
    And now the day begins to dip,
  The night begins to lower
    Over the bay, and over the ship

  Neither the desert nor the sea
  Imposes rites: their prayers are free;
  Danger and toil the wild imposes,
  And thorns must grow before the roses.
  And who are these?--and what distress
  The savage-acred wilderness
  On mother, maid, and child may bring,
  Beseems them for a fearful thing;
    For now the day begins to dip,
  The night begins to lower
    Over the bay, and over the ship

  But Carver leads (in heart and health
  A hero of the commonwealth)
  The axes that the camp requires,
  To build the lodge and heap the fires,
  And Standish from his warlike store
  Arrays his men along the shore,
  Distributes weapons resonant,
  And dons his harness militant;
    For now the day begins to dip,
  The night begins to lower
    Over the bay, and over the ship

  And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest--
  She sees a Book, in vellum drest,
  She drops a tear and kisses the tome,
  Thinking of England and of home:
  Might they--the Pilgrims, there and then
  Ordained to do the work of men--
  Have seen, in visions of the air,
  While pillowed on the breast of prayer
    (When now the day began to dip,
  The night began to lower
    Over the bay, and over the ship

  The Canaan of their wilderness
  A boundless empire of success;
  And seen the years of future nights
  Jewelled with myriad household lights;
  And seen the honey fill the hive;
  And seen a thousand ships arrive;
  And heard the wheels of travel go;
  It would have cheered a thought of woe,
    When now the day began to dip,
  The night began to lower
    Over the bay, and over the ship


    On March 16 an Indian came into the hamlet, and in broken
    English bade the strangers "Welcome." He said his name was
    Samoset, that he came from Monhegan, distant five days' journey
    toward the southeast, where he had learned something of the
    language from the crews of fishing-boats, and that he was an
    envoy from "the greatest commander in the country," a sachem
    named Massasoit. Massasoit himself appeared a few days later
    (March 21), and a treaty offensive and defensive was entered
    into, which remained in force for fifty-four years.


[March 16, 1621]

  At the door of his hut sat Massasoit,
    And his face was lined with care,
  For the Yellow Pest had stalked from the West
    And swept his wigwams bare;
  Mother and child had it stricken down,
    And the warrior in his pride,
  Till for one that lived when the plague was past,
    A full half-score had died.

  Now from the Eastern Shore there came
    Word of a white-skinned race
  Who had risen from out the mighty deep
    In search of a dwelling-place.
  Houses they fashioned of tree and stone,
    Turkey and deer they slew
  With a breath of flame like the lightning-flash
    Of the great God, Manitu.

  Was it war or peace? The Chief looked round
    On the wreck of his mighty band.
  His heart was sad as he rose from the ground
    And held on high his hand.
  "We must treat with the stranger, my children," he said,
    And he called to him Samoset:
  "You will go to the men on the Eastern Shore
    With wampum and calumet."

  Warm was the welcome he received,
    For the Pilgrims' hearts did thrill
  At the message he brought from Massasoit,
    With its earnest of good-will.
  They bade him eat and they bade him drink,
    Gave bracelet, knife, and ring,
  And sent him again to Monhegan
    To lay them before his king.

  So the treaty was made, and the treaty was kept
    For fifty years and four;
  The white men wrought, and waked, and slept
    Secure on the Eastern Shore;
  From the door of his hut, old Massasoit
    Noted their swift increase,
  And blessed the day he had sent that way
    His messenger of peace.


    The colonists set about the work of planting their fields as
    soon as spring opened. The harvest proved a good one; "there
    was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many,
    besides venison," the fowlers having been sent out by the
    governor, "that so they might, after a special manner, rejoice
    together after they had gathered the fruit of their labors."
    This festival was New England's "First Thanksgiving Day." For
    three days a great feast was spread not only for the colonists,
    but for Massasoit and some ninety of his people, who had
    contributed five deer to the larder.


[November, 1621]

  "And now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store
  Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er,
  "'Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain;
  'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain.

  "And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace of God to-day,
  And the franchise of this good people), Governor of Plymouth, say,
  Through virtue of vested power--ye shall gather with one accord,
  And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord.

  "He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long;
  He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong;
  And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden, that he may know
  We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow.

  "So shoulder your matchlocks, masters: there is hunting of all degrees;
  And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas;
  And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ
  To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of joy!

  "We fail of the fruits and dainties--we fail of the old home cheer;
  Ah, these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us here;
  But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie;
  Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!"

  So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn feast;
  The deer and the bear were slaughtered; wild game from the greatest to
  Was heaped in the colony cabins; brown home-brew served for wine,
  And the plum and the grape of the forest, for orange and peach and pine.

  At length came the day appointed: the snow had begun to fall,
  But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily over all,
  And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord
  To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord.

  In his seat sate Governor Bradford; men, matrons, and maidens fair;
  Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there;
  And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway,
  For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving Day.

  And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves,
  And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves,
  And looked on the granaried harvest,--with a blow on his brawny chest,
  He muttered, "The good Great Spirit loves His white children best!"


    The colonists, through the friendship of Massasoit, had
    had little trouble with the Indians, but in April, 1622, a
    messenger from the Narragansetts brought to Plymouth a sheaf of
    arrows tied round with a rattlesnake skin, which the Indians
    there interpreted as a declaration of war. Governor Bradford,
    at the advice of the doughty Standish, stuffed the skin with
    powder and ball, and sent it back to the Narragansetts. Their
    chief, Canonicus, was so alarmed at the look of this missive
    that he refused to receive it, and it finally found its way
    back to Plymouth.


From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"

[April 1, 1622]

  Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,
  Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;
  Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,
  Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,
  Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.
  God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,
  Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;
  So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!
  Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,
  Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;
  While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,
  Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,
  And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,
  Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare,
  Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.
  This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating
  What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,
  Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;
  One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,
  Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,
  Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!
  Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,
  Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,
  "What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?
  Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted
  There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils?
  Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage
  Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!"
  Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth,
  Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:
  "Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;
  Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!"
  But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,
  Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:
  "Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.
  War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,
  Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!"

    Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,
  Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets
  Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,
  Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!"
  Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,
  Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,
  Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.


    The period of prosperity, which had been marked by the first
    Thanksgiving, was short-lived. Through nearly the whole of the
    next two years, the colony was pinched with famine. A crisis
    was reached in the month of April, 1622, when, so tradition
    says, the daily ration for each person was reduced to five
    kernels of corn.


[April, 1622]


  'Twas the year of the famine in Plymouth of old,
  The ice and the snow from the thatched roofs had rolled;
  Through the warm purple skies steered the geese o'er the seas,
  And the woodpeckers tapped in the clocks of the trees;
  And the boughs on the slopes to the south winds lay bare,
  And dreaming of summer, the buds swelled in the air.
  The pale Pilgrims welcomed each reddening morn;
  There were left but for rations Five Kernels of Corn.
            Five Kernels of Corn!
            Five Kernels of Corn!
  But to Bradford a feast were Five Kernels of Corn!


  "Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn!
  Ye people, be glad for Five Kernels of Corn!"
  So Bradford cried out on bleak Burial Hill,
  And the thin women stood in their doors, white and still.
  "Lo, the harbor of Plymouth rolls bright in the Spring,
  The maples grow red, and the wood robins sing,
  The west wind is blowing, and fading the snow,
  And the pleasant pines sing, and the arbutuses blow.
            Five Kernels of Corn!
            Five Kernels of Corn!
  To each one be given Five Kernels of Corn!"


  O Bradford of Austerfield haste on thy way.
  The west winds are blowing o'er Provincetown Bay,
  The white avens bloom, but the pine domes are chill,
  And new graves have furrowed Precisioners' Hill!
  "Give thanks, all ye people, the warm skies have come,
  The hilltops are sunny, and green grows the holm,
  And the trumpets of winds, and the white March is gone,
  And ye still have left you Five Kernels of Corn.
            Five Kernels of Corn!
            Five Kernels of Corn!
  Ye have for Thanksgiving Five Kernels of Corn!"


  "The raven's gift eat and be humble and pray,
  A new light is breaking, and Truth leads your way;
  One taper a thousand shall kindle: rejoice
  That to you has been given the wilderness voice!"
  O Bradford of Austerfield, daring the wave,
  And safe through the sounding blasts leading the brave,
  Of deeds such as thine was the free nation born,
  And the festal world sings the "Five Kernels of Corn."
            Five Kernels of Corn!
            Five Kernels of Corn!
  The nation gives thanks for Five Kernels of Corn!
  To the Thanksgiving Feast bring Five Kernels of Corn!


    In June, 1622, a colony of adventurers from England settled at
    Wessagusset, now Weymouth, and when their supplies ran short,
    the following winter, broke open and robbed some of the Indian
    granaries. The Indians were naturally enraged, and formed a
    plot for the extirpation of the whites. Warned by Massasoit,
    the Plymouth settlers determined to strike the first blow,
    and on March 23, 1623, Standish and eight men were dispatched
    to Wessagusset. The poem tells the story of the events which


From "The Courtship of Miles Standish"

[March, 1623]

  Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows,
  There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;
  Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, "Forward!"
  Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence.
  Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village.
  Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army,
  Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,
  Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.
  Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;
  Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,--
  Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.
  Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;
  Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,
  Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward,
  Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore.

         *       *       *       *       *

  After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment
  Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;
  Women at work by the tents, and warriors, horrid with war-paint,
  Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;
  Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,
  Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket,
  Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing,
  Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present;
  Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred.
  Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature,
  Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;
  One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat.
  Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum,
  Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle.
  Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty.
  "Welcome, English!" they said,--these words they had learned from the
  Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries.
  Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish,
  Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man,
  Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder,
  Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his
  Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!
  But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible,
  Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.
  Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,
  And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:
  "Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,
  Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat
  Is not afraid of the sight. He was not born of a woman,
  But on a mountain at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,
  Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,
  Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?'"
  Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand,
  Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle;
  Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:
  "I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;
  By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!"

    Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish:
  While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom,
  Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered,
  "By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not!
  This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us!
  He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!"

    Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians
  Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,
  Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings,
  Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush.
  But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly;
  So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers.
  But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,
  All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish,
  Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.
  Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its
  Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage
  Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.
  Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop.
  And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December,
  Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.
  Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning,
  Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it.
  Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket,
  Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat,
  Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet
  Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the
  Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.

    There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them,
  Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man.
  Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:--
  "Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his
  Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now
  Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!"

    Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles
  When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth,
  And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat
  Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a
  All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.


    By the end of 1624 Plymouth was in a thriving condition.
    Its inhabitants numbered nearly two hundred, and it boasted
    thirty-two dwelling-houses. Other colonies soon sprang up about
    the Bay--Piscataqua (Portsmouth), Naumkeag (Salem), Nantasket
    (Hull), and Winnisimmet (Chelsea). The trials and pleasures of
    life in New England at about this time are humorously described
    in what are perhaps the first verses written by an American



  New England's annoyances, you that would know them,
  Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth shew them.

  The Place where we live is a wilderness Wood,
  Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good:
  Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below
  Being commonly cover'd with Ice and with Snow;
  And when the North-west Wind with violence blows,
  Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose:
  But if any's so hardy and will it withstand,
  He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand.

  But when the Spring opens, we then take the Hoe,
  And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow;
  Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown,
  The Worms destroy much before it is grown;
  And when it is growing, some spoil there is made
  By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade;
  And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear,
  It is often destroy'd by Raccoon and by Deer.

  And now do our Garments begin to grow thin,
  And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin;
  If we can get a Garment to cover without,
  Our other In-Garments are Clout upon Clout:
  Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn,
  They need to be clouted soon after they're worn;
  But clouting our Garments they hinder us nothing:
  Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing.

  If fresh Meat be wanting, to fill up our Dish,
  We have Carrots and Turnips as much as we wish;
  And is there a mind for a delicate Dish,
  We repair to the Clam-banks, and there we catch Fish.
  For Pottage and Puddings, and Custards and Pies,
  Our Pumpkins and Parsnips are common supplies;
  We have Pumpkins at morning, and Pumpkins at noon;
  If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone.

  If Barley be wanting to make into Malt,
  We must be contented, and think it no fault;
  For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips
  Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and Walnut-Tree Chips.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now while some are going let others be coming,
  For while Liquor's boiling it must have a scumming;
  But I will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather,
  By seeking their Fellows, are flocking together.
  But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring,
  Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting;
  But bring both a quiet and contented Mind,
  And all needful Blessings you surely will find.

    The Old Colony's palmy days were of short duration, for it was
    soon overshadowed by a more wealthy and vigorous neighbor,
    founded by the powerful Puritan party.



  Well worthy to be magnified are they
  Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took
  A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook,
  And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay;
  Then to the new-found World explored their way,
  That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook
  Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook
  Her Lord might worship and his word obey
  In freedom. Men they were who could not bend;
  Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide
  A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified;
  Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend
  Along a Galaxy that knows no end,
  But in His glory who for Sinners died.


  From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled
  To Wilds where both were utterly unknown;
  But not to them had Providence foreshown
  What benefits are missed, what evils bred,
  In worship neither raised nor limited
  Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore,
  For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led
  Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore,
  Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love
  By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.--
  Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace,
  Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve.
  Transcendent over time, unbound by place,
  Concord and Charity in circles move.

               WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

    When Charles I came to the throne, in 1625, with the expressed
    determination to harry the Puritans out of England, the latter
    decided to seek an asylum in the New World. In 1628 John
    Endicott and a few others secured a patent from the New England
    Council for a trading-company, the grant including a strip of
    land across the continent from a line three miles north of the
    Merrimac to another three miles south of the Charles. It was
    into this colony, known as Massachusetts, that the older colony
    of Plymouth was finally absorbed.


  The Pilgrim Fathers,--where are they?
    The waves that brought them o'er
  Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
    As they break along the shore;
  Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
    When the Mayflower moored below;
  When the sea around was black with storms,
    And white the shore with snow.

  The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep
    Still brood upon the tide;
  And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep
    To stay its waves of pride.
  But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale,
    When the heavens looked dark, is gone,--
  As an angel's wing through an opening cloud
    Is seen, and then withdrawn.

  The pilgrim exile,--sainted name!
    The hill whose icy brow
  Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
    In the morning's flame burns now.
  And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
    On the hillside and the sea,
  Still lies where he laid his houseless head,--
    But the Pilgrim! where is he?

  The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest:
    When summer's throned on high,
  And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
    Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
  The earliest ray of the golden day
    On that hallowed spot is cast;
  And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
    Looks kindly on that spot last.

  The Pilgrim spirit has not fled:
    It walks in noon's broad light;
  And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
    With the holy stars by night.
  It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
    And still guard this ice-bound shore,
  Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
    Shall foam and freeze no more.

               JOHN PIERPONT.

    King Charles, little suspecting that he was providing an asylum
    for the Puritans, confirmed the patent by a royal charter to
    "The Governor and Company of the Massachusetts Bay in New
    England." No place for the meetings of the company had been
    named in the charter, and the audacious plan was formed to
    remove it, patents, charter, and all, to New England. Secret
    meetings were held, the old officers were finally got rid of,
    and John Winthrop was elected governor. Winthrop sailed for
    America on April 7, 1630, and arrived at Salem June 12. It was
    the beginning of a great emigration, for, in the four months
    that followed, seventeen ships arrived, with nearly a thousand


[June 12, 1630]

  "Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day
    Still rises on our ears,
  Borne from the hills of Boston Bay
    Through five times fifty years,
  When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept
    Out to the open main,
  And through the widening waters swept,
    In April sun and rain.
      "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
        The leader shouted, "pray;"
      And prayer arose from all the ships
        As faded Yarmouth Bay.

  They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
    And May-days came, and June,
  And thrice upon the ocean lay
    The full orb of the moon.
  And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
    Ere England sunk from view,
  While yet the rippling Solent lay
    In April skies of blue,
      "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
        Each morn was shouted, "pray;"
      And prayer arose from all the ships,
        As first in Yarmouth Bay;

  Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas,
    Through Maytime morns, and June,
  Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
    Low 'neath the summer moon;
  And as Cape Ann arose to view,
    And Norman's Woe they passed,
  The wood-doves came the white mists through,
    And circled round each mast.
      "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
        Then called the leader, "pray;"
      And prayer arose from all the ships,
        As first in Yarmouth Bay.

  Above the sea the hill-tops fair--
    God's towers--began to rise,
  And odors rare breathe through the air,
    Like balms of Paradise.
  Through burning skies the ospreys flew,
    And near the pine-cooled shores
  Danced airy boat and thin canoe,
    To flash of sunlit oars.
      "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
        The leader shouted, "pray!"
      Then prayer arose, and all the ships
        Sailed into Boston Bay.

  The white wings folded, anchors down,
    The sea-worn fleet in line,
  Fair rose the hills where Boston town
    Should rise from clouds of pine;
  Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
    And placid lay the sea.
  "Praise ye the Lord," the leader called;
    "Praise ye the Lord," spake he.
      "Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
        Give thanks to God to-day,"
      The anthem rose from all the ships,
        Safe moored in Boston Bay.

  "Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods
    First heard the ancient song,
  And summer hills and solitudes
    The echoes rolled along.
  The Red Cross flag of England blew
    Above the fleet that day,
  While Shawmut's triple peaks in view
    In amber hazes lay.
      "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
        Praise ye the Lord to-day,"
      The anthem rose from all the ships
        Safe moored in Boston Bay.

  The Arabella leads the song--
    The Mayflower sings below,
  That erst the Pilgrims bore along
    The Plymouth reefs of snow.
  Oh! never be that psalm forgot
    That rose o'er Boston Bay,
  When Winthrop sang, and Endicott,
    And Saltonstall, that day:
      "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
        Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
      And praise arose from all the ships,
        Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

  That psalm our fathers sang we sing,
    That psalm of peace and wars,
  While o'er our heads unfolds its wing
    The flag of forty stars.
  And while the nation finds a tongue
    For nobler gifts to pray,
  'Twill ever sing the song they sung
    That first Thanksgiving Day:
      "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
        Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
      So rose the song from all the ships,
        Safe moored in Boston Bay.

  Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms,
    As David's treasures old
  Turned, on the Temple's giant arms,
    To lily-work of gold.
  Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide,
    Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
  Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
    To this Thanksgiving Day!
      We pray to God with fervent lips,
        We praise the Lord to-day,
      As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
        But psalms from Boston Bay.


    But the condition of the colonists was for the most part
    pitiful, and food was so scarce that shell-fish served for
    meat and acorns for bread. Winthrop had foreseen this and
    had engaged Captain William Pierce, of the ship Lion, to go
    in all haste to the nearest port in Ireland for provisions.
    Food-stuffs were nearly as scarce there as in America, and
    Pierce was forced to go on to London, where he was again
    delayed. A fast was appointed throughout the settlements for
    February 22, 1631, to implore divine succor. On the 21st, as
    Winthrop "was distributing the last handful of meal in the
    barrel unto a poor man distressed by the wolf at the door,
    at that instant they spied a ship arrived at the harbour's
    mouth, laden with provisions for them all." The ship was the
    Lion, and the fast day was changed into a day of feasting and


[February 22, 1631]

  It was Captain Pierce of the Lion who strode the streets of London,
    Who stalked the streets in the blear of morn and growled in his grisly
  _By Neptune!_ quoth this grim sea-dog, _I fear that my master's undone!
    'Tis a bitter thing if all for naught through the drench of the deep
      I've steered_!

  He had come from out of the ultimate West through the spinning drift and
      the smother,
    Come for a guerdon of golden grain for a hungry land afar;
  And he thought of many a wasting maid, and of many a sad-eyed mother,
    And how their gaze would turn and turn for a sail at the harbor bar.

  But famine lay on the English isle, and grain was a hoarded treasure,
    So ruddy the coin must gleam to loose the lock of the store-house door;
  And under his breath the Captain groaned because of his meagre measure,
    And the grasping souls of those that held the keys to the precious

  But he flung a laugh and a fleer at doubt, and braving the roaring city
    He faced them out--those moiling men whose greed had grown to a curse--
  Till at last he found in the strenuous press a heart that was moved to
    And he gave the Governor's bond and word for what he lacked in his

  So the Lion put her prow to the West in the wild and windy weather,
    Her sails all set, though her decks were wet with the driving scud and
      the foam;
  Never an hour would the Captain hold his staunch little craft in tether,
    For the haunting thought of hungry eyes was the lure that called him

  Sooth, in the streets of Boston-town was the heavy sound of sorrow,
    For an iron frost had bound the wold, and the sky hung bleak and dread;
  Despair sat dark on the face of him who dared to think of the morrow,
    When not a crust could the goodwife give if the children moaned for

  But hark, from the wintry waterside a loud and lusty cheering,
    That sweeps the sullen streets of the town as a wave the level strand!
  _A sail! a sail!_ upswelled the cry, speeding the vessel steering
    Out of the vast of the misty sea in to the waiting land.

  Turn the dimming page of the past that the dust of the years is dry on.
    And see the tears in the eyes of Joy as the ship draws in to the shore,
  And see the genial glow on the face of Captain Pierce of the Lion,
    As the Governor grips his faithful hand and blesses him o'er and o'er!

  Oh, the rapture of that release! Feasting instead of fasting!
    Happiness in the heart of the home, and hope with its silver ray!
  Oh, the songs of prayer and praise to the Lord God everlasting
    That mounted morn and noon and eve on that first Thanksgiving Day!

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    In the four years that followed, the worst hardships of the new
    plantation were outlived, and between three and four thousand
    Englishmen were distributed among the twenty hamlets along and
    near the sea-shore. The fight for a foothold had been won.


From a fragmentary poem on "New England"

                      Famine once we had,
  But other things God gave us in full store,
  As fish and ground-nuts to supply our strait,
  That we might learn on Providence to wait;
  And know, by bread man lives not in his need.
  But by each word that doth from God proceed.
  But a while after plenty did come in,
  From His hand only who doth pardon sin,
  And all did flourish like the pleasant green,
  Which in the joyful spring is to be seen.

  Almost ten years we lived here alone,
  In other places there were few or none;
  For Salem was the next of any fame,
  That began to augment New England's name;
  But after multitudes began to flow,
  More than well knew themselves where to bestow;
  Boston then began her roots to spread,
  And quickly soon she grew to be the head,
  Not only of the Massachusetts Bay,
  But all trade and commerce fell in her way.
  And truly it was admirable to know,
  How greatly all things here began to grow.
  New plantations were in each place begun,
  And with inhabitants were filled soon.
  All sorts of grain which our own land doth yield,
  Was hither brought and sown in every field:
  As wheat and rye, barley, oats, beans and pease,
  Here all thrive, and they profit from them raise.
  All sorts of roots and herbs in gardens grow,
  Parsnips, carrots, turnips, or what you'll sow.
  Onions, melons, cucumbers, radishes,
  Skirets, beets, coleworts, and fair cabbages.
  Here grow fine flowers many, and 'mongst those,
  The fair white lily and sweet fragrant rose.
  Many good wholesome berries here you'll find,
  Fit for man's use, almost of every kind,
  Pears, apples, cherries, plumbs, quinces, and peach,
  Are _now_ no dainties; you may have of each.
  Nuts and grapes of several sorts are here,
  If you will take the pains them to seek for.

               WILLIAM BRADFORD.

    There remained but one danger, the Indians; and most feared of
    all were the Pequots, who dwelt just west of what is now Rhode
    Island, and in 1637 began open hostilities. A force of about a
    hundred men marched against the principal Pequot stronghold, a
    palisaded village which stood on a hilltop near the Mystic. The
    attack was made on the night of May 25, 1637, the Indians were
    taken by surprise, their thatched houses were set on fire, and
    of the six or seven hundred persons in the village, scarcely
    one escaped.


From "The Destruction of the Pequods"

[May 25, 1637]

  Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide,
  Long held the Pequods an extensive sway;
  Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride,
  And bidding all the circling realms obey.
  Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the sea,
  Plant in their climes; and towns, and cities, rise;
  Ascending castles foreign flags display;
  Mysterious art new scenes of life devise;
  And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies.

  The rising clouds the savage chief descried,
  And, round the forest, bade his heroes arm;
  To arms the painted warriors proudly hied,
  And through surrounding nations rung the alarm.
  The nations heard; but smiled, to see the storm,
  With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven
  And felt infernal joy the bosom warm,
  To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even,
  And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven.

  Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped,
  Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom;
  A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread;
  Where oft the embowelled captive met his doom,
  And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb,
  Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd;
  Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb,
  With howls the Powow fill'd the dark abode,
  And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god.

  But now no awful rites, nor potent spell,
  To silence charm'd the peals of coming war;
  Or told the dread recesses of the dell,
  Where glowing Mason led his bands from far;
  No spirit, buoyant on his airy car,
  Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight:
  Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling star
  Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light,
  And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark night.

  On the drear walls a sudden splendor glow'd,
  There Mason shone, and there his veterans pour'd.
  Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood,
  While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd,
  And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored.
  Alone, he burst the gate; the forest round
  Reëchoed death; the peal of onset roar'd,
  In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was drown'd;
  And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground.

  Not long in dubious fight the host had striven,
  When, kindled by the musket's potent flame,
  In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to heaven,
  And gloom'd the world, with melancholy beam.
  Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, came;
  And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd:
  Nor e'en these ills the savage breast could tame;
  Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region yell'd,
  Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste the hostile field.

               TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

    Sassacus, the Pequot chief, escaped and sought refuge with the
    Mohawks, but was slain by them.



  Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores,
  Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars,
  For the white men came from the world afar,
  And their fury burnt like the bison star.

  His sannops were slain by their thunder's power,
  And his children fell like the star-eyed flower;
  His wigwams were burnt by the white man's flame,
  And the home of his youth has a stranger name--

  His ancestor once was our countryman's foe,
  And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow,
  The wild deer ranged through the forest free,
  While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea.

  But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent,
  With his hair untied, and his bow unbent,
  And found not the blood of the wild deer shed,
  And the calumet lit and the bear-skin bed.

  But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine,
  And bid its broad light like his valor to shine;
  Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps,
  And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps.



  On primal rocks she wrote her name;
    Her towers were reared on holy graves;
  The golden seed that bore her came
    Swift-winged with prayer o'er ocean waves.

  The Forest bowed his solemn crest,
    And open flung his sylvan doors;
  Meek Rivers led the appointed guest
    To clasp the wide-embracing shores;

  Till, fold by fold, the broidered land
    To swell her virgin vestments grew,
  While sages, strong in heart and hand,
    Her virtue's fiery girdle drew.

  O Exile of the wrath of kings!
    O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty!
  The refuge of divinest things,
    Their record must abide in thee!

  First in the glories of thy front
    Let the crown-jewel, Truth, be found;
  Thy right hand fling, with generous wont,
    Love's happy chain to farthest bound!

  Let Justice, with the faultless scales,
    Hold fast the worship of thy sons;
  Thy Commerce spread her shining sails
    Where no dark tide of rapine runs!

  So link thy ways to those of God,
    So follow firm the heavenly laws,
  That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed,
    And storm-sped angels hail thy cause!

  O Lord, the measure of our prayers,
    Hope of the world in grief and wrong,
  Be thine the tribute of the years,
    The gift of Faith, the crown of Song!

               JULIA WARD HOWE.



    The Puritans, who had come to New England to escape a religious
    despotism, lost no time in establishing one of their own.
    At the first meeting of the General Council, in the autumn
    of 1630, it was agreed that no one should be admitted to
    membership in the company who was not a member of some church
    approved by it, and a religious oligarchy was thus established
    which kept itself in power for over thirty years.


From "John Endicott"

  To-night we strive to read, as we may best,
  This city, like an ancient palimpsest;
  And bring to light, upon the blotted page,
  The mournful record of an earlier age,
  That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away
  Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.

  Rise, then, O buried city that hast been;
  Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene,
  And let our curious eyes behold once more
  The pointed gable and the pent-house door,
  The meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes,
  The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!

  Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past,
  Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last;
  Let us behold your faces, let us hear
  The words ye uttered in those days of fear!
  Revisit your familiar haunts again,--
  The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain,
  And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet
  Once more upon the pavement of the street!

  Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here,
  If he perchance misdate the day or year,
  And group events together, by his art,
  That in the Chronicles lie far apart;
  For as the double stars, though sundered far,
  Seem to the naked eye a single star,
  So facts of history, at a distance seen,
  Into one common point of light convene.

  "Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend
  May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end?
  Why drag again into the light of day
  The errors of an age long passed away?"
  I answer: "For the lesson that they teach:
  The tolerance of opinion and of speech.
  Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three;
  And greatest of them all is Charity."

  Let us remember, if these words be true,
  That unto all men Charity is due;
  Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame,
  Lest we become copartners in the shame,
  Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake,
  And persecute the dead for conscience' sake.


    One of the earliest to feel the displeasure of the ruling
    powers of the Colony was Roger Williams, who came to Boston in
    1631. He made himself obnoxious to the government by denying
    the right of the magistrates to punish Sabbath breaking; and
    continued to occasion so much excitement that it was decided to
    send him back to England. Williams got wind of this, and took
    to the woods in January, 1636.


[January, 1636]

  Why do I sleep amid the snows,
    Why do the pine boughs cover me,
  While dark the wind of winter blows
    Across the Narragansett's sea?

  O sense of right! O sense of right,
    Whate'er my lot in life may be,
  Thou art to me God's inner light,
    And these tired feet must follow thee.

  Yes, still my feet must onward go,
    With nothing for my hope but prayer,
  Amid the winds, amid the snow,
    And trust the ravens of the air.

  But though alone, and grieved at heart,
    Bereft of human brotherhood,
  I trust the whole and not the part,
    And know that Providence is good.

  Self-sacrifice is never lost,
    But bears the seed of its reward;
  They who for others leave the most,
    For others gain the most from God.

  O sense of right! I must obey,
    And hope and trust, whate'er betide;
  I cannot always know my way,
    But I can always know my Guide.

  And so for me the winter blows
    Across the Narragansett's sea.
  And so I sleep beneath the snows,
    And so the pine boughs cover me.


    Williams had a hard time of it. Thirty years later, he related
    how he was "sorely tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter winter
    season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean."


  God makes a path, provides a guide,
    And feeds in wilderness!
  His glorious name while breath remains,
    O that I may confess.

  Lost many a time, I have had no guide,
    No house, but hollow tree!
  In stormy winter night no fire,
    No food, no company:

  In him I found a house, a bed,
    A table, company:
  No cup so bitter, but's made sweet,
    When God shall sweetning be.

               ROGER WILLIAMS.

    Williams went to Narragansett Bay, where he bargained with
    Canonicus for the land he wanted, and laid the foundations of
    the present city of Providence.



  Content within his wigwam warm,
    Canonicus sate by the fire;
  Without, the voices of the storm
    Shrieked ever high and higher.

  Eager and wild, the spiteful wind
    Tore at the thatch with fingers strong;
  The Sachem fed the fire within
    And hummed a hunting-song.

  Sudden upon the crusted snow
    He caught a sound not of the storm--
  A sound of footsteps dragging slow
    Towards his shelter warm.

  He drew aside the flap of skin;
    A stranger at the threshold stood;
  Canonicus bade him enter in,
    And gave him drink and food.

  His hand he gave in friendship true,
    Land for a home gave he;
  And he learned of the love of Christ Jesu,
    Who died upon the tree.

  To the stranger guest sweet life he gave;
    For a State he saved its Sire;
  Yea, and his own soul did he save
    From burning in hell-fire.

    Scarcely were the Massachusetts magistrates rid of Williams,
    when they found themselves engaged in a much more threatening
    controversy with Mrs. Anne Hutchinson and her adherents, who
    believed in various "dangerous errors," and carried their
    contempt for the constituted ministry to the point of rising
    and marching out of the Boston church when its respected
    pastor, John Wilson, arose to speak. The other ministers of the
    colony rallied to Wilson's support, the General Court summoned
    Mrs. Hutchinson before it in November, 1637, and pronounced
    sentence of banishment, which was put into effect March 28,


[March 28, 1638]

  "Home, home--where's my baby's home?
    Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find.
  Come, come, come, my baby, come!
    We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind.
      Come, my baby, come!
      Find my baby's home!"

  The baby clings; the mother sings; the pony stumbles on;
    The father leads the beast along the tangled, muddy way;
  The boys and girls trail on behind; the sun will soon be gone,
    And starlight bright will take again the place of sunny day.
  "Home, home--where's my baby's home?
    Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find.
  Come, come, come, my baby, come!
    We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind.
      Come, my baby, come!
      Find my baby's home!"

  The sun goes down behind the lake; the night fogs gather chill,
    The children's clothes are torn; and the children's feet are sore.
  "Keep on, my boys, keep on, my girls, till all have passed the hill;
    Then ho, my girls, and ho, my boys, for fire and sleep once more!"
  And all the time she sings to the baby on her breast,
  "Home, my darling, sleep, my darling, find a place for rest;
    Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird a nest.
      Come, my baby, come!
      Find my baby's home!"

  He lifts the mother from the beast; the hemlock boughs they spread,
    And make the baby's cradle sweet with fern-leaves and with bays.
  The baby and her mother are resting on their bed;
    He strikes the flint, he blows the spark, and sets the twigs ablaze.
      "Sleep, my child; sleep, my child!
      Baby, find her rest,
  Here beneath the gracious skies, upon her father's breast;
  Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird her nest.
      Come, come, with her mother, come!
      Home, home, find my baby's home!"

  The guardian stars above the trees their loving vigil keep;
    The cricket sings her lullaby, the whippoorwill his cheer.
  The father knows his Father's arms are round them as they sleep;
    The mother knows that in His arms her darling need not fear.
  "Home, home, my baby's home is here;
    With God we seek, with God we find the place for baby's rest.
  Hist, my child, list, my child; angels guard us here.
    The God of heaven is here to make and keep my birdie's nest.
      Home, home, here's my baby's home!"

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

    Among the converts made by Mrs. Hutchinson during her stay in
    Boston was John Underhill, commander of the colony's troops.
    He became involved in the controversy that followed, and as
    a result was disarmed, disfranchised, and finally banished.
    In September, 1638, he betook himself to Cocheco (Dover), on
    the Piscataqua, where some of Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents had
    started a settlement, and where he afterwards held various


[September, 1638]

  A score of years had come and gone
  Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone,
  When Captain Underhill, bearing scars
  From Indian ambush and Flemish wars,
  Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down,
  East by north, to Cocheco town.

  With Vane the younger, in council sweet,
  He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet,
  And, when the bolt of banishment fell
  On the head of his saintly oracle,
  He had shared her ill as her good report,
  And braved the wrath of the General Court.

  He shook from his feet as he rode away
  The dust of the Massachusetts Bay.
  The world might bless and the world might ban,
  What did it matter the perfect man,
  To whom the freedom of earth was given,
  Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?

  He cheered his heart as he rode along
  With screed of Scripture and holy song,
  Or thought how he rode with his lances free
  By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee,
  Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road,
  And Hilton Point in the distance showed.

  He saw the church with the block-house nigh,
  The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby,
  And, tacking to windward, low and crank,
  The little shallop from Strawberry Bank;
  And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad
  Over land and water, and praised the Lord.

  Goodly and stately and grave to see,
  Into the clearing's space rode he,
  With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath,
  And his silver buckles and spurs beneath,
  And the settlers welcomed him, one and all,
  From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall.

  And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come
  As the way seemed open to seek a home.
  Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands
  In the Narragansett and Netherlands,
  And if here ye have work for a Christian man,
  I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can.

  "I boast not of gifts, but fain would own
  The wonderful favor God hath shown,
  The special mercy vouchsafed one day
  On the shore of Narragansett Bay,
  As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside,
  And mused like Isaac at eventide.

  "A sudden sweetness of peace I found,
  A garment of gladness wrapped me round;
  I felt from the law of works released,
  The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased,
  My faith to a full assurance grew,
  And all I had hoped for myself I knew.

  "Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way,
  I shall not stumble, I shall not stray;
  He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress,
  I wear the robe of His righteousness;
  And the shafts of Satan no more avail
  Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail."

  "Tarry with us," the settlers cried,
  "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide."
  And Captain Underhill bowed his head,
  "The will of the Lord be done!" he said.
  And the morrow beheld him sitting down
  In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town.

  And he judged therein as a just man should;
  His words were wise and his rule was good;
  He coveted not his neighbor's land,
  From the holding of bribes he shook his hand;
  And through the camps of the heathen ran
  A wholesome fear of the valiant man.

  But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith,
  And life hath ever a savor of death.
  Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls,
  And whoso thinketh he standeth falls.
  Alas! ere their round the seasons ran,
  There was grief in the soul of the saintly man.

  The tempter's arrows that rarely fail
  Had found the joints of his spiritual mail;
  And men took note of his gloomy air,
  The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer,
  The signs of a battle lost within,
  The pain of a soul in the coils of sin.

  Then a whisper of scandal linked his name
  With broken vows and a life of blame;
  And the people looked askance on him
  As he walked among them sullen and grim,
  Ill at ease, and bitter of word,
  And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword.

  None knew how, with prayer and fasting still,
  He strove in the bonds of his evil will;
  But he shook himself like Samson at length,
  And girded anew his loins of strength,
  And bade the crier go up and down
  And call together the wondering town.

  Jeer and murmur and shaking of head
  Ceased as he rose in his place and said:
  "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know
  How I came among you a year ago,
  Strong in the faith that my soul was freed
  From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed.

  "I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame,
  But not with a lie on my lips I came.
  In my blindness I verily thought my heart
  Swept and garnished in every part.
  He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees
  The heavens unclean. Was I more than these?

  "I urge no plea. At your feet I lay
  The trust you gave me, and go my way.
  Hate me or pity me, as you will,
  The Lord will have mercy on sinners still;
  And I, who am chiefest, say to all,
  Watch and pray, lest ye also fall."

  No voice made answer: a sob so low
  That only his quickened ear could know
  Smote his heart with a bitter pain,
  As into the forest he rode again,
  And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down
  On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town.

  Crystal-clear on the man of sin
  The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in;
  On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew,
  The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew,
  And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise
  Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise.

  Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze
  Sang in their saddest of minor keys?
  What was it the mournful wood-thrush said?
  What whispered the pine-trees overhead?
  Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way
  That Adam heard in the cool of day?

  Into the desert alone rode he,
  Alone with the Infinite Purity;
  And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke,
  As Peter did to the Master's look,
  He measured his path with prayers of pain
  For peace with God and nature again.

  And in after years to Cocheco came
  The bruit of a once familiar name;
  How among the Dutch of New Netherlands,
  From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands,
  A penitent soldier preached the Word,
  And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword!

  And the heart of Boston was glad to hear
  How he harried the foe on the long frontier.
  And heaped on the land against him barred
  The coals of his generous watch and ward.
  Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still
  Counts with her worthies John Underhill.


    In 1656 a new danger threatened, for in July the first Quakers
    landed in New England. The preachers of this sect were
    generally believed to be either Franciscan monks in disguise,
    or publishers of irreligious fancies, and in an evil hour
    the authorities resolved to keep them out of Massachusetts.
    When the General Court met in October, it passed the law of
    which Mr. Longfellow gives an accurate résumé. This law was
    "forthwith published, in several places of Boston, by beat of
    drum," October 21, 1656.


From "John Endicott"

[October 21, 1656]


  Here comes the Marshal.

MERRY (_within_)

  Make room for the Marshal.


  How pompous and imposing he appears!
  His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail,
  And all his streamers fluttering in the wind.
  What holds he in his hand?


  A proclamation.

    _Enter the_ MARSHAL, _with a proclamation; and_ MERRY, _with a
    halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the
    hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among
    whom are_ UPSALL _and_ JOHN ENDICOTT. _A pile is made of the


  Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend
  To the new laws enacted by the Court.

MARSHAL (_reads_)

  "Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics
  Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers,
  Who take upon themselves to be commissioned
  Immediately of God, and furthermore
  Infallibly assisted by the Spirit
  To write and utter blasphemous opinions,
  Despising Government and the order of God
  In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil
  Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling
  The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking
  To turn the people from their faith, and thus
  Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;--
  This Court, considering the premises,
  And to prevent like mischief as is wrought
  By their means in our land, doth hereby order,
  That whatsoever master or commander
  Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring
  To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove
  Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers,
  Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay
  Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth
  One hundred pounds, and for default thereof
  Be put in prison, and continue there
  Till the said sum be satisfied and paid."


  Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that?


  I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds!

MARSHAL (_reads_)

  "If any one within this Jurisdiction
  Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal
  Quakers, or other blasphemous Heretics,
  Knowing them so to be, every such person
  Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings
  For each hour's entertainment or concealment,
  And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid,
  Until the forfeiture be wholly paid."

_Murmurs in the crowd._


  Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come!


  Knowing them so to be!


                             At forty shillings
  The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds!


  Knowing them so to be! That is the law.

MARSHAL (_reads_)

  "And it is further ordered and enacted,
  If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume
  To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction,
  Every male Quaker for the first offence
  Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept
  At labor in the Workhouse, till such time
  As he be sent away at his own charge.
  And for the repetition of the offence
  Shall have his other ear cut off, and then
  Be branded in the palm of his right hand.
  And every woman Quaker shall be whipt
  Severely in three towns; and every Quaker,
  Or he or she, that shall for a third time
  Herein again offend, shall have their tongues
  Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be
  Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death."

    _Loud murmurs. The voice of_ CHRISTISON _in the crowd_

  O patience of the Lord! How long, how long,
  Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect?


  Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace!

MARSHAL (_reads_)

  "Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction
  Who shall defend the horrible opinions
  Of Quakers, by denying due respect
  To equals and superiors, and withdrawing
  From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving
  The abusive and destructive practices
  Of this accursed sect, in opposition
  To all the orthodox received opinions
  Of godly men, shall be forthwith committed
  Unto close prison for one month; and then
  Refusing to retract and to reform
  The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be
  Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death.
  By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary."
  Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books.

    _Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted._


  I testify against these cruel laws!
  Forerunners are they of some judgment on us;
  And, in the love and tenderness I bear
  Unto this town and people, I beseech you,
  O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found
  As fighters against God!


    The law was soon to be enforced, and among the earliest to
    endure its penalties were Christopher Holden and John Copeland,
    who were whipped and imprisoned, while Lawrence and Cassandra
    Southwick, of Salem, were also imprisoned for having harbored
    them. The Southwicks were in advanced years, and had three
    grown children--Provided, Josiah, and Daniel. The whole family
    had united with the Society of Friends, and the parents were
    banished from the colony upon pain of death. While they and one
    son, Josiah, were in prison, Provided and Daniel were fined ten
    pounds for not attending public worship at Salem. They refused
    to pay, and were ordered to be sold into slavery in Virginia or
    Barbadoes, but no master of a vessel could be found to carry
    out the sentence.



  To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day,
  From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away;
  Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three,
  And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free!

  Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars,
  Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars;
  In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time,
  My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime.

  Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by;
  Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky;
  No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be
  The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea;

  All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow
  The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow,
  Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold,
  Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold!

  Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there,--the shrinking and the shame;
  And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came:
  "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said,
  "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?

  "Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet,
  Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street?
  Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through,
  Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew?

  "Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?--Bethink thee with what mirth
  Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm, bright hearth;
  How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair,
  On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair.

  "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are
  Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken;
  No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid,
  For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid.

  "O weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies led,
  With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread;
  To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound,
  And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound,--

  "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine,
  Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine;
  Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame,
  Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.

  "And what a fate awaits thee!--a sadly toiling slave,
  Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave!
  Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall,
  The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!"

  Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears
  Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears,
  I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer,
  To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there!

  I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell,
  And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell,
  Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white,
  And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.

  Bless the Lord for all his mercies!--for the peace and love I felt,
  Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt;
  When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart,
  And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

  Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell,
  Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell;
  The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street
  Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet.

  At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast,
  And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed;
  I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see,
  How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me.

  And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek,
  Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak:
  "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out
  The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt."

  Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze,
  And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these:
  "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall,
  Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all."

  We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke
  On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock;
  The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high,
  Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky.

  And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold,
  And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old,
  And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand,
  Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land.

  And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear,
  The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer;
  It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke,
  As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke.

  I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek,
  Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak!
  Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,--go turn the prison lock
  Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!"

  Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red
  O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread;
  "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so
  Her Master speaks within her,--the Devil owns his child!"

  But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read
  That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made,
  Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring
  No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering.

  Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said,--
  "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid?
  In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore,
  You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor."

  Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried,
  "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"--no voice, no sign replied;
  But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,--
  "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!"

  A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,--
  I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye;
  And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me,
  Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,--

  "Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold,
  From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold,
  By the living God who made me!--I would sooner in your bay
  Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!"

  "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!"
  Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause.
  "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old,
  Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?"

  I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn,
  Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn;
  Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back,
  And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track.

  Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul;
  Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll.
  "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest,
  Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released."

  Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay,
  As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way;
  For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen,
  And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.

  Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye,
  A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky,
  A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay,
  And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.

  Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be,
  Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free;
  All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid,
  Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid!

  Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm
  Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm;
  Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old,
  When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told.

  And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong,
  The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand upon the strong.
  Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!
  Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour!

  But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad,
  And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad.
  For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave,
  And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save!


    In September, 1661, Edward Burrough, a prominent Quaker of
    England, obtained an audience of King Charles II and laid the
    grievances of the New England Quakers before him. That careless
    King, who always found it more easy to grant a request than
    to refuse it, so long as it cost him nothing, directed that a
    letter be written to Endicott and the governors of the other
    New England colonies, commanding that "if there were any of
    those people called Quakers amongst them, now already condemned
    to suffer death, or other corporal punishment, or that were
    imprisoned, and obnoxious to the like condemnation, they were
    to forbear to proceed any further therein," and to send such
    persons to England for trial. This letter was given in charge
    to Samuel Shattuck, a Quaker of Salem, then in England under
    sentence of banishment, with the usual condition of being
    hanged should he return. He reached Boston in November, 1661,
    and presented himself with all haste at the governor's door.
    The ballad very accurately describes the interview which


[November, 1661]

  Under the great hill sloping bare
    To cove and meadow and Common lot,
  In his council chamber and oaken chair,
    Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.
  A grave, strong man, who knew no peer
  In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear
  Of God, not man, and for good or ill
  Held his trust with an iron will.

  He had shorn with his sword the cross from out
    The flag, and cloven the May-pole down,
  Harried the heathen round about,
    And whipped the Quakers from town to town.
  Earnest and honest, a man at need
  To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed,
  He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal
  The gate of the holy common weal.

  His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,
    With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath;
  "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn
    The pestilent Quakers are in my path!
  Some we have scourged, and banished some,
  Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come,
  Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,
  Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.

  "Did we count on this? Did we leave behind
    The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease
  Of our English hearths and homes, to find
    Troublers of Israel such as these?
  Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid!
  I will do as the prophet to Agag did:
  They come to poison the wells of the Word,
  I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"

  The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk
    Entered, and whispered under breath,
  "There waits below for the hangman's work
    A fellow banished on pain of death--
  Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,
  Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship
  At anchor here in a Christian port,
  With freight of the devil and all his sort!"

  Twice and thrice on the chamber floor
    Striding fiercely from wall to wall,
  "The Lord do so to me and more,"
    The Governor cried, "if I hang not all!
  Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate,
  With the look of a man at ease with fate,
  Into that presence grim and dread
  Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

  "Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand
    Smote down the offence; but the wearer said,
  With a quiet smile, "By the king's command
    I bear his message and stand in his stead."
  In the Governor's hand a missive he laid
  With the royal arms on its seal displayed,
  And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat,
  Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

  He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,--
    "The king commandeth your friends' release;
  Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although
    To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase.
  What he here enjoineth, John Endicott,
  His loyal servant, questioneth not.
  You are free! God grant the spirit you own
  May take you from us to parts unknown."

  So the door of the jail was open cast,
    And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den
  Tender youth and girlhood passed,
    With age-bowed women and gray-locked men.
  And the voice of one appointed to die
  Was lifted in praise and thanks on high,
  And the little maid from New Netherlands
  Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands

  And one, whose call was to minister
    To the souls in prison, beside him went,
  An ancient woman, bearing with her
    The linen shroud for his burial meant.
  For she, not counting her own life dear,
  In the strength of a love that cast out fear,
  Had watched and served where her brethren died,
  Like those who waited the cross beside.

  One moment they paused on their way to look
    On the martyr graves by the Common side.
  And much scourged Wharton of Salem took
    His burden of prophecy up and cried:
  "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain
  Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain;
  Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned,
  With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

  The autumn haze lay soft and still
    On wood and meadow and upland farms;
  On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill
    Slowly and lazily swung its arms;
  Broad in the sunshine stretched away,
  With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay;
  And over water and dusk of pines
  Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

  The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed,
    The sumach added its crimson fleck,
  And double in air and water showed
    The tinted maples along the Neck;
  Through frost flower clusters of pale star-mist,
  And gentian fringes of amethyst,
  And royal plumes of golden-rod,
  The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

  But as they who see not, the Quakers saw
    The world about them; they only thought
  With deep thanksgiving and pious awe
    On the great deliverance God had wrought.
  Through lane and alley the gazing town
  Noisily followed them up and down;
  Some with scoffing and brutal jeer,
  Some with pity and words of cheer.

  One brave voice rose above the din.
    Upsall, gray with his length of days,
  Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn:
    "Men of Boston, give God the praise!
  No more shall innocent blood call down
  The bolts of wrath on your guilty town.
  The freedom of worship, dear to you,
  Is dear to all, and to all is due.

  "I see the vision of days to come,
    When your beautiful City of the Bay
  Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home,
    And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay.
  The varying notes of worship shall blend
  And as one great prayer to God ascend,
  And hands of mutual charity raise
  Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

  So passed the Quakers through Boston town,
    Whose painful ministers sighed to see
  The walls of their sheep-fold falling down,
    And wolves of heresy prowling free.
  But the years went on, and brought no wrong;
  With milder counsels the State grew strong,
  As outward Letter and inward Light
  Kept the balance of truth aright.

  The Puritan spirit perishing not,
    To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,
  And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot
    That severed the chains of a continent.
  With its gentler mission of peace and good-will
  The thought of the Quaker is living still,
  And the freedom of soul he prophesied
  Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.




    Metacomet, or Philip, had succeeded his father, Massasoit, as
    chief of the Wampanoags, and endeavored to maintain friendly
    relations with the English, but in June, 1675, some of his
    young men attacked the village of Swansea, and started the
    desperate struggle known as King Philip's War. For months
    the Indians ravaged the frontier, and on September 18 all
    but annihilated a picked force of eighty men, the "Flower of
    Essex," under Captain Thomas Lathrop, which had been sent to
    Deerfield to save a quantity of grain which had been abandoned
    there. Only nine of the eighty survived.


[September 18, 1675]

  Come listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,--
    How they fought, how they died,
  When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then
    How they fell, in their pride,
    By Pocumtuck Side.

  "Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?"
    Said old Mosely to his men in Array.
  "Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again;
    But be sure that no Man stray
    All the Day, on the Way."

  Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head,
    Wise and brave, bold and true.
  He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said,
    "Be there Many, be there Few,
    I will bring the Grain to you."

  They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way
    Through the Woods which blazed like Fire.
  No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray,
    Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire,
    And the Beasts began to tire.

  The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows,
    And then the Rear-Guard stays
  To pick the Purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs,
    When, crack!--to their Amaze,
    A hundred Fire-locks blaze!

  Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried,
    "Each Man to his Tree," said he,
  "Let no one yield an Inch;" and so the Soldier died;
    And not a Man of all can see
    Where the Foe can be.

  And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast,
    From behind and before,
  That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last.
    Every Man lies dead in his Gore
    To fight no more,--no more!

  Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,--
    The Flower of Essex they!
  The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side,
  But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide,
  And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride,
    From that dark and cruel Day,--cruel Day!

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

    At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the
    Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a
    decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the
    morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett
    stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst
    of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they
    forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and
    after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three
    hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed
    their store of winter provisions.


[December 19, 1675]


  Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms,
    And hear the tale I tell,
  From Pettaquamscut town I come,
    Now hear what there befell.

  The houses stand upon the hill,
    Not large, each house is full,
  But largest of them all there stood
    The house of Justice Bull.

  'Twas there the court sat every year,
    The governor came in state,
  From there the couriers through the town
    Served summons soon and late.

  And there, 'tis but three years agone,
    George Fox preached, you remember;
  That was in May when he preached peace,
    And now it is December.

  Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God,
    How can there be true peace,
  When war and tumult stalk at night,
    And deeds of blood increase?

  Revenge, revenge, good captains bold,
    Revenge, my people cry;
  Where stood the house of Justice Bull
    But piled-up ashes lie.

  How fared it then, who may dare tell?
    The shutters barred the light,
  As one by one the windows closed,
    And all was black as night.

  Strong was the house, and strong brave men
    All armed lay down to sleep,
  And women fair, and children, too,
    They were to guard and keep.

  And then a horror in the night,
    And shouts, and fire, and knives,
  And demons yelling in delight,
    As men fought for their lives.

  And where there stood that goodly house
    And lived those goodly men,
  Full seven goodly souls are gone.
    Revenge, we cry again!


  Up, up, ye men of English blood!
    The gallant governor cried,
  And we shall dare to find their lair,
    Where'er it be they hide.

  For never men of English blood
    Could brook so foul a deed,
  For all these sins the fierce redskins
    Shall reap their lawful meed.

  Up rose the little army then,
    All armed as best they could,
  With pike and sword and axes broad,
    Flint-locks and staves of wood.

  And motley was the company,
    Recruits from wood and field,
  But strong young men were with them then,
    Who'd sooner die than yield.

  Connecticut had sent her men
    With Major Robert Treat;
  Each colony in its degree
    Sent in its quota meet.

  And Massachusetts led the way,
    And Plymouth had next post,
  Winslow commands the gathered bands,
    A thousand men they boast.

  The winter sun hung in the sky
    And frost bound all things fast;
  As they set forth, from out the north,
    There blew a bitter blast.

  The meadow grass was stiff with rime,
    The frozen brook lay dead;
  Like stone did sound the frozen ground
    Beneath the martial tread.

  All day they marched in bitter cold,
    And when, as fell the night,
  They reached the hill and gazed their fill
    Upon the piteous sight,

  No need to urge the rapid chase,
    The cinders did that well,
  And in the air a woman's hair
    Told more than words could tell.

  In stern resolve they lay them down,
    For rest they needed sore,
  But long ere dawn the swords were drawn
    And open stood the door.

  Out to the gloom of morning passed
    Full silently those men,
  And what 'twixt light and fall of night
    Should come, no soul might ken.


  They turned their faces toward the west,
    The morning air was cold,
  And softly stepped, while still men slept,
    With courage high and bold.

  An Indian they met ere long,
    'Twas Peter, whom they knew;
  They asked their way, naught would he say,
    To his own comrades true.

  In anger cried the governor:
    Then let the man be hung,
  For he can tell, he knows full well,
    So let him find his tongue.

  To save his life that wretched man
    Agreed to be their guide,
  As they marched on, the Indian
    Marched onward by their side.

  And soon they reached a dreadful swamp,
    With cedar trees o'ergrown,
  And thick and dark with dead trees stark
    And great trunks lying prone.

  'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there!
    They fired as they ran,
  And with a bound that spurned the ground,
    The fierce assault began.

  And then a wonder in the wood,--
    A little rising ground,
  With palisade for shelter made
    Of timber planted round.

  And but one place of entrance there
    Across a watery way,
  A tall felled tree gave access free,
    From shore to shore it lay.

  Full many a gallant man that day
    His life left at that tree,
  The bravest men pressed forward then,
    And there fell captains three.

  A dreadful day, and of our men
    Short work would have been made,
  But that by grace they found a place
    Weak in the palisade.

  Then they poured in, within the fort
    Soon filled with Indians dead,
  And many a one great deeds had done
    Within that place of dread.

  Then with a torch the whole was fired,
    The wigwams caught the blaze,
  The fire roared and spread abroad
    And fed on tubs of maize.

  The night came on, the governor called,
    The soldiers gathered round;
  The fort was theirs, and dying prayers
    Were rising from the ground.

  With care they gathered up their dead,
    The few who had been spared,
  All through the cold, in pain untold,
    To Warwick they repaired.

  So was the Indians' power gone,
    Avenged were Englishmen,
  For from the night of that Swamp fight
    They never rose again.

  In Narragansett there was peace,
    The soldiers went their way,
  All that remains are some few grains
    Of corn parched on that day.

  Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain,
    The Indians, they are gone.
  Please God we use, and not abuse
    The land so hardly won!

               CAROLINE HAZARD.

    This assault by the colonists drove the Narragansetts, who had
    hitherto taken no active part in the war, into alliance with
    Philip, and two months later, on February 21, 1676, Medfield,
    less than twenty miles from Boston, was attacked and partially
    burned. Groton soon suffered a similar fate, and the leaders
    of the savages boasted that they would march on Cambridge,
    Concord, Roxbury, and Boston itself. It was at this juncture
    that the "Amazonian Dames" mentioned in the poem became so
    frightened at the prospect that they resolved to fortify Boston



[March, 1676]

  A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames
  Contrive whereby to glorify their names,
  A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe,
  Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf,
  Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes,
  Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.
  The wheel at home counts it an holiday,
  Since while the mistress worketh it may play.
  A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts,
  Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts,
  To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,
  Their undulating silks they closely furl.
  The pick-axe one as a commandress holds,
  While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds.
  One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why
  Can't you promove your work so fast as I?
  Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel
  The little waggon's weight with single wheel.
  And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize,
  They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.
  These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands,
  More like to dawbers than to marshal bands;
  These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise,
  But the beginners well deserve the praise.

               BENJAMIN TOMPSON.

    On April 21 an attack was made on Sudbury; a portion of the
    town was burned, and a relief party of over fifty which hurried
    up was lured into an ambush and all but annihilated. The
    Indians in this battle were bolder than they had ever been
    before, and their strategy was unusually effective.


[April 21, 1676]

  Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name,
  Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame,
  Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a day of death and flame!

  The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep
    Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain;
  We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep,
    And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane:
  _Come hastily or never when the wild beast lusts for gore,
  And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more!_

  The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills,
  Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills
  From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills.

  But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words,
    Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all;
  They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds,
    They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball;
  Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste
  With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced.

  A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring
  The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring
  Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening.

  The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand,
    And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town;
  Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned
    Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown;
  At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load,
  The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode.

  By night, through generations, have the eager children come
  Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum
  Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb.

  The burning hours stretch slowly--then a welcome sight appears!
    Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard
  From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years;
    Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard,
  They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side,
  And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide.

  There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood;
  In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood:
  Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood!

  But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde
    Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near,
  To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford,
    A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear
  As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail:
  One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale.

  Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn,
  Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn,
  And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn.

  They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop--
    All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief;
  They see the braves before them--with a cheer the little group
    Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief,
  His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire,
  The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire.

  A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout,
  Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout;
  But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out.

  He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way
    Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed;
  With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay,
    Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced;
  Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope,
  And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope.

  With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill,
  The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill,
  An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still.

  But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass:
    The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes.
  No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass--
    A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close,
  As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past
  And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast.

  Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there!
  The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair,
  As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare.

  There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom;
    Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force;
  When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom,
    Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse!
  And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight,
  Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night.

  Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den,
  Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men;
  In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again.

  We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall:
    The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command;
  Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call,
    And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand;
  Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent
  And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent.

  In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas,
  The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees,
  Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.

  Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams
    Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped;
  Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams,
    And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led;
  How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away,
  And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day!

  Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade,
  We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said,
  That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made.

               WALLACE RICE.

    The victory at Sudbury was the last considerable success the
    Indians gained in the war. Jealousies broke out among them,
    many deserted to the whites, and the final blow was struck
    when, at daybreak of August 12, 1676, Captain Church surprised
    Philip's camp at Mt. Hope, and Philip himself was shot by an
    Indian while trying to escape. His head was cut off, sent to
    Plymouth, and fixed upon a pole, where it remained for twenty
    years. His wife and son, a boy of nine, were taken prisoners
    and sold into slavery. With them, the race of Massasoit, that
    true and tried friend of the early settlers, vanishes from the
    pages of history.


[August 12, 1676]

  'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown,
    And armèd cap-a-pie.
  Came ambling into Plymouth-town;
  And from far riding up and down
    A weary man was he.

  _Now, where is my good wife?_ he quoth
    Before the goodmen all;
  And they replied, _What of thine oath?_
  And he looked on them lorn and loath,
    As he were like to fall.

  _What of thine oath?_ to him they cried,
    _And wilt thou let him slip
  Who harrieth fair New England-side
  Till every path is slaughter-dyed,--
    The murderous King Philip!_

  His cheek went flush and swelled his girth;
    _Upon him be God's ban!_
  His voice ran loud in grisly mirth:
  _Now, who with me will run to earth
    This bloody Indiàn?_

  Then _I!_ and _I!_ the lusty peal
    Made thrill the Plymouth air;
  And forth with him for woe or weal,
  Their hands agrip on musket-steel,
    Hied many a godly pair.

  They sped them through the summer-land
    By ferry and by ford,
  Until they saw before them stand
  A redman of that cursèd band,
    His features ochre-scored.

  _Would the pale-faces find_, he said,
    _Where lurks their fiercest foe?
  Now, by the spirit of the dead,--
  My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,--
    Follow, and they shall know!_

  This Indian brave, they followed him;
    In caution crawled and crept;
  Till in a marish deep and dim
  They came to where the Sachem grim
    In leafy hiding slept.

  (The quiet August morn's at bud,
    King Philip, woe's the day!
  And woe that one of thine own blood,
  Now that ill-fortune roars to flood,
    Should be the man to slay!)

  Around him spread a girdling line;
    The fatal snare was laid;
  And when down aisles of birch and pine
  They saw the first slant sun-rays shine,
    They sprang their ambuscade.

  And did he slink, or did he shrink
    From that relentless ring?
  Nay, not a coward did he sink,
  But leaped across Death's darkling brink
    A savage, yet a king!

  Then unto him whose bolt of lead
    Had struck King Philip down,
  They gave the Sachem's hand and head;
  Then back they marched, with triumph tread,
    To joyful Plymouth-town.

  On Philip's name a bloody blot
    The white man's writ has thrown,--
  The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot;
  _And yet what one of us would not
    Do battle for his own!_

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set
    themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm
    believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness,
    and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been
    prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that
    the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear
    occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history.


From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

  Delusions of the days that once have been,
  Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen,
  Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts
  That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,--
  These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here,
  Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere,
  We draw the outlines of weird figures cast
  In shadow on the background of the Past.

  Who would believe that in the quiet town
  Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown
  The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms
  That fold it safe in their paternal arms,--
  Who would believe that in those peaceful streets,
  Where the great elms shut out the summer heats,
  Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast
  The benediction of unbroken rest,--
  Who would believe such deeds could find a place
  As these whose tragic history we retrace?

  'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed
  His ample acres under sun or cloud;
  The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,
  And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun;
  The only men of dignity and state
  Were then the Minister and the Magistrate,
  Who ruled their little realm with iron rod,
  Less in the love than in the fear of God;
  And who believed devoutly in the Powers
  Of Darkness, working in this world of ours,
  In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread,
  And shrouded apparitions of the dead.

  Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame,"
  Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came;
  Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts,
  To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts!
  And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host,
  There most he rages where he hateth most,
  And is most hated; so on us he brings
  All these stupendous and portentous things!"

  Something of this our scene to-night will show;
  And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe,
  Be not too swift in casting the first stone,
  Nor think New England bears the guilt alone.
  This sudden burst of wickedness and crime
  Was but the common madness of the time,
  When in all lands, that lie within the sound
  Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.


    The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem
    Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought
    about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched
    and who "cried out" against various persons. They were
    countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the
    minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he
    used them to gratify his private enmities.


[A.D. 1692]

  Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne,
    How rides a witch when night-winds blowe?
  Folk say that you are none too goode
  To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,
  When one you wot of gives the signe:
    Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.

  In meetinge-time I watched you well,
    Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:
  Your folded hands laye on your booke;
  But Richard answered to a looke
  That fain would tempt him unto hell,
    Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.

  You looke into my Richard's eyes
    With evill glances shamelesse growne;
  I found about his wriste a hair,
  And guesse what fingers tyed it there!
  He shall not lightly be your prize--
    Your Master first shall take his owne.

  'Tis not in nature he should be
    (Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)
  A childe, to hange upon your gowne!
  He loved me well in Salem towne
  Until this wanton witcherie
    His heart and myne crept dark betweene.

  Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,
    Your goodman missed you from his side.
  He had no strength to move, until
  Agen, as if in slumber still,
  Beside him at the dawne you laye.
    Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.

  Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete
    As drifts the Bay fogg overhead--
  Or over yonder hill-topp, where
  There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear
  When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet
    The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.


    A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work
    without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and
    condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court
    sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed
    soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse,
    seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent
    character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to
    convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who
    had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and
    on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill
    and hanged.


[July 19, 1692]

  The chill New England sunshine
    Lay on the kitchen floor;
  The wild New England north wind
    Came rattling at the door.

  And by the wide old fire-place,
    Deep in her cushioned chair,
  Lay back an ancient woman,
    With shining snow-white hair.

  The peace of God was on her face,
    Her eyes were sweet and calm,
  And when you heard her earnest voice
    It sounded like a psalm.

  In all the land they loved her well;
    From country and from town
  Came many a heart for counsel,
    And many a soul cast down.

  Her hands had fed the hungry poor
    With blessing and with bread;
  Her face was like a comforting
    From out the Gospel read.

  So weak and silent as she lay,
    Her warm hands clasped in prayer,
  A sudden knocking at the door
    Came on her unaware.

  And as she turned her hoary head,
    Beside her chair there stood
  Four grim and grisly Puritans--
    No visitants for good.

  They came upon her like a host,
    And bade her speak and tell
  Why she had sworn a wicked oath
    To serve the powers of hell;

  To work the works of darkness
    On children of the light,
  A witch they might not suffer here
    Who read the Word aright.

  Like one who sees her fireside yawn,
    A pit of black despair,
  Or one who wakes from quiet dreams
    Within a lion's lair,

  She glared at them with starting eyes,
    Her voice essayed no sound;
  She gasped like any hunted deer
    The eager dogs surround.

  "Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry;
    She looked from side to side--
  No human help--"Oh, gracious God!"
    In agony she cried.

  Then, calling back her feeble life,
    The white lips uttered slow,
  "I am as pure as babe unborn
    From this foul thing, ye know.

  "If God doth visit me for sin,
    Beneath His rod I bend,"
  But pitiless and wroth were they,
    And bent upon their end.

  They tortured her with taunt and jeer,
    They vexed her night and day--
  No husband's arm nor sister's tears
    Availed their rage to stay.

  Before the church they haled her then;
    The minister arose
  And poured upon her patient head
    The worst of all its woes:

  He bade her be accursed of God
    Forever here and there;
  He cursed her with a heavy curse
    No mortal man may bear.

  She stood among the cowering crowd
    As calm as saints in heaven,
  Her eyes as sweet as summer skies,
    Her face like summer's even.

  The devils wrought their wicked will
    On matron and on maid.
  "Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all,
    But not a word she said.

  They fastened chains about her feet,
    And carried her away;
  For many days in Salem jail
    Alone and ill she lay

  She heard the scythe along the field
    Ring through the fragrant air,
  She smelt the wild-rose on the wind
    That bloweth everywhere.

  Reviled and hated and bereft,
    The soul had plenteous rest,
  Though sorrow like a frantic flood
    Beat sore upon her breast.

  At last the prison door stood wide,
    They led the saint abroad;
  By many an old familiar place
    Her trembling footsteps trod.

  Till faint with weakness and distress,
    She climbed a hillside bleak,
  And faced the gallows built thereon,
    Still undisturbed and meek.

  They hanged this weary woman there,
    Like any felon stout;
  Her white hairs on the cruel rope
    Were scattered all about.

  The body swung upon the tree
    In every flitting wind,
  Reviled and mocked by passengers
    And folk of evil mind.

  A woman old and innocent,
    To die a death of shame,
  With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,
    And none to utter blame.

  Oh, God, that such a thing should be
    On earth which Thou hast made!
  A voice from heaven answered me,
    "Father forgive," He said.

               ROSE TERRY COOKE.

    At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course,
    condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former
    had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her
    defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August
    5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor
    was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy.
    Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution
    was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a
    reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.


[August 19, 1692]

  The wind blows east,--the wind blows west,--
    It blows upon the gallows tree:
  Oh, little babe beneath my breast,
    He died for thee!--he died for me!

  The judges came,--the children came
    (Some mother's heart o'er each had yearned),
  They set their black lies on my name:--
    "A God-accursèd witch who learned

  "Each night (they said) the Devil's art,
    Through Salem wood by devils drawn."--
  I, whose heart beat against his heart
    From dark till dawn!--from dark till dawn!

  He faced them in his fearless scorn
    (The sun was on him as he stood):
  "No purer is her babe unborn;
    I prove her sinless with my blood."

  They spared the babe beneath my breast,--
    They bound his hands,--they set me free,--
  Hush, hush, my babe! hush, hush and rest;
    He died for thee!--he died for me!

  They dragged him, bound, to Gallows Hill
    (I saw the flowers among the grass);
  The women came,--I hear them still,--
    They held their babes to see him pass.

  God curse them!--Nay,--Oh God forgive!
    He said it while their lips reviled;
  He kissed my lips,--he whispered: "Live!
    The father loves thee in the child."

  Then earth and sky grew black,--I fell--
    I lay as stone beside their stone.
  They did their work. They earned their Hell.
    I woke on Gallows Hill, alone.

  Oh Christ who suffered, Christ who blessed,
    Shield him upon the gallows tree!
  O babe, his babe, beneath my breast,
    He died for thee!--he died for me!

               EDNAH PROCTOR CLARKE.

    The case of Giles Corey is one of the most tragic in all this
    hideous drama. When arrested and brought before the court,
    he refused to plead--"stood mute," as the law termed it. The
    penalty for "standing mute," according to the English law of
    the time, was that the prisoner "be remanded to prison ... and
    there be laid on his back on the bare floor...; that there be
    placed upon his body as great a weight of iron as he can bear,
    and more," until death should ensue. This was the penalty Giles
    Corey suffered.


From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"

[September 7, 1692]

    SCENE II.--_Interior of the Meeting-house._ MATHER _and the
    Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a
    raised platform._ MARTHA _in chains_. COREY _near her_. MARY
    WALCOT _in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them_ GLOYD.
    _Confusion and murmurs during the scene._


  CALL Martha Corey.


  I am here.


  Come forward.

  _She ascends the platform._

  The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
  The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you
  Of having on the tenth of June last past,
  And divers other times before and after,
  Wickedly used and practised certain arts
  Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations,
  Against one Mary Walcot, single woman,
  Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts
  The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented,
  Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted,
  Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady
  The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute
  Made and provided in that case. What say you?


  Before I answer, give me leave to pray.


  We have not sent for you, nor are we here,
  To hear you pray, but to examine you
  In whatsoever is alleged against you
  Why do you hurt this person?


                                I do not.
  I am not guilty of the charge against me.


  Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now!
  Avoid, avoid, Witch!


                      I am innocent.
  I never had to do with any Witchcraft
  Since I was born. I am a gospel woman.


  You are a gospel Witch!

MARTHA (_clasping her hands_)

                        Ah me! ah me!
  Oh, give me leave to pray!

MARY (_stretching out her hands_)

                          She hurts me now.
  See, she has pinched my hands!


                      Who made these marks
  Upon her hands?


                  I do not know. I stand
  Apart from her. I did not touch her hands.


  Who hurt her then?


  I know not.


                              Do you think
  She is bewitched?


                    Indeed I do not think so.
  I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches.


  Then answer me: When certain persons came
  To see you yesterday, how did you know
  Beforehand why they came?


                            I had had speech;
  The children said I hurt them, and I thought
  These people came to question me about it.


  How did you know the children had been told
  To note the clothes you wore?


                        My husband told me
  What others said about it.


                            Goodman Corey,
  Say, did you tell her?


                        I must speak the truth;
  I did not tell her. It was some one else.


  Did you not say your husband told you so?
  How dare you tell a lie in this assembly?
  Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth.

  MARTHA _bites her lips, and is silent_.

  You bite your lips, but do not answer me!


  Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid!


  You said your husband told you.


                              Yes, he told me
  The children said I troubled them.


                                Then tell me,
  Why do you trouble them?


  I have denied it.


  She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle;
  And, when my brother thrust her with his sword,
  He tore her gown, and cut a piece away.
  Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth.

_Shows them._


  And there are persons here who know the truth
  Of what has now been said. What answer make you?


  I make no answer. Give me leave to pray.


  Whom would you pray to?


  To my God and Father.


  Who is your God and Father?


  The Almighty!


  Doth he you pray to say that he is God?
  It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God.


  There is a dark shape whispering in her ear.


  What does it say to you?


  I see no shape.


  Did you not hear it whisper?


  I heard nothing.


  What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer!

_Falls into a swoon._


  You see this woman cannot stand before you.
  If you would look for mercy, you must look
  In God's way, by confession of your guilt.
  Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person?


  I do not know. He who appeared of old
  In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified,
  May come in whatsoever shape he chooses.
  I cannot help it. I am sick at heart!


  O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand.


  No; stand aside, old man.

MARY (_starting up_)

                            Look there! Look there!
  I see a little bird, a yellow bird,
  Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me.
  Ah, it will tear mine eyes out!


  I see nothing.


  'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her.


  Now it has flown away. It sits up there
  Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished.


  Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes.
  Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint.

_She leans against the railing._


  Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight!


  Did you not carry once the Devil's Book
  To this young woman?




                              Have you signed it,
  Or touched it?


  No; I never saw it.


  Did you not scourge her with an iron rod?


  No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit
  Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds,
  I cannot help it. I am innocent.


  Did you not say the Magistrates were blind?
  That you would open their eyes?

MARTHA (_with a scornful laugh_)

                                  Yes, I said that;
  If you call me a sorceress, you are blind!
  If you accuse the innocent, you are blind!
  Can the innocent be guilty?


                              Did you not
  On one occasion hide your husband's saddle
  To hinder him from coming to the Sessions?


  I thought it was a folly in a farmer
  To waste his time pursuing such illusions.


  What was the bird that this young woman saw
  Just now upon your hand?


  I know no bird.


  Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit?


  No, never, never!


                    What then was the Book
  You showed to this young woman, and besought her
  To write in it?


                  Where should I have a book?
  I showed her none, nor have none.


                                    The next Sabbath
  Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey
  Will not be there!


                     Ah, you are all against me.
  What can I do or say?


  You can confess.


  No, I cannot, for I am innocent.


  We have the proof of many witnesses
  That you are guilty.


                    Give me leave to speak.
  Will you condemn me on such evidence,--
  You who have known me for so many years?
  Will you condemn me in this house of God,
  Where I so long have worshipped with you all?
  Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine
  So many times at our Lord's Table with you?
  Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know
  That I have led a blameless life among you,
  That never any whisper of suspicion
  Was breathed against me till this accusation.
  And shall this count for nothing? Will you take
  My life away from me, because this girl,
  Who is distraught, and not in her right mind,
  Accuses me of things I blush to name?


  What! is it not enough? Would you hear more?
  Giles Corey!


  I am here.


  Come forward, then.

  COREY _ascends the platform_.

  Is it not true, that on a certain night
  You were impeded strangely in your prayers?
  That something hindered you? and that you left
  This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone
  Upon the hearth?


  Yes; I cannot deny it.


  Did you not say the Devil hindered you?


  I think I said some words to that effect.


  Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle,
  To you belonging, broke from their enclosure
  And leaped into the river, and were drowned?


  It is most true.


                  And did you not then say
  That they were overlooked?


                              So much I said.
  I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer,
  A net I cannot break, cannot escape from!



  Who did these things?


  I do not know who did them.


  Then I will tell you. It is some one near you;
  You see her now; this woman, your own wife.


  I call the heavens to witness, it is false!
  She never harmed me, never hindered me
  In anything but what I should not do.
  And I bear witness in the sight of heaven,
  And in God's house here, that I never knew her
  As otherwise than patient, brave, and true,
  Faithful, forgiving, full of charity,
  A virtuous and industrious and good wife!


  Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech;
  You are a witness, not an advocate!
  Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison.


  O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life!


  Go, go and join the Witches at the door.
  Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them?
  Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late!

  [_Exit_ MARTHA; COREY _following_.


  The dream! the dream! the dream!


                            What does he say?
  Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself
  Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery
  By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty?


  I know my death is foreordained by you,--
  Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer.

  _During the rest of the scene he remains silent._


  Do you refuse to plead?--'Twere better for you
  To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.--
  Do you not hear me?--Answer, are you guilty?
  Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you,
  If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?
  Where is John Gloyd?

GLOYD (_coming forward_)

  Here am I.


                              Tell the Court;
  Have you not seen the supernatural power
  Of this old man? Have you not seen him do
  Strange feats of strength?


                  I've seen him lead the field,
  On a hot day, in mowing, and against
  Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.
  He threw me like a feather. I have seen him
  Lift up a barrel with his single hands,
  Which two strong men could hardly lift together,
  And, holding it above his head, drink from it.


  That is enough; we need not question further.
  What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?


  See there! See there!


  What is it? I see nothing.


  Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell,
  Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder
  By stamping on his body! In his shroud
  He comes here to bear witness to the crime!
  _The crowd shrinks back from_ COREY _in horror_.


  Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living
  Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die!
  It might have been an easier death. Your doom
  Will be on your own head, and not on ours.
  Twice more will you be questioned of these things;
  Twice more have room to plead or to confess.
  If you are contumacious to the Court,
  And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer,
  Then by the Statute you will be condemned
  To the _peine forte et dure_! To have your body
  Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead!
  And may the Lord have mercy on your soul!



[September 19, 1692]

  Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong,
    A stubborn wretch was he;
  And fitt was he to hang on high
    Upon the Locust-tree.

  So when before the magistrates
    For triall he did come,
  He would no true confession make,
    But was compleatlie dumbe.

  "Giles Corey," said the Magistrate,
    "What hast thou heare to pleade
  To these that now accuse thy soule
    Of crimes and horrid deed?"

  Giles Corey, he said not a worde,
    No single worde spoke he.
  "Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate,
    "We'll press it out of thee."

  They got them then a heavy beam,
    They laid it on his breast;
  They loaded it with heavy stones,
    And hard upon him prest.

  "More weight!" now said this wretched man;
    "More weight!" again he cried;
  And he did no confession make,
    But wickedly he dyed.

    One of the most assiduous of the prosecutors had been John
    Hale, minister of the First Church at Beverly. In October the
    accusers "cried out" against his wife, who was widely known for
    generous and disinterested virtues. Hale knew the "innocence
    and piety of his wife, and stood between her and the storm
    he had helped to raise. The whole community became convinced
    that the accusers in crying out upon Mrs. Hale had perjured
    themselves, and from that moment their power was destroyed."


[October, 1692]

  The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold;
  The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold;
  Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down;
  Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town.

  No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awoke
  The silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke,
  Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,--and why?
  Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply.

  His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him now
  A weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow.
  A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear,
  Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year.

  She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face,
  And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace:
  And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale,
  "For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail.

  "The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell;
  The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well,
  Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, beware
  Of touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere!

  "The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done,
  Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun,
  Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways,
  And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days?

  "Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not say
  She was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day.
  Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,--a swaggerer, it is true,--
  Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too.

  "And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side,
  What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wide
  Her scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain;
  How dared they take away the life they could not give again?

  "Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse,
  Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse?
  Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair,
  It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer.

  "They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good,
  The vagrant's child--but four years old!--who says that baby could
  To Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind,
  As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind.

  "Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton,
  Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun?
  Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled:
  Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child!

  "God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive,
  To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive.
  If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I plead
  Than those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed?

  "I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more!
  My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore!
  Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail,
  In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale.

  The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night:
  He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight,
  Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose,
  A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose.

  It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept;
  Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept;
  The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood;
  The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood.

  And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife,
  As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.--
  "Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream,
  And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam.

  The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go,
  Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no.
  We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long;
  I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong:

  "And this before my brethren will I testify to-day."
  Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay,
  As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small,
  Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall.

  "Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird,
  Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no word
  Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze
  Each fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze.

  But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor,
  One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more:
  For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth;
  Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth.

  The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast;
  His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast.
  "Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he;
  "Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!"

  Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose,
  Until across the ferry came a messenger with news
  That the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe;
  The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go.

  The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped down
  Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town:
  In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed
  The nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last.

  Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak;
  From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek;
  The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore;
  The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more.

  The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grieved
  That he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived;
  Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground,
  And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found.

  Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we know
  How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow
  Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore
  To lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before.

  As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds,
  So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds.
  Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live:
  Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!"

  Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character,
  Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her;
  Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell,
  And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell.

  The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet;
  The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet.
  Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side,
  Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide!

               LUCY LARCOM.



    While England was colonizing the Atlantic seaboard, France
    was firmly establishing herself to the north along the St.
    Lawrence. It was inevitable that war should follow; and as
    early as 1613 the English had destroyed the French settlements
    in Nova Scotia. The country had scarcely rallied from the blow,
    when it was torn asunder by the contest between Charles la
    Tour and the Chevalier D'Aulnay--a contest which, after twelve
    years, resulted in victory for the latter.


[April, 1647]

  "To the winds give our banner!
    Bear homeward again!"
  Cried the Lord of Acadia,
    Cried Charles of Estienne!
  From the prow of his shallop
    He gazed, as the sun
  From its bed in the ocean,
    Streamed up the St. John.

  O'er the blue western waters
    That shallop had passed,
  Where the mists of Penobscot
    Clung damp on her mast.
  St. Saviour had looked
    On the heretic sail,
  As the songs of the Huguenot
    Rose on the gale.

  The pale, ghostly fathers
    Remembered her well,
  And had cursed her while passing,
    With taper and bell;
  But the men of Monhegan,
    Of Papists abhorred,
  Had welcomed and feasted
    The heretic Lord.

  They had loaded his shallop
    With dun-fish and ball,
  With stores for his larder,
    And steel for his wall.
  Pemaquid, from her bastions
    And turrets of stone,
  Had welcomed his coming
    With banner and gun.

  And the prayers of the elders
    Had followed his way,
  As homeward he glided,
    Down Pentecost Bay.
  Oh, well sped La Tour!
    For, in peril and pain,
  His lady kept watch,
    For his coming again.

  O'er the Isle of the Pheasant
    The morning sun shone,
  On the plane-trees which shaded
    The shores of St. John.
  "Now, why from yon battlements
    Speaks not my love!
  Why waves there no banner
    My fortress above?"

  Dark and wild, from his deck
    St. Estienne gazed about,
  On fire-wasted dwellings,
    And silent redoubt;
  From the low, shattered walls
    Which the flame had o'errun,
  There floated no banner,
    There thundered no gun!

  But beneath the low arch
    Of its doorway there stood
  A pale priest of Rome,
    In his cloak and his hood.
  With the bound of a lion,
    La Tour sprang to land,
  On the throat of the Papist
    He fastened his hand.

  "Speak, son of the Woman
    Of scarlet and sin!
  What wolf has been prowling
    My castle within?"
  From the grasp of the soldier
    The Jesuit broke,
  Half in scorn, half in sorrow,
    He smiled as he spoke:

  "No wolf, Lord of Estienne,
    Has ravaged thy hall,
  But thy red-handed rival,
    With fire, steel, and ball!
  On an errand of mercy
    I hitherward came,
  While the walls of thy castle
    Yet spouted with flame.

  "Pentagoet's dark vessels
    Were moored in the bay,
  Grim sea-lions, roaring
    Aloud for their prey."
  "But what of my lady?"
    Cried Charles of Estienne.
  "On the shot-crumbled turret
    Thy lady was seen:

  "Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,
    Her hand grasped thy pennon,
  While her dark tresses swayed
    In the hot breath of cannon!
  But woe to the heretic,
    Evermore woe!
  When the son of the church
    And the cross is his foe!

  "In the track of the shell,
    In the path of the ball,
  Pentagoet swept over
    The breach of the wall!
  Steel to steel, gun to gun,
    One moment,--and then
  Alone stood the victor,
    Alone with his men!

  "Of its sturdy defenders,
    Thy lady alone
  Saw the cross-blazoned banner
    Float over St. John."
  "Let the dastard look to it!"
    Cried fiery Estienne,
  "Were D'Aulnay King Louis,
    I'd free her again!"

  "Alas for thy lady!
    No service from thee
  Is needed by her
    Whom the Lord hath set free;
  Nine days, in stern silence,
    Her thraldom she bore,
  But the tenth morning came,
    And Death opened her door!"

  As if suddenly smitten
    La Tour staggered back;
  His hand grasped his sword-hilt,
    His forehead grew black.
  He sprang on the deck
    Of his shallop again.
  "We cruise now for vengeance!
    Give away!" cried Estienne.

  "Massachusetts shall hear
    Of the Huguenot's wrong,
  And from island and creekside
    Her fishers shall throng!
  Pentagoet shall rue
    What his Papists have done,
  When his palisades echo
    The Puritan's gun!"

  Oh, the loveliest of heavens
    Hung tenderly o'er him,
  There were waves in the sunshine,
    And green isles before him;
  But a pale hand was beckoning
    The Huguenot on;
  And in blackness and ashes
    Behind was St. John!


    The rivalry between the colonists for the fur trade grew
    steadily more bitter, and in 1690 (King William's War) Canada
    undertook the conquest of New York and destroyed a number of
    frontier towns. The English made some reprisals; Sir William
    Phips capturing Acadia and Major Peter Schuyler leading a
    raid into the country south of Montreal, where he defeated a
    considerable body of French and Indians under Valrennes, in a
    spirited fight at La Prairie.



  That was a brave old epoch,
    Our age of chivalry,
  When the Briton met the Frenchman
    At the fight of La Prairie;
  And the manhood of New England,
    And the Netherlanders true
  And Mohawks sworn, gave battle
    To the Bourbon's lilied blue.

  That was a brave old governor
    Who gathered his array,
  And stood to meet, he knew not what,
    On that alarming day.
  Eight hundred, amid rumors vast
    That filled the wild wood's gloom,
  With all New England's flower of youth,
    Fierce for New France's doom.

  And the brave old half five hundred!
    Theirs should in truth be fame;
  Borne down the savage Richelieu,
    On what emprise they came!
  Your hearts are great enough, O few:
    Only your numbers fail,--
  New France asks more for conquerors,
    All glorious though your tale.

  It was a brave old battle
    That surged around the fort,
  When D'Hosta fell in charging,
    And 'twas deadly strife and short;
  When in the very quarters
    They contested face and hand,
  And many a goodly fellow
    Crimsoned yon La Prairie sand.

  And those were brave old orders
    The colonel gave to meet
  That forest force with trees entrenched
    Opposing the retreat:
  "De Callière's strength's behind us,
    And in front your Richelieu;
  We must go straightforth at them;
    There is nothing else to do."

  And then the brave old story comes,
    Of Schuyler and Valrennes,
  When "Fight" the British colonel called,
    Encouraging his men,
  "For the Protestant Religion
    And the honor of our King!"--
  "Sir, I am here to answer you!"
    Valrennes cried, forthstepping.

  Were not those brave old races?
    Well, here they still abide;
  And yours is one or other,
    And the second's at your side;
  So when you hear your brother say,
    "Some loyal deed I'll do,"
  Like old Valrennes, be ready with
    "I'm here to answer you!"


    Peace was declared in 1697, but hostilities began again
    five years later, and early in 1704 Vaudreuil, governor of
    Canada, dispatched a force of three hundred, under Hertel de
    Rouville, against Deerfield, on the northwestern frontier of
    Massachusetts. They reached their destination a little before
    daylight of February 29, and, finding the sentinels asleep and
    the snow drifted over the palisades, rushed the place, and
    carried it, with the exception of one block-house, which held
    out successfully.


[February 29, 1704]

  Of the onset, fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage
    Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell,
  When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning,
    With no token shown or spoken, came the foeman, hear me tell.

  High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides,
    At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow;
  And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted,
    That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe.

  We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre
    Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made;
  But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted,
    'Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed.

  Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper,
    Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames;
  But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing,
    And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames.

  Fell the shining hatchets quickly 'mid the thickly crowded women,
    Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain;
  Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly
    With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain.

  I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement,
    With amazement saw the foemen enter quickly where I lay;
  Heard my wife and children's screaming, as the hatchets woke their
    Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.

  'Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleading
    Of my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears;
  'Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging,
    Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears.

  At the spot to which they bore me, no one o'er me watched or warded;
    There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone;
  Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloody,
    Slew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known.

  And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streaming
    O'er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night,
  That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly,
    Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight.

  Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the
    Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro;
  For a knife lay there--I spied it, and a tomahawk beside it
    Glittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow.

  Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me then
    If the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no;
  Quickly drawn o'er axe-edge lightly, cords were cut that held me tightly,
    Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe.

  Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid,
    Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance;
  'Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic,
    Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance.

  Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me;
    Fury braced me, for I knew him--he my pleading wife had slain.
  Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny,
    And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain--
    Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain.

  As I brained him rose their calling, "Lo! appalling from yon meadow
    The Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!"
  As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic,
    Till their shattered forces scattered widely o'er the snowy plain.

  Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing,
    Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn;
  Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me;
    Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn.

  Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written--
    Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire;
  For the rest the captive's durance, but for me there was assurance
    Of the tortures known to martyrs--of the terrible death by fire.

  Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy
    Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band,
  Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes,
    Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand.

  Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling;
    Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came;
  Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly,
    I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name.

  Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a
    Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe'er they move their wings,
  Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer,
    Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings.

  Then I heard her voice's murmur breathing summer, while my spirit
    Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine;
  Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her;
    Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine.

  Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness;
    Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest;
  Mingled tears with hers and chid her, bade her by our love consider
    How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master's breast.

  I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being,
    In my seeing--I, unable to protect her or defend;
  At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances,
    While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend.

  For I heard the firelocks ringing fiercely flinging forth the whirring,
    Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode;
  There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only,
    When the furious leaden couriers from its loopholes fastly rode.

  And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying,
    Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their
  For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly
    Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives.

  Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven
    Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed;
  Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring,
    Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best.

  Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his
    On the whiteness of the snowdrifts and the ruins of the town--
  On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended
    Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and

  Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early
    With the pearly light and glistering of the March's snowy morn;
  Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,
    As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.

  Then we heard De Rouville's orders, "To the borders!" and the dismal,
    Dark abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;
  But we heard a shout in distance--into fluttering existence,
    Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke.

  'Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor'ward,
    Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came--
  Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, "Is't our captives you are seeking?
    Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame.

  "With the toil of blood we won them, we've undone them with our bravery;
    Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here.
  Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers' blood to squander
    'Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear.

  "Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning,
    To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay;
  Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us?
    If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day."

  How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless!
    Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young,
  When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance,
    Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung.

  For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty
    Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife,
  And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot,
    When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life.

  All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken,
    Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell,
  They retreated--well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us,
    Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell.

  As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest
    Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away;
  Sick at heart and heavily loaded, though with cruel blows they goaded,
    Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day.

  They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready,
    Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow;
  So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out
    Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe.

  By the wrist--and by no light hand--to the right hand of a painted,
    Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied;
  And the one to whom they bound me, 'mid the scoffs of those around me,
    Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side.

  As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses;
    Less intense is lover's musing than a captive's bent on ways
  To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling;
    So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze.

  There I lay--no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving,
    Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around;
  Then my right hand cautious stealing, o'er my bed-mate's person feeling,
    Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound.

  'Twas his knife--the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it,
    Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber's art;
  As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter
    Of a snow-bird--ah! 'twas _no_ bird! 'twas the flutter of my heart.

  Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly,
    Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day;
  Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me,
    And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Under French officers and priests, the war continued to be
    conducted with a cruelty as aimless as it was brutal. Isolated
    hamlets were burned, and their inhabitants tortured or taken
    prisoners, only, for the most part, to be butchered on the way
    to Canada. On August 29, 1708, a party of French and Indians,
    under De Chaillons and the infamous De Rouville, surprised
    the town of Haverhill. Rushing upon it, as their custom was,
    just before daylight, they fired several houses, plundered
    others, and killed some thirty or forty of the inhabitants. The
    townspeople rallied, and after an hour's fighting drove away
    the assailants, killing nearly thirty, among them De Rouville


[August 29, 1708]

  How sweetly on the wood-girt town
  The mellow light of sunset shone!
  Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
  Mirror the forest and the hill,
  Reflected from its waveless breast
  The beauty of a cloudless west,
  Glorious as if a glimpse were given
  Within the western gates of heaven,
  Left, by the spirit of the star
  Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!

  Beside the river's tranquil flood
  The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,
  Where many a rood of open land
  Stretched up and down on either hand,
  With corn-leaves waving freshly green
  The thick and blackened stumps between
  Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
  The wild, untravelled forest spread,
  Back to those mountains, white and cold,
  Of which the Indian trapper told,
  Upon whose summits never yet
  Was mortal foot in safety set.

  Quiet and calm without a fear
  Of danger darkly lurking near,
  The weary laborer left his plough,
  The milkmaid carolled by her cow;
  From cottage door and household hearth
  Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.
  At length the murmur died away,
  And silence on that village lay.
  --So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,
  Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,
  Undreaming of the fiery fate
  Which made its dwellings desolate!

  Hours passed away. By moonlight sped
  The Merrimac along his bed.
  Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood
  Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
  Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
  As the hushed grouping of a dream.
  Yet on the still air crept a sound,
  No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,
  No stir of wings, nor waters flowing,
  Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

  Was that the tread of many feet,
  Which downward from the hillside beat?
  What forms were those which darkly stood
  Just on the margin of the wood?
  Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
  Or paling rude, or leafless limb?
  No,--through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed,
  Dark human forms in moonshine showed,
  Wild from their native wilderness,
  With painted limbs and battle-dress!

  A yell the dead might wake to hear
  Swelled on the night air, far and clear;
  Then smote the Indian tomahawk
  On crashing door and shattering lock;
  Then rang the rifle-shot, and then
  The shrill death-scream of stricken men,--
  Sank the red axe in woman's brain,
  And childhood's cry arose in vain.
  Bursting through roof and window came,
  Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame,
  And blended fire and moonlight glared
  On still dead men and scalp-knives bared.

  The morning sun looked brightly through
  The river willows, wet with dew.
  No sound of combat filled the air,
  No shout was heard, nor gunshot there;
  Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
  From smouldering ruins slowly broke;
  And on the greensward many a stain,
  And, here and there, the mangled slain,
  Told how that midnight bolt had sped,
  Pentucket, on thy fated head!

  Even now the villager can tell
  Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,
  Still show the door of wasting oak,
  Through which the fatal death-stroke broke,
  And point the curious stranger where
  De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;
  Whose hideous head, in death still feared,
  Bore not a trace of hair or beard;
  And still, within the churchyard ground,
  Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
  Whose grass-grown surface overlies
  The victims of that sacrifice.


    Though the Peace of Utrecht (1714) closed the war, desultory
    raids continued. In April, 1725, John Lovewell, of Dunstable,
    with forty-six men, marched against the Indian town of
    Pigwacket, or Pequawket (now Fryeburg). On the morning of May
    8 they were suddenly attacked by a large force of Indians who
    had formed an ambuscade. Twelve men fell at the first fire,
    among them Lovewell himself. The survivors fought against heavy
    odds until sunset, when the Indians drew off without having
    been able to scalp the dead. It was this battle, in its day
    "as famous in New England as was Chevy Chase on the Scottish
    border," which inspired the earliest military ballad, still
    extant, composed in America. Its author is unknown, but it was
    for many years "the best beloved song in all New England."


[May 8, 1725]

  Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing,
  How valiantly he served his country and his King;
  He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,
  And hardships they endured to quell the Indian's pride.

  'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May,
  They spied a rebel Indian soon after break of day;
  He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land,
  Which leads into a pond as we're made to understand.

  Our men resolv'd to have him, and travell'd two miles round,
  Until they met the Indian, who boldly stood his ground;
  Then spake up Captain Lovewell, "Take you good heed," says he,
  "This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see.

  "The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand,
  In order to surround us upon this neck of land;
  Therefore we'll march in order, and each man leave his pack
  That we may briskly fight them, when they make their attack."

  They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy,
  As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly,
  Which wounded Captain Lovewell, and likewise one man more,
  But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore.

  Then having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot
  Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not,
  For the Indians having spy'd them, when they them down did lay,
  Did seize them for their plunder, and carry them away.

  These rebels lay in ambush, this very place hard by,
  So that an English soldier did one of them espy,
  And cried out, "Here's an Indian," with that they started out,
  As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout.

  With that our valiant English all gave a loud huzza,
  To show the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a straw:
  So now the fight began, and as fiercely as could be,
  The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forced to flee.

  Then spake up Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began:
  "Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain."
  For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick
  A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit.

  Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround,
  But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond,
  To which our men retreated, and covered all the rear,
  The rogues were forc'd to face them, altho' they skulked for fear.

  Two logs there were behind them that close together lay,
  Without being discovered, they could not get away;
  Therefore our valiant English they travell'd in a row,
  And at a handsome distance, as they were wont to go.

  'Twas ten o'clock in the morning when first the fight begun,
  And fiercely did continue until the setting sun;
  Excepting that the Indians some hours before 'twas night
  Drew off into the bushes and ceas'd awhile to fight,

  But soon again returned, in fierce and furious mood,
  Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud;
  For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,
  Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well.

  And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay,
  To see whether the rebels would have another fray;
  But they no more returning, they made off towards their home,
  And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.

  Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four,
  And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore.
  And sixteen of our English did safely home return,
  The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn.

  Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die,
  They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,
  Who was our English Chaplain; he many Indians slew,
  And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.

  Young Fullam, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well,
  Endeavoring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell:
  But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,
  But still they kept their motion, and Wymans Captain made,

  Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat,
  Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;
  And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
  They safe arriv'd at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.

    The story of Lovewell's fight is told in another ballad printed
    in Farmer and Moore's Historical Collections in 1824. It is an
    excellent example of ballad literature, describing the struggle
    in great detail and with unusual accuracy.


[May 8, 1725]

  What time the noble Lovewell came,
    With fifty men from Dunstable,
  The cruel Pequa'tt tribe to tame,
    With arms and bloodshed terrible,

  Then did the crimson streams, that flowed,
    Seem like the waters of the brook,
  That brightly shine, that loudly dash
    Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.

  With Lovewell brave, John Harwood came;
    From wife and babes 'twas hard to part,
  Young Harwood took her by the hand,
    And bound the weeper to his heart.

  Repress that tear, my Mary, dear,
    Said Harwood to his loving wife,
  It tries me hard to leave thee here,
    And seek in distant woods the strife.

  When gone, my Mary, think of me,
    And pray to God, that I may be,
  Such as one ought that lives for thee,
    And come at last in victory.

  Thus left young Harwood babe and wife,
    With accent wild she bade adieu;
  It grieved those lovers much to part,
    So fond and fair, so kind and true.

  Seth Wyman, who in Woburn lived
    (A marksman he of courage true),
  Shot the first Indian whom they saw,
    Sheer through his heart the bullet flew.

  The savage had been seeking game,
    Two guns and eke a knife he bore,
  And two black ducks were in his hand,
    He shrieked, and fell, to rise no more.

  Anon, there eighty Indians rose,
    Who'd hid themselves in ambush dread;
  Their knives they shook, their guns they aimed,
    The famous Paugus at their head.

  Good heavens! they dance the Powow dance,
    What horrid yells the forest fill?
  The grim bear crouches in his den,
    The eagle seeks the distant hill.

  What means this dance, this Powow dance?
    Stern Wyman said; with wonderous art,
  He crept full near, his rifle aimed,
    And shot the leader through the heart.

  John Lovewell, captain of the band,
    His sword he waved, that glittered bright,
  For the last time he cheered his men,
    And led them onward to the fight.

  Fight on, fight on, brave Lovewell said,
    Fight on, while heaven shall give you breath
  An Indian ball then pierced him through,
    And Lovewell closed his eyes in death.

  John Harwood died all bathed in blood,
    When he had fought, till set of day;
  And many more we may not name,
    Fell in that bloody battle fray.

  When news did come to Harwood's wife,
    That he with Lovewell fought and died,
  Far in the wilds had given his life,
    Nor more would in their home abide,

  Such grief did seize upon her mind,
    Such sorrow filled her faithful breast;
  On earth, she ne'er found peace again,
    But followed Harwood to his rest.

  'Twas Paugus led the Pequa'tt tribe;--
    As runs the Fox, would Paugus run;
  As howls the wild wolf, would he howl,
    A large bear skin had Paugus on.

  But Chamberlain, of Dunstable
    (One whom a savage ne'er shall slay),
  Met Paugus by the water side,
    And shot him dead upon that day.

  Good heavens! Is this a time for pray'r?
    Is this a time to worship God?
  When Lovewell's men are dying fast,
    And Paugus' tribe hath felt the rod?

  The Chaplain's name was Jonathan Frye;
    In Andover his father dwelt,
  And oft with Lovewell's men he'd prayed,
    Before the mortal wound he felt.

  A man was he of comely form,
    Polished and brave, well learnt and kind;
  Old Harvard's learned halls he left,
    Far in the wilds a grave to find.

  Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts,
    His closing lids he tries to raise;
  And speak once more before he dies,
    In supplication and in praise.

  He prays kind heaven to grant success,
    Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless,
  And when they've shed their heart blood true,
    To raise them all to happiness.

  Come hither, Farwell, said young Frye,
    You see that I'm about to die;
  Now for the love I bear to you,
    When cold in death my bones shall lie;

  Go thou and see my parents dear,
    And tell them you stood by me here;
  Console them when they cry, Alas!
    And wipe away the falling tear.

  Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,
    His arm around his neck he threw,
  And said, brave Chaplain, I could wish,
    That heaven had made me die for you.

  The Chaplain on kind Farwell's breast,
    Bloody and languishing he fell;
  Nor after this said more, but this,
    "I love thee, soldier, fare thee well."

  Ah! many a wife shall rend her hair,
    And many a child cry, "Wo is me!"
  When messengers the news shall bear,
    Of Lovewell's dear bought victory.

  With footsteps slow shall travellers go,
    Where Lovewell's pond shines clear and bright,
  And mark the place, where those are laid,
    Who fell in Lovewell's bloody fight.

  Old men shall shake their heads, and say,
    Sad was the hour and terrible,
  When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus went,
    With fifty men from Dunstable.

    The fight near Lovewell's Pond was the ground of still another
    case of literary priority. Nearly a hundred years after its
    occurrence, on November 17, 1820, the Portland _Gazette_
    printed the first poetical venture of a lad of thirteen years.
    It bore the title of "The Battle of Lovell's Pond." Its author
    was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


[May 8, 1725]

  Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
  That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
  As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
  Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

  The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
  Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
  The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,
  And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

  The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
  Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
  No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
  Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

  They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
  And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
  They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
  And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.


    The English gained a notable victory in the summer of 1745 when
    they captured the formidable fortress of Louisburg, which had
    been built by the French on the eastern coast of Cape Breton
    Island. News of the victory created the greatest joy throughout
    the colonies.


[June 17, 1745]

  Neptune and Mars in Council sate
    To humble France's pride,
  Whose vain unbridled insolence
    All other Powers defied.

  The gods having sat in deep debate
    Upon the puzzling theme,
  Broke up perplexed and both agreed
    Shirley should form the scheme.

  Shirley, with Britain's glory fired,
    Heaven's favoring smile implored:
  "Let Louisburg return,"--he said,
    "Unto its ancient Lord."

  At once the Camp and Fleet were filled
    With Britain's loyal sons,
  Whose hearts are filled with generous strife
    T' avenge their Country's wrongs.

  With Liberty their breasts are filled,
    Fair Liberty's their shield;
  'Tis Liberty their banner waves
    And hovers o'er their field.

  Louis!--behold the unequal strife,
    Thy slaves in walls immured!
  While George's sons laugh at those walls--
    Of victory assured.

  One key to your oppressive pride
    Your Western Dunkirk's gone;
  So Pepperell and Warren bade
    And what they bade was done!

  Forbear, proud Prince, your gasconades,
    Te Deums cease to sing,--
  When Britains fight the _Grand Monarque_
    Must yield to Britain's King.

               BOSTON, December, 1745.

    Louis XV felt the loss of Louisburg keenly, and in 1746, to
    avenge its fall, sent a strong fleet, under Admiral D'Anville,
    against Boston. The town was terror-stricken; but after many
    mishaps the fleet was finally dispersed by a great storm off
    Cape Sable, on October 15, 1746, and such of the ships as lived
    through it were forced to make their way back to France.


[October 15, 1746]

MR. THOMAS PRINCE, _loquitur_

  A fleet with flags arrayed
    Sailed from the port of Brest,
  And the Admiral's ship displayed
    The signal: "Steer southwest."
  For this Admiral D'Anville
    Had sworn by cross and crown
  To ravage with fire and steel
    Our helpless Boston Town.

  There were rumors in the street,
    In the houses there was fear
  Of the coming of the fleet,
    And the danger hovering near.
  And while from mouth to mouth
    Spread the tidings of dismay,
  I stood in the Old South,
    Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

  "O Lord! we would not advise;
    But if in thy Providence
  A tempest should arise
    To drive the French Fleet hence,
  And scatter it far and wide,
    Or sink it in the sea,
  We should be satisfied,
    And thine the glory be."

  This was the prayer I made,
    For my soul was all on flame,
  And even as I prayed
    The answering tempest came;
  It came with a mighty power,
    Shaking the windows and walls,
  And tolling the bell in the tower,
    As it tolls at funerals.

  The lightning suddenly
    Unsheathed its flaming sword,
  And I cried: "Stand still, and see
    The salvation of the Lord!"
  The heavens were black with cloud,
    The sea was white with hail,
  And ever more fierce and loud
    Blew the October gale.

  The fleet it overtook,
    And the broad sails in the van
  Like the tents of Cushan shook,
    Or the curtains of Midian.
  Down on the reeling decks
    Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;
  Ah, never were there wrecks
    So pitiful as these!

  Like a potter's vessel broke
    The great ships of the line;
  They were carried away as a smoke,
    Or sank like lead in the brine.
  O Lord! before thy path
    They vanished and ceased to be,
  When thou didst walk in wrath
    With thine horses through the sea!


    Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really
    only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at
    peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North
    American continent. The French claimed all the country west of
    the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string
    of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At
    last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused."



  Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,
  To rouse the august lion from his den,
  Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.

  Rouse, _British Lion_, from thy soft repose,
  And take revenge upon the worst of foes,
  Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.

  They always did thy quiet breast annoy,
  Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,
  Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.

  Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',
  They never did nor would keep faith with you
  By popes and priests indulged so to do.

  All neighboring powers and neutral standers by
  Look on our cause with an impartial eye,
  And see their falseness and their perfidy.

  Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease.
  But by indulgence mightily increase,
  Killing and scalping us in times of peace.

  They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,
  In children's blood for to imbue their hands,
  Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.

  Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blows
  Upon the heads of your perfidious foes,
  Who always truth and justice did oppose.

  Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,
  And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,
  And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.

  Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,
  And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,
  A faithful drubbing to their future good.

  Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;
  And when the news unto Versailles it comes,
  Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.

  Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,
  And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,
  And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.

  While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,
  Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;
  To see such hail-stones down among them fall.

  Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,
  And others in a vast amazement fled,
  While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.

  My roving muse the surface reach again,
  Search every part of the Atlantic plain,
  And see if any Gallics yet remain;

  And if they do, let British cannon roar;
  And let thy thunders reach the western shore.
  While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.

               STEPHEN TILDEN.

    Active hostilities began early in 1755. On February 20 General
    Edward Braddock landed at Hampton, Va., and proceeded at once
    to organize an expedition to march against Fort Duquesne.
    George Washington, who had already had some bitter experience
    with the French, was made one of his aides-de-camp. On May 29
    the army, with an immense wagon train, began its long journey
    across the mountains.


[May 29, 1755]

  To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!
    Hark, how the drums do roll it along!
  To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;
    We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.
      Let not your courage fail you;
        Be valiant, stout and bold;
      And it will soon avail you,
        My loyal hearts of gold.
  Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
  'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

  March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost;
    The battle is begun as you may fairly see.
  Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over;
    We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy.
      A squadron now appears, my boys;
        If that they do but stand!
      Boys, never fear, be sure you mind
        The word of command!
  Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
  'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

  See how, see how, they break and fly before us!
    See how they are scattered all over the plain!
  Now, now--now, now our country will adore us!
    In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!
      Then laurels shall our glory crown
        For all our actions told:
      The hills shall echo all around,
        My loyal hearts of gold.
  Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!
  'Tis nobly done,--the day's our own,--huzzah, huzzah!

    Braddock, with a picked force of about twelve hundred men,
    reached the Monongahela July 8 in excellent order, and,
    on the following morning, with colors flying and drums
    beating, marched against the fort. The French garrison, under
    Contrecoeur, was in a panic, and ready for flight, but a young
    captain of regulars named Beaujeu with difficulty obtained
    permission to take out a small party, mostly Indians, to harass
    the advancing column. They encountered the English about seven
    miles from the fort, marching in close order along a narrow
    road which the pioneers had made. The Indians opened fire,
    spreading along either flank, and protected by the underbrush.
    The English, crowded together in the open road, could not see
    their enemies, and were thrown into confusion. Braddock, wild
    with rage, refused to permit them to fight in Indian fashion,
    but beat them back into line with his sword. At last a bullet
    struck him down, and his troops fled in panic from the field.


[July 9, 1755]

  Come all ye sons of Brittany,
  Assist my muse in tragedy,
  And mourn brave Braddock's destiny,
    And spend a mournful day,
  Upon Monongahela fields,
  The mighty're fallen o'er their shields;
  And British blood bedews the hills
    Of western Gilboa.

  July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day,
  They had a bold and bloody fray,
  Our host was smote with a dismay;
    Some basely did retire,
  And left brave Braddock in the field,
  Who had much rather die than yield,
  A while his sword he bravely wield
    In clouds of smoke and fire.

  Some time he bravely stood his ground,
  A thousand foes did him surround,
  Till he received a mortal wound,
    Which forc'd him to retreat.
  He dy'd upon the thirteenth day,
  As he was home-ward on his way;
  Alas! alas! we all must say,
    A sore and sad defeat.

  Now to his grave this hero's borne,
  While savage foes triumph and scorn,
  And drooping banners dress his urn,
    And guard him to his tomb.
  Heralds and monarchs of the dead,
  You that so many worms have fed,
  He's coming to your chilly bed,
    Edge close and give him room.


  Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,
  Who always hated cowardice,
  But fell a savage sacrifice
    Amidst his Indian foes.
  I charge you, heroes, of the ground,
  To guard his dark pavilion round,
  And keep off all obtruding sound,
    And cherish his repose.

  Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,
  Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand
  And to resign thy great command,
    And cancel thy commission.
  Altho' thou didst not much incline
  Thy post and honors to resign;
  Now iron slumber doth confine;
    None envy's thy condition.


  Return my muse unto the field,
  See what a prospect it doth yield;
  Ingrateful to the eyes and smell
    A carnage bath'd in gore,
  Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills,
  While sanguine rivers fill the dales,
  And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields,
    The like ne'er here before.

  And must these sons of Brittany
  Be clouded, set in western skies,
  And fall a savage sacrifice?
    Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour!
  My blood boils high in every vein,
  To climb the mountains of the slain,
  And break the iron jaws in twain,
    Of savage Gallic power.

  Our children with their mothers die,
  While they aloud for mercy cry;
  They kill, and scalp them instantly,
    Then fly into the woods,
  And make a mock of all their cries,
  And bring their scalps a sacrifice
  To their infernal deities,
    And praise their demon gods.

  Revenge, revenge the harmless blood
  Which their inhuman dogs have shed
  In every frontier neighborhood,
    For near these hundred years.
  Their murdering clan in ambush lies,
  To kill and scalp them by surprize,
  And free from tender parents' eyes
    Ten hundred thousand tears.

  Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks
  Have so enraged old sixty-six,
  With legs and arms like withered sticks,
    And youthful vigor gone;
  That if he lives another year,
  Complete in armor he'll appear,
  And laugh at death and scoff at fear,
    To right his country's wrong.

  Let young and old, both high and low,
  Arm well against this savage foe,
  Who all around inviron us so,
    The sons of black delusion.
  New England's sons you know their way,
  And how to cross them in their play,
  And drive these murdering dogs away,
    Unto their last confusion.

  One bold effort, oh, let us make,
  And at one blow behead the snake,
  And then these savage powers will break,
    Which long have us oppress'd.
  And this, brave soldiers, will we do
  If Heaven and George shall say so too;
  And if we drive the matter thro',
    The land will be at rest.

  Come every soldier charge your gun,
  And let your task be killing one;
  Take aim until the work is done;
    Don't throw away your fire,
  For he that fires without an aim,
  May kill his friend and be to blame,
  And in the end come off with shame,
    When forced to retire.

  O mother land, we think we're sure,
  Sufficient is thy marine powers
  To dissipate all eastern showers:
    And if our arms be blest,
  Thy sons in _North America_
  Will drive these hell-born dogs away
  As far beyond the realms of day,
    As east is from the west.

  Forbear my muse thy barbarous song,
  Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,
  It is too high and much too strong,
    The learned won't allow.
  Much honor should accrue to him
  Who ne'er was at their Academ
  Come blot out every telesem;
    Get home unto thy plow.

               STEPHEN TILDEN.

  Composed August 20, 1755.


[July 9, 1755]

  Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks,
  "Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks?
  Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen,
  Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?"
  --"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,
  Carving a cross on the wilderness rim;
  In his own doom building large for the Lord,
  Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.

  Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay?
  Never a broadsword to bar him the way?
  Never a bush where a Huron may hide,
  Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?"
  --Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford,
  Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde:
  Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout;
  Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out!

  Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge,
  Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George;
  Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed,
  For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced.
  --'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass,
  Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass,
  Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain;
  Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain!

  Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay!
  Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray.
  Never a rifle that spared when they spoke,
  Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke.
  Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced,
  And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced.
  --But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford,
  And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword!

  Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now?
  Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow.
  And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong,
  In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song."
  --"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim,
  Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim?
  In his own doom building large for the Lord,
  Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword.


    After Braddock's defeat, the Pennsylvania and Virginia
    frontiers were left, for a time, to the ravages of the Indians.
    The colonies were slow to defend themselves, and could get no
    aid whatever from England, who had her hands full elsewhere.


[September 30, 1756]

  Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul
  With wasteful rage resistless fall
    On Britain's slumbering race?
  Still shall she wave her bloody hand
  And threatening banners o'er this land,
    To Britain's fell disgrace?

  And not one generous chieftain rise
  (Who dares the frown of war despise,
    And treacherous fear disclaim)
  His country's ruin to oppose,
  To hurl destruction on her foes,
    And blast their rising fame?

  In Britain's cause, with valor fired,
  Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,
    And claim'd a nation's tear;
  Nor could Oswego's bulwarks stand
  The fury of a savage band,
    Though Schuyler's arm was there.

  Still shall this motley, murderous crew
  Their deep, destructive arts pursue,
    And general horror spread?
  No--see Britannia's genius rise!
  Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she flies
    And lifts her laurell'd head!

  Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky,
  Great Loudon's awful banners fly,
    In British pomp display'd!
  Soon shall the gallant chief advance;
  Before him shrink the sons of France,
    Confounded and dismay'd.

  Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!
  Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,
    And save your country's shame!
  Let every hand for Britain arm'd,
  And every breast with virtue warm'd,
    Aspire at deathless fame!

  But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,
  And on her foes let terrors shake,
    Their gloomy troops defy;
  For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,
  Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,
    For vengeance louder cry.

  Why should we seek inglorious rest,
  Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,
    While war insults so near?
  While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,
  Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!
    In furious bands appear!

  Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chase
  From their deep haunts, the savage race,
    Till they confess you men.
  Let other Armstrongs grace the field!
  Let other slaves before them yield,
    And tremble round Duquesne.

  And thou, our chief, and martial guide,
  Of worth approved, of valor tried
    In many a hard campaign,
  O Denny, warmed with British fire,
  Our inexperienced troops inspire,
    And conquest's laurels gain!

               _Pennsylvania Gazette_, September 30, 1756.

    Meanwhile things were in a troubled condition in Acadia, where
    the so-called "French neutrals" were discovered to be in arms
    against England. "Every resource of patience and persuasion"
    had been used to secure their loyalty to Great Britain, but
    in vain. At last it was decided to disperse them among the
    southern provinces, and the deportation began in October. At
    the end of two months, about six thousand of the Acadians had
    been sent away, and their homes destroyed.


From "Evangeline"

[October 8, 1755]

  Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day
  Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.
  Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,
  Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,
  Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,
  Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,
  Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.
  Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,
  While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.

    Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach
  Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.
  All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;
  All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.
  Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,
  Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.
  Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
  Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
  Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
  Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,
  Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
  So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended
  Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
  Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,
  Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
  "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!
  Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!"
  Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the
  Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them
  Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.

    There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.
  Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
  Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their
  Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
  So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
  While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
  Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight
  Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
  Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
  Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
  Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,
  Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,
  All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,
  Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
  Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
  Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
  Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
  Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
  Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
  Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--
  Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid.
  Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,
  Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.

         *       *       *       *       *

    Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red
  Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
  Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow,
  Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together.
  Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,
  Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.
  Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
  Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a
  Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,
  Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
  Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.

    These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.
  Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,
  "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!"
  Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,
  Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle
  Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.
  Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments
  Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,
  When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,
  Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
  Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses
  Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,
  Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.
  'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
  With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.
  Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;
  And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,
  Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins.


    In July, 1758, an army of fifteen thousand, under General
    James Abercromby and Brigadier Lord Howe, attempted to take
    Ticonderoga, where Montcalm was stationed at the head of about
    three thousand men. Lord Howe, the very life of the army,
    was killed in the first skirmish, and Abercromby handled the
    army so badly that it was repulsed with a loss of nearly two
    thousand, and fled in a panic. The French loss was less than
    four hundred, and the victory was hailed as one of the greatest
    ever achieved by French arms in America.


[July 8, 1758]

  Neglected long had been my useless lyre,
  And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire;
  But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war,
  Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare,
  And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear.
  Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain;
  Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain:
  Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found,
  When the grim savage gave the deadly wound:
  Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head
  (Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead)
  On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain,
  Now spring in vegetative life again,
  Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevail
  Murmur to whistling winds the mournful tale;
  Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past.
  Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last;
  Th' empurpled fields of Carilong survey
  Rich with the spoils of one disastrous day!
  Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stood
  And thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed,
  Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood,
  Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire,
  See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire;
  Silent Britannia's tardy thunder lay
  While clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day.
  Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's brow
  O'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe;
  Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoan
  Their much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own;
  Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat--
  And with slow motion sullenly retreat.
    But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame,
  Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim,
  Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly share
  And taught th' enervate warrior want to bear?
  Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confest
  The patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast:
  Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land,
  Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band,
  Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'd
  Like Braddock, falling in the pathless wood;
  Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid,
  May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade;
  Still may thy name be utter'd with a sigh,
  And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye;
  Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fate
  Thy zeal and active virtues emulate,
  Soon should proud Carilong be humbled low
  Nor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow.

               _London Magazine_, 1759.

    But at last the tide turned. In 1757 William Pitt forced his
    way to the leadership of the government in England, and at once
    formed a comprehensive plan for a combined attack on the French
    forts in America. The first point of attack was Louisburg,
    which had been ceded back to France in 1748, and in the spring
    of 1758 a strong expedition under Lord Amherst was dispatched
    against it. The siege commenced June 8--the very day of the
    disaster at Ticonderoga--and after a tremendous bombardment
    which destroyed the town and badly breached the fortress, the
    garrison, numbering nearly six thousand, surrendered July 26,


[July 26, 1758]

  At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,
  And British valor hath the conquest won:
  Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns,
  And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!
  Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,
  Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought--
  That awful scene where the dread god of war
  O'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car:
  There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I view
  The pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:
  With dauntless front advance, and boldly brave
  The cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave.

    On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,
  Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;
  _Britannia_ lonely sitting, from afar
  Waits the event, and overlooks the war;
  Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes about
  In all the dread anxiety of doubt;
  Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,
  Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight.
  Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,
  And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.
  See! from the realms of everlasting light,
  A radiant form wings her aerial flight.
  The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,
  Plainly denote 'tis _Victory_ appears;
  Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,
  The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind:
  Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,
  And laurell'd honors gild her azure way--
  Now she alights--the trumpets cease to sound,
  Her presence spreads expecting silence round:--
  And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly face
  Effulgent glories brighten all the place--

    "Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,
  And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;
  Thy godlike sons, by _this_, their names shall raise,
  And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.
  I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaim
  Of _Wolfe's_ brave deeds, the never-dying fame,
  And swell with glory Amherst's patriot name.
  Such are the heroes that shall ever bring
  Wealth to their country, honor to their king:
  Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quell
  The native fires that in such bosoms dwell.
  To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,
  Smile, smile, _Britannia_! victory is thine.
  Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!
  Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!
  See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!
  Rejoice, _Britannia_! victory is thine."

    Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,
  Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:
  Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,
  And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:
  Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame,
  In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:
  Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,
  While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.
  But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,
  With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:
  Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.
  Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;
  To bless our _God_ with me let all unite,
  _He_ guides the conq'ring sword, _he_ governs in the fight.

               FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

    The fall of Louisburg was followed a few months later by the
    capture of Fort Duquesne (November 25, 1758), by General John
    Forbes. Forbes, at the head of an excellent army, had proceeded
    slowly and carefully. As the English approached, the French
    realized that to remain was simply to be captured, so they
    deserted the hopeless post, and Forbes marched in unmolested.
    He named his conquest Fort Pitt, after the great minister.



[November 25, 1758-1858]


  Come, fill the beaker, while we chaunt a pean of old days:
  By Mars! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise,
  Than they who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain,
  And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Duquesne.

  For glorious were the days they came, the soldiers strong and true,
  And glorious were the days, they came for Pennsylvania, too;
  When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown,
  And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflame went down.

  Virginia sent her chivalry and Maryland her brave,
  And Pennsylvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave:
  Oh, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then,
  For every sturdy youth was worth a score of common men!

  They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware--
  The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there;
  And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun,
  Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington.

  O'er leagues of wild and waste they passed, they forded stream and fen,
  Where danger lurked in every glade, and death in every glen;
  They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-off hail,
  From purple distance echoed back through the hollows of the vale.

  And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way,
  Where, ghastly, 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay;
  The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red,
  As routed in the rash assault, they perished as they fled.

  --Ah! many a lass ayont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fray,
  And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that day,
  When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain,
  'Twixt laurelled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Duquesne.

  And there before them was the field of massacre and blood,
  Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood
  Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with many a noble one
  Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun.

  Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame,
  For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame;
  "And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain
  Before to-morrow's sunset, at the trenches of Duquesne."


  'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam
  Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream;
  And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees,
  And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze.

  The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep,
  The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep;
  Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air,
  But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair.

  Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on;
  The forage and provision, too,--so Ormsby said,--were gone.
  Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say;
  In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay.

  Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame
  There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame!
  "I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain!
  I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!"

  So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind,
  And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind,
  And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright
  At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire

  Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky,
  As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!
  Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven
  By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!

  O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array,
  And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay,
  As came the scouts swift-footed in--"They fly! the foe! they fly!
  They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!"


  Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came,
  And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with
  And through the brown woods on the hills--those altars of the world--
  The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled.

  Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din
  Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin,
  And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men,
  Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen.

  Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas
  Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies,
  Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne,
  And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain.

  Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest,
  They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West,"
  There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold,
  And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled.

  Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales,
  Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails;
  Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecoeur's armed batteaux,
  And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes.

  Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran,
  And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van,
  The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet,
  And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt.

  Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring,
  And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout--"Long live the King!
  Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reign
  That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!"

               FLORUS B. PLIMPTON.

    Pitt determined to strike a blow at the very centre of French
    power, and on June 26, 1759, an English fleet of twenty-two
    ships of the line, with frigates, sloops-of-war, and transports
    carrying nine thousand regulars, appeared before Quebec. In
    command of this great expedition was Major-General James Wolfe,
    who had played so dashing a part in the capture of Louisburg
    the year before, and was soon to win immortal glory.


[June, 1759]

  Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck,
  Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec;
  Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail,
  Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail;
  And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough:
  Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff.

  Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance,
  To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance.
  Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try
  At their capital to give them another black eye.
  Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,--
  Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff.

  With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose,
  Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose;
  And the Indians will come: but the light infantry
  Will soon oblige _them_ to betake to a tree.
  From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff?
  Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff!

  When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore,
  While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar,
  Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's--I know the lappels."
  "You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'!
  Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff;
  So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff."

               EDWARD BOTWOOD.

    About the end of August a place was found where the heights
    might be scaled, and an assault was ordered for the night of
    Wednesday, September 12. The night arrived; every preparation
    had been made and every order given; it only remained to wait
    the turning of the tide. Wolfe was on board the flagship
    Sutherland, and to while away the hours of waiting he is said
    to have written the little song, "How Stands the Glass Around?"


[September 12, 1759]

    How stands the glass around?
  For shame ye take no care, my boys,
    How stands the glass around?
    Let mirth and wine abound,
    The trumpets sound,
  The colors they are flying, boys,
    To fight, kill, or wound,
    May we still be found
  Content with our hard fate, my boys,
    On the cold ground.

    Why, soldiers, why,
  Should we be melancholy, boys?
    Why, soldiers, why?
    Whose business 'tis to die!
    What, sighing? fie!
  Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
    'Tis he, you or I!
    Cold, hot, wet or dry,
  We're always bound to follow, boys,
    And scorn to fly!

    'Tis but in vain,--
  I mean not to upbraid you, boys,--
    'Tis but in vain,
    For soldiers to complain:
    Should next campaign
  Send us to him who made us, boys,
    We're free from pain!
    But if we remain,
  A bottle and a kind landlady
    Cure all again.

               JAMES WOLFE.

    Montcalm, riding out from Quebec early in the morning of
    Thursday, September 13, 1759, found the English drawn up in
    line of battle on the Plains of Abraham--they had scaled the
    cliffs in safety. He attacked about ten o'clock, but his troops
    were repulsed at the second volley and fled in confusion back
    to the fort. Wolfe was killed in the charge which followed, and
    Montcalm was fatally wounded and died that night. The French
    were demoralized; a council was called and the incredible
    resolution reached to abandon the fort without further
    resistance. The retreat commenced at once, and Quebec was left
    to its fate. It was never again to pass into the hands of


[September 13, 1759]

    Cheer up, my young men all,
      Let nothing fright you;
    Though oft objections rise,
      Let it delight you.

    Let not your fancy move
      Whene'er it comes to trial;
    Nor let your courage fail
      At the first denial.

    I sat down by my love,
      Thinking that I woo'd her;
    I sat down by my love,
      But sure not to delude her.

    But when I got to speak,
      My tongue it doth so quiver,
    I dare not speak my mind,
      Whenever I am with her.

    Love, here's a ring of gold,
      'Tis long that I have kept it,
    My dear, now for my sake,
      I pray you to accept it.

    When you the posy read,
      Pray think upon the giver,
    My dear, remember me,
      Or I'm undone forever.

    Then Wolfe he took his leave,
      Of his most lovely jewel;
    Although it seemed to be
      To him, an act most cruel.

    Although it's for a space
      I'm forced to leave my love,
    My dear, where'er I rove,
      I'll ne'er forget my dove.

    So then this valiant youth
      Embarked on the ocean,
    To free America
      From faction's dire commotion.

    He landed at Quebec,
      Being all brave and hearty;
    The city to attack,
      With his most gallant party.

    Then Wolfe drew up his men,
      In rank and file so pretty,
    On Abraham's lofty heights,
      Before this noble city.

    A distance from the town
      The noble French did meet them,
    In double numbers there,
      Resolved for to beat them.

  _A Parley_: WOLFE _and_ MONTCALM _together_

    Montcalm and this brave youth,
      Together they are walking;
    So well they do agree,
      Like brothers they are talking.

    Then each one to his post,
      As they do now retire;
    Oh, then their numerous hosts
      Began their dreadful fire.

    Then instant from his horse,
      Fell this most noble hero,
    May we lament his loss
      In words of deepest sorrow.

    The French are seen to break,
      Their columns all are flying;
    Then Wolfe he seems to wake,
      Though in the act of dying.

    And lifting up his head
      (The drums and trumpets rattle),
    And to his army said,
      "I pray how goes the battle?"

    His aide-de-camp replied,
      "Brave general, 'tis in our favor,
    Quebec and all her pride,
      'Tis nothing now can save her.

    "She falls into our hands,
      With all her wealth and treasure."
    "O then," brave Wolfe replied,
      "I quit the world with pleasure."

    Wolfe's death almost overshadowed the victory. Major Knox, in
    his diary, writes, "our joy at this success is inexpressibly
    damped by the loss we sustained of one of the greatest heroes
    which this or any other age can boast of."


[September 13, 1759]

  Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,
  The breathing marble or the muses' lays.
  Art is but vain--the force of language weak,
  To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.
  Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,
  Each line to raise, and animate at will--
  To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,
  Point out its object, or its rage control--
  Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find
  Of those great virtues that adorned thy mind.
  Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,
  Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear--
  While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight,
  And placed her safety in ignoble flight.
  Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,
  And rage and grief alternately impart.
    With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death,
  These were the words that closed the warrior's breath--
  "My eyesight fails!--but does the foe retreat?
  If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"
  A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,
  Cried, "Sir, they fly!--their ranks entirely broke:
  Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance,
  And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."
  The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,
  And from his lips these dying accents stole:--
  "I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,
  Guarded by angels to celestial day.
    An awful band!--Britannia's mighty dead,
  Receives to glory his immortal shade.
  Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief--
  Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,
  With joyful song conduct their welcome guest
  To the bright mansions of eternal rest--
  For those prepared who merit just applause
  By bravely dying in their country's cause.

               _Pennsylvania Gazette_, November 8, 1759.

    The fall of Quebec settled the fate of Canada. On September 8,
    1760, Vaudreuil surrendered Montreal to a great besieging force
    under Amherst. By the terms of the capitulation, Canada and all
    its dependencies passed to the British crown. The fight for
    the continent was ended. Indian hostilities continued for some
    years, and it was not until October, 1764, that peace was made
    with them. One of its conditions was the return of all captives
    taken by the Indians, and they were assembled at Carlisle, Pa.,
    December 31, 1764. It was there the incident took place which
    is related in the following verses.


(Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764)

  The Indian war was over,
    And Pennsylvania's towns
  Welcomed the blessed calm that comes
    When peace a conflict crowns.
  Bitter and long had been the strife,
    But gallant Colonel Bouquet
  Had forced the foe to sue for grace,
    And named the joyful day
  When Shawnees, Tuscarawas,
    Miamis, Delawares,
  And every band that roved the land
    And called a captive theirs--
  From the pathless depths of the forest,
    By stream and dark defile,
  Should bring their prisoners, on their lives,
    In safety to Carlisle;
  Carlisle in the Cumberland valley,
    Where Conodogwinnet flows,
  And the guardian ranges, north and south,
    In mountain pride repose.

  Like the wind the Colonel's order
    To hamlet and clearing flew;
  And mourning mothers and wives and sons
  From banks where Delaware seaward runs,
  From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide,
  And the vales where the southern hills divide,
    Flocked to the town, perchance to view,
  At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square,
  The faces lost, but in memory fair.

  How strange the scene on the village green
    That morning cold and gray!
  To right the Indian tents were set,
  And in groups the dusky warriors met,
  While their captives clung to the captors yet,
    As wild and bronzed as they--
  In rags and skins, with moccasined feet,
  Some loath to part, some fain to greet
    The friends of a vanished day;
  And, eagerly watching the tents, to left
  Stood mothers and sons and wives bereft,
  While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley,
  And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally,
    The troops in their brave array.

  Now friends and captives mingle,
    And cries of joy or woe
  Thrill the broad street as loved ones meet,
  Or in vain the tale of the past repeat,
    And back in anguish go.
  Among them lingered a widow--
    From the Suabian land was she--
  And one fell morning she had lost
    Husband and children three,
  All slain save the young Regina,
    A captive spared to be.
  Nine weary years had followed,
    But the wilderness was dumb,
  And never a word to her aching heart
    Through friend or foe had come,
  And now, from Tulpehocken,
    Full seventy miles away,
  She had walked to seek her daughter,
    The Lord her only stay.

  She scanned the sun-browned maidens;
    But the tunic's rough disguise,
  The savage tongue, the forest ways,
  Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze,
    And with sobs and streaming eyes
  She turned to the Colonel and told him
    How hopeless was her quest--
  Moaning, "Alas, Regina!
    The grave for me is best!"
  "Nay, Madam," gently he replied,
  "Don't be disheartened yet, but bide,
    And try some other test.
  What pleasant song or story
    Did she love from your lips to hear?"
  "O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;'
    And the 'Creed' we hold so dear,
  And she said them over and over
    While I was spinning near;
  And every eve, by her little bed,
    When the light was growing dim,
  I sung her to sleep, my darling!
    With Schmolke's beautiful hymn."
  "Then sing it _now_," said the Colonel,
    And close to the captive band
  He brought the mother with her hymn
    From the far Suabian land;
  And with faltering voice and quivering lips,
    While all was hushed, she sung
  The strain of lofty faith and cheer
    In her rich German tongue:

  "Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein"
    (How near the listeners press!),
  Alone, yet not alone am I,
  Though all may deem my days go by
    In utter dreariness;
  The Lord is still my company,
  I am with Him, and He with me,
    The solitude to bless.

  He speaks to me within His word
  As if His very voice I heard,
    And when I pray, apart,
  He meets me in the quiet there
  With counsel for each cross and care,
    And comfort for my heart.

  The world may say my life is lone,
  With every joy and blessing flown
    Its vision can descry;
  I shall not sorrow nor repine,
  For glorious company is mine
    With God and angels nigh.

  As she sung, a maid of the captives
    Threw back her tangled hair,
  And forward leaned as if to list
    The lightest murmur there;
  Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed,
    Her eyes grew bright and wide
  As if some spell the song had cast,
    And, ere the low notes died,
  With a bound like a deer in the forest
    She sprang to the singer's side,
  And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!"
    Enfolding her, she cried--
  "My dear, dear, little Mother!"--
    Then swift before her knelt
  As in the long, long buried days
    When by the wood they dwelt;
  And, "Vater unser, der du bist
    Im Himmel," chanted she,
  The sweet "Our Father" she had learned
    Beside that mother's knee;
  And then the grand "Apostles' Creed"
    That in her heart had lain:
  "Ich glaube an Gott den Vater,"
    Like a child she said again--
  "I believe in God the Father"--
    Down to the blest "Amen."
  Stooping and clasping the maiden
    Whose soul the song had freed,
  "Now God be praised!" said the mother,
    "This is my child indeed!--
  My own, my darling Regina,
    Come back in my sorest need,
  For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,'
    And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!"
  Then, while the throng was silent,
    And the Colonel bowed his head,
  With tears and glad thanksgivings
    Her daughter forth she led;
  And the sky was lit with sunshine,
    And the cold earth caught its smile
  For the mother and ransomed maiden,
    That morning in Carlisle.

               EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.



  Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,--
  If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds,
  As it has done the last sad passing year,
  Made the New World in anger shed the tear,--
  Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle,
  They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile,
  While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain,
  And make lost Liberty once more to reign.
  But let them live, as they would choose to be,
  Loyal to King, and as true Britons free,
  They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crown
  Which first has raised them, though now pulls them down;
  If but the rights of subjects they receive,
  'Tis all they ask--or all a crown can give.

               ARTHUR LEE (?).




  Flawless his heart and tempered to the core
  Who, beckoned by the forward-leaning wave,
  First left behind him the firm-footed shore,
  And, urged by every nerve of sail and oar,
  Steered for the Unknown which gods to mortals gave,
  Of thought and action the mysterious door,
  Bugbear of fools, a summons to the brave:
  Strength found he in the unsympathizing sun,
  And strange stars from beneath the horizon won,
  And the dumb ocean pitilessly grave:
  High-hearted surely he;
  But bolder they who first off-cast
  Their moorings from the habitable Past
  And ventured chartless on the sea
  Of storm-engendering Liberty:
  For all earth's width of waters is a span,
  And their convulsed existence mere repose,
  Matched with the unstable heart of man,
  Shoreless in wants, mist-girt in all it knows,
  Open to every wind of sect or clan,
  And sudden-passionate in ebbs and flows.

               JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.



    The close of the struggle with the French for the possession
    of the continent may be fairly said to mark the beginning of
    that series of aggressions on the part of England which ended
    in the revolt of her colonies. True there had been before that
    arbitrary and tyrannical royal governors, and absurdly perverse
    enactments on the part of the Lords of Trade; but not until the
    French troubles had been disposed of did the British government
    bend its energies seriously to regulating the affairs of a
    people which it considered fractious and turbulent. In the
    _Virginia Gazette_ for May 2, 1766, appeared one of the first
    of those songs, afterwards so numerous, which expressed the
    discontent of the colonies under this régime.


[May 2, 1766]

  Sure never was picture drawn more to the life,
  Or affectionate husband more fond of his wife,
  Than America copies and loves Britain's sons,
  Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as great guns,
    "Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're sons of those men
    Who always are ready, steady, boys, steady,
    To fight for their freedom again and again."

  Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's soil,
  Yet we own ourselves subjects of Britain's fair isle;
  And who's so absurd to deny us the name,
  Since true British blood flows in every vein?
    "Hearts of Oak," etc.

  Then cheer up, my lads, to your country be firm,
  Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather each storm;
  Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see,
  Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her words are _be free_!
    "Hearts of Oak," etc.

  To King George, as true subjects, we loyal bow down,
  But hope we may call Magna Charta our own.
  Let the rest of the world slavish worship decree,
  Great Britain has ordered her sons to be free.
    "Hearts of Oak," etc.

  Poor Esau his birthright gave up for a bribe,
  Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling tribe;
  Beyond life our freedom we chuse to possess,
  Which thro' life we'll defend, and abjure a broad S.
    "Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're sons of those men
    Who fear not the ocean, brave roarings of cannon,
    To stop all oppression, again and again."

  On our brow while we laurel-crown'd Liberty wear,
  What Englishmen ought we Americans dare;
  Though tempests and terrors around us we see,
  Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts that are free.
    "Hearts of Oak," etc.

  With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine,
  Our blood shall for both flow as free as our wine;
  Let us set an example, what all men should be,
  And a Toast give the World, "Here's to those dare be free."
    "Hearts of Oak," etc.

    In 1766 William Pitt, perhaps the most enlightened friend
    America had in England, became Prime Minister, and adopted
    toward the colonies a policy so conciliatory that it occasioned
    much disgust in England--as is evident from the following
    verses which appeared originally in the _Gentleman's Magazine_.




  Goody Bull and her daughter together fell out,
  Both squabbled, and wrangled, and made a ---- rout,
  But the cause of the quarrel remains to be told,
  Then lend both your ears, and a tale I'll unfold.

  The old lady, it seems, took a freak in her head,
  That her daughter, grown woman, might earn her own bread:
  Self-applauding her scheme, she was ready to dance;
  But we're often too sanguine in what we advance.

  For mark the event; thus by fortune we're crossed,
  Nor should people reckon without their good host;
  The daughter was sulky, and wouldn't come to,
  And pray, what in this case could the old woman do?

  In vain did the matron hold forth in the cause,
  That the young one was able; her duty, the laws;
  Ingratitude vile, disobedience far worse;
  But she might e'en as well sung psalms to a horse.

  Young, froward, and sullen, and vain of her beauty,
  She tartly replied, that she knew well her duty,
  That other folks' children were kept by their friends,
  And that some folks loved people but for their own ends.

  "Zounds, neighbor!" quoth Pitt, "what the devil's the matter?
  A man cannot rest in his house for your clatter;"
  "Alas!" cries the daughter, "here's dainty fine work,
  The old woman grown harder than Jew or than Turk."

  "She be ----," says the farmer, and to her he goes,
  First roars in her ears, then tweaks her old nose,
  "Hallo, Goody, what ails you? Wake! woman, I say;
  I am come to make peace, in this desperate fray.

  "Adzooks, ope thine eyes, what a pother is here!
  You've no right to compel her, you have not, I swear;
  Be ruled by your friends, kneel down and ask pardon,
  You'd be sorry, I'm sure, should she walk Covent Garden."

  "Alas!" cries the old woman, "and must I comply?
  But I'd rather submit than the huzzy should die;"
  "Pooh, prithee be quiet, be friends and agree,
  You must surely be right, _if you're guided by me_."

  Unwillingly awkward, the mother knelt down,
  While the absolute farmer went on with a frown,
  "Come, kiss the poor child, there come, kiss and be friends!
  There, kiss your poor daughter, and make her amends."

  "No thanks to you, mother," the daughter replied:
  "But thanks to my friend here, I've humbled your pride."

    But Pitt was soon incapacitated by illness from taking
    any active part in the government, and Charles Townshend,
    chancellor of the exchequer, was able to pass his "port bills,"
    and other oppressive measures. Many prominent Americans,
    among them Samuel Adams, decided that the colonies must be


[January 26, 1769]

  Come, cheer up, my lads, like a true British band,
  In the cause of our country who join heart and hand;
  Fair Freedom invites--she cries out, "Agree!
  And be steadfast for those that are steadfast for me."
      Hearts of oak are we all, hearts of oak we'll remain:
            We always are ready--
            Steady, boys, steady--
      To give them our voices again and again.

  With the brave sons of Freedom, of every degree,
  Unite all the good--and united are we:
  But still be the lot of the villains disgrace,
  Whose foul, rotten hearts give the lie to their face.
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  See! their unblushing chieftain! perverter of laws!
  His teeth are the shark's, and a vulture's his claws--
  As soon would I venture, howe'er he may talk,
  My lambs with a wolf, or my fowls with a hawk.
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  First--the worth of good Cruger let's crown with applause,
  Who has join'd us again in fair Liberty's cause--
  Sour Envy, herself, is afraid of his name,
  And weeps that she finds not a blot in his fame.
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  To Jauncey, my souls, let your praises resound!
  With health and success may his goodness be crown'd:
  May the cup of his joy never cease to run o'er--
  For he gave to us all when he gave to the poor!
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  What Briton, undaunted, that pants to be free,
  But warms at the mention of brave De Launcey?
  "Happy Freedom!" said Fame, "what a son have you here!
  Whose head is approved, and whose heart is sincere."
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  For worth and for truth, and good nature renown'd,
  Let the name and applauses of Walton go round:
  His prudence attracts--but his free, honest soul
  Gives a grace to the rest, and enlivens the whole.
      Hearts of oak, etc.

  Huzza! for the patriots whose virtue is tried--
  Unbiass'd by faction, untainted by pride:
  Who Liberty's welfare undaunted pursue,
  With heads ever clear, and hearts ever true.
      Hearts of oak, etc.

               _New York Journal_, January 26, 1769.

    Associations known as Sons of Liberty were organized in the
    larger cities, and in February, 1770, the first Liberty Pole in
    America was raised at New York city, in what is now City Hall
    Park. A struggle ensued with the British troops, during which
    the pole was twice cut down, but it was hooped with iron and
    set up a third time. A Tory versifier celebrated the event in a
    burlesque cantata, from which the following description of the
    pole is taken.


[February, 1770]

  Come listen, good neighbors of every degree,
  Whose hearts, like your purses, are open and free,
  Let this pole a monument ever remain,
  Of the folly and arts of the time-serving train.
      Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground,
  Resembles their scheming, so low and profound;
  The dark underminings, and base dirty ends,
  On which the success of the faction depends.
      Derry down, etc.

  The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put us in mind,
  As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with the wind,
  That no faith can be plac'd in the words of our foes,
  Who change as the wind of their interest blows.
      Derry down, etc.

  The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and so neat,
  Resembles too closely their fraud and deceit,
  If the outside's but guarded, they care not a pin
  How rotten and hollow the heart is within.
      Derry down, etc.

  Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, away,
  Who strive to cajole us in hopes to betray;
  Leave the pole for the stroke of the lightning to sever,
  And, huzzah for King George and our country forever!
      Derry down, etc.

    Two regiments of British troops arrived at Boston on March
    5, 1768, and annoyed the people in many ways. Brawls were
    frequent, and by the beginning of 1770 the tension of feeling
    had reached the snapping point. The "Massachusetts Liberty
    Song" and "The British Grenadier" did not go well together.


  Come, come fill up your glasses,
    And drink a health to those
  Who carry caps and pouches,
    And wear their looped clothes.
  For be you Whig or Tory,
    Or any mortal thing,
  Be sure that you give glory
    To George, our gracious King.
  For if you prove rebellious,
    He'll thunder in your ears
  Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!
    For the British Grenadiers!

  And when the wars are over,
    We'll march by beat of drum,
  The ladies cry "So, Ho girls,
    The Grenadiers have come!
  The Grenadiers who always
    With love our hearts do cheer.
  Then Huzza! Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!
    For the British Grenadier!"

    On the evening of March 5 a crowd collected near the barracks
    and some blows were exchanged; a sentinel in King Street
    knocked down a boy, and was about to be mobbed, when Captain
    Preston and seven privates came to his assistance. The crowd
    pressed upon their levelled pieces, which were suddenly
    discharged, killing four men and wounding seven. Crispus
    Attucks, a mulatto slave, was the first to fall.


[March 5, 1770]

  Where shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we find a story?
  Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for completed glory.
  But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with pride,
  If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus Attucks died.

  Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave with unfamiliar name--
  With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives leaped forth in
  Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to render or deny;
  We can only interpret the symbol; God chose these men to die--
  As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief award be made;
  That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple's base is laid!

  When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance decreed their
  Men see what the royal hirelings saw--a multitude and a flame;
  But beyond the flame, a mystery; five dying men in the street,
  While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation meet!

  O blood of the people! changeless tide, through century, creed, and race!
  Still one as the sweet salt air is one, though tempered by sun and place;
  The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the sheltered seas;
  Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympathies;
  Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and Gaul--
  Mere surface shadow and sunshine; while the sounding unifies all!
  One love, one hope, one duty theirs! No matter the time or ken,
  There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men!

  But alien is one--of class, not race--he has drawn the line for himself;
  His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of pomp and pelf;
  His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed his
      life-stream's hue;
  He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his blood is blue:
  Patrician, aristocrat, Tory--whatever his age or name,
  To the people's rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same.
  The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar rhyme;
  The freeman's speech is sedition, and the patriot's deed a crime.
  Wherever the race, the law, the land,--whatever the time or throne,
  The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own.

  Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arrogance stalks
  Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of the common heart;
  Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and know, when veins are
  That the bluest blood is putrid blood--that the people's blood is red!

  And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice that day;
  The first to defy and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, and Gray.
  Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the crown;
  His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king's flag down;
  His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty's stream might flow;
  For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid low.

  Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you may,
  Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be honored for
  They were lawless hinds to the lackeys--but martyrs to Paul Revere;
  And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and meaning clear.
  Ye teachers, answer: what shall be done when just men stand in the dock;
  When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep the lock;
  When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without remorse;
  When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian slaver's curse;
  When law is a satrap's menace, and order the drill of a horde--
  Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck to the sword?

  Not so! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises here!
  By the old North Church's lantern, and the watching of Paul Revere!
  Not so! by Paris of 'Ninety-Three, and Ulster of 'Ninety-Eight!
  By Toussaint in St. Domingo! by the horror of Delhi's gate!
  By Adams's word to Hutchinson! by the tea that is brewing still!
  By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bunker Hill!

  Not so! not so! Till the world is done, the shadow of wrong is dread;
  The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall strike him dead.
  There is only one thing changeless: the earth steals from under our feet,
  The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws are incomplete;
  There is only one thing changes not, one word that still survives--
  The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the man in gyves!

  There is only one test of contract: is it willing, is it good?
  There is only one guard of equal right: the unity of blood;
  There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race allows;
  There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows;
  There is never a legal sin but grows to the law's disaster,
  The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the master!

  Oh, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of right revolved,
  And brought the Negro patriot's cause with its problem to be solved?
  His blood streamed first for the building, and through all the century's
  Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his blood and tears.
  He lived with men like a soul condemned--derided, defamed, and mute;
  Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute.
  His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward;
  His love!--O men, it were mercy to have cut affection's cord;
  Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his fellow-slave;
  For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block and the grave!

  And now, is the tree to blossom? Is the bowl of agony filled?
  Shall the price be paid and the honor said, and the word of outrage
  And we who have toiled for freedom's law, have we sought for freedom's
  Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but the whole?
  That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part unconfessed?
  That the health of the nation is perilled if one man be oppressed?

  Has he learned--the slave from the rice-swamps, whose children were
      sold--has he,
  With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, "I am free!"
  Has he learned through affliction's teaching what our Crispus Attucks
  When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted as one, not two?
  Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thousand years
  In blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his toils and
  Were heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a right to stand
  From the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the freest land?
  That his hundred years have earned for him a place in the human van
  Which others have fought for and thought for since the world of wrong

  For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retribution burn,
  Defending the right, the weak, and the poor, when each shall have his
  For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream of night;
  For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns to light;
  For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has changed to right.

  And so, must we come to the learning of Boston's lesson to-day;
  The moral that Crispus Attucks taught in the old heroic way;
  God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and thought;
  And so great a boon, by a brave man's death, is never dearly bought!

               JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

    This insignificant street riot was the famous "Boston
    Massacre." It created a great stir, and the victims were buried
    with military honors on March 8, the bodies being deposited
    in a single vault. A few days later, Paul Revere engraved
    and printed a large hand-bill giving a picture of the scene,
    accompanied by the following lines:


[March 8, 1770]

  Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deplore
  Thy hallowed walks besmear'd with guiltless gore.
  While faithless Preston and his savage bands,
  With murderous rancor stretch their bloody hands;
  Like fierce barbarians grinning o'er their prey,
  Approve the carnage and enjoy the day.
  If scalding drops, from rage, from anguish wrung,
  If speechless sorrows lab'ring for a tongue,
  Or if a weeping world can aught appease
  The plaintive ghosts of victims such as these;
  The patriot's copious tears for each are shed,
  A glorious tribute which embalms the dead.
  But know, Fate summons to that awful goal,
  Where justice strips the murderer of his soul:
  Should venal C----ts, the scandal of the land,
  Snatch the relentless villain from her hand,
  Keen execrations on this plate inscrib'd
  Shall reach a judge who never can be bribed.

               PAUL REVERE.

    A conflict of a much more serious nature took place at
    Alamance, N. C., on May 7, 1771, between a body of colonists,
    goaded to rebellion by repeated acts of extortion, and a force
    of British regulars under Governor Tryon. The colonists were
    totally defeated and left two hundred dead and wounded on the


[May 7, 1771]

  No stately column marks the hallowed place
    Where silent sleeps, un-urned, their sacred dust:
  The first free martyrs of a glorious race,
    Their fame a people's wealth, a nation's trust.

  The rustic ploughman at the early morn
    The yielding furrow turns with heedless tread,
  Or tends with frugal care the springing corn,
    Where tyrants conquered and where heroes bled.

  Above their rest the golden harvest waves,
    The glorious stars stand sentinels on high,
  While in sad requiem, near their turfless graves,
    The winding river murmurs, mourning, by.

  No stern ambition moved them to the deed:
    In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die.
  The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,
    "God and their country's right" their battle cry.

  But holier watchers here their vigils keep
    Than storied urn or monumental stone;
  For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,
    And Plenty smiles above their bloody home.

  Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame;
    And as their country's glories shall advance,
  Shall brighter blaze, o'er all the earth, thy name,
    Thou first-fought field of Freedom--Alamance.

               SEYMOUR W. WHITING.

    The first American "victory" occurred on the night of June 9,
    1772, when the British eight-gun schooner Gaspee was captured
    and burned to the water's edge. For some months the crew
    of the Gaspee, commissioned to enforce the revenue acts in
    Narragansett Bay, had been stopping vessels, seizing goods,
    stealing sheep and hogs, and committing other depredations
    along the shore. On June 9, while pursuing the Providence
    Packet, the schooner ran aground, and that night was boarded by
    a party of Rhode Islanders, the crew overpowered, and the boat


[June 9-10, 1772]

  'Twas in the reign of George the Third
  The public peace was much disturb'd
  By ships of war, that came and laid
  Within our ports to stop our trade.

  In seventeen hundred seventy-two,
  In Newport harbor lay a crew
  That play'd the parts of pirates there,
  The sons of Freedom could not bear.

  Sometimes they'd weigh and give them chase--
  Such actions, sure, were very base;
  No honest coasters could pass by
  But what they would let some shot fly.

  Which did provoke to high degree
  Those true-born sons of Liberty,
  So that they could no longer bear
  Those sons of Belial staying there.

  But 'twas not long 'fore it fell out,
  That William Doddington so stout,
  Commander of the Gaspee tender,
  Which he had reason to remember--

  Because, as people do assert,
  He almost had his just desert
  Here, on the tenth day of last June,
  Between the hours of twelve and one--

  Did chase the sloop call'd the Hannah,
  Of whom one Linsey was commander;
  They dogg'd her up to Providence Sound,
  And there the rascal got aground.

  The news of it flew, that very day,
  That they on Nanquit Point did lay,
  That night, about half after ten,
  Some Narragansett Indian-men--

  Being sixty-four, if I remember,
  Soon made this stout coxcomb surrender:
  And what was best of all their tricks,
  They in his breech a ball did fix.

  They set the men upon the land,
  And burn'd her up, we understand;
  Which thing provoked the king so high,
  He said, "those men should surely die."

  So, if he can but find them out,
  The hangman he'll employ, no doubt:
  For he has declared, in his passion,
  "He'll have them tried in a new fashion."

  Now for to find those people out,
  King George has offered, very stout,
  One thousand pounds to find out one
  That wounded William Doddington.

  One thousand more he says he'll spare,
  For those who say they sheriffs were:
  One thousand more there doth remain
  For to find out the leader's name.

  Likewise, one hundred pounds per man,
  For any one of all the clan.
  But let him try his utmost skill,
  I'm apt to think he never will
  Find out any of those hearts of gold,
  Though he should offer fifty fold.

    The duty on tea, imposed five years before by Townshend,
    had been retained by the British government as a matter of
    principle, and in the autumn of 1773 the King determined to
    assert the obnoxious principle which the tax involved. Several
    ships loaded with tea were accordingly started for America.
    On Sunday, November 28, the first of these arrived at Boston,
    and two others came in a few days later. The town went wild,
    meeting after meeting was held, and on the night of Tuesday,
    December 16, 1773, a band of about twenty, disguised as
    Indians, boarded the ships, cut open the tea-chests and flung
    the contents into the water.


[December 16, 1773]

  No! never such a draught was poured
    Since Hebe served with nectar
  The bright Olympians and their Lord,
    Her over-kind protector,--
  Since Father Noah squeezed the grape
    And took to such behaving
  As would have shamed our grandsire ape
    Before the days of shaving,--
  No! ne'er was mingled such a draught
    In palace, hall, or arbor,
  As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed
    That night in Boston Harbor!
  It kept King George so long awake
    His brain at last got addled,
  It made the nerves of Britain shake,
    With sevenscore millions saddled;
  Before that bitter cup was drained
    Amid the roar of cannon,
  The Western war-cloud's crimson stained
    The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;
  Full many a six-foot grenadier
    The flattened grass had measured,
  And many a mother many a year
    Her tearful memories treasured;
  Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,
    The mighty realms were troubled,
  The storm broke loose, but first of all
    The Boston teapot bubbled!

  An evening party,--only that,
    No formal invitation,
  No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,
    No feast in contemplation,
  No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,
    No flowers, no songs, no dancing,--
  A tribe of red men, axe in hand,--
    Behold the guests advancing!
  How fast the stragglers join the throng,
    From stall and workshop gathered!
  The lively barber skips along
    And leaves a chin half-lathered;
  The smith has flung his hammer down,--
    The horseshoe still is glowing;
  The truant tapster at the Crown
    Has left a beer-cask flowing;
  The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,
    And trot behind their master;
  Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,--
    The crowd is hurrying faster,--
  Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush
    The streams of white-faced millers,
  And down their slippery alleys rush
    The lusty young Fort-Hillers;
  The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,--
    The tories seize the omen:
  "Ay, boys, you'll soon have work to do
    For England's rebel foemen,
  'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,
    That fire the mob with treason,--
  When these we shoot and those we hang
    The town will come to reason."

  On--on to where the tea-ships ride!
    And now their ranks are forming,--
  A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side
    The Mohawk band is swarming!
  See the fierce natives! What a glimpse
    Of paint and fur and feather,
  As all at once the full-grown imps
    Light on the deck together!
  A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,
    A blanket hides the breeches,--
  And out the cursèd cargo leaps,
    And overboard it pitches!

  O woman, at the evening board
    So gracious, sweet, and purring,
  So happy while the tea is poured,
    So blest while spoons are stirring,
  What martyr can compare with thee,
    The mother, wife, or daughter,
  That night, instead of best Bohea,
    Condemned to milk and water!

  Ah, little dreams the quiet dame
    Who plies with rock and spindle
  The patient flax, how great a flame
    Yon little spark shall kindle!
  The lurid morning shall reveal
    A fire no king can smother
  Where British flint and Boston steel
    Have clashed against each other!
  Old charters shrivel in its track,
    His Worship's bench has crumbled,
  It climbs and clasps the union-jack,
    Its blazoned pomp is humbled,
  The flags go down on land and sea
    Like corn before the reapers;
  So burned the fire that brewed the tea
    That Boston served her keepers!

  The waves that wrought a century's wreck
    Have rolled o'er whig and tory;
  The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck
    Still live in song and story;
  The waters in the rebel bay
    Have kept the tea-leaf savor;
  Our old North-Enders in their spray
    Still taste a Hyson flavor;
  And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows
    With ever fresh libations,
  To cheat of slumber all her foes
    And cheer the wakening nations!


    Next morning, Paul Revere, booted and spurred, started for
    Philadelphia with the news that Boston had at last thrown down
    the gauntlet. The following song appeared in the _Pennsylvania
    Packet_ a few days after Revere reached Philadelphia.


[December 16, 1773]

  As near beauteous Boston lying,
    On the gently swelling flood,
  Without jack or pendant flying,
    Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.

  Just as glorious Sol was setting,
    On the wharf, a numerous crew,
  Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,
    Suddenly appeared in view.

  Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,
    Weapons new for warlike deed,
  Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,
    They approached with dreadful speed.

  O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,
    Three bright angel forms were seen;
  This was Hampden, that was Sidney,
    With fair Liberty between.

  "Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll banish,
    Soon the triumph shall be won;
  Scarce shall setting Phoebus vanish,
    Ere the deathless deed be done."

  Quick as thought the ships were boarded,
    Hatches burst and chests displayed;
  Axes, hammers help afforded;
    What a glorious crash they made.

  Squash into the deep descended,
    Cursed weed of China's coast;
  Thus at once our fears were ended;
    British rights shall ne'er be lost.

  Captains! once more hoist your streamers,
    Spread your sails, and plough the wave;
  Tell your masters they were dreamers,
    When they thought to cheat the brave.

    News of the insurrection was received in England with the
    greatest indignation, and measures of reprisal were at once
    undertaken. No ships were to be allowed to enter the port
    of Boston until the rebellious town should have repaid the
    East India Company for the loss of its tea; the charter of
    Massachusetts was annulled and her free government destroyed;
    and General Gage was sent over with four regiments to take
    possession of the town.


[April 15, 1774]

  When George the King would punish folk
    Who dared resist his angry will--
  Resist him with their hearts of oak
  That neither King nor Council broke--
    He told Lord North to mend his quill,
    And sent his Parliament a Bill.

  The Boston Port Bill was the thing
    He flourished in his royal hand;
  A subtle lash with scorpion sting,
  Across the seas he made it swing,
    And with its cruel thong he planned
    To quell the disobedient land.

  His minions heard it sing, and bare
    The port of Boston felt his wrath;
  They let no ship cast anchor there,
  They summoned Hunger and Despair,--
    And curses in an aftermath
    Followed their desolating path.

  No coal might enter there, nor wood,
    Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;
  No drugs for dying pangs, no food
  For any mother's little brood.
    "Now," said the King, "we have our chance,
    We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."

  No other flags lit up the bay,
    Like full-blown blossoms in the air,
  Than where the British war-ships lay;
  The wharves were idle; all the day
    The idle men, grown gaunt and spare,
    Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.

  Then in across the meadow land,
    From lonely farm and hunter's tent,
  From fertile field and fallow strand,
  Pouring it out with lavish hand,
    The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,
    And laughed at King and Parliament.

  To bring them succor, Marblehead
    Joyous her deep-sea fishing sought.
  Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,
  Old many-rivered Newbury sped,
    And Groton in her granaries wrought,
    And generous flocks old Windham brought.

  Rice from the Carolinas came,
    Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,
  And, with a spirit all aflame,
  Tobacco-leaf and corn and game
    The Midlands sent; and in his gorge
    The Colonies defied King George!

  And Hartford hung, in black array,
    Her town-house, and at half-mast there
  The flags flowed, and the bells all day
  Tolled heavily; and far away
    In great Virginia's solemn air
    The House of Burgesses held prayer.

  Down long glades of the forest floor
    The same thrill ran through every vein,
  And down the long Atlantic's shore;
  Its heat the tyrant's fetters tore
    And welded them through stress and strain
    Of long years to a mightier chain.

  That mighty chain with links of steel
    Bound all the Old Thirteen at last,
  Through one electric pulse to feel
  The common woe, the common weal.
    And that great day the Port Bill passed
    Made us a nation hard and fast.


    Gage arrived at Boston in May, 1774, and at once issued a
    proclamation calling upon the inhabitants to be loyal, and
    warning them of his intention to maintain the authority of the
    King at any cost.


[May, 1774]

  America! thou fractious nation,
  Attend thy master's proclamation!
  Tremble! for know, I, Thomas Gage,
  Determin'd come the war to wage.

  With the united powers sent forth,
  Of Bute, of Mansfield, and of North;
  To scourge your insolence, my choice,
  While England mourns and Scots rejoice!

  Bostonia first shall feel my power,
  And gasping midst the dreadful shower
  Of ministerial rage, shall cry,
  Oh, save me, Bute! I yield! and die.

  Then shall my thundering cannons rattle,
  My hardy veterans march to battle,
  Against Virginia's hostile land,
  To humble that rebellious band.

  At my approach her trembling swains
  Shall quit well-cultivated plains,
  To seek the inhospitable wood;
  Or try, like swine of old, the flood.

  Rejoice! ye happy Scots rejoice!
  Your voice lift up, a mighty voice,
  The voice of gladness on each tongue,
  The mighty praise of Bute be sung.

  The praise of Mansfield, and of North,
  Let next your hymns of joy set forth,
  Nor shall the rapturous strain assuage,
  Till sung's your own proclaiming Gage.

  Whistle ye pipes! ye drones drone on.
  Ye bellows blow! Virginia's won!
  Your Gage has won Virginia's shore,
  And Scotia's sons shall mourn no more.

  Hail, Middlesex! oh happy county!
  Thou too shalt share thy master's bounty,
  Thy sons obedient, naught shall fear,
  Thy wives and widows drop no tear.

  Thrice happy people, ne'er shall feel
  The force of unrelenting steel;
  What brute would give the ox a stroke
  Who bends his neck to meet the yoke?

  To Murray bend the humble knee;
  He shall protect you under me;
  His generous pen shall not be mute,
  But sound your praise thro' Fox to Bute.

  By Scotchmen lov'd, by Scotchmen taught,
  By all your country Scotchmen thought;
  Fear Bute, fear Mansfield, North and me,
  And be as blest as slaves can be.

               _The Virginia Gazette_, 1774.

    The colonies rallied nobly to Boston's support; provisions of
    all sorts were sent over-land to the devoted city; the 1st of
    June, the day on which the Port Bill went into effect, was
    observed as a day of fasting and prayer throughout the country,
    and it became a point of honor with all good patriots to
    refrain from indulgence in "the blasted herb."



  Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind,
  The rising danger flee,
  If you would lasting freedom find,
  Now then abandon tea.

  Scorn to be bound with golden chains,
  Though they allure the sight;
  Bid them defiance, if they claim
  Our freedom and birthright.

  Shall we our freedom give away,
  And all our comfort place,
  In drinking of outlandish tea,
  Only to please our taste?

  Forbid it Heaven, let us be wise,
  And seek our country's good;
  Nor ever let a thought arise
  That tea should be our food.

  Since we so great a plenty have,
  Of all that's for our health,
  Shall we that blasted herb receive,
  Impoverishing our wealth?

  When we survey the breathless corpse,
  With putrid matter filled,
  For crawling worms a sweet resort,
  By us reputed ill.

  Noxious effluvia sending out
  From its pernicious store,
  Not only from the foaming mouth,
  But every lifeless pore.

  To view the same enrolled in tea,
  Besmeared with such perfumes,
  And then the herb sent o'er the sea,
  To us it tainted comes--

  Some of it tinctured with a filth
  Of carcasses embalmed;
  Taste of this herb, then, if thou wilt!
  Sure me it cannot charm.

  Adieu! away, oh tea! begone!
  Salute our taste no more;
  Though thou art coveted by some,
  Who're destined to be poor.

               MESECH WEARE.

  Fowle's _Gazette_, July 22, 1774.



  In spite of _Rice_, in spite of _Wheat_,
  Sent for the Boston Poor--to eat:
  In spite of _Brandy_, one would think,
  Sent for the Boston Poor--to drink:
  Poor are the Boston Poor, indeed,
  And needy, tho' there is no Need:
  They cry for Bread; the mighty Ones
  Instead of _Bread_, give only _Stones_.

               Rivington's _New York Gazetteer_, September 2, 1774.

    It was plain that, in this crisis, the colonies must stick
    together, and the proposal for a Continental Congress, first
    made by the Sons of Liberty in New York, was approved by colony
    after colony, and the Congress was finally called to meet at
    Philadelphia, September 1.


  When fair Columbia was a child,
  And mother Britain on her smil'd
  With kind regard, and strok'd her head,
  And gave her dolls and gingerbread,
  And sugar plumbs, and many a toy,
  Which prompted gratitude and joy--
  Then a more duteous maid, I ween,
  Ne'er frisked it o'er the playful green;
  Whate'er the mother said, approv'd,
  And with sincere affection lov'd--
  With reverence listen'd to her dreams,
  And bowed obsequious to her schemes--
  Barter'd the products of her garden,
  For trinkets, worth more than a farthing--
  And whensoe'er the mother sigh'd,
  She, sympathetic daughter, cri'd,
  Fearing the heavy, long-drawn breath,
  Betoken'd her approaching death.
  But when at puberty arriv'd,
  Forgot the power in whom she liv'd,
  And 'gan to make preposterous splutter,
  'Bout spreading her own bread and butter,
  And stubbornly refus'd t' agree,
  In form, to drink her bohea-tea,
  And like a base, ungrateful daughter,
  Hurl'd a whole tea box in the water--
  'Bout writing paper made a pother,
  And dared to argue with her mother--
  Contended pertly, that the nurse,
  Should not be keeper of the purse;
  But that herself, now older grown,
  Would have a pocket of her own,
  In which the purse she would deposit,
  As safely as in nurse's closet.

               FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

    The Whig papers generally at this time adopted for a headpiece
    a snake broken into parts representing the several colonies,
    with the motto, "Unite or Die."



  Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to pass
  That America's typ'd by a Snake--in the grass?
  Don't you think 'tis a scandalous, saucy reflection,
  That merits the soundest, severest correction?
  New-England's the Head, too;--New-England's abus'd,
  For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.

    From Rivington's _New York Gazetteer_, August 25, 1774.

    The feeling of the entire country was aptly voiced in "Free
    America," which appeared at that time, and which was ascribed
    to Dr. Joseph Warren.



  That seat of Science, Athens,
  And earth's proud mistress, Rome;
  Where now are all their glories?
  We scarce can find a tomb.
  Then guard your rights, Americans,
  Nor stoop to lawless sway;
  Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose,
      For North America.

  We led fair Freedom hither,
  And lo, the desert smiled!
  A paradise of pleasure
  Was opened in the wild!
  Your harvest, bold Americans,
  No power shall snatch away!
  Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,
      For free America.

  Torn from a world of tyrants,
  Beneath this western sky,
  We formed a new dominion,
  A land of liberty:
  The world shall own we're masters here;
  Then hasten on the day:
  Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,
      For free America.

  Proud Albion bowed to Cæsar,
  And numerous lords before;
  To Picts, to Danes, to Normans,
  And many masters more:
  But we can boast, Americans,
  We've never fallen a prey;
  Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,
      For free America.

  God bless this maiden climate,
  And through its vast domain
  May hosts of heroes cluster,
  Who scorn to wear a chain:
  And blast the venal sycophant
  That dares our rights betray;
  Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza,
      For free America.

  Lift up your hands, ye heroes,
  And swear with proud disdain,
  The wretch that would ensnare you,
  Shall lay his snares in vain:
  Should Europe empty all her force,
  We'll meet her in array,
  And fight and shout, and shout and fight
      For North America.

  Some future day shall crown us,
  The masters of the main,
  Our fleets shall speak in thunder
  To England, France, and Spain;
  And the nations over the ocean spread
  Shall tremble and obey
  The sons, the sons, the sons, the sons
      Of brave America.

               JOSEPH WARREN.

    The Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia, September
    5, 1774, and, after four weeks' deliberation, agreed upon a
    declaration of rights, claiming for the American people the
    right of free legislation and calling for the repeal of eleven
    acts of Parliament.


  In a chariot of light from the regions of day,
      The Goddess of Liberty came;
  Ten thousand celestials directed the way
      And hither conducted the dame.
  A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
      Where millions with millions agree,
  She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,
      And the plant she named _Liberty Tree_.

  The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,
      Like a native it flourished and bore;
  The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,
      To seek out this peaceable shore.
  Unmindful of names or distinction they came,
      For freemen like brothers agree;
  With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,
      And their temple was _Liberty Tree_.

  Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,
      Their bread in contentment they ate,
  Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,
      The cares of the grand and the great.
  With timber and tar they Old England supplied,
      And supported her power on the sea;
  Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,
      For the honor of _Liberty Tree_.

  But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,
      How all the tyrannical powers,
  Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain,
      To cut down this guardian of ours;
  From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms
      Through the land let the sound of it flee,
  Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,
      In defence of our _Liberty Tree_.

               THOMAS PAINE.

  _Pennsylvania Magazine_, 1775.

    The duty of presenting to the British government the
    Declaration of Rights prepared by the Congress devolved upon
    Benjamin Franklin, who was in England at the time. Lord
    Dartmouth received the document, but permission was refused
    Franklin to present the case for the Continental Congress, and
    to defend it, before the House of Commons.



  We have an old mother that peevish is grown;
  She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;
  She forgets we're grown up and have sense of our own;
          Which nobody can deny, deny,
            Which nobody can deny.

  If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,
  She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-
  Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;
          Which nobody, etc.

  Her orders so odd are, we often suspect
  That age has impaired her sound intellect;
  But still an old mother should have due respect;
          Which nobody, etc.

  Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;
  But why should we bear the abuse of her man?
  When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;
          Which nobody, etc.

  Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divide
  The sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;
  And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;
          Which nobody, etc.

  We'll join in her lawsuits, to baffle all those
  Who, to get what she has, will be often her foes;
  For we know it must all be our own, when she goes;
          Which nobody can deny, deny,
            Which nobody can deny.

               BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

    Very few Englishmen believed that the Americans would fight.
    Lord Sandwich said that they were a lot of undisciplined
    cowards, who would take to their heels at the first sound of
    a cannon, and that it would be easy to frighten them into
    submission. The "Pennsylvania Song" was evidently written to
    answer this assertion.


  We are the troop that ne'er will stoop
    To wretched slavery,
  Nor shall our seed, by our base deed,
    Despisèd vassals be;
  Freedom we will bequeath to them,
    Or we will bravely die;
  Our greatest foe, ere long shall know,
    How much did Sandwich lie.
      And all the world shall know,
        Americans are free;
      Nor slaves nor cowards we will prove,
        Great Britain soon shall see.

  We'll not give up our birthright,
    Our foes shall find us men;
  As good as they, in any shape,
    The British troops shall ken.
  Huzza! brave boys, we'll beat them
    On any hostile plain;
  For Freedom, wives, and children dear,
    The battle we'll maintain.
      And all the world, etc.

  What! can those British tyrants think,
    Our fathers cross'd the main,
  And savage foes, and dangers met,
    To be enslav'd by them?
  If so, they are mistaken,
    For we will rather die;
  And since they have become our foes,
    Their forces we defy.
      And all the world, etc.

               Dunlap's _Packet_, 1775.

    About the middle of December, 1774, deputies appointed by the
    freemen of Maryland met at Annapolis, and unanimously resolved
    to resist the attempts of Parliament to tax the colonies and
    to support the acts of the Continental Congress. They also
    recommended that every man should provide himself with "a good
    firelock, with bayonet attached, powder and ball," to be in
    readiness to act in any emergency.


[December, 1774]

  On Calvert's plains new faction reigns,
    Great Britain we defy, sir,
  True Liberty lies gagg'd in chains,
    Though freedom is the cry, sir.

  The Congress, and their factious tools,
    Most wantonly oppress us,
  Hypocrisy triumphant rules,
    And sorely does distress us.

  The British bands with glory crown'd,
    No longer shall withstand us;
  Our martial deeds loud fame shall sound
    Since mad Lee now commands us.

  Triumphant soon a blow he'll strike,
    That all the world shall awe, sir,
  And General Gage, Sir Perseus like,
    Behind his wheels he'll draw, sir.

  When Gallic hosts, ungrateful men,
    Our race meant to extermine,
  Pray did committees save us then,
    Or Hancock, or such vermin?

  Then faction spurn! think for yourselves!
    Your parent state, believe me,
  From real griefs, from factious elves,
    Will speedily relieve ye.

               Rivington's _Gazetteer_.

    Such effusions as the "Massachusetts Liberty Song" became
    immensely popular, and bands of liberty-loving souls met
    nightly to sing them.


  Come swallow your bumpers, ye _Tories_, and roar
  That the Sons of fair Freedom are hamper'd once more;
  But know that no _Cut-throats_ our spirits can tame,
  Nor a host of _Oppressors_ shall smother the flame.
      _In Freedom we're born, and, like Sons of the brave,
          Will never surrender,
          But swear to defend her,
      And scorn to survive, if unable to save._

  Our grandsires, bless'd heroes, we'll give them a tear,
  Nor sully their honors by stooping to fear;
  Through deaths and through dangers their _Trophies_ they won,
  We dare be their _Rivals_, nor will be outdone.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  Let tyrants and minions presume to despise,
  Encroach on our RIGHTS, and make FREEDOM their prize;
  The fruits of their rapine they never shall keep,
  Though Vengeance may nod, yet how short is her sleep.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  The tree which proud _Haman_ for _Mordecai_ rear'd
  Stands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is spared;
  That _rogues_, whom no bounds and no laws can restrain,
  Must be stripp'd of their honors and humbled again.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  Our wives and our babes, still protected, shall know
  Those who dare to be free shall forever be so;
  On these arms and these hearts they may safely rely
  For in freedom we'll live, or like _Heroes_ we'll die.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  Ye insolent _Tyrants_! who wish to enthrall;
  Ye _Minions_, ye _Placemen_, _Pimps_, _Pensioners_, all;
  How short is your triumph, how feeble your trust,
  Your honor must wither and nod to the dust.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  When oppress'd and approach'd, our KING we implore,
  Still firmly persuaded our RIGHTS he'll restore;
  When our hearts beat to arms to defend a just right,
  Our monarch rules there, and forbids us to fight.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  Not the glitter of arms nor the dread of a fray
  Could make us submit to their chains for a day;
  Withheld by affection, on _Britons_ we call,
  Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens your fall.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  All ages should speak with amaze and applause
  Of the prudence we show in support of our cause:
  Assured of our safety, a BRUNSWICK still reigns,
  Whose free loyal subjects are strangers to chains.
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

  Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all,
  To be free is to live, to be slaves is to fall;
  Has the land such a dastard as scorns not a LORD,
  Who dreads not a fetter much more than a sword?
      _In Freedom we're born, etc._

               Attributed to MRS. MERCY WARREN.


  Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger,
  Spills the tea on John Bull. John falls on to bang her.
  Massachusetts, enraged, calls her neighbors to aid
  And give Master John a severe bastinade.
  Now, good men of the law, who is at fault,
  The one who begins or resists the assault?

               Anderson's _Constitutional Gazette_, 1775.


  O Boston wives and maids, draw near and see
  Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea,
  Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown,
  If not, we'll cut your throats, and burn your town.

               _St. James Chronicle._

    It was evident that, in the excited state of the country, a
    single incident might turn the balance between peace and war
    and produce a general explosion. That incident was not long in



  Hail, happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat,
  Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great,
  But wealth and power have no immortal day,
  For all things ripen only to decay.
  And when that time arrives, the lot of all,
  When Britain's glory, power and wealth shall fall;
  Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchanged decree
  In other worlds another Britain see,
  And what thou art, America shall be.

               GULIAN VERPLANCK.



    All through the winter of 1774-75, the people of Massachusetts
    had offered a passive but effective resistance to General Gage.
    Not a councillor, judge, sheriff, or juryman could be found
    to serve under the royal commission; and for nine months the
    ordinary functions of government were suspended. At eventide,
    on every village-green, a company of yeomen drilled, and a
    supply of powder and ball was gradually collected at Concord;
    but every man in the province was given to understand that
    England must fire the first shot. At the beginning of spring,
    Gage received peremptory orders to arrest Samuel Adams and John
    Hancock, and send them to England to be tried for treason. He
    learned that they would be at a friend's house at Lexington,
    during the middle of April, and on the night of April 18
    dispatched a force of eight hundred men to seize them, and then
    to proceed to Concord and destroy the military stores collected
    there. Although the movement was conducted with the greatest
    secrecy, Joseph Warren divined its purpose, and sent out Paul
    Revere by way of Charlestown to give the alarm.


[April 18-19, 1775]

  Listen, my children, and you shall hear
  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
  On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
  Hardly a man is now alive
  Who remembers that famous day and year.

  He said to his friend, "If the British march
  By land or sea from the town to-night,
  Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
  Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
  One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
  And I on the opposite shore will be,
  Ready to ride and spread the alarm
  Through every Middlesex village and farm,
  For the country folk to be up and to arm."

  Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
  Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
  Just as the moon rose over the bay,
  Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
  The Somerset, British man-of-war;
  A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
  Across the moon like a prison bar,
  And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
  By its own reflection in the tide.

  Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
  Wanders and watches with eager ears,
  Till in the silence around him he hears
  The muster of men at the barrack door,
  The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
  And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
  Marching down to their boats on the shore.

  Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
  By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
  To the belfry-chamber overhead,
  And startled the pigeons from their perch
  On the sombre rafters, that round him made
  Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
  By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
  To the highest window in the wall,
  Where he paused to listen and look down
  A moment on the roofs of the town,
  And the moonlight flowing over all.

  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
  In their night-encampment on the hill,
  Wrapped in silence so deep and still
  That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
  The watchful night-wind, as it went
  Creeping along from tent to tent,
  And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
  A moment only he feels the spell
  Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
  On a shadowy something far away,
  Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
  A line of black that bends and floats
  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
  Now he patted his horse's side,
  Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
  Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
  And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
  But mostly he watched with eager search
  The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
  As it rose above the graves on the hill,
  Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
  A second lamp in the belfry burns!

  A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

  He has left the village and mounted the steep,
  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
  And under the alders that skirt its edge,
  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

  It was twelve by the village clock,
  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
  He heard the crowing of the cock,
  And the barking of the farmer's dog,
  And felt the damp of the river fog,
  That rises after the sun goes down.

  It was one by the village clock,
  When he galloped into Lexington.
  He saw the gilded weathercock
  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
  As if they already stood aghast
  At the bloody work they would look upon.

  It was two by the village clock,
  When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
  He heard the bleating of the flock,
  And the twitter of birds among the trees,
  And felt the breath of the morning breeze
  Blowing over the meadows brown.
  And one was safe and asleep in his bed
  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
  Who that day would be lying dead,
  Pierced by a British musket-ball.

  You know the rest. In the books you have read,
  How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
  From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
  Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
  Then crossing the fields to emerge again
  Under the trees at the turn of the road,
  And only pausing to fire and load.

  So through the night rode Paul Revere;
  And so through the night went his cry of alarm
  To every Middlesex village and farm,--
  A cry of defiance and not of fear,
  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
  And a word that shall echo forevermore!
  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
  Through all our history, to the last,
  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
  The people will waken and listen to hear
  The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
  And the midnight message of Paul Revere.


    At the same time Warren dispatched William Dawes by way
    of Roxbury; but though Dawes played an important part in
    the events of the night, his exploits have been completely
    overshadowed in the popular imagination by those of the other


  I am a wandering, bitter shade;
  Never of me was a hero made;
  Poets have never sung my praise,
  Nobody crowned my brow with bays;
  And if you ask me the fatal cause,
  I answer only, "My name was Dawes."

  'Tis all very well for the children to hear
  Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
  But why should my name be quite forgot,
  Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
  Why should I ask? The reason is clear--
  My name was Dawes and his Revere.

  When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,
  Paul Revere was waiting about,
  But I was already on my way.
  The shadows of night fell cold and gray
  As I rode, with never a break or pause;
  But what was the use, when my name was Dawes?

  History rings with his silvery name;
  Closed to me are the portals of fame.
  Had he been Dawes and I Revere,
  No one had heard of him, I fear.
  No one has heard of me because
  He was Revere and I was Dawes.

               HELEN F. MORE.

    Revere galloped at top speed to Lexington, and warned Hancock
    and Adams, who left the town shortly before daybreak. Meanwhile
    the minute-men of the village had gathered, and the vanguard
    of the English column was confronted by about fifty colonials
    under command of Captain John Parker. The British commander,
    Major Pitcairn, ordered them to disperse, and as they stood
    motionless, he gave the order to fire. His men hesitated, but
    he discharged his own pistol and repeated the order, whereupon
    a deadly volley killed eight of the minute-men and wounded
    ten. A moment later, the main body of the British came up, and
    Parker, seeing the folly of resistance, ordered his men to


[April 19, 1775]

From "Psalm of the West"

  O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark:
  Climb, patriot, through the April dark.
  O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,
  Thou budding star in the April night,
  For never a star more news hath told,
  Or later flame in heaven shall hold.
  Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,
  When that thy church hath had her hour,
  Still from the top of Reverence high
  Shalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;
  For, statured large o'er town and tree,
  Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,
  And, dim as now thy wick may shine,
  The Future lights his lamp at thine.

  Now haste thee while the way is clear,
          Paul Revere!
  Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!
          To Lexington.

  Then Devens looked and saw the light:
  He got him forth into the night,
  And watched alone on the river-shore,
  And marked the British ferrying o'er.

  John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn,
  But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!
  Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:
  The Morning comes ere darkness goes.
  Have forth and call the yeomen out,
  For somewhere, somewhere close about
  Full soon a Thing must come to be
  Thine honest eyes shall stare to see--
  Full soon before thy patriot eyes
  Freedom from out of a Wound shall rise.

  Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!
  Bring all the men of Lincoln here;
  Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,
  Let Acton, Bedford, hither file--
  Oh hither file, and plainly see
  Out of a wound leap Liberty.
  Say, Woodman April! all in green,
  Say, Robin April! hast thou seen
  In all thy travel round the earth
  Ever a morn of calmer birth?
  But Morning's eye alone serene
  Can gaze across yon village-green
  To where the trooping British run
          Through Lexington.

  Good men in fustian, stand ye still;
  The men in red come o'er the hill.
  _Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!_ cry
  The men in red full haughtily.
  But never a grounding gun is heard;
  The men in fustian stand unstirred;
  Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebird
  Puts in his little heavenly word.
  O men in red! if ye but knew
  The half as much as bluebirds do,
  Now in this little tender calm
  Each hand would out, and every palm
  With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke
  Or ere these lines of battle broke.

  O men in red! if ye but knew
  The least of the all that bluebirds do,
  Now in this little godly calm
  Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm--
  The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes
  Who pardons and is very wise--
  Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,
  The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:
  The homespuns' anxious voices call,
  _Brother, art hurt?_ and _Where hit, John?_
  And, _Wipe this blood_, and, _Men, come on_,
  And, _Neighbor, do but lift my head_,
  And, _Who is wounded? Who is dead?
  Seven are killed. My God! my God!
  Seven lie dead on the village sod.
  Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,
  Monroe and Porter,--these are down.
  Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!_
  He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.
  He lies at the step of his own house-door;
  He crawls and makes a path of gore.
  The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;
  He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;
  He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,
  But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.
  Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:
  Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.

  But, O ye Six that round him lay
  And bloodied up that April day!
  As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell--
  At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;
  As Harrington came, ye likewise came
  And died at the door of your House of Fame.

               SIDNEY LANIER.

[3] From Poems by Sidney Lanier, copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.


[April 19, 1775]

  Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,
    Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
  When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
    Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
      Waving her golden veil
      Over the silent dale,
  Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;
      Hushed was his parting sigh,
      While from his noble eye
  Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

  On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing
    Calmly the first-born of glory have met;
  Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
    Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!
      Faint is the feeble breath,
      Murmuring low in death,
  "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"
      Nerveless the iron hand,
      Raised for its native land,
  Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

  Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,
    From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
  As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
    Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
      Fast on the soldier's path
      Darken the waves of wrath,--
  Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;
      Red glares the musket's flash,
      Sharp rings the rifle's crash,
  Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

  Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,
    Never to shadow his cold brow again;
  Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
    Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;
      Pale is the lip of scorn,
      Voiceless the trumpet horn,
  Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;
      Many a belted breast
      Low on the turf shall rest
  Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

  Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
    Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
  Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
    Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;
      Far as the tempest thrills
      Over the darkened hills,
  Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,
      Roused by the tyrant band,
      Woke all the mighty land,
  Girdled for battle, from mountain to main.

  Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
    Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,
  While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying
    Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
      Borne on her Northern pine,
      Long o'er the foaming brine
  Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;
      Heaven keep her ever free,
      Wide as o'er land and sea
  Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won!


    The British pressed on to Concord, but the greater part of the
    stores had been hidden, and minute-men were gathering from all
    directions. Colonel Smith, commanding the British, began to
    realize the dangers of his position and about noon started to
    retreat to Boston. And none too soon, for the whole country
    was aroused. Minute-men swarmed in from all directions, and
    taking advantage of every tree and hillock by the roadside,
    poured into the British a fire so deadly that the retreat
    soon became a disorderly flight. The timely arrival of strong
    reinforcements was all that saved the British from annihilation.


[April 19, 1775]

  'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red light
    Brooks lay, half-asleep, when he heard the alarm,--
  Only this, and no more, from a voice at the door:
    "The Red-Coats are out, and have passed Phips's farm."

  Brooks was booted and spurred; he said never a word;
    Took his horn from its peg, and his gun from its rack;
  To the cold midnight air he led out his white mare,
    Strapped the girths and the bridle, and sprang to her back.

  Up the North Country road at her full pace she strode,
    Till Brooks reined her up at John Tarbell's to say,
  "We have got the alarm,--they have left Phips's farm;
    You rouse the East Precinct, and I'll go this way."

  John called his hired man, and they harnessed the span;
    They roused Abram Garfield, and Abram called me:
  "Turn out right away; let no minute-man stay;
    The Red-Coats have landed at Phips's," says he.

  By the Powder-House Green seven others fell in;
    At Nahum's, the men from the Saw-Mill came down;
  So that when Jabez Bland gave the word of command,
    And said, "Forward, march!" there marched forward THE TOWN.

  Parson Wilderspin stood by the side of the road,
    And he took off his hat, and he said, "Let us pray!
  O Lord, God of might, let thine angels of light
    Lead thy children to-night to the glories of day!
  And let thy stars fight all the foes of the Right
    As the stars fought of old against Sisera."

  And from heaven's high arch those stars blessed our march,
    Till the last of them faded in twilight away;
  And with morning's bright beam, by the bank of the stream,
    Half the county marched in, and we heard Davis say:

  "On the King's own highway I may travel all day,
    And no man hath warrant to stop me," says he;
  "I've no man that's afraid, and I'll march at their head."
    Then he turned to the boys,--"Forward, march! Follow me."

  And we marched as he said, and the Fifer he played
    The old "White Cockade," and he played it right well.
  We saw Davis fall dead, but no man was afraid;
    That bridge we'd have had, though a thousand men fell.

  This opened the play, and it lasted all day.
    We made Concord too hot for the Red-Coats to stay;
  Down the Lexington way we stormed, black, white, and gray;
    We were first in the feast, and were last in the fray.

  They would turn in dismay, as red wolves turn at bay.
    They levelled, they fired, they charged up the road.
  Cephas Willard fell dead; he was shot in the head
    As he knelt by Aunt Prudence's well-sweep to load.

  John Danforth was hit just in Lexington Street,
    John Bridge at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls,
  And Winch and the Snows just above John Munroe's,--
    Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon-balls.

  I took Bridge on my knee, but he said, "Don't mind me;
  Fill your horn from mine,--let me lie where I be.
  Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,
  Left their king on his throne, and came over the sea;
  And that man is a knave or a fool who, to save
  His life for a minute, would live like a slave."

  Well, all would not do! There were men good as new,--
    From Rumford, from Saugus, from towns far away,--
  Who filled up quick and well for each soldier that fell;
    And we drove them, and drove them, and drove them, all day.
  We knew, every one, it was war that begun,
  When that morning's marching was only half done.

  In the hazy twilight, at the coming of night,
    I crowded three buckshot and one bullet down.
  'Twas my last charge of lead; and I aimed her and said,
    "Good luck to you, lobsters, in old Boston Town."

  In a barn at Milk Row, Ephraim Bates and Munroe
    And Baker and Abram and I made a bed.
  We had mighty sore feet, and we'd nothing to eat;
    But we'd driven the Red-Coats, and Amos, he said:
  "It's the first time," says he, "that it's happened to me
    To march to the sea by this road where we've come;
  But confound this whole day, but we'd all of us say
    We'd rather have spent it this way than to home."

       *       *       *       *       *

  The hunt had begun with the dawn of the sun,
    And night saw the wolf driven back to his den.
  And never since then, in the memory of men,
    Has the Old Bay State seen such a hunting again.

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

  April 19, 1882.



  Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay,
  I cannot refuse, when you so beg and pray;
  So I'll sing you a song,--as a body may say,
  'Tis of the King's Regulars, who ne'er ran away.
    _Oh! the old soldiers of the King, and the King's own Regulars._

  At Prestonpans we met with some rebels one day,
  We marshalled ourselves all in comely array;
  Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,
  But our feet were wrong-headed and took us away.

  At Falkirk we resolved to be braver,
  And recover some credit by better behavior:
  We wouldn't acknowledge feet had done us a favor,
  So feet swore they would stand, but--legs ran however.

  No troops perform better than we at reviews,
  We march and we wheel, and whatever you choose,
  George would see how we fight, and we never refuse,
  There we all fight with courage--you may see 't in the news.

  To Monongahela, with fifes and with drums,
  We marched in fine order, with cannon and bombs;
  That great expedition cost infinite sums,
  But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.

  It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees,
  If they had stood open, as they ought, before our great guns, we should
      have beat them with ease,
  They may fight with one another that way if they please,
  But it is not _regular_ to stand, and fight with such rascals as these.

  At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,
  We show'd our vast skill in fortification;
  The French fired three guns;--of the fourth they had no occasion;
  For we gave up those forts, not through fear, but mere persuasion.

  To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,
  Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation;
  But we soon turned tail, without hesitation,
  Because they fought behind trees, which is not the _regular_ fashion.

  Lord Loudon, he was a regular general, they say;
  With a great regular army he went on his way,
  Against Louisburg, to make it his prey,
  But returned--without seeing it,--for he didn't _feel bold_ that day.

  Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,
  Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed,
  He wish'd a rebellion, looked round and saw none,
  So resolved a rebellion to make--of his own.

  The Yankees he bravely pitched on, because he thought they wouldn't
  And so he sent us over to take away their right;
  But lest they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and
  For God's sake, brother kings, don't sell the cowards any powder.

  Our general with his council of war did advise
  How at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise;
  We march'd--and re-marched--all surprised--at being beat;
  And so our wise general's plan of _surprise_--was complete.

  For fifteen miles, they follow'd and pelted us, we scarce had time to
      pull a trigger;
  But did you ever know a retreat performed with more vigor?
  For we did it in two hours, which saved us from perdition;
  'Twas not in _going out_, but in _returning_, consisted our EXPEDITION.

  Says our general, "We were forced to take to our _arms_ in our defence
  (For _arms_ read _legs_, and it will be both truth and sense),
  Lord Percy (says he), I must say something of him in civility,
  And that is--'I can never enough praise him for his great--agility.'"

  Of their firing from behind fences he makes a great pother;
  Every fence has two sides, they made use of one, and we only forgot to
      use the other;
  Then we turned our backs and ran away so fast; don't let that disgrace
  'Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, that the Yankees--could not
      face us.

  As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?
  We took care they shouldn't, by scampering away apace.
  That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case;
  For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.

               _Pennsylvania Evening Post_, March 30, 1776.

    How the alarm of the fight spread through the countryside, how
    men left the plough, the loom, the anvil, and hastened, musket
    in hand, to the land's defence that day, has been told and
    retold in song and story. Here is the story of Morgan Stanwood,
    one among hundreds such.


CAPE ANN, 1775

  Morgan Stanwood, patriot!
    Little more is known;
  Nothing of his home is left
    But the door-step stone.

  Morgan Stanwood, to our thought
    You return once more;
  Once again the meadows lift
    Daisies to your door.

  Once again the morn is sweet,
    Half the hay is down,--
  Hark! what means that sudden clang
    From the distant town?

  Larum bell and rolling drum
    Answer sea-borne guns;
  Larum bell and rolling drum
    Summon Freedom's sons!

  And the mower thinks to him
    Cry both bell and drum,
  "Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?
    Here th' invaders come!"

  "Morgan Stanwood" need no more
    Bell and drum-beat call;
  He is one who, hearing once,
    Answers once for all.

  Ne'er the mower murmured then,
    "Half my grass is mown,
  Homespun isn't soldier-wear,
    Each may save his own."

  Fallen scythe and aftermath
    Lie forgotten now;
  Winter need may come and find
    But a barren mow.

  Down the musket comes. "Good wife,--
    Wife, a quicker flint!"
  And the face that questions face
    Hath no color in 't.

  "Wife, if I am late to-night,
    Milk the heifer first;--
  Ruth, if I'm not home at all,--
    Worse has come to worst."

  Morgan Stanwood sped along,
    Not the common road;
  Over wall and hill-top straight,
    Straight to death, he strode;

  Leaving her to hear at night
    Tread of burdened men,
  By the gate and through the gate,
    At the door, and then--

  Ever after that to hear,
    When the grass is sweet,
  Through the gate and through the night,
    Slowly coming feet.

  Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;
    Here the door-step lies;
  One may stand thereon and think,--
    For the thought will rise,--

  Were we where the meadow was,
    Mowing grass alone,
  Would we go the way he went,
    From this very stone?

  Were we on the door-step here,
    Parting for a day,
  Would we utter words as though
    Parting were for aye?

  Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear,
    Meadow-math is sweet;
  Parting be as parting may,
    After all, we meet.

               HIRAM RICH.

    Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon,
    while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic
    address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for
    the firing line.


[April 19, 1775]

  'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud;
  'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;
    When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed--
    A cracking whip and clanking hoofs--a case of crying need!
  And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,
    Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.

  The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day
    To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;
  They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,
    Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate:

  "The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington;
  Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;
    Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay;
    On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;
  We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:
    All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!"

  The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough,
    The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring.
  They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,
    At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.

  The pewter-ware is melted into bullets--long past due,
  The flints are picked, the powder's dry, the rifles shine like new.
    Within their Captain's yard enranked they hear the Parson's prayer
    Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share;
  He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,
    For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.

  The Minute-Men of Northboro' set out with drum and fife;
    With shining eyes they've blest their babes and bid their wives
  The hands that here release the plough have taken up a strife
    That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.

  At every town new streams of men join in the mighty flow;
  At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:
    The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.
    Our rifles speak from fence and tree--in front, on every side.
  The British fall: the Minute-Men have mixed with bitterest woe
    Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.

  The Minute-Men of Northboro' they boast no martial air;
    No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;
  But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare;
    They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England's God.

  The hirelings who would make us slaves themselves are backward hurled,
  On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag's forever furled.
    Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor's prize:
    That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.
  A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world
    With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.

  The Minute-Men of Northboro' sit down by Boston-town;
    They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.
  In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;
    And take the plough again in peace, their warrior's duty done.

               WALLACE RICE.



  No Berserk thirst of blood had they,
      No battle-joy was theirs, who set
      Against the alien bayonet
  Their homespun breasts in that old day.

  Their feet had trodden peaceful ways;
      They loved not strife, they dreaded pain;
      They saw not, what to us is plain,
  That God would make man's wrath His praise.

  No seers were they, but simple men;
      Its vast results the future hid:
      The meaning of the work they did
  Was strange and dark and doubtful then.

  Swift as their summons came they left
      The plough mid-furrow standing still,
      The half-ground corn grist in the mill,
  The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.

  They went where duty seemed to call,
      They scarcely asked the reason why;
      They only knew they could but die,
  And death was not the worst of all!

  Of man for man the sacrifice,
      All that was theirs to give, they gave.
      The flowers that blossomed from their grave
  Have sown themselves beneath all skies.

  Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,
      And shattered slavery's chain as well;
      On the sky's dome, as on a bell,
  Its echo struck the world's great hour.

  That fateful echo is not dumb:
      The nations listening to its sound
      Wait, from a century's vantage-ground,
  The holier triumphs yet to come,--

  The bridal time of Law and Love,
      The gladness of the world's release,
      When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace
  The hawk shall nestle with the dove!--

  The golden age of brotherhood
      Unknown to other rivalries
      Than of the mild humanities,
  And gracious interchange of good,

  When closer strand shall lean to strand,
      Till meet, beneath saluting flags,
      The eagle of our mountain-crags,
  The lion of our Motherland!


    The news of the fight at Lexington spread with remarkable
    rapidity throughout the whole country, and nearly every colony
    at once took steps for the enlistment and training of a
    colonial militia. No stronger proof of the electric condition
    of the country could be offered than the way in which men
    everywhere rushed to arms.


    From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"

  Out of the North the wild news came,
  Far flashing on its wings of flame,
  Swift as the boreal light which flies
  At midnight through the startled skies.

  And there was tumult in the air,
    The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
  And through the wild land everywhere
    The answering tread of hurrying feet,
  While the first oath of Freedom's gun
  Came on the blast from Lexington;
  And Concord, roused, no longer tame,
  Forgot her old baptismal name,
  Made bare her patriot arm of power,
  And swell'd the discord of the hour.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Within its shade of elm and oak
    The church of Berkeley Manor stood;
  There Sunday found the rural folk,
    And some esteem'd of gentle blood.
    In vain their feet with loitering tread
  Pass'd mid the graves where rank is naught;
  All could not read the lesson taught
    In that republic of the dead.

         *       *       *       *       *

  The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;
  The psalm was warrior David's song;
  The text, a few short words of might,--
  "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
  He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
  Of sacred rights to be secured;
  Then from his patriot tongue of flame
  The startling words for Freedom came.
  The stirring sentences he spake
  Compell'd the heart to glow or quake,
  And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
    And grasping in his nervous hand
    The imaginary battle-brand,
  In face of death he dared to fling
  Defiance to a tyrant King.

  Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
  In eloquence of attitude,
  Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher;
  Then swept his kindling glance of fire
  From startled pew to breathless choir;
  When suddenly his mantle wide
  His hands impatient flung aside,
  And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
  Complete in all a warrior's guise.

  A moment there was awful pause,--
  When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
  God's temple is the house of peace!"
    The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
  When God is with our righteous cause;
  His holiest places then are ours,
  His temples are our forts and towers
    That frown upon the tyrant foe;
  In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
  There is a time to fight and pray!"

  And now before the open door--
    The warrior priest had order'd so--
  The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar
  Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
    Its long reverberating blow,
  So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear
  Of dusty death must wake and hear.
  And there the startling drum and fife
  Fired the living with fiercer life;
  While overhead, with wild increase,
  Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,
    The great bell swung as ne'er before.
  It seemed as it would never cease;
  And every word its ardor flung
  From off its jubilant iron tongue
    Was, "War! war! war!"

  "Who dares"--this was the patriot's cry,
    As striding from the desk he came--
    "Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
  For her to live, for her to die?"
  A hundred hands flung up reply,
  A hundred voices answer'd, "I!"

               THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

    Early in May, news of the fight at Lexington reached Machias,
    Maine, and on the 11th a party of young men boarded the British
    armed schooner, Margaretta, which was in the harbor there, and
    forced her to surrender, after a loss of about twenty on each


[May 11, 1775]


  Four young men, of a Monday morn,
  Heard that the flag of peace was torn;

  Heard that "rebels" with sword and gun,
  Had fought the British at Lexington,

  While they were far from that bloody plain,
  Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine.

  With eyes that glittered, and hearts that burned,
  They talked of the glory their friends had earned,

  And asked each other, "What can we do,
  So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?"


  Silent the Margaretta lay,
  Out on the bosom of the bay;

  On her masts rich bunting gleamed;
  Bravely the flag of England streamed.

  The young men gazed at the tempting prize--
  They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes;

  Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dread
  And hoist the pine-tree flag instead.

  "We are only boys to the old and sage;
  We have not yet come to manhood's age;

  "But we can show them that, when there's need,
  Men may follow and boys may lead."

  Tightly each other's hand they pressed,
  Loudly they cried, "We will do our best;

  "The pine-tree flag, ere day is passed,
  Shall float from the Margaretta's mast."


  They ran to a sloop that lay near by;
  They roused their neighbors, with hue and cry;

  They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers,
  And called for a crew of volunteers.

  Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide,
  And men came running from every side.

  Curious armed were the dauntless ones,
  With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns;

  They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed,
  The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!"


  With sails all set, trim as could be,
  The Margaretta stood out to sea.

  With every man and boy in place,
  The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase.

  Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas;
  Freshened and sung the soft May breeze;

  And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray!
  We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!"

  A sound of thunder, echoing wide,
  Came from the Margaretta's side;

  A deadly crash, and a loud death-yell,
  And one of the brave pursuers fell.

  They aimed a gun at the schooner then,
  And sent the compliment back again;

  He who at the helm of the schooner stood,
  Covered the deck with his rich life-blood.


  Each burning to pay a bloody debt,
  The crews of the hostile vessels met;

  The Western nation now to be,
  Made her first fight upon the sea.

  And not till forty men were slain,
  Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain;

  But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed,
  And grandly the patriot arm prevailed.

  One of the youths, the deed to crown,
  Grasped the colors and pulled them down;

  And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight,
  The pine-tree flag of blue and white.

  And the truth was shown, for the world to read,
  That men may follow and boys may lead.

               WILL CARLETON.

[4] From _Poems for Young Americans_, published by Harper & Bros.

    In North Carolina, the men of Mecklenburg County met, May
    31, and adopted their famous "Resolves," declaring that each
    provincial congress was invested with all legislative and
    executive powers for the government of the colonies, and should
    exercise them independently of Great Britain, until Parliament
    should resign its arbitrary pretensions. It was from these
    "Resolves" that the legend of the Mecklenburg "Declaration of
    Independence, said to have been signed May 20," originated.


[May 20, 1775]

  Oppressed and few, but freemen yet,
  The men of Mecklenburg had met
      Determined to be free,
      And crook no coward knee,
  Though Might in front and Treason at the back
  Brought death and ruin in their joint attack.

  The tyrant's heel was on the land
  When Polk convoked his gallant band,
      And told in words full strong
      The bitter tale of wrong,
  Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves:
  "We must be independent, or be slaves!"

  But, hark! What hurried rider, this,
  With jaded horse and garb amiss,
      Whose look some woe proclaims,
      Ere he his mission names?
  He rides amain from far-off Lexington,
  And tells the blood-red news of war begun!

  Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spoke
  The wise bold words that aye invoke
      Men to defend the right
      And scorn the despot's might;
  Until from all there rose the answering cry:
  "We will be independent, or we die."

  When Alexander called the vote,
  No dastard "nay's" discordant note
      Broke on that holy air--
      For dastard none was there!
  But in prompt answer to their country's call,
  They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor--all!

  In solemn hush the people heard;
  With shout and cheer they caught the word:
      Independence! In that sign
      We grasp our right divine;
  For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hate
  Must yield to men who fight for God and State!

  The hero shout flew on the breeze;
  Rushed from the mountains to the seas;
      Till all the land uprose,
      Their faces to their foes,
  Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne,
  And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn!

  And well those men maintained the right;
  They kept the faith, and fought the fight;
      Till Might and Treason both
      Fled fast before the oath
  Which brought the God of Freedom's battles down
  To place on patriot brows the victor's crown!

               WILLIAM C. ELAM.

    Up and down the land, in every city, town, and hamlet, men were
    drilling--with brooms and corn-stalks, when no muskets were
    available. The storm, which had been gathering for years, had
    burst at last.


  Hark! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, awake!
    To arms, my brave boys, and away:
  'Tis Honor, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls,
    And upbraids the too tedious delay.
  What pleasure we find in pursuing our foes,
    Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly;
  Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, huzza!
    The tyrants are seized on, they die!

  Triumphant returning with Freedom secur'd,
    Like men, we'll be joyful and gay--
  With our wives and our friends, we'll sport, love, and drink,
    And lose the fatigues of the day.
  'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth,
    But oppression all happiness sours;
  It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill slope the descent,
    And strew the way over with flowers.

               _Pennsylvania Journal_, May 31, 1775.



    A rustic army of nearly twenty thousand men quickly gathered
    about Boston to besiege Gage there; but its warlike spirit ran
    too high to be contented with passive and defensive measures.
    Benedict Arnold suggested that expeditions be sent against the
    fortresses at Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which commanded the
    northern approach to the Hudson and were of great strategic
    importance. The suggestion was at once adopted. Arnold was
    created colonel and set out to raise a regiment among the
    Berkshire Hills. When he arrived there, he found that Ethan
    Allen had already raised a force of Vermonters and started for


[May 9, 1775]


  Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent
    On the rugged forest-ground,
  And light our fire with the branches rent
    By winds from the beeches round.
  Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
    But a wilder is at hand,
  With hail of iron and rain of blood,
    To sweep and waste the land.


  How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill,
    That startle the sleeping bird!
  To-morrow eve must the voice be still,
    And the step must fall unheard.
  The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
    In Ticonderoga's towers,
  And ere the sun rise twice again,
    Must they and the lake be ours.


  Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
    Where the fire-flies light the brake;
  A ruddier juice the Briton hides
    In his fortress by the lake.
  Build high the fire, till the panther leap
    From his lofty perch in flight,
  And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep
    For the deeds of to-morrow night.


    Arnold overtook Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys" on May 9,
    and accompanied the expedition as a volunteer. At daybreak of
    the 10th, Allen and Arnold, with eighty-three men, crossed Lake
    Champlain and entered Ticonderoga side by side. The garrison
    was completely surprised and surrendered the stronghold without
    a blow.


[May 10, 1775]

  'Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing
  Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,--
  Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm,
  Or chanticleer's shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.

  But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise,
  Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his "Green Mountain Boys,"--
  Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one,
  To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!

  "My comrades,"--thus the leader spake to his gallant band,--
  "The key of all the Canadas is in King George's hand,
  Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock,
  Good Yankee swords--God willing--may pick his rusty lock!"

  At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way,
  Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray,
  As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet
  To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.

  The curtain of the darkness closed 'round them like a tent,
  When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent,
  They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain,
  And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.

  O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills!
  O bastions of old Carillon, the "Fort of Chiming Rills!"
  Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay,
  And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!

  In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore,
  Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar;
  The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake,
  Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.

  Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray
  Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay;
  Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before,
  And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:

  "Soldiers, so long united--dread scourge of lawless power!
  Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour.
  One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest--
  To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!

  "I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill,
  Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will!
  There leads no pathway backward--'tis death or victory!
  Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!"

  From man to man a tremor ran at their captain's word
  (Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees that once King David heard),--
  While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line,
  Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!

  "Right face, my men, and forward!" Low-spoken, swift-obeyed!
  They mount the slope unfaltering--they gain the esplanade!
  A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate,
  Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm--too late!

  They swarm before the barracks--the quaking guards take flight,
  And such a shout resultant resounds along the height,
  As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago,
  When brave Montcalm's defenders charged on a British foe!

  Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace,
  To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass!
  The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes,
  And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Surrender!" Allen cries.

  "Then in whose name the summons?" the ashen lips reply.
  The mountaineer's stern visage turns proudly to the sky,--
  "In the name of great Jehovah!" he speaks with lifted sword,
  "And the Continental Congress, who wait upon his word!"

  Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east,
  As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased,
  Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws,
  As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.

  Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise,
  Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise,
  And still, on Freedom's roster, through all her glorious years,
  Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!

               MARY A. P. STANSBURY.

    The Continental army at Cambridge, meanwhile, was busy day and
    night, drilling and getting into shape. It was at this time
    that "a gentleman of Connecticut," whose name, it is said,
    was Edward Bangs, described his visit to the camp in verses
    destined to become famous. They were printed originally as a


[June, 1775]

  Father and I went down to camp,
    Along with Captain Gooding,
  And there we see the men and boys,
    As thick as hasty pudding.
  _Chorus_--Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
            Yankee Doodle, dandy,
          Mind the music and the step,
            And with the girls be handy.

  And there we see a thousand men,
    As rich as 'Squire David;
  And what they wasted every day
    I wish it could be savèd.

  The 'lasses they eat every day
    Would keep an house a winter;
  They have as much that, I'll be bound,
    They eat it when they're a mind to.

  And there we see a swamping gun,
    Large as a log of maple,
  Upon a deucèd little cart,
    A load for father's cattle.

  And every time they shoot it off,
    It takes a horn of powder,
  And makes a noise like father's gun,
    Only a nation louder.

  I went as nigh to one myself
    As Siah's underpinning;
  And father went as nigh again,
    I thought the deuce was in him.

  Cousin Simon grew so bold,
    I thought he would have cocked it;
  It scared me so, I shrinked it off,
    And hung by father's pocket.

  And Captain Davis had a gun,
    He kind of clapt his hand on 't,
  And stuck a crooked stabbing iron
    Upon the little end on 't.

  And there I see a pumpkin shell
    As big as mother's bason;
  And every time they touched it off,
    They scampered like the nation.

  I see a little barrel, too,
    The heads were made of leather,
  They knocked upon 't with little clubs
    And called the folks together.

  And there was Captain Washington,
    And gentlefolks about him,
  They say he's grown so tarnal proud
    He will not ride without 'em.

  He got him on his meeting clothes,
    Upon a strapping stallion,
  He set the world along in rows,
    In hundreds and in millions.

  The flaming ribbons in his hat,
    They looked so tearing fine ah,
  I wanted pockily to get,
    To give to my Jemimah.

  I see another snarl of men
    A digging graves, they told me,
  So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,
    They 'tended they should hold me.

  It scared me so, I hooked it off,
    Nor stopped, as I remember,
  Nor turned about, till I got home,
    Locked up in mother's chamber.

               EDWARD BANGS.

    Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne arrived, May 25, with
    reinforcements which raised the British force in Boston to ten
    thousand men, and plans were at once made to extend the lines
    to cover Charlestown and Dorchester, the occupation of which
    by the Americans would render Boston untenable. Confident of
    victory, Gage, on June 12, issued a proclamation offering
    pardon to all rebels who should lay down their arms and return
    to their allegiance, save only John Hancock and Samuel Adams.
    At the same time, all who remained in arms were threatened with
    the gallows.



[June 12, 1775]

  Whereas the rebels hereabout
  Are stubborn still, and still hold out;
  Refusing yet to drink their tea,
  In spite of Parliament and me;
  And to maintain their bubble, Right,
  Prognosticate a real fight;
  Preparing flints, and guns, and ball,
  My army and the fleet to maul;
  Mounting their guilt to such a pitch,
  As to let fly at soldiers' breech;
  Pretending they design'd a trick,
  Tho' ordered not to hurt a chick;
  But peaceably, without alarm,
  The men of Concord to disarm;
  Or, if resisting, to annoy,
  And every magazine destroy:--
  All which, tho' long obliged to bear,
  Thro' want of men, and not of fear;
  I'm able now by augmentation,
  To give a proper castigation;
  For since th' addition to the troops,
  Now reinforc'd as thick as hops;
  I can, like Jeremey at the Boyne,
  Look safely on--fight you, Burgoyne;
  And now, like grass, the rebel Yankees,
  I fancy not these doodle dances:--
  Yet, e'er I draw the vengeful sword,
  I have thought fit to send abroad,
  This present gracious proclamation,
  Of purpose mild the demonstration,
  That whosoe'er keeps gun or pistol,
  I'll spoil the motion of his systole;
  Or, whip his ----, or cut his weason,
  As haps the measure of his treason:--
  But every one that will lay down
  His hanger bright, and musket brown,
  Shall not be beat, nor bruis'd, nor bang'd,
  Much less for past offences hang'd;
  But on surrendering his toledo,
  Go to and fro unhurt as we do:--
  But then I must, out of this plan, lock
  Both Samuel Adams and John Hancock;
  For those vile traitors (like debentures)
  Must be tucked up at all adventures;
  As any proffer of a pardon,
  Would only tend those rogues to harden:--
  But every other mother's son,
  The instant he destroys his gun
  (For thus doth run the King's command),
  May, if he will, come kiss my hand.--
  And to prevent such wicked game, as
  Pleading the plea of ignoramus,
  Be this my proclamation spread
  To every reader that can read:--
  And as nor law nor right was known
  Since my arrival in this town,
  To remedy this fatal flaw,
  I hereby publish martial law.
  Meanwhile, let all, and every one
  Who loves his life, forsake his gun;
  And all the council, by mandamus,
  Who have been reckoned so infamous,
  Return unto their habitation,
  Without or let or molestation.--
  Thus graciously the war I wage,
  As witnesseth my hand,--TOM GAGE.

  By command of MOTHER CARY,
            Thomas Flucker, Secretary.

               _Pennsylvania Journal_, June 28, 1775.

    The Committee of Safety received intelligence of Gage's
    plans and ordered out a force of twelve hundred men to take
    possession of Bunker Hill in Charlestown. At sunset of June 16
    this brigade started from Cambridge, under command of Colonel
    William Prescott, a veteran of the French War. On reaching
    Bunker Hill, a consultation was held, and it was decided to
    push on to Breed's Hill, and erect a fortification there.
    Breed's Hill was reached about midnight, and the work of
    throwing up intrenchments began at once.


[June 16, 1775]

  'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath,
  When life is a gladsome thing, and a distant dream is death;
  There was gossip of birds in the air, and a lowing of herds by the wood,
  And a sunset gleam in the sky that the heart of a man holds good;
  Then the nun-like Twilight came, violet-vestured and still,
  And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill.

  There rang a cry through the camp, with its word upon rousing word;
  There was never a faltering foot in the ranks of those that heard;--
  Lads from the Hampshire hills, and the rich Connecticut vales,
  Sons of the old Bay Colony, from its shores and its inland dales;
  Swiftly they fell in line; no fear could their valor chill;
  Ah, brave the show as they ranged a-row on the eve of Bunker Hill!

  Then a deep voice lifted a prayer to the God of the brave and the true,
  And the heads of the men were bare in the gathering dusk and dew;
  The heads of a thousand men were bowed as the pleading rose,--
  _Smite Thou, Lord, as of old Thou smotest Thy people's foes!
  Oh, nerve Thy servants' arms to work with a mighty will!_
  A hush, and then a loud _Amen!_ on the eve of Bunker Hill!

  Now they are gone through the night with never a thought of fame,
  Gone to the field of a fight that shall win them a deathless name;
  Some shall never again behold the set of the sun,
  But lie like the Concord slain, and the slain of Lexington,
  Martyrs to Freedom's cause. Ah, how at their deeds we thrill,
  The men whose might made strong the height on the eve of Bunker Hill!

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    June 17 dawned fair and bright, and the intrenchments were at
    once discovered by the British. A lively cannonade was opened
    upon them by the ships in the harbor, but without effect. At
    noon, three thousand veterans were ordered forward to rout
    out the "peasants," and by three o'clock in the afternoon had
    crossed the river and were ready to storm the intrenchments.
    Commanded by General Howe and General Pigot, they advanced
    steadily up the hill, only to be met by so terrific a fire that
    they gave way and retreated in disorder.


[June 17, 1775]

  Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
  Will ye give it up to slaves?
  Will ye look for greener graves?
      Hope ye mercy still?
  What's the mercy despots feel?
  Hear it in that battle-peal!
  Read it on yon bristling steel!
      Ask it,--ye who will.

  Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
  Will ye to your homes retire?
  Look behind you! they're a-fire!
      And, before you, see
  Who have done it!--From the vale
  On they come!--And will ye quail?--
  Leaden rain and iron hail
      Let their welcome be!

  In the God of battles trust!
  Die we may,--and die we must;
  But, oh, where can dust to dust
      Be consigned so well,
  As where Heaven its dews shall shed
  On the martyred patriot's bed,
  And the rocks shall raise their head,
      Of his deeds to tell!

               JOHN PIERPONT.

    A pause followed, during which Charlestown was set on fire by
    shells from the fleet and was soon in a roaring blaze. Then
    a second time the British advanced to the assault; again the
    Americans held their fire, and again, at thirty yards, poured
    into the Redcoats so deadly a volley that they were forced to


  We lay in the Trenches we'd dug in the Ground
    While _Phoebus_ blazed down from his glory-lined Car,
  And then from the lips of our Leader renown'd,
    These lessons we learn'd in the _Science of War_.
          "Let the Foeman draw nigh,
          Till the white of his Eye
  Is in range with your Rifles, and then, Lads, let fly!
  And shew to _Columbia_, to _Britain_, and _Fame_,
  How _Justice_ smiles aweful, when _Freemen_ take _aim_!"

  The Regulars from Town to the Foot of the Hill
    Came in Barges and Rowboats, some great and some small,
  But they potter'd and dawdl'd, and twaddled, until
    We fear'd there would be no _Attack_ after all!
          Two men in red Coats
          Talk'd to one in long Boots,
  And all of them _pinted_ and _gestur'd_ like _Coots_,
  And we said,--as the Boys do upon _Training-Day_--
  "If they waste all their _Time_ so, the _Sham-fight_ won't pay."

  But when they got Ready, and All came along,
    The way they march'd up the _Hill-side_ wasn't slow,
  But we were not a-fear'd, and we welcomed 'em strong,
    Held our _Fire_ till the Word, and then laid the Lads low!
          ... But who shall declare
          The _End_ of the Affair?
  At Sundown there wasn't a Man of us there!
  But we didn't depart till we'd given them _Some_!
  When we burned up our Powder, we had to go _Home_!

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

    So long a time elapsed after the second assault that it seemed
    for a time that the Americans would be left in possession of
    the field. In the confusion of the moment, no reinforcements
    were sent them, and Prescott, to his dismay, discovered that
    his supply of powder and ball was nearly exhausted.


      "Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!"
      On came the foe, in even line:
  Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
      We looked into their eyes. "Ready!"
      A sheet of flame! A roll of death!
      They fell by scores; we held our breath!
          Then nearer still they came;
          Another sheet of flame!
  And brave men fled who never fled before.
             Immortal fight!
             Foreshadowing flight
  Back to the astounded shore.

      Quickly they rallied, reinforced.
  Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,
  And bursting bombs and whistling musketry
      And shouts and groans, anear, afar,
      All the new din of dreadful war,
      Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
      The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
      For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming.
      Onward once more they came;
      Another sheet of deathful flame!
      Another and another still:
          They broke, they fled:
          Again they sped
  Down the green, bloody hill.

      Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
      Stormed with commander's rage.
      Into each emptied barge
  They crowd fresh men for a new charge
          Up that great hill.
  Again their gallant blood we spill:
      That volley was the last:
          Our powder failed.
          On three sides fast
      The foe pressed in; nor quailed
  A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks
      They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,
      Till Prescott ordered the retreat.
  Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,
      From Bunker Hill and Breed,
  Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,
  Led off the remnant of those heroes true,
  The foe too shattered to pursue.
      The ground they gained; but we
          The victory.

      The tidings of that chosen band
          Flowed in a wave of power
      Over the shaken, anxious land,
      To men, to man, a sudden dower.
      From that stanch, beaming hour
      History took a fresh higher start;
  And when the speeding messenger, that bare
      The news that strengthened every heart,
          Met near the Delaware
          Riding to take command,
      The leader, who had just been named,
          Who was to be so famed,
      The steadfast, earnest Washington
          With hand uplifted cries,
      His great soul flashing to his eyes,
  "Our liberties are safe; the cause is won."
      A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then
  His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.

               GEORGE H. CALVERT.

    There was, in fact, a difference of opinion among the British
    generals as to continuing the assault. But Howe insisted that a
    third attempt be made, and at five o'clock it was ordered. For
    a moment, the advancing column was again shaken by the American
    fire, but the last cartridges were soon spent, and, at the
    bayonet point, the Americans were driven from their works and
    forced to retreat across Charlestown neck.



  '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
  Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

  Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,
  To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:
  She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,
  When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

  Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any,
  For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;
  There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"--
  For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.

  No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;
  Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;
  God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing,
  How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!

  In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping
  Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,
  With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found him,
  So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

  They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people;
  The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.
  Just across the narrow river--oh, so close it made me shiver!--
  Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

  Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,
  Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:
  Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,
  And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME!

  The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted
  And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill,
  When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;
  It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.

  Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,
  With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;
  Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,
  Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.

  At eleven the streets were swarming, for the redcoats' ranks were
  At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;
  How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and
  To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!

  At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),
  In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,
  And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter,
  Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.

  So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;
  And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:
  The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,--
  At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.

  We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,--
  Now the front rank fires a volley,--they have thrown away their shot;
  For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,
  Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.

  Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and
  He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,--
  Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,--
  And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:--

  "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's,
  But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls;
  You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm
  Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"

  In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation
  Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;
  Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,
  We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.

  Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,--nearer,
  When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple shakes--
  The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended;
  Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thundercloud it breaks!

  Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!
  The redcoats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;
  Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying
  Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.

  Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be
  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
  "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they beaten?"--"Wait a while."

  Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:
  They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;
  And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,
  Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.

  All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!
  They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!
  The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round
  The robbing, murdering redcoats, that would burn a peaceful town!

  They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column
  As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.
  Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?
  Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?

  Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!
  Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!
  But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,
  And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!

  So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,
  Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
  And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run
  They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"

  And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features,
  Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
  "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll try it--
  Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"--then he handed me his flask,

  Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky;
  I'm afeard there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;"
  So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow,
  Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.

  All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial,
  As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round to four,
  When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for
  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
  Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
  He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows,
  As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

  For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,--
  And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What _will_ his mother
  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!


    In this last charge, the Americans met with an irreparable
    loss in the death of General Joseph Warren, who was shot
    through the head as he lingered on the field, loath to join
    in the retreat. He had hastened to the battlefield in the
    early morning, replying to the remonstrance of a friend,
    "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." He had just been
    appointed major-general, but refused the command tendered him
    by Prescott, saying that he was only too glad to serve as a
    volunteer aid.


[June 17, 1775]

  When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land,
  To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand;
  On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear,
  When the army is joined by a young volunteer.
  "Tempt not death!" cried his friends; but he bade them good-by,
  Saying, "Oh! it is sweet for our country to die!"

  The tempest of battle now rages and swells,
  'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells;
  And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire--
  Scene of woe and destruction;--'tis Charlestown on fire!
  The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry
  But murmurs, "'Tis sweet for our country to die!"

  With trumpets and banners the foe draweth near:
  A volley of musketry checks their career!
  With the dead and the dying the hill-side is strown,
  And the shout through our lines is, "The day is our own!"
  "Not yet," cries the young volunteer, "do they fly!
  Stand firm!--it is sweet for our country to die!"

  Now our powder is spent, and they rally again;--
  "Retreat!" says our chief, "since unarmed we remain!"
  But the young volunteer lingers yet on the field,
  Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to yield.
  A shot! Ah! he falls! but his life's latest sigh
  Is, "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

  And thus Warren fell! Happy death! noble fall!
  To perish for country at Liberty's call!
  Should the flag of invasion profane evermore
  The blue of our seas or the green of our shore,
  May the hearts of our people reëcho that cry,--
  "'Tis sweet, oh, 'tis sweet for our country to die!"

               EPES SARGENT.

    The British loss in killed and wounded was 1054, while the
    American loss, incurred mainly in the last hand-to-hand
    struggle, was 449. The British had gained the victory, but the
    moral advantage was wholly with the Americans.



  It was on the seventeenth, by break of day,
    The Yankees did surprise us,
  With their strong works they had thrown up
    To burn the town and drive us.

  But soon we had an order come,
    An order to defeat them;
  Like rebels stout, they stood it out,
    And thought we ne'er could beat them.

  About the hour of twelve that day,
    An order came for marching,
  With three good flints and sixty rounds,
    Each man hoped to discharge them.

  We marchèd down to the Long Wharf,
    Where boats were ready waiting;
  With expedition we embark'd,
    Our ships kept cannonading.

  And when our boats all fillèd were
    With officers and soldiers,
  With as good troops as England had,
    To oppose who dare controul us?

  And when our boats all fillèd were,
    We row'd in line of battle,
  Where showers of ball like hail did fly,
    Our cannon loud did rattle.

  There was Copps' Hill battery, near Charlestown,
    Our twenty-fours they played;
  And the three frigates in the stream,
    That very well behaved.

  The Glasgow frigate clear'd the shore,
    All at the time of landing,
  With her grape-shot and cannon-balls,
    No Yankee e'er could stand them.

  And when we landed on the shore,
    We draw'd up all together;
  The Yankees they all mann'd their works,
    And thought we'd ne'er come thither.

  But soon they did perceive brave Howe,
    Brave Howe, our bold commander;
  With grenadiers, and infantry,
    We made them to surrender.

  Brave William Howe, on our right wing,
    Cried, "Boys, fight on like thunder;
  You soon will see the rebels flee,
    With great amaze and wonder."

  Now some lay bleeding on the ground,
    And some fell fast a-running
  O'er hills and dales, and mountains high,
    Crying, "Zounds! brave Howe's a-coming."

  They 'gan to play on our left wing,
    Where Pigot, he commanded;
  But we returned it back again,
    With courage most undaunted.

  To our grape-shot and musket-balls,
    To which they were but strangers,
  They thought to come with sword in hand,
    But soon they found their danger.

  And when their works we got into,
    And put them to the flight, sirs,
  Some of them did hide themselves,
    And others died of fright, sirs.

  And when their works we got into,
    Without great fear or danger,
  The works they'd made were firm and strong,
    The Yankees are great strangers.

  But as for our artillery,
    They all behavèd dinty;
  For while our ammunition held,
    We gave it to them plenty.

  But our conductor, he got broke
    For his misconduct sure, sir;
  The shot he sent for twelve-pound guns,
    Were made for twenty-fours, sir.

  There's some in Boston pleased to say,
    As we the field were taking,
  We went to kill their countrymen,
    While they their hay were making.

  For such stout whigs I never saw,
    To hang them all I'd rather;
  For making hay with musket-balls,
    And buckshot mixt together.

  Brave Howe is so considerate,
    As to guard against all dangers:
  He allows us half a pint a day--
    To rum we are no strangers.

  Long may he live by land and sea,
    For he's belov'd by many;
  The name of Howe the Yankees dread,
    We see it very plainly.

  And now my song is at an end:
    And to conclude my ditty,
  It is the poor and ignorant,
    And only them, I pity.

  But as for their king, John Hancock,
    And Adams, if they're taken,
  Their heads for signs shall hang up high,
    Upon that hill call'd Beacon.

    On July 2, 1775, George Washington, who had, a fortnight
    before, been appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental
    army by the Congress then assembled in Philadelphia, arrived
    at Cambridge, and on the following day, under the shade of the
    great elm which is still standing near Cambridge Common, he
    took command of the sixteen thousand men composing the American


From "Under the Old Elm"

[July 3, 1775]

  Beneath our consecrated elm
  A century ago he stood,
  Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood
  Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm
  The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm:--
  From colleges, where now the gown
  To arms had yielded, from the town,
  Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see
  The new-come chief and wonder which was he.
  No need to question long; close-lipped and tall,
  Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone
  To bridle others' clamors and his own,
  Firmly erect, he towered above them all,
  The incarnate discipline that was to free
  With iron curb that armed democracy.

  A motley rout was that which came to stare,
  In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,
  Of every shape that was not uniform,
  Dotted with regimentals here and there;
  An army all of captains, used to pray
  And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,
  Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;
  Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note
  In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,
  Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,
  But largely liberal to its private moods;
  Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen,
  Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen,
  Nor much fastidious as to how and when:
  Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create
  A thought-staid army or a lasting state:
  Haughty they said he was, at first; severe;
  But owned, as all men own, the steady hand
  Upon the bridle, patient to command,
  Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear,
  And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere.
  Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint
  And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Never to see a nation born
  Hath been given to mortal man,
  Unless to those who, on that summer morn,
  Gazed silent when the great Virginian
  Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash
  Shot union through the incoherent clash
  Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them
  Around a single will's unpliant stem,
  And making purpose of emotion rash,
  Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb,
  Nebulous at first but hardening to a star,
  Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom,
  The common faith that made us what we are.

  That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans,
  Till then provincial, to Americans,
  And made a unity of wildering plans;
  Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the date
  When this New World awoke to man's estate,
  Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind:
  Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hate
  Could from its poise move that deliberate mind,
  Weighing between too early and too late
  Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate:
  His was the impartial vision of the great
  Who see not as they wish, but as they find.
  He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less
  The incomputable perils of success;
  The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind;
  The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind;
  The waste of war, the ignominy of peace;
  On either hand a sullen rear of woes,
  Whose garnered lightnings none could guess,
  Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!"
  Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely chose
  The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose.

               JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

    Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the
    undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head,
    but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of
    very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only
    one which has survived.


[July 3, 1775]

  When Congress sent great Washington
    All clothed in power and breeches,
  To meet old Britain's warlike sons
    And make some rebel speeches;

  'Twas then he took his gloomy way
    Astride his dapple donkeys,
  And travelled well, both night and day,
    Until he reach'd the Yankees.

  Away from camp, 'bout three miles off,
    From Lily he dismounted.
  His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig
    While he the specie counted.

  All prinkèd up in _full_ bag-wig;
    The shaking notwithstanding,
  In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight!
    He reach'd the Yankee landing.

  The women ran, the darkeys too;
    And all the bells, they tollèd;
  For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo,
    We're sure to be--consolèd.

  Old mother Hancock with a pan
    All crowded full of butter,
  Unto the lovely Georgius ran,
    And added to the splutter.

  Says she, "Our brindle has just calved,
    And John is wondrous happy.
  He sent this present to you, dear,
    As you're the 'country's papa.'"--

  "You'll butter bread and bread butter,
    But do not butt your speeches.
  You'll butter bread and bread butter,
    But do not grease your breeches."

  Full many a child went into camp,
    All dressed in homespun kersey,
  To see the greatest rebel scamp
    That ever cross'd o'er Jersey.

  The rebel clowns, oh! what a sight!
    Too awkward was their figure.
  'Twas yonder stood a pious wight,
    And here and there a nigger.

  Upon a stump he placed (himself),
    Great Washington did he,
  And through the nose of lawyer Close,
    Proclaimed great Liberty.

  The patriot brave, the patriot fair,
    From fervor had grown thinner,
  So off they march'd, with patriot zeal,
    And took a patriot dinner.

    The Colonials, on the other hand, among whom he seems to have
    inspired almost instant respect and affection, made him the
    subject of many songs, the most popular of which was Sewall's
    "War and Washington," which was sung by soldiers and civilians
    during the whole Revolution.


  Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud indignity,
  By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength at sea,
  Since we, your braver sons incensed, our swords have girded on,
  Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and Washington.

  Urged on by North and vengeance those valiant champions came,
  Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and George was all on flame,
  Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels still live on,
  And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza for Washington!

  Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,
  You have for thirty pieces betrayed your country's blood.
  Like Esop's greedy cur you'll gain a shadow for your bone,
  Yet find us fearful shades indeed inspired by Washington.

  Mysterious! unexampled! incomprehensible!
  The blundering schemes of Britain their folly, pride, and zeal,
  Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere asses have you shown,
  And ye shall share an ass's fate, and drudge for Washington!

  Your dark unfathomed councils our weakest heads defeat,
  Our children rout your armies, our boats destroy your fleet,
  And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped up within a town,
  You live the scorn of all our host, the slaves of Washington!

  Great Heaven! is this the nation whose thundering arms were hurled,
  Through Europe, Afric, India? whose navy ruled a world?
  The lustre of your former deeds, whole ages of renown,
  Lost in a moment, or transferred to us and Washington!

  Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths our vengeful swords
  To rend your bands asunder, or cast away your cords,
  'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, and strengthens each brave son,
  From him who humbly guides the plough, to god-like Washington.

  For this, oh could our wishes your ancient rage inspire,
  Your armies should be doubled, in numbers, force, and fire.
  Then might the glorious conflict prove which best deserved the boon,
  America or Albion, a George or Washington!

  Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' shades would rise,
  To view the stern contention, the gods desert their skies;
  And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, superior bending down,
  Cry out with eager transport, God save great Washington!

  Should George, too choice of Britons, to foreign realms apply,
  And madly arm half Europe, yet still we would defy
  Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all those powers in one,
  While Adams guards our senate, our camp great Washington!

  Should warlike weapons fail us, disdaining slavish fears,
  To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, our pruning-hooks to spears,
  And rush, all desperate, on our foe, nor breathe till battle won,
  Then shout, and shout America! and conquering Washington!

  Proud France should view with terror, and haughty Spain revere,
  While every warlike nation would court alliance here;
  And George, his minions trembling round, dismounting from his throne
  Pay homage to America and glorious Washington!


    While the army at Cambridge was getting into shape to assume
    the offensive, the British were by no means idle. They
    recovered St. John's, which Arnold had captured in May, and a
    fleet under Admiral Wallace ravaged the shores of Narragansett
    Bay. On October 7, 1775, he bombarded the town of Bristol,
    which had refused to furnish him with supplies,--an incident
    which is described in one of the most ingenuous and amusing of
    Revolutionary ballads.


[October 7, 1775]

  In seventeen hundred and seventy-five,
  Our Bristol town was much surprised
  By a pack of thievish villains,
  That will not work to earn their livings.

  October 'twas the seventh day,
  As I have heard the people say,
  Wallace, his name be ever curst,
  Came on our harbor just at dusk.

  And there his ship did safely moor,
  And quickly sent his barge on shore,
  With orders that should not be broke,
  Or they might expect a smoke.

  Demanding that the magistrates
  Should quickly come on board his ship,
  And let him have some sheep and cattle,
  Or they might expect a battle.

  At eight o'clock, by signal given,
  Our peaceful atmosphere was riven
  By British balls, both grape and round,
  As plenty afterwards were found.

  But oh! to hear the doleful cries
  Of people running for their lives!
  Women, with children in their arms,
  Running away to the farms!

  With all their firing and their skill
  They did not any person kill;
  Neither was any person hurt
  But the Reverend Parson Burt.

  And he was not killed by a ball,
  As judged by jurors one and all;
  But being in a sickly state,
  He, frightened, fell, which proved his fate.

  Another truth to you I'll tell,
  That you may see they levelled well;
  For aiming for to kill the people,
  They fired their shot into a steeple.

  They fired low, they fired high,
  The women scream, the children cry;
  And all their firing and their racket
  Shot off the topmast of a packet.

    From the moment, almost, of the fight at Lexington, the
    conquest of Canada had been dreamed of, and in September, 1775,
    a force of two thousand men, under General Richard Montgomery,
    started for Quebec. He was joined by another force under
    Benedict Arnold, and an attempt was made to carry the citadel
    by storm. But Montgomery fell as he led the way over the walls,
    Arnold was wounded, and the Americans were beaten back.


[December 31, 1775]

  Round Quebec's embattled walls
    Moodily the patriots lay;
  Dread disease within its thralls
    Drew them closer day by day;
  Till from suffering man to man,
  Mutinous, a murmur ran.

  Footsore, they had wandered far,
    They had fasted, they had bled;
  They had slept beneath the star
    With no pillow for the head;
  Was it but to freeze to stone
  In this cruel icy zone?

  Yet their leader held his heart,
    Naught discouraged, naught dismayed;
  Quelled with unobtrusive art
    Those that muttered; unafraid
  Waited, watchful, for the hour
  When his golden chance should flower.

  'Twas the death-tide of the year;
    Night had passed its murky noon;
  Through the bitter atmosphere
    Pierced nor ray of star nor moon;
  But upon the bleak earth beat
  Blinding arrows of the sleet.

  While the trumpets of the storm
    Pealed the bastioned heights around,
  Did the dauntless heroes form,
    Did the low, sharp order sound.
  "Be the watchword _Liberty_!"
  Cried the brave Montgomery.

  Here, where he had won applause,
    When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe,
  For a nobler, grander cause
    Would he strike the fearless blow,--
  Smite at Wrong upon the throne,
  At Injustice giant grown.

  "Men, you will not fear to tread
    Where your general dares to lead!
  On, my valiant boys!" he said,
    And his foot was first to speed;
  Swiftly up the beetling steep,
  Lion-hearted, did he leap.

  Flashed a sudden blinding glare;
    Roared a fearsome battle-peal;
  Rang the gloomy vasts of air;
    Seemed the earth to rock and reel;
  While adown that fiery breath
  Rode the hurtling bolts of death.

  Woe for him, the valorous one,
    Now a silent clod of clay!
  Nevermore for him the sun
    Would make glad the paths of day;
  Yet 'twere better thus to die
  Than to cringe to tyranny!--

  Better thus the life to yield,
    Striking for the right and God,
  Upon Freedom's gory field,
    Than to kiss Oppression's rod!
  Honor, then, for all time be
  To the brave Montgomery!

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    Though the Americans had lost Canada, they were soon to gain
    Boston. During the winter of 1775-76, a great number of
    captured cannon had been dragged on sledges from Ticonderoga,
    the drilling of the army had gone steadily on, and at last
    Washington felt that he was able to assume the offensive,
    and on the night of March 4, 1776, he seized and fortified
    Dorchester Heights.



      Smile, Massachusetts, smile,
      Thy virtue still outbraves
      The frowns of Britain's isle,
      The rage of home-born slaves.
  Thy free-born sons disdain their ease,
  When purchased by their liberties.

      Thy genius, once the pride
      Of Britain's ancient isle,
      Brought o'er the raging tide
      By our forefathers' toil;
  In spite of North's despotic power,
  Shines glorious on this western shore.

      In Hancock's generous mind
      Awakes the noble strife,
      Which so conspicuous shined
      In gallant Sydney's life;
  While in its cause the hero bled,
  Immortal honors crown'd his head.

      Let zeal your breasts inspire;
      Let wisdom guide your plans;
      'Tis not your cause entire,
      On doubtful conflict hangs;
  The fate of this vast continent,
  And unborn millions share th' event.

      To close the gloomy scenes
      Of this alarming day,
      A happy union reigns
      Through wide America.
  While awful Wisdom hourly waits
  To adorn the councils of her states.

      Brave Washington arrives,
      Arrayed in warlike fame,
      While in his soul revives
      Great Marlboro's martial flame,
  To lead your conquering armies on
  To lasting glory and renown.

      To aid the glorious cause,
      Experienc'd Lee has come,
      Renown'd in foreign wars,
      A patriot at home.
  While valiant Putnam's warlike deeds
  Amongst the foe a terror spreads.

      Let Britons proudly boast,
      "That their two thousand braves
      Can drive our numerous host,
      And make us all their slaves;"
  While twice six thousand quake with fear,
  Nor dare without their lines appear.

      Kind Heaven has deign'd to own
      Our bold resistance just,
      Since murderous Gage began
      The bloody carnage first.
  Near ten to one has been their cost,
  For each American we've lost.

      Stand firm in your defence,
      Like Sons of Freedom fight,
      Your haughty foes convince
      That you'll maintain your right.
  Defiance bid to tyrants' frown,
  And glory will your valor crown.

               _The Connecticut Gazette_, 1776.

    Howe realized that Boston was untenable unless the Americans
    could be dislodged; but with the memory of Bunker Hill before
    him, he had no heart for the enterprise. While he hesitated,
    the American works were made well-nigh impregnable, and Howe
    decided to abandon the town. On March 17, 1776, the British
    troops, eight thousand in number, sailed away for Halifax.
    Washington at once took possession of the city.


[March 17, 1776]

  Britons grown big with pride
  And wanton ease,
  And tyranny beside,
  They sought to please
  Their craving appetite,
  They strove with all their might,
  They vow'd to rise and fight,
  To make us bow.

  The plan they laid was deep
  Even like hell;
  With sympathy I weep,
  While here I tell
  Of that base murderous brood,
  Void of the fear of God,
  Who came to spill our blood
  In our own land.

  They bid their armies sail
  Though billows roar,
  And take the first fair gale
  For Boston's shore;
  They cross'd the Atlantic sea
  A long and watery way,
  Poor Boston fell a prey
  To tyranny.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Gage was both base and mean,
  He dare not fight,
  The men he sent were seen
  Like owls in night:
  It was in Lexington
  Where patriots' blood did run
  Before the rising sun
  In crimson gore.

  Here sons of freedom fell
  Rather than flee,
  Unto those brutes of hell
  They fell a prey;
  But they shall live again,
  Their names shall rise and reign
  Among the noble slain
  In all our land.

  But oh! this cruel foe
  Went on in haste,
  To Concord they did go,
  And there did waste
  Some stores in their rage,
  To gratify old Gage,
  His name in every page
  Shall be defam'd.

  Their practice thus so base,
  And murder too,
  Rouz'd up the patriot race,
  Who did pursue,
  And put this foe to flight,
  They could not bear the light,
  Some rued the very night
  They left their den.

  And now this cruelty
  Was spread abroad,
  The sons of liberty
  This act abhorr'd,
  Their noble blood did boil,
  Forgetting all the toil,
  In troubles they could smile,
  And went in haste.

  Our army willingly
  Did then engage,
  To stop the cruelty
  Of tyrants' rage!
  They did not fear our foe,
  But ready were to go,
  And let the tyrants know
  Whose sons they were.

  But when old Gage did see
  All us withstand,
  And strive for liberty
  Through all our land,
  He strove with all his might,
  For rage was his delight,
  With fire he did fight,
  A monster he.

  On Charlestown he display'd
  His fire abroad;
  He it in ashes laid,
  An act abhorr'd
  By sons of liberty,
  Who saw the flames on high
  Piercing their native sky,
  And now lies waste.

  To Bunker-Hill they came
  Most rapidly,
  And many there were slain,
  And there did die.
  They call'd it bloody hill,
  Altho' they gain'd their will
  In triumph they were still,
  'Cause of their slain.

  Here sons of freedom fought
  Right manfully,
  A wonder here was wrought
  Though some did die.
  Here WARREN bow'd to death,
  His last expiring breath,
  In language mild he saith,
  Fight on, brave boys.

  Oh! this did stain the pride
  Of British troops,
  They saw they were deny'd
  Of their vain hopes
  Of marching thro' our land,
  When twice a feeble band,
  Did fight and boldly stand
  In our defence.

  Brave WASHINGTON did come
  To our relief;
  He left his native home,
  Filled with grief,
  He did not covet gain,
  The cause he would maintain
  And die among the slain
  Rather than flee.

  His bosom glow'd with love
  For liberty,
  His passions much did move
  To orphans' cry,
  He let proud tyrants know,
  How far their bounds should go
  And then his bombs did throw
  Into their den.

  This frighted them full sore
  When bombs were sent,
  When cannon loud did roar
  They left each tent:
  Oh! thus did the tyrants fly,
  Went precipitately,
  Their shipping being nigh,
  They sailed off.

  And now Boston is free
  From tyrants base,
  The sons of liberty
  Possess the place;
  They now in safety dwell.
  Free from those brutes of hell,
  Their raptur'd tongues do tell
  Their joys great.

    A portion of the British fleet remained in Boston harbor, and
    apprehensions began to be felt that an effort would be made
    to recapture the town. It was at this juncture that Captain
    James Mugford, of the schooner Franklin, captured the British
    ship Hope, bound for Boston with supplies and fifteen hundred
    barrels of powder. Two days later, on May 19, the Franklin ran
    aground at Point Shirley, at the mouth of the harbor, and was
    at once attacked by boats from the British vessels. A sharp
    engagement ensued, in which Mugford was killed. His last words
    are said to have been those used by Lawrence nearly forty years
    later: "Don't give up the ship! You will beat them off!" And
    they did.


[May 17-19, 1776]

  Our mother, the pride of us all,
    She sits on her crags by the shore,
  And her feet they are wet with the waves
  Whose foam is as flowers from the graves
    Of her sons whom she welcomes no more,
  And who answer no more to her call.

  Amid weeds and sea-tangle and shells
    They are buried far down in the deep,--
  The deep which they loved to career.
    Oh, might we awake them from sleep!
  Oh, might they our voices but hear,
  And the sound of our holiday bells!

  Can it be she is thinking of them,
    Her face is so proud and so still,
  And her lashes are moistened with tears?
  Ho, little ones! pluck at her hem,
    Her lap with your jollity fill,
  And ask of her thoughts and her fears.

  "Fears!"--we have roused her at last;
    See! her lips part with a smile,
  And laughter breaks forth from her eyes,--
  "Fears! whence should they ever arise
    In our hearts, O my children, the while
  We can remember the past?

  "Can remember that morning of May,
    When Mugford went forth with his men,
  Twenty, and all of them ours.
  'Tis a hundred years to a day,
    And the sea and the shore are as then,
  And as bright are the grass and the flowers;
    But our twenty--they come not again!

  "He had heard of the terrible need
    Of the patriot army there
  In Boston town. Now for a deed
    To save it from despair!
  To thrill with joy the great commander's heart,
  And hope new-born to all the land impart!

  "Hope! ay; that was the very name
  Of the good ship that came
    From England far away,
  Laden with enginery of death,
  Food for the cannon's fiery breath;
  Hope-laden for great Washington,
  Who, but for her, was quite undone
    A hundred years ago to-day.

  "'Oh, but to meet her there,
  And grapple with her fair,
    Out in the open bay!'
  Mugford to Glover said.
    How could he answer nay?
    And Mugford sailed away,
  Brave heart and newly wed.

  "But what are woman's tears,
    And rosy cheeks made pale,
  To one who far off hears
    The generations hail
  A deed like this we celebrate to-day,
  A hundred years since Mugford sailed away!

  "I love to picture him,
  Clear-eyed and strong of limb,
  Gazing his last upon the rocky shore
  His feet should press no more;
  Seeing the tall church-steeples fade away
  In distance soft and gray;
  So dropping down below the horizon's rim
  Where fame awaited him.

  "Slow sailing from the east his victim came.
  They met; brief parley; struggle brief and tame,
    And she was ours;
  In Boston harbor safe ere set of sun,
  Great joy for Washington!
    But heavy grew the hours
  On Mugford's hands, longing to bring to me,
  His mother proud, news of his victory;
  But that was not to be!

  "Abreast Nantasket's narrow strip of gray
  The British cruisers lay:
  They saw the daring skipper dropping down
  From the much-hated rebel-haunted town,
  And in the twilight dim
  Their boats awaited him,
  While wind and tide conspired
  To grant what they desired.

  "Thickly they swarmed about his tiny craft;
  But Mugford gayly laughed
  And gave them blow for blow;
  And many a hapless foe
  Went hurtling down below.
    Upon the schooner's rail
    Fell, like a thresher's flail,
  The strokes that beat the soul and sense apart,
  And pistol-crack through many an eager heart
    Sent deadly hail.
  But when the fight was o'er,
  Brave Mugford was no more.
    Crying, with death-white lip,
    'Boys, don't give up the ship!'
  His soul struck out for heaven's peaceful shore.

    "We gave him burial meet;
    Through every sobbing street
  A thousand men marched with their arms reversed;
    And Parson Story told,
    In sentences of gold,
  The tale since then a thousand times rehearsed."

  Such is the story she tells,
    Our mother, the pride of us all.
  Ring out your music, O bells,
    That ever such things could befall!
  Ring not for Mugford alone,
  Ring for the twenty unknown,
  Who fought hand-to-hand at his side,
  Who saw his last look when he died,
  And who brought him, though dead, to his own!

               JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

    A month later, on June 14, 1775, the Continentals occupied
    various islands and points in the bay, and opened so hot a
    fire upon the British ships that they were finally forced to
    weigh anchor and sail away. The news of the capture of Boston
    and departure of the British was received with the greatest
    rejoicing throughout the country. Among the many songs composed
    to celebrate the event, one, "Off from Boston," gained wide


  Sons of valor, taste the glories
    Of celestial liberty,
  Sing a triumph o'er the Tories,
    Let the pulse of joy beat high.

  Heaven hath this day foil'd the many
    Fallacies of George the King;
  Let the echo reach Britan'y,
    Bid her mountain summits ring.

  See yon navy swell the bosom
    Of the late enragèd sea;
  Where'er they go, we shall oppose them,
    Sons of valor must be free.

  Should they touch at fair Rhode Island,
    There to combat with the brave,
  Driven from each dale and highland,
    They shall plough the purple wave.

  Should they thence to fair Virginia,
    Bend a squadron to Dunmore,
  Still with fear and ignominy,
    They shall quit the hostile shore.

  To Carolina or to Georg'y,
    Should they next advance their fame,
  This land of heroes shall disgorge the
    Sons of tyranny and shame.

  Let them rove to climes far distant,
    Situate under Arctic skies,
  Call on Hessian troops assistant,
    And the savages to rise.

  Boast of wild brigades from Russia,
    To fix down the galling chain,
  Canada and Nova Scotia,
    Shall disgorge these hordes again.

  In New York state, rejoin'd by Clinton,
    Should their standards mock the air,
  Many a surgeon shall put lint on
    Wounds of death receivèd there.

  War, fierce war, shall break their forces,
    Nerves of Tory men shall fail,
  Seeing Howe, with alter'd courses,
    Bending to the western gale.

  Thus from every bay of ocean,
    Flying back with sails unfurl'd,
  Tossed with ever-troubled motion,
    They shall quit this smiling world.

  Like Satan banishèd from heaven,
    Never see the smiling shore;
  From this land, so happy, driven,
    Never stain its bosom more.



    At the outbreak of the Revolution very few, even of the more
    radical colonial leaders, thought of or desired complete
    independence from Great Britain. Samuel Adams was perhaps
    the first to proclaim this as the only solution of the
    problem which confronted the colonies. But the sentiment for
    independence grew steadily.



  _Libera nos, Domine_--Deliver us, O Lord,
  Not only from British dependence, but also,

  From a junto that labor for absolute power,
  Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;
  From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom
  Who still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.

  From groups at St. James's who slight our Petitions,
  And fools that are waiting for further submissions;
  From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,
  From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.

  From pirates sent out by command of the king
  To murder and plunder, but never to swing;
  From Wallace, and Graves, and _Vipers_, and _Roses_,
  Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.

  From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti
  Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,
  From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,
  The little fat man with his pretty white hair.

  From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,
  From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,
  From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings
  (Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).

  From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,
  And swelled with importance, disdains the committee
  (But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,
  What the devil care we where the devil he goes).

  From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,
  From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,
  Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),
  He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.

  From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,
  I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayers
  That we, disunited, may freemen be still,
  And Britain go on--to be damn'd if she will.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    On June 8 Richard Henry Lee submitted to the Continental
    Congress a motion "That these United Colonies are, and of
    right ought to be, free and independent States; that they are
    absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that
    all political connection between them and the state of Great
    Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved." The debate on
    the motion began July 1.


[July 3, 1776]

  In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
  The North and South on the genial air,
  Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,
  Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

  Burly and big, and bold and bluff,
  In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
  A foe to King George and the English State,
  Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

  Into Dover village he rode apace,
  And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,
  It was matter grave that brought him there,
  To the counties three on the Delaware.

  "Money and men we must have," he said,
  "Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead;
  Give us both and the King shall not work his will.
  We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!"

  Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:
  "Ho, Rodney, ho! you must save the day,
  For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
  And your vote alone may decide its fate."

  Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;
  It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.
  When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment to spare,
  But ride like the wind from the Delaware."

  "Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,
  And the Congress sits eighty miles away--
  But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,
  To shake my fist in King George's face."

  He is up; he is off! and the black horse flies
  On the northward road ere the "God-speed" dies;
  It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
  And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.

  It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
  The Fieldboro's dust with a clang and a cling;
  It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
  The road winds down to the Delaware.

  Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
  From his panting steed he gets him down--
  "A fresh one, quick! not a moment's wait!"
  And off speeds Rodney, the delegate.

  It is five; and the beams of the western sun
  Tinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;
  Six; and the dust of Chester Street
  Flies back in a cloud from the courser's feet.

  It is seven; the horse-boat broad of beam,
  At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream--
  And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
  He flings his reins to the tavern jock.

  The Congress is met; the debate's begun,
  And Liberty lags for the vote of one--
  When into the hall, not a moment late,
  Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

  Not a moment late! and that half day's ride
  Forwards the world with a mighty stride;
  For the act was passed; ere the midnight stroke
  O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

  At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;
  "We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung,
  And the sons of the free may recall with pride
  The day of Delegate Rodney's ride.

    The motion was put to a vote the following day, July 2, 1776,
    and was adopted by the unanimous vote of twelve colonies, the
    delegates from New York being excused from voting, as they
    had no sufficient instructions. This having been decided, the
    Congress at once went into committee of the whole, to consider
    the form of declaration which should be adopted.


  Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd,
  Whose arms have in battle with victory been crown'd,
  Make room for America, another great nation;
  She rises to claim in your councils a station.

  Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own bravery
  Have rescued themselves from the shackles of slavery;
  America is free; and Britain's abhorr'd;
  And America's fame is forever restored.

  Fair Freedom in Britain her throne had erected;
  Her sons they grew venal, and she disrespected.
  The goddess, offended, forsook that base nation,
  And fix'd on our mountains: a more honor'd station.

  With glory immortal she here sits enthroned,
  Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,
  Great Washington guards her, with heroes surrounded;
  Her foes he, with shameful defeat, has confounded.

  To arms! we to arms flew! 'twas Freedom invited us,
  The trumpet, shrill sounding, to battle excited us;
  The banners of virtue, unfurl'd, did wave o'er us,
  Our hero led on, and the foe flew before us.

  In Heaven and Washington we placed reliance,
  We met the proud Britons, and bid them defiance;
  The cause we supported was just, and was glorious;
  When men fight for freedom, they must be victorious.

               FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

    A committee had already been appointed to draw up a paper which
    should be worthy this solemn occasion. Thomas Jefferson was its
    chairman, and was chosen to be the author of the Declaration.
    On the evening of July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence
    was unanimously adopted by twelve colonies, the New York
    delegates being still unable to act.


  Day of glory! Welcome day!
  Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
  See! how cheerfully they play
      With thy morning breeze,
  On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled,
  On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
  When a tyrant's thunder pealed
      O'er the trembling seas.

  God of armies! did thy stars
  On their courses smite his cars;
  Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
      From the heaving tide?
  On our standard, lo! they burn,
  And, when days like this return,
  Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
      Who for freedom died.

  God of peace! whose spirit fills
  All the echoes of our hills,
  All the murmur of our rills,
      Now the storm is o'er,
  O let freemen be our sons,
  And let future Washingtons
  Rise, to lead their valiant ones
      Till there's war no more!

               JOHN PIERPONT.

    News of its adoption was received throughout the country with
    the greatest rejoicing. On the 9th of July it was ratified by
    New York, and the soldiers there celebrated the occasion by
    throwing down the leaden statue of George III on the Bowling
    Green, and casting it into bullets. Everywhere there were
    bonfires, torchlight processions, and ratification meetings.


  Squeak the fife, and beat the drum,
  Independence day is come!
  Let the roasting pig be bled,
  Quick twist off the cockerel's head,
  Quickly rub the pewter platter,
  Heap the nutcakes, fried in butter.
  Set the cups and beaker glass,
  The pumpkin and the apple sauce;
  Send the keg to shop for brandy;
  Maple sugar we have handy.
  Independent, staggering Dick,
  A noggin mix of swingeing thick;
  Sal, put on your russet skirt,
  Jotham, get your _boughten_ shirt,
  To-day we dance to tiddle diddle.
  --Here comes Sambo with his fiddle;
  Sambo, take a dram of whiskey,
  And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.
  Moll, come leave your witched tricks,
  And let us have a reel of six.
  Father and mother shall make two;
  Sal, Moll, and I stand all a-row;
  Sambo, play and dance with quality;
  This is the day of blest equality.
  Father and mother are but _men_,
  And Sambo--is a citizen.
  Come foot it, Sal--Moll, figure in,
  And mother, you dance up to him;
  Now saw as fast as e'er you can do,
  And father, you cross o'er to Sambo.
  --Thus we dance, and thus we play,
  On glorious independence day.--
  Rub more rosin on your bow,
  And let us have another go.
  Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,
  Here's ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,
  Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,
  On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.
  And there's the 'Squire too, with his lady--
  Sal, hold the beast, I'll take the baby,
  Moll, bring the 'Squire our great armchair;
  Good folks, we're glad to see you here.
  Jotham, get the great case bottle,
  Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.
  Ensign,--Deacon, never mind;
  'Squire, drink until you're blind.
  Come, here's the French, the Guillotine,
  And here is good 'Squire Gallatin,
  And here's each noisy Jacobin.
  Here's friend Madison so hearty,
  And here's confusion to the treaty.
  Come, one more swig to Southern Demos
  Who represent our brother negroes.
  Thus we drink and dance away,
  This glorious INDEPENDENCE DAY!

               ROYALL TYLER.


[August 17, 1776]

  Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant and free,
  It's for Independence we all now agree;
  Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defend
  Our liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.

  In a cause that's so righteous, come let us agree,
  And from hostile invaders set America free,
  The cause is so glorious we need not to fear
  But from merciless tyrants we'll set ourselves clear.

  Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant shall say
  That Americans e'er to such monsters gave way,
  But fighting we'll die in America's cause
  Before we'll submit to tyrannical laws.

  George the Third, of Great Britain, no more shall he reign,
  With unlimited sway o'er these free States again;
  Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of their clan,
  Shall ever be honor'd by an American.

  May Heaven's blessing descend on our United States,
  And grant that the union may never abate;
  May love, peace, and harmony ever be found,
  For to go hand in hand America round.

  Upon our grand Congress may Heaven bestow
  Both wisdom and skill our good to pursue;
  On Heaven alone dependent we'll be.
  But from all earthly tyrants we mean to be free.

  Unto our brave Generals may Heaven give skill
  Our armies to guide, and the sword for to wield,
  May their hands taught to war, and their fingers to fight,
  Be able to put British armies to flight.

  And now, brave Americans, since it is so,
  That we are independent, we'll have them to know
  That united we are, and united we'll be,
  And from all British tyrants we'll try to keep free.

  May Heaven smile on us in all our endeavors,
  Safe guard our seaports, our towns, and our rivers,
  Keep us from invaders by land and by sea,
  And from all who'd deprive us of our liberty.




  Parent of all, omnipotent
    In heav'n, and earth below,
  Thro' all creation's bounds unspent,
    Whose streams of goodness flow.

  Teach me to know from whence I rose,
    And unto what design'd;
  No private aims let me propose,
    Since link'd with human kind.

  But chief to hear my country's voice,
    May all my thoughts incline,
  'Tis reason's law, 'tis virtue's choice,
    'Tis nature's call and thine.

  Me from fair freedom's sacred cause
    Let nothing e'er divide;
  Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,
    Nor friendship false misguide.

  Let me not faction's partial hate
    Pursue to _this land's_ woe;
  Nor grasp the thunder of the state
    To wound a private foe.

  If, for the right, to wish the wrong
    My country shall combine,
  Single to serve th' erron'ous throng,
    Spite of themselves, be mine.


  Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
  The queen of the world, and the child of the skies;
  Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
  While ages on ages thy splendor unfold,
  Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of time,
  Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime;
  Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name,
  Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.

  To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;
  Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire;
  Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
  And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.
  A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws,
  Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
  On Freedom's broad basis, that empire shall rise,
  Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

  Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar,
  And the east see the morn hide the beams of her star.
  New bards, and new sages, unrivalled shall soar
  To fame unextinguished, when time is no more;
  To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed,
  Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind;
  Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring
  Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring,

  Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend,
  And genius and beauty in harmony blend;
  The graces of form shall awake pure desire,
  And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire;
  Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined,
  And virtue's bright image, instamped on the mind,
  With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow,
  And light up a smile in the aspect of woe.

  Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display,
  The nations admire and the ocean obey;
  Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold,
  And the east and the south yield their spices and gold.
  As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow,
  And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow;
  While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled,
  Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world.

  Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er-spread,
  From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed,
  The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired;
  The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired;
  Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along,
  And a voice as of angels, enchantingly sung:
  "Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,
  The queen of the world, and the child of the skies."

               TIMOTHY DWIGHT.



    News of the Declaration of Independence was accompanied over
    the country by that of a brilliant success at the South.
    Early in June, the British, under Sir Peter Parker, Sir Henry
    Clinton, and Lord Cornwallis, prepared to capture Charleston,
    S. C. To oppose them there was practically nothing but a fort
    of palmetto logs built on Sullivan's Island in Charleston
    harbor by Colonel William Moultrie. On June 28, 1776, the
    British advanced to the attack, but were beaten off with heavy


[June 28, 1776]

  'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea,
  With his serried ships-of-line a-port, and his ships-of-line a-lee;
  _A little lead for a cure_, he said, _for these rebel sires and sons_!
  And the folk on the Charleston roof-tops heard the roar of the shotted
  They heard the roar of the guns off shore, but they marked, with a
      hopeful smile,
  The answering ire of a storm of fire from Sullivan's sandy isle.

  'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with the climbing noon
  Ruin and wreck on each blood-stained deck that day in the wane of June,--
  The shivered spar and the shattered beam and the torn and toppling mast
  And the grimy gunners wounded sore, and the seamen falling fast;
  But from the stubborn fort ashore no sight of a single sign
  That the rebel sires and sons had quailed before his ships-of-the-line.

  'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw the fall of the flag
  From the fortress wall; then rang his call:--_They have lost their rebel
  And the fifty guns of the Bristol flamed, and the volumed thunder rolled;
  _'Tis now_, the haughty Admiral cried, _we'll drive them out of their
  But little he knew, and his British crew, how small was their vaunted
  For lo, to the rampart's crest there leaped the dauntless man of the

  'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who saw with a wild amaze
  This hero spring from the fortress height 'mid the hail and the fiery
  Under the wall he strode, each step with the deadliest danger fraught,
  And up from the sand with a triumph hand the splintered staff he caught.
  Then, still unscathed by the iron rain, he clambered the parapet,
  And 'mid the burst of his comrades' cheers the flag on the bastion set.

  'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker who slunk through the night to sea,
  With his shattered ships-of-line a-port and his ships-of-line a-lee;
  Above there was wreck, and below was wreck, and the sense of loss and
  For the sneered-at rebel sires and sons had proved them a direful foe;
  But War's dark blight on the land lay light, and they hailed with a
      joyful smile
  The stars of victory burning bright over Sullivan's sandy isle.

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    The British fleet remained in the neighborhood for three weeks
    to refit and then sailed away to New York to coöperate with
    Howe. Charleston was saved and for two years the Southern
    States were free from the invader.


      My lords, with your leave,
      An account I will give,
  Which deserves to be written in metre;
      How the rebels and I
      Have been pretty nigh,
  Faith, 'twas almost too nigh for Sir Peter!

      De'il take 'em! their shot
      Came so swift and so hot,
  And the cowardly dogs stood so stiff, sirs,
      That I put ship about
      And was glad to get out,
  Or they would not have left me a skiff, sirs.

      With much labor and toil
      Unto Sullivan's Isle,
  I came, swift as Falstaff, or Pistol;
      But the Yankees, od rat 'em--
      I could not get at 'em,
  They so terribly maul'd my poor Bristol.

      Behold, Clinton, by land,
      Did quietly stand,
  While I made a thundering clatter;
      But the channel was deep,
      So he only could peep,
  And not venture over the water.

      Now, bold as a Turk,
      I proceeded to York,
  Where, with Clinton and Howe, you may find me:
      I've the wind in my tail,
      And am hoisting my sail,
  To leave Sullivan's Island behind me.

      But, my lords, do not fear,
      For, before the next year,
  Although a small island should fret us,
      The continent, whole,
      We will take, by my soul,
  If the cowardly Yankees will let us.

    The victory at Charleston was the last success which American
    arms were to achieve for many months. The British had decided
    to capture and hold the line of the Hudson in order to cut
    the colonies in two. Howe, with a trained army of twenty-five
    thousand men, prepared to attack New York, while, to oppose
    him, Washington had only eighteen thousand undisciplined
    levies. Half this force was concentrated at Brooklyn Heights,
    which was strongly fortified, and here, on August 27, 1776,
    Howe delivered his attack. Overwhelming superiority of numbers
    enabled the British to press back their opponents to their
    works on the heights. Not daring to storm, the British prepared
    to lay siege to this position. Washington had no way to
    withstand a siege, which must have resulted in the loss of his
    whole army, and after nightfall of August 29, he succeeded in
    ferrying the entire force, with their cannon, arms, ammunition,
    horses, and larder, over to the New York side.


[August 27, 1776]

  Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see,
  Tidy and dapper and gallant were we;
  Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall,
  Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball;
  Prancing soldados, so martial and bluff,
  Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff--
  But our cockades were clasped with a mother's low prayer.
  And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.

  There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills,
  And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills,
  By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain,
  And keen cracked the rifles in Martense's lane;
  For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red,
  And the Grenadiers' tramp marked the roll of the dead.

  Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George,
  The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge.
  The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers
  Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers--
  For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array,
  And the light of God's leading gone out in the fray!

  Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right!
  The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight!
  When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain,
  And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain;
  When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red,
  And the dead choked the dyke and the marsh choked the dead!

  "Oh, Stirling, good Stirling! How long must we wait?
  Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late?
  Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist,
  With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist?
  Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball,
  When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?"

  Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord,
  For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword!
  Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die;
  For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by!
  "Four hundred wild lads!" Maybe so. I'll be bound
  'Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground.
  If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll,
  We'll be missed on parade when the States call the roll--
  When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest,
  And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West.


    On September 15, 1776, the British took possession of New York,
    and the American lines were withdrawn to the line of the Harlem
    River. On September 16 the British attempted to break through
    their centre at Harlem Heights. The attack was repulsed, and
    for nearly a month the lines remained where they had been


    Captain Stephen Brown of Knowlton's Connecticut Rangers tells
    of the affair of September 16, 1776.

  They've turned at last! Good-by, King George,
    Despite your hireling band!
  The farmer boys have borne a brunt,
    The 'prentice lads will stand!

  Though Peace may lag and Fortune flag,
    Our fight's as good as won;
  We've made them yield in open field!
    We've made the Redcoats run!

  Our Rangers sallied forth at dawn
    With Knowlton at their head
  To rout the British pickets out
    And spend a little lead.

  We gave them eight brisk rounds a-piece,
    And hurried, fighting, back;
  For, eighteen score, the Light Armed Corps
    Were keen upon our track.

  Along the vale of Bloomingdale
    They pressed our scant array;
  They swarmed the crag and jeered our flag
    Across the Hollow Way.

  Their skirmishers bawled "Hark, away!"
    Their buglers, from the wall,
  In braggart vaunt and bitter taunt
    Brayed out the hunting call!

  Oh, sound of shame! It woke a flame
    In every sunburned face,
  And every soul was hot as coal
    To cleanse the foul disgrace.

  And some that blenched on Brooklyn Heights
    And fled at Turtle Bay
  Fair wept for wrath, and thronged my path
    And clamored for the fray.

  Our General came spurring!--
    There rolled a signal drum.--
  His eye was bright; he rose his height;
    He knew the time had come.

  He gave the word to Knowlton
    To lead us on once more--
  The pick of old Connecticut,--
    And Leitch with Weedon's corps

  Of proud Virginia Riflemen,
    Tall hunters of the deer,--
  To round the boastful Briton's flank
    And take him in the rear.

  We left the dell, we scaled the fell,
    And up the crest we sprang,
  When swift and sharp along the scarp
    A deadly volley rang;

  And down went Leitch of Weedon's corps!
    Deep hurt, but gallant still;
  And down went Knowlton!--he that bore
    The sword of Bunker Hill.

  I raised his head. But this he said,
    Death-wounded as he lay:
  "Lead on the fight! I hold it light
    If we but get the day!"

  In open rank we struck their flank,
    And oh! the fight was hot!
  Up came the Hessian Yagers!
    Up came the kilted Scot!

  Up came the men of Linsingen,
    Von Donop's Grenadiers!
  But soon we sped the vengeful lead
    A-whistling 'bout their ears!

  They buckled front to Varnum's brunt;
    We crumpled up their right,
  And hurling back the crimson wrack
    We swept along the height.

  The helmets of the Hessians
    Are tumbled in the wheat;
  The tartan of the Highlander
    Shall be his winding-sheet!

  A mingled rout, we drove them out
    From orchard, field, and glen;
  In goodly case it seemed to chase
    Our hunters home again!

  We flaunted in their faces
    The flag they thought to scorn,
  And left them with a loud "Hurrah!"
    To choke their bugle-horn!

  Upon a ledge embattled
    Above the Hudson's shore
  We dug the grave for Knowlton
    And Leitch of Weedon's corps.

  And though in plight of War's despite
    We yield this island throne,
  Upon that ledge we left a pledge
    That we shall claim our own!

               ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

    At this time occurred the first of the two most dramatic and
    moving tragedies of the Revolution. It was important that
    Washington should obtain detailed and accurate information
    as to the position and intentions of the British, and Nathan
    Hale, a captain in Knowlton's regiment, volunteered for the
    service, and passed into the British lines in disguise. He was
    captured and taken before Sir William Howe, to whom he frankly
    acknowledged his errand. Howe ordered him hanged next day.


[September 22, 1776]

  The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines,
    A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"
  As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,
    For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.

  "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,
    In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.
  "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear
    What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."

  The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home,
    In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.
  With mother and sister and memories dear,
    He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.

  Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
    The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
  The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
    To make his retreat; to make his retreat.

  He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,
    As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood;
  And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore,
    As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.

  The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,
    Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
  They took him and bore him afar from the shore,
    To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.

  No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
    In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
  But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
    In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.

  An ominous owl with his solemn bass voice,
    Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by.
  "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,
    For he must soon die; for he must soon die."

  The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,
    The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral.
  His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,
    And said that was all; and said that was all.

  They took him and bound him and bore him away,
    Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.
  'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,
    His cause did deride; his cause did deride.

  Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
    For him to repent; for him to repent.
  He pray'd for his mother, he ask'd not another,
    To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

  The faith of a martyr, the tragedy show'd,
    As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.
  And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,
    As his words do presage; as his words do presage.

  "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
    Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;
  Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
    No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."

    The execution took place shortly after sunrise, the scaffold
    being erected in an orchard near the present junction of Market
    Street and East Broadway. Hale's last words were the famous, "I
    only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."


[September 22, 1776]

  To drum-beat and heart-beat,
      A soldier marches by;
  There is color in his cheek,
      There is courage in his eye,
  Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
      In a moment he must die.

  By the starlight and moonlight,
      He seeks the Briton's camp;
  He hears the rustling flag
      And the armèd sentry's tramp;
  And the starlight and moonlight
      His silent wanderings lamp.

  With slow tread and still tread,
      He scans the tented line;
  And he counts the battery guns,
      By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
  And his slow tread and still tread
      Gives no warning sign.

  The dark wave, the plumed wave,
      It meets his eager glance;
  And it sparkles 'neath the stars,
      Like the glimmer of a lance--
  A dark wave, a plumed wave,
      On an emerald expanse.

  A sharp clang, a still clang,
      And terror in the sound!
  For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
      In the camp a spy hath found;
  With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
      The patriot is bound.

  With calm brow, and steady brow,
      He listens to his doom;
  In his look there is no fear,
      Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;
  But with calm brow and steady brow,
      He robes him for the tomb.

  In the long night, the still night,
      He kneels upon the sod;
  And the brutal guards withhold
      E'en the solemn word of God!
  In the long night, the still night,
      He walks where Christ hath trod.

  'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
      He dies upon the tree;
  And he mourns that he can lose
      But one life for Liberty;
  And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,
      His spirit wings are free.

  But his last words, his message-words,
      They burn, lest friendly eye
  Should read how proud and calm
      A patriot could die,
  With his last words, his dying words,
      A soldier's battle-cry.

  From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
      From monument and urn,
  The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
      His tragic fate shall learn;
  But on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
      The name of HALE shall burn!

               FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

    Washington soon found himself unable to cope with Howe's
    superior force, retreated across New Jersey, and on December 8
    reached the west bank of the Delaware River. The British came
    up the next day and took a position on the east bank, with
    their centre at Trenton. Never did America's future look darker
    than on that Christmas night of 1776.


[December 25, 1776]

  Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,
  Called by her father, "My Sweet P,"
  Painted by Peale, she won renown
  In a clinging, short-waisted satin gown;
  A red rose touched by her finger-tips
  And a smile held back from her roguish lips.

  Thus, William Penwick, the jolly wight,
  In clouds of smoke, night after night,
  Would tell a tale in delighted pride,
  To cronies, who came from far and wide;
  Always ending (with candle, he)
  "And this is the picture of my Sweet P!"

  The tale? 'Twas how Sweet P did chance
  To give to the British a Christmas dance.
  Penwick's house past the outpost stood,
  Flanked by the ferry and banked by the wood.
  Hessian and British quartered there
  Swarmed through chamber and hall and stair.

  Fires ablaze and candles alight,
  Soldier and officer feasted that night.
  The enemy? Safe, with a river between,
  Black and deadly and fierce and keen;
  A river of ice and a blinding storm!--
  So they made them merry and kept them warm.

  But while they mirth and roistering made,
  Up in her dormer window stayed
  Mistress Penelope Penwick apart,
  With fearful thought and sorrowful heart.
  Night by night had her candle's gleam
  Sent through the dark its hopeful beam.

  But the nights they came and they passed again,
  With never a sign from her countrymen;
  For where beat the heart so brave, so bold,
  Which could baffle that river's bulwark cold?
  Penelope's eyes and her candle's light
  Were mocked by the storm that Christmas night.

  But lo, full sudden a missile stung
  And shattered her casement pane and rung
  At her feet! 'Twas a word from the storm outside.
  She opened her dormer window wide.
  A wind-swept figure halted below--
  The ferryman, old and bent and slow.
  Then a murmur rose upward--only one,
  Thrilling and powerful--"_Washington!_"

  With jest and laughter and candles bright,
  'Twas two by the stairway clock that night,
  When Penelope Penwick tripped her down,
  Dressed in a short-waisted satin gown,
  With a red rose (cut from her potted bush).
  There fell on the rollicking crowd a hush.

  She stood in the soldiers' midst, I ween,
  The daintiest thing they e'er had seen!
  And swept their gaze with her eyes most sweet,
  And patted her little slippered feet.
  "'Tis Christmas night, sirs," quoth Sweet P,
  "I should like to dance! Will you dance with me?"

  Oh, but they cheered; ran to and fro,
  And each for the honor bowed him low.
  With smiling charm and witching grace
  She chose him pranked with officer's lace
  And shining buttons and dangling sword;
  No doubt he strutted him proud as a lord!

  Doffed with enmity, donned with glee,--
  Oh, she was charming, that Sweet P!
  And when it was over, and blood aflame,
  Came an eager cry for "A game!" "A game!"
  "We'll play at forfeits," Penelope cried.
  "If one holdeth aught in his love and pride,

  "Let each lay it down at my feet in turn,
  And a fine from me shall he straightway learn!"
  What held they all in their love and pride?
  Straight flew a hand unto every side;
  Each man had a sword and nothing more,
  And the swords they clanged in a heap on the floor.

  Standing there, in her satin gown,
  With candlelight on her yellow crown,
  And at her feet a bank of steel
  (I'll wager that look was caught by Peale!)
  Penelope held her rose on high--
  "I fine each one for a leaf to try!"

  She plucked the petals and blew them out,
  A rain of red they fluttered about.
  Over the floor and through the air
  Rushed the officers here and there;
  When lo! a cry! The door burst in!
  "_The enemy!_" Tumult, terror, and din!

  Flew a hand unto every side,--
  Swords?--Penelope, arms thrown wide
  Leapt that heap of steel before;
  Swords behind her upon the floor;
  Facing her countrymen staunch and bold,
  Who dared the river of death and cold,
  Who swept them down on a rollicking horde,
  And found they never a man with sword!

  And so it happened (but not by chance),
  In '76 there was given a dance
  By a witch with a rose and a satin gown
  (Painted in Philadelphia town),
  Mistress Penelope Penwick, she,
  Called by her father, "My Sweet P."


    The British soldiers, thinking the war virtually ended, had
    grown careless, and Howe and Cornwallis had returned to New
    York to celebrate Christmas. It was at this juncture that
    Washington decided to attack. More than ten hours were
    consumed in getting across the river, which was blocked with
    ice. At daybreak on the 26th, Washington entered Trenton, and
    surprised the enemy.


  The winter night is cold and drear,
    Along the river's sullen flow;
  The cruel frost is camping here--
    The air has living blades of snow.
  Look! pushing from the icy strand,
    With ensigns freezing in the air,
  There sails a small but mighty band,
    Across the dang'rous Delaware.

  Oh, wherefore, soldiers, would you fight
    The bayonets of a winter storm?
  In truth it were a better night
    For blazing fire and blankets warm!
  We seek to trap a foreign foe,
    Who fill themselves with stolen fare;
  We carry freedom as we go
    Across the storm-swept Delaware!

  The night is full of lusty cheer
    Within the Hessians' merry camp;
  And faint and fainter on the ear
    Doth fall the heedless sentry's tramp.
  O hirelings, this new nation's rage
    Is something 'tis not well to dare;
  You are not fitted to engage
    These men from o'er the Delaware!

  A rush--a shout--a clarion call,
    Salute the early morning's gray:
  Now, roused invaders, yield or fall:
    The refuge-land has won the day!
  Soon shall the glorious news be hurled
    Wherever men have wrongs to bear;
  For freedom's torch illumes the world,
    And God has crossed the Delaware!

               WILL CARLETON.

    The surprise was complete. Eighteen of the enemy were killed
    and over a thousand made prisoners, while the American loss was
    only four. The remainder of the enemy retreated in disorder to
    Princeton, leaving their sick and wounded, and all their heavy
    arms and baggage behind them.


  On Christmas-day in seventy-six,
  Our ragged troops, with bayonets fixed,
      For Trenton marched away.
  The Delaware see! the boats below!
  The light obscured by hail and snow!
      But no signs of dismay.

  Our object was the Hessian band,
  That dared invade fair freedom's land,
      And quarter in that place.
  Great Washington he led us on,
  Whose streaming flag, in storm or sun,
      Had never known disgrace.

  In silent march we passed the night,
  Each soldier panting for the fight,
      Though quite benumbed with frost.
  Greene on the left at six began,
  The right was led by Sullivan
      Who ne'er a moment lost.

  Their pickets stormed, the alarm was spread,
  That rebels risen from the dead
      Were marching into town.
  Some scampered here, some scampered there,
  And some for action did prepare;
      But soon their arms laid down.

  Twelve hundred servile miscreants,
  With all their colors, guns, and tents,
      Were trophies of the day.
  The frolic o'er, the bright canteen,
  In centre, front, and rear was seen
      Driving fatigue away.

  Now, brothers of the patriot bands,
  Let's sing deliverance from the hands
      Of arbitrary sway.
  And as our life is but a span,
  Let's touch the tankard while we can,
      In memory of that day.

    At Princeton Cornwallis joined them, and on January 2, 1777,
    advanced against Trenton at the head of eight thousand men. By
    the time he reached there, Washington had withdrawn his whole
    force beyond a little stream called the Assunpink, where he
    repelled two British assaults. That night, he marched toward
    Princeton, routed a British detachment of two thousand, and
    took up a strong position on the heights at Morristown.


[December 26, 1776--January 3, 1777]

  On December, the sixth
    And the twentieth day,
  Our troops attacked the Hessians,
    And show'd them gallant play.

  Our roaring cannon taught them
    Our valor for to know;
  We fought like brave Americans
    Against a haughty foe.

  The chiefs were kill'd or taken,
    The rest were put to flight,
  And some arrived at Princeton,
    Half-fainting with affright.

  The third of January,
    The morning being clear,
  Our troops attack'd the regulars,
    At Princeton, we do hear.

  About a mile from Princeton,
    The battle is begun,
  And many a haughty Briton fell
    Before the fight was done.

  And what our gallant troops have done
    We'll let the British know;
  We fought like brave Americans
    Against a haughty foe.

  The British, struck with terror,
    And frighted, ran away:
  They ran across the country
    Like men in deep dismay,

  Crying to every one they met,
    "Oh! hide us! hide us! do!
  The rebels will devour us,
    So hotly they pursue."

  Oh, base, ungenerous Britons!
    To call us by that name;
  We're fighting for our liberty,
    Our just and lawful claim.

  We trust in Heaven's protection,
    Nor fear to win the day;
  When time shall come we'll crown our deeds
    With many a loud huzza!

  Our foes are fled to Brunswick,
    Where they are close confined;
  Our men they are unanimous,
    In Freedom's cause combined.

  Success to General Washington,
    And Gates and Putnam, too,
  Both officers and privates,
    Who liberty pursue.


[January 3, 1777]

  Glorious the day when in arms at Assunpink,
    And after at Princeton the Briton we met;
  Few in both armies--they'd skirmishes call them,
    Now hundreds of thousands in battle are set.
  But for the numbers engaged, let me tell you,
    Smart brushes they were, and two battles that told;
  There 'twas I first drew a bead on a foeman--
    I, a mere stripling, not twenty years old.

  Tell it? Well, friends, that is just my intention;
    There's nothing a veteran hates and abhors
  More than a chance lost to tell his adventures,
    Or give you his story of battles and wars.
  Nor is it wonder old men are loquacious,
    And talk, if you listen, from sun unto sun;
  Youth has the power to be up and be doing,
    While age can but tell of the deeds it has done.

  Ranged for a mile on the banks of Assunpink,
    There, southward of Trenton, one morning we lay,
  When, with his red-coats all marshalled to meet us,
    Cornwallis came fiercely at close of the day--
  Driving some scouts who had gone out with Longstreet,
    From where they were crossing at Shabbaconk Run--
  Trumpets loud blaring, drums beating, flags flying--
    Three hours, by the clock, before setting of sun.

  Two ways were left them by which to assail us,
    And neither was perfectly to their desire--
  One was the bridge we controlled by our cannon,
    The other the ford that was under our fire.
  "Death upon one side, and Dismal on t' other,"
    Said Sambo, our cook, as he gazed on our foes:
  Cheering and dauntless they marched to the battle,
    And, doubtful of choice, both the dangers they chose.

  Down at the ford, it was said, that the water
    Was reddened with blood from the soldiers who fell:
  As for the bridge, when they tried it, their forces
    Were beaten with terrible slaughter as well.
  Grape-shot swept causeway, and pattered on water,
    And riddled their columns, that broke and gave way;
  Thrice they charged boldly, and thrice they retreated;
    Then darkness came down, and so ended the fray.

  How did I get there? I came from our corn-mill
    At noon of the day when the battle begun,
  Bringing in flour to the troops under Proctor;
    'Twas not very long ere that errand was done.
  Up to that time I had never enlisted,
    Though Jacob, my brother, had entered with Wayne;
  But the fight stirred me; I sent back the horses,
    And made up my mind with the rest to remain.

  _We_ camped on _our_ side--the south--of Assunpink,
    While _they_ bivouacked for the night upon _theirs_;
  Both posting sentries and building up watchfires,
    With those on both sides talking over affairs.
  "Washington's caught in a trap!" said Cornwallis,
    And smiled with a smile that was joyous and grim;
  "Fox! but I have him!"--the earl had mistaken;
    The fox, by the coming of daylight, had him.

  Early that night, when the leaders held council,
    Both St. Clair and Reed said our action was clear;
  Useless to strike at the van of our foemen--
    His force was too strong; we must fall on his rear.
  Washington thought so, and bade us replenish
    Our watchfires till nearly the dawn of the day;
  Setting some more to make feint of intrenching,
    While swiftly in darkness the rest moved away.

  Marching by Sandtown, and Quaker Bridge crossing,
    We passed Stony Creek a full hour before dawn,
  Leaving there Mercer with one scant battalion
    Our foes to amuse, should they find we were gone;
  Then the main force pushed its way into Princeton,
    All ready to strike those who dreamed of no blow;
  Only a chance that we lost not our labor,
    And slipped through our fingers, unknowing, the foe.

  Mawhood's brigade, never feeling its danger,
    Had started for Trenton at dawn of the day,
  Crossed Stony Creek, after we had gone over,
    When Mercer's weak force they beheld on its way;
  Turning contemptuously back to attack it,
    They drove it with ease in disorder ahead--
  Firelocks alone were no match for their cannon--
    A fight, and then flight, and brave Mercer lay dead.

  Murdered, some said, while imploring for quarter--
    A dastardly deed, if the thing had been true--
  Cruel our foes, but in that thing we wronged them,
    And let us in all give the demon his due.
  Gallant Hugh Mercer fell sturdily fighting,
    So long as his right arm his sabre could wield,
  Stretching his enemies bleeding around him,
    And then, overpowered, fell prone on the field.

  Hearing the firing, we turned and we met them,
    Our cannon replying to theirs with a will;
  Fiercely with grape and with canister swept them,
    And chased them in wrath from the brow of the hill.
  Racing and chasing it was into Princeton,
    Where, seeking the lore to be taught in that hall,
  Redcoats by scores entered college, but stayed not--
    We rudely expelled them with powder and ball.

  Only a skirmish, you see, though a sharp one--
    It did not last over the fourth of an hour;
  But 'twas a battle that did us this service--
    No more, from that day, had we fear of their power.
  Trenton revived us, Assunpink encouraged,
    But Princeton gave hope that we held to the last;
  Flood-tide had come on the black, sullen water
    And ebb-tide for ever and ever had passed.

  Yes! 'twas the turn of the tide in our favor--
    A turn of the tide to a haven that bore.
  Had Lord Cornwallis crossed over Assunpink
    That day we repelled him, our fighting were o'er.
  Had he o'ertaken us ere we smote Mawhood,
    All torn as we were, it seems certain to me,
  I would not chatter to you about battles,
    And you and your children would not have been free.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    "Thus in a brief campaign of three weeks, Washington had
    rallied the fragments of a defeated and broken army, fought two
    successful battles, taken nearly two thousand prisoners, and
    recovered the state of New Jersey."


  What heroes from the woodland sprung,
    When, through the fresh-awakened land,
  The thrilling cry of freedom rung
  And to the work of warfare strung
    The yeoman's iron hand!

  Hills flung the cry to hills around,
    And ocean-mart replied to mart,
  And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,
  Pealed far away the startling sound
    Into the forest's heart.

  Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
    From mountain-river swift and cold;
  The borders of the stormy deep,
  The vales where gathered waters sleep,
    Sent up the strong and bold,--

  As if the very earth again
    Grew quick with God's creating breath,
  And, from the sods of grove and glen,
  Rose ranks of lion-hearted men
    To battle to the death.

  The wife, whose babe first smiled that day
    The fair fond bride of yestereve,
  And aged sire and matron gray,
  Saw the loved warriors haste away,
    And deemed it sin to grieve.

  Already had the strife begun;
    Already blood, on Concord's plain,
  Along the springing grass had run,
  And blood had flowed at Lexington,
    Like brooks of April rain.

  That death-stain on the vernal sward
    Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
  In fragments fell the yoke abhorred--
  The footstep of a foreign lord
    Profaned the soil no more.


    The question of a national flag, which had been under
    consideration for a long time, was now finally settled. There
    is a tradition that in June, 1776, General Washington and
    a committee of Congress had called upon Mrs. John Ross, of
    Philadelphia, and requested her to make a flag after a design
    which Washington furnished, which she did, producing the first
    "stars and stripes."


  From dusk till dawn the livelong night
  She kept the tallow dips alight,
  And fast her nimble fingers flew
  To sew the stars upon the blue.
  With weary eyes and aching head
  She stitched the stripes of white and red,
  And when the day came up the stair
  Complete across a carven chair
      Hung Betsy's battle flag.

  Like shadows in the evening gray
  The Continentals filed away,
  With broken boots and ragged coats,
  But hoarse defiance in their throats;
  They bore the marks of want and cold,
  And some were lame and some were old,
  And some with wounds untended bled,
  But floating bravely overhead
      Was Betsy's battle flag.

  When fell the battle's leaden rain,
  The soldier hushed his moans of pain
  And raised his dying head to see
  King George's troopers turn and flee.
  Their charging column reeled and broke,
  And vanished in the rolling smoke,
  Before the glory of the stars,
  The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars
      Of Betsy's battle flag.

  The simple stone of Betsy Ross
  Is covered now with mold and moss,
  But still her deathless banner flies,
  And keeps the color of the skies.
  A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,
  A nation follows where it leads,
  And every man is proud to yield
  His life upon a crimson field
      For Betsy's battle flag!

               MINNA IRVING.

    It was not, however, until Saturday, June 14, 1777, that a
    flag was formally adopted by Congress. On that day, Congress
    "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be
    thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be
    thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new
    constellation." Save for the addition of a star for each new
    state admitted to the Union, this is the flag of the United
    States to-day.



  When Freedom from her mountain height
    Unfurled her standard to the air,
  She tore the azure robe of night,
    And set the stars of glory there;
  She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
  The milky baldric of the skies,
  And striped its pure, celestial white
  With streakings of the morning light;
  Then from his mansion in the sun
  She called her eagle bearer down,
  And gave into his mighty hand
  The symbol of her chosen land.


  Majestic monarch of the cloud!
    Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
  To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
  And see the lightning lances driven,
    When strive the warriors of the storm,
  And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven--
  Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
    To guard the banner of the free,
  To hover in the sulphur smoke,
  To ward away the battle-stroke,
  And bid its blendings shine afar,
  Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
    The harbingers of victory!


  Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
    The sign of hope and triumph high,
  When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
    And the long line comes gleaming on;
  Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
    Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
  Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
    To where thy sky-born glories burn,
  And, as his springing steps advance,
  Catch war and vengeance from the glance
  And when the cannon-mouthings loud
    Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud
  And gory sabres rise and fall,
  Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
    Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,
  And cowering foes shall sink beneath
    Each gallant arm that strikes below
  That lovely messenger of death.


  Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
    Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
  When death, careering on the gale,
    Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
  And frighted waves rush wildly back
    Before the broadside's reeling rack,
  Each dying wanderer of the sea
    Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
  And smile to see thy splendors fly
  In triumph o'er his closing eye.


  Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
    By angel hands to valor given;
  The stars have lit the welkin dome,
    And all thy hues were born in heaven.
  Forever float that standard sheet!
    Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
  With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
    And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

               JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.



    Defeated in Jersey, the English turned with increased vigor
    to the task of securing the line of the Hudson. An army under
    General Burgoyne, starting from Canada, was to march down the
    Hudson to Albany; a second, under Colonel Saint Leger, was
    to descend the Mohawk valley and unite with Burgoyne; while
    a third, under Sir William Howe, was to ascend the river to
    Albany, thus completing the conquest of New York. Burgoyne
    began his advance early in June with an army of eight thousand
    men; but soon ran short of supplies, and finally, on August 13,
    detached an expedition to the little village of Bennington,
    where the Americans had collected horses and stores. Word of
    its approach was sent forward and Colonel John Stark prepared
    to give it a warm reception.


  Why come ye hither, stranger?
    Your mind what madness fills?
  In our valleys there is danger,
    And danger on our hills!
  Hear ye not the singing
    Of the bugle, wild and free?
  Full soon ye'll know the ringing
    Of the rifle from the tree!
      The rifle, the sharp rifle!
      In our hands it is no trifle!

  Ye ride a goodly steed;
    He may know another master:
  Ye forward come with speed,
    But ye'll learn to back much faster,
  When ye meet our mountain boys
    And their leader, Johnny Stark!
  Lads who make but little noise,
    But who always hit the mark
      With the rifle, the true rifle!
      In their hands will prove no trifle!

  Had ye no graves at home
    Across the briny water,
  That hither ye must come,
    Like bullocks to the slaughter?
  If we the work must do,
    Why, the sooner 'tis begun,
  If flint and trigger hold but true,
    The quicker 'twill be done
      By the rifle, the good rifle!
      In our hands it is no trifle!

    Within a day, eight hundred yeomen were marching under Stark's
    orders. He was joined by a regiment under Colonel Seth Warner,
    and on August 15, 1777, in the midst of a drenching rain, set
    out to meet the enemy.


[August 15, 1777]

  March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark,
    And let no man straggle on the way!
  March! March! March! as we follow old John Stark,
    For the old man needs us all to-day.

  Load! Load! Load! Three buckshot and a ball,
    With a hymn-tune for a wad to make them stay!
  But let no man dare to fire till he gives the word to all,
    Let no man let the buckshot go astray.

  Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire all along the line,
    When we meet those bloody Hessians in array!
  They shall have every grain from this powder-horn of mine,
    Unless the cowards turn and run away.

  Home! Home! Home! When the fight is fought and won,
    To the home where the women watch and pray!
  To tell them how John Stark finished what he had begun,
    And to hear them thank our God for the day.

               EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

    Stark found Baum and his Hessians about six miles distant, and
    the latter hastily took up a strong position on some rising
    ground, and began to throw up intrenchments. Stark laid his
    plans to storm this position on the morrow. During the night, a
    company of Berkshire militia arrived, and with them the warlike
    parson of Pittsfield, Thomas Allen.


[August 15, 1777]

  The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night.
    The boys of Vermont and New Hampshire are here,
  Assembled and grouped in the lingering light,
    To greet Parson Allen with shout and with cheer.

  Over mountain and valley, from Pittsfield green,
    Through the driving rain of that August day,
  The "Flock" marched on with martial mien,
    And the Parson rode in his "one-hoss shay."

  "Three cheers for old Berkshire!" the General said,
    As the boys of New England drew up face to face,
  "Baum bids us a breakfast to-morrow to spread,
    And the Parson is here to say us the 'grace.'"

  "The lads who are with me have come here to fight,
    And we know of no grace," was the Parson's reply,
  "Save the name of Jehovah, our country and right,
    Which your own Ethan Allen pronounced at Fort Ti."

  "To-morrow," said Stark, "there'll be fighting to do,
    If you think you can wait for the morning light,
  And, Parson, I'll conquer the British with you,
    Or Molly Stark sleeps a widow at night."

  What the Parson dreamed in that Bennington camp,
    Neither Yankee nor Prophet would dare to guess;
  A vision, perhaps, of the King David stamp,
    With a mixture of Cromwell and good Queen Bess.

  But we know the result of that glorious day,
    And the victory won ere the night came down;
  How Warner charged in the bitter fray,
    With Rossiter, Hobart, and old John Brown:

  And how in the lull of the three hours' fight,
    The Parson harangued the Tory line,
  As he stood on a stump, with his musket bright,
    And sprinkled his texts with the powder fine:--

  The sword of the Lord is our battle-cry,
    A refuge sure in the hour of need,
  And freedom and faith can never die,
    Is article first of the Puritan creed.

  "Perhaps the 'occasion' was rather rash,"
    He remarked to his comrades after the rout,
  "For behind a bush I saw a flash,
    But I fired that way and put it out."

  And many the sayings, eccentric and queer,
    Repeated and sung through the whole country side,
  And quoted in Berkshire for many a year,
    Of the Pittsfield march and the Parson's ride.

  All honor to Stark and his resolute men,
    To the Green Mountain Boys all honor and praise,
  While with shout and with cheer we welcome again,
    The Parson who came in his one-horse chaise.

               WALLACE BRUCE.

    The next day, August 16, 1777, dawned clear and bright, and
    the morning was consumed in preparations for the attack. Stark
    managed to throw half his force on Baum's rear and flanks,
    and, early in the afternoon, assaulted the enemy on all sides.
    The Germans stood their ground and fought desperately, but they
    were soon thrown into disorder, and at the end of two hours
    were all either killed or captured.


[August 16, 1777]

  Up through a cloudy sky, the sun
    Was buffeting his way,
  On such a morn as ushers in
    A sultry August day.
  Hot was the air--and hotter yet
    Men's thoughts within them grew:
  They Britons, Hessians, Tories saw--
    They saw their homesteads too.

  They thought of all their country's wrongs,
    They thought of noble lives
  Pour'd out in battle with her foes,
    They thought upon their wives,
  Their children, and their aged sires,
    Their firesides, churches, God--
  And these deep thoughts made hallow'd ground
    Each foot of soil they trod.

  Their leader was a brave old man,
    A man of earnest will;
  His very presence was a host--
    He'd fought at Bunker Hill.
  A living monument he stood
    Of stirring deeds of fame,
  Of deeds that shed a fadeless light
    On his own deathless name.

  Of Charlestown's flames, of Warren's blood,
    His presence told the tale,
  It made each hero's heart beat high
    Though lip and cheek grew pale;
  It spoke of Princeton, Morristown,
    Told Trenton's thrilling story--
  It lit futurity with hope,
    And on the past shed glory.

  Who were those men--their leader who?
    Where stood they on that morn?
  The men were Berkshire yeomanry,
    Brave men as e'er were born,--
  Who in the reaper's merry row
    Or warrior rank could stand
  Right worthy such a noble troop,
    John Stark led on the band.

  Wollamsac wanders by the spot
    Where they that morning stood;
  Then roll'd the war-cloud o'er the stream,
    The waves were tinged with blood;
  And the near hills that dark cloud girt,
    And fires like lightning flash'd,
  And shrieks and groans, like howling blasts,
    Rose as the bayonets clash'd.

  The night before, the Yankee host
    Came gathering from afar,
  And in each belted bosom glow'd
    The spirit of the war.
  As full of fight, through rainy storm,
    Night, cloudy, starless, dark,
  They came, and gathered as they came,
    Around the valiant Stark.

  There was a Berkshire parson--he
    And all his flock were there,
  And like true churchmen militant
    The arm of flesh made bare.
  Out spake the Dominie and said,
    "For battle have we come
  These many times, and after this
    We mean to stay at home."

  "If now we come in vain," said Stark,
    "What! will you go to-night
  To battle it with yonder troops,
    God send us morning light,
  And we will give you work enough:
    Let but the morning come,
  And if ye hear no voice of war
    Go back and stay at home."

  The morning came--there stood the foe,
    Stark eyed them as they stood--
  Few words he spake--'twas not a time
    For moralizing mood.
  "See there the enemy, my boys!
    Now strong in valor's might,
  Beat them, or Molly Stark will sleep
    In widowhood to-night."

  Each soldier there had left at home
    A sweetheart, wife, or mother,
  A blooming sister, or, perchance,
    A fair-hair'd, blue-eyed brother.
  Each from a fireside came, and thoughts
    Those simple words awoke
  That nerved up every warrior's arm
    And guided every stroke.

  Fireside and woman--mighty words!
    How wondrous is the spell
  They work upon the manly heart,
    Who knoweth not full well?
  And then the women of this land,
    That never land hath known
  A truer, prouder hearted race,
    Each Yankee boy must own.

  Brief eloquence was Stark's--nor vain--
    Scarce utter'd he the words,
  When burst the musket's rattling peal
    Out-leap'd the flashing swords;
  And when brave Stark in after time
    Told the proud tale of wonder,
  He said the battle din was one
    "Continual clap of thunder."

  Two hours they strove--then victory crown'd
    The gallant Yankee boys.
  Nought but the memory of the dead
    Bedimm'd their glorious joys;
  Ay--there's the rub--the hour of strife,
    Though follow years of fame,
  Is still in mournful memory link'd
    With some death-hallow'd name.

  The cypress with the laurel twines--
    The pæan sounds a knell,
  The trophied column marks the spot
    Where friends and brothers fell.
  Fame's mantle a funereal pall
    Seems to the grief-dimm'd eye,
  For ever where the bravest fall
    The best beloved die.

               THOMAS P. RODMAN.

    Just at this moment, when the Americans, thinking the battle
    over, began to scatter to the plunder of the German camp, a
    relieving force of five hundred men, sent by Burgoyne, came
    upon the scene. Luckily, Seth Warner also arrived with fresh
    men at this juncture, charged furiously upon the British, and
    by nightfall had killed or captured the entire column, with the
    exception of six men, who succeeded in reaching the British


[August 16, 1777]

  A cycle was closed and rounded,
    A continent lost and won,
  When Stark and his men went over
    The earthworks at Bennington.

  Slowly down from the northward,
    Billowing fold on fold,
  Whelming the land and crushing,
    The glimmering glacier rolled.

  Down from the broad St. Lawrence,
    Bright with its thousand isles,
  Through the Canadian woodlands,
    Sweet with the summer smiles,

  On over field and fastness,
    Village and vantage coigne,
  Rolled the resistless legions
    Led by the bold Burgoyne.

  Roared the craggy ledges
    Looming o'er Lake Champlain;
  Red with the blaze of navies
    Quivered the land-locked main;

  Soared the Vancour eagle,
    Screaming, across the sun;
  Deep dived the loon in terror
    Under Lake Horicon.

  Panther and hart together
    Fled to the wilds afar,
  From the flash and the crash of the cannon
    And the rush of the southward war.

  But at last by the lordly river
    The trampling giant swayed,
  And his massive arm swung eastward
    Like a blindly-plunging blade.

  New England felt her bosom
    Menaced with deadly blow,
  And her minute-men sprang up again
    And flew to bar the foe.

  But Stark in his Hampshire valley
    Watched like a glowering bear,
  That hears the cry go sweeping by
    Yet stirs not from his lair;

  For on his daring spirit
    A wrath lay like a spell,--
  The wrath of one rewarded ill
    For a great work wrought right well.

  Neighbor and friend and brother
    Flocked to his side in vain,--
  "What, can it be that they long for me
    To ruin their cause again?

  "Surely the northern lights are bright.
    Surely the South lies still.
  Would they have more?--Lo, I left my sword
    On the crest of Bunker Hill."

  But at last from his own New Hampshire
    An urgent summons came,
  That stirred his heart like the voice of God
    From Sinai's walls of flame.

  He bowed his head, and he rose aloft;
    Again he grasped the brand,--
  "For the cause of man and my native State,
    Not for an ingrate land!"

  Through the mist-veil faintly struggling,
    The rays of the setting sun
  Reddened the leafy village
    Of white-walled Bennington.

  Then out of the dismal weather
    Came many a sound of war,--
  The straggling shots and the volleys
    And the cries, now near now far.

  For forms half seen were chasing
    The phantom forms that fled;
  And ghostly figures grappled
    And spectres fought and bled;

  Till the mist on a sudden settled
    And they saw before them fair,
  Over a hill to the westward,
    An island in the air.

  There were tree-trunks and waving branches,
    And greensward and flowers below;
  It rose in a dome of verdure
    From the mist-waves' watery flow.

  A flag from its summit floated
    And a circling earthwork grew,
  As the arms of the swarming soldiers
    At their toil unwonted flew.

  "Aha!" cried the Yankee leader,
    "So the panther has turned at bay
  With his claws of steel and his breath of fire
    Behind that wall of clay!

  "_Our_ steel is in muscle and sinew.
    But I know,"--and his voice rang free,--
  "Right well I know we shall strike a blow
    That the world will leap to see."

  I stood by a blazing city
    Till the fires had died away,
  Save a flickering gleam in the ruins
    And a fitful gleam on the bay.

  But a swarthy cove by the water
    Blue-bristled from point to base,
  With the breath of demons, bursting
    Through the crust of their prison-place;

  And another beside it flaunted
    A thousand rags of red,
  Like the Plague King's dancing banners
    On a mound of the swollen dead.

  Twin brothers of flame and evil,
    In their quivering living light,
  They ruled with a frightful beauty
    The desolate waste of night.

  Thus did the battle mountain
    Blazon with flashes dire;
  The leaguered crest responded
    In a coronal of fire.

  The tough old fowling-pieces
    In huddling tumult rang.
  Louder the muskets' roaring!
    Shriller the rifles' clang!

  Hour after hour the turmoil
    Gathered and swelled apace,
  Till the hill seemed a volcano
    Bursting in every place.

  Then the lights grew faint and meagre,
    Though the hideous noise rolled on;
  And out of a bath of glory
    Uprose the noble sun.

  It brightened the tossing banner;
    It yellowed the leafy crest;
  It smote on the serried weapons,
    On helmet and scarlet breast.

  It drove on the mist below them
    Where Stark and his foremost stood,
  Flashing volley for volley
    Into the stubborn wood.

  A thousand stalwart figures
    Sprang from the gulf profound,
  A thousand guns uplifted
    Went whirling round and round.

  Like some barbarian onslaught
    On a lofty Roman hold;
  Like the upward rush of Titans
    On Olympian gods of old;

  With a swirl of the wrangling torrents
    As they dash on a castle wall;
  With the flame-seas skyward surging
    At the mountain demon's call,

  Heedless of friend and brother
    Stricken to earth below,
  The sons of New England bounded
    On the breastwork of the foe.

  Each stalwart form on the ramparts
    Swaying his battered gun
  Seemed a vengeful giant, looming
    Against the rising sun.

  The pond'rous clubs swept crashing
    Through the bayonets round their feet
  As a woodman's axe-edge crashes
    Through branches mailed in sleet,

  Shattering head and shoulder,
    Splintering arm and thigh,
  Hurling the redcoats earthward
    Like bolts from an angry sky.

  Faster each minute and faster
    The yeomen swarm over the wall,
  And narrower grows the circle
    And thicker the Britons fall;

  Till Baum with his Hessian swordsmen
    Swift to the rescue flies,
  The frown of the Northland on their brows
    And the war-light in their eyes.

  Back reeled the men of Berkshire,
    The mountaineers gave back,
  But Stark and his Hampshire yeomen
    Flung full across their track.

  The stern Teutonic mother
    Well might she grandly eye
  The prowess dread of her war-swarms red
    As they racked the earth and sky.

  Like rival wrestling athletes
    Grappled the East and West.
  With straining thews and staring eyes
  They swayed and strove for the royal prize,
    A continent's virgin breast.

  Till at last as a strong man's wrenching
    Shatters a brittle vase,
  The lustier arms of the Westland
    Shattered the elder race.

  Baum and his bravest cohorts
    Lay on the trampled sod,
  And Stark's strong cry rose clear and high,
    "Yield in the name of God!"

  Then the sullen Hessians yielded,
    Girt by an iron ring,
  And down from the summit fluttered
    The flag of the British king.

  Vainly the tardy Breyman
    May strive that height to gain;
  More work for the Hampshire war-clubs!
    More room for the Hessian slain!

  The giant's arm is severed,
    The giant's blood flows free,
  And he staggers in the pathway
    That leads to the distant sea.

  The Berkshire and Hampshire yeomen
    With the men of the Hudson join,
  And the gathering flood rolls over
    The host of the bold Burgoyne.

  For a cycle was closed and rounded,
    A continent lost and won,
  When Stark and his men went over
    The earthworks at Bennington.

               W. H. BABCOCK.

    Saint Leger, meanwhile, had landed at Oswego and advanced
    against Fort Stanwix. General Nicholas Herkimer, commander
    of the militia of Tryon County, at the head of eight hundred
    men, started to the rescue. He met the enemy, on August 5, at
    Oriskany, and there followed the most obstinate and murderous
    battle of the Revolution. Both sides claimed the victory.


[August 6, 1777]

  As men who fight for home and child and wife,
  As men oblivious of life
      In holy martyrdom,
  The yeomen of the valley fought that day,
  Throughout thy fierce and deadly fray,--
      Blood-red Oriskany.

  From rock and tree and clump of twisted brush
  The hissing gusts of battle rush,--
      Hot-breathed and horrible!
  The roar, the smoke, like mist on stormy seas,
  Sweep through thy splintered trees,--
      Hard-fought Oriskany.

  Heroes are born in such a chosen hour;
  From common men they rise, and tower,
      Like thee, brave Herkimer!
  Who wounded, steedless, still beside the beech
  Cheered on thy men, with sword and speech,
      In grim Oriskany.

  But ere the sun went toward the tardy night,
  The valley then beheld the light
      Of freedom's victory;
  And wooded Tryon snatched from British arms
  The empire of a million farms--
      On bright Oriskany.

  The guns of Stanwix thunder to the skies;
  The rescued wilderness replies;
      Forth dash the garrison!
  And routed Tories, with their savage aids,
  Sink reddening through the sullied shades--
      From lost Oriskany.

               CHARLES D. HELMER.

    Saint Leger rallied his shaken columns and settled down to
    besiege the fort, which laughed at his summons to surrender.
    Soon afterwards, news of Oriskany and of the siege arrived at
    General Schuyler's headquarters at Stillwater, and Benedict
    Arnold set out at once for Fort Stanwix at the head of twelve
    hundred men. Such exaggerated reports of the size of his force
    were conveyed to Saint Leger that, on August 22, he raised the
    siege and retreated to Canada.


[August, 1777]

  From out of the North-land his leaguer he led,
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger;
  And the war-lust was strong in his heart as he sped;
  _Their courage_, he cried, _it shall die i' the throat
  When they mark the proud standards that over us float--
  See rover and ranger, redskin and redcoat_!
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger.

  He hurried by water, he scurried by land,
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger,
  Till closely he cordoned the patriot band:
  _Surrender_, he bade, _or I tighten the net!_
  _Surrender?_ they mocked him, _we laugh at your threat!_
  _By Heaven!_ he thundered, _you'll live to regret_
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger!

  He mounted his mortars, he smote with his shell,
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger;
  Then fumed in a fury that futile they fell;
  But he counselled with rum till he chuckled, elate,
  As he sat in his tent-door, _Egad, we can wait,
  For famine is famous to open a gate_!
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger.

  But lo! as he waited, was borne to his ear--
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger--
  A whisper of dread and a murmur of fear!
  _They come, and as leaves are their numbers enrolled!
  They come, and their onset may not be controlled,
  For 'tis Arnold who heads them, 'tis Arnold the bold_--
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger!

  _Retreat!_ Was the word e'er more bitterly said,
          Saint Leger, Saint Leger,
  Than when to the North-land your leaguer you led?
  Alas, for Burgoyne in his peril and pain--
  Who lists in the night for the tramp of that train!
  And, alas, for the boasting, the vaunting, the vain
          Saint Leger!

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    Saint Leger's retreat, joined to the disaster at Bennington,
    left Burgoyne in an exceedingly critical condition. The
    Americans hemmed him in, front and rear, and increased rapidly
    in numbers; he had received no news from Howe, who was
    supposed to be on his way up the Hudson to join him; and he
    found it more and more difficult to get provisions.


  Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review,
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
  These rebels their course very quickly will rue,
  And fly as the leaves 'fore the autumn tempest flew,
  When him who is your leader they know, boys!
      They with men have now to deal,
      And we soon will make them feel--
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
  That a loyal Briton's arm, and a loyal Briton's steel,
  Can put to flight a rebel, as quick as other foe, boys!
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

  As to Sa-ra-tog' he came, thinking how to jo the game,
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
  He began to see the grubs, in the branches of his fame,
  He began to have the trembles, lest a flash should be the flame
  For which he had agreed his perfume to forego, boys!
      No lack of skill, but fates,
      Shall make us yield to Gates,
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo, boys!
  The devils may have leagued, as you know, with the States.
  But we never will be beat by any mortal foe, boys!
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo,
      Tullalo, tullalo, tullalo-o-o-o, boys!

    The American army was stationed along the western bank of the
    Hudson; while Burgoyne's troops were encamped along the eastern
    bank. For nearly a month the armies remained in this position;
    then Burgoyne determined to advance to Albany, and on September
    13, 1777, the British army crossed on a pontoon bridge to the
    west bank of the Hudson. Two desperate attempts were made to
    break through the American lines, but the British were routed
    by Benedict Arnold's superb and daring generalship, and forced
    to retreat to Saratoga.


[October 7, 1777]

  Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel!
  Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel;
  Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared
  Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard.

  Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall;
  Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all!
  Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried;
  Then, with my rage at his treason--with pity when André died.

  Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame,
  Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame;
  Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime,
  Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time.

  Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday!
  Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay.
  The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne,
  And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join.

  Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight;
  There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height;
  Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word;
  As silent their long line of scarlet--not one of them whispered or

  Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze;
  Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees;
  "What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right,
  Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?"

  "General Gates sent his orders"--faltering the aide-de-camp spoke--
  "You're to return, lest some rashness--" Fiercely the speech Arnold
  "Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done!
  Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!"

  Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight,
  Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!--
  Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell--
  Fell from the patriot's heaven down to the loyalist's hell!

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Burgoyne was hotly pursued, and when he reached the place where
    he had crossed the Hudson, found it occupied in force by the
    Americans. The British army, in short, was surrounded, and,
    after a week's indecision, Burgoyne sent a flag of truce to
    Gates, inquiring what terms of surrender would be accepted.
    Three days were spent in a discussion of terms, and on October
    17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered to the American forces.


[October 17, 1777]

  When Jack the King's commander
  Was going to his duty,
  Through all the crowd he smiled and bowed
  To every blooming beauty.

  The city rung with feats he'd done
  In Portugal and Flanders,
  And all the town thought he'd be crowned
  The first of Alexanders.

  To Hampton Court he first repairs
  To kiss great George's hand, sirs;
  Then to harangue on state affairs
  Before he left the land, sirs.

  The "Lower House" sat mute as mouse
  To hear his grand oration;
  And "all the peers," with loudest cheers,
  Proclaimed him to the nation.

  Then off he went to Canada,
  Next to Ticonderoga,
  And quitting those away he goes
  Straightway to Saratoga.

  With great parade his march he made
  To gain his wished-for station,
  While far and wide his minions hied
  To spread his "Proclamation."

  To such as stayed he offers made
  Of "pardon on submission;
  But savage bands should waste the lands
  Of all in opposition."

  But ah, the cruel fates of war!
  This boasted son of Britain,
  When mounting his triumphal car,
  With sudden fear was smitten.

  The sons of Freedom gathered round,
  His hostile bands confounded,
  And when they'd fain have turned their back
  They found themselves surrounded!

  In vain they fought, in vain they fled;
  Their chief, humane and tender,
  To save the rest soon thought it best
  His forces to surrender.

  Brave St. Clair, when he first retired,
  Knew what the fates portended;
  And Arnold and heroic Gates
  His conduct have defended.

  Thus may America's brave sons
  With honor be rewarded,
  And be the fate of all her foes
  The same as here recorded.


[October 17, 1777]

  Come unto me, ye heroes
    Whose hearts are true and bold,
  Who value more your honor
    Than others do their gold;
  Give ear unto my story,
    And I the truth will tell,
  Concerning many a soldier
    Who for his country fell.

  Burgoyne, the King's commander,
    From Canada set sail;
  With full eight thousand regulars,
    He thought he could not fail;
  With Indians and Canadians,
    And his cursèd Tory crew,
  On board his fleet of shipping
    He up the Champlain flew.

  Before Ticonderoga,
    The first day of July,
  Appeared his ships and army,
    And we did them espy.
  Their motions we observed,
    Full well both night and day,
  And our brave boys prepared
    To have a bloody fray.

  Our garrison, they viewed them,
    And straight their troops did land;
  And when St. Clair, our chieftain,
    The fact did understand,
  That they the Mount Defiance
    Were bent to fortify,
  He found we must surrender,
    Or else prepare to die.

  The fifth day of July, then,
    He ordered a retreat;
  And when next morn we started,
    Burgoyne thought we were beat.
  And closely he pursued us,
    Till when near Hubbardton,
  Our rear guards were defeated,
    He thought the country won.

  And when 'twas told in Congress
    That we our forts had left,
  To Albany retreated,
    Of all the North bereft,
  Brave General Gates they sent us,
    Our fortunes to retrieve,
  And him, with shouts of gladness,
    The army did receive.

  Where first the Mohawk's waters
    Do in the sunshine play,
  For Herkimer's brave soldiers
    Sellinger ambushed lay;
  And them he there defeated,
    But soon he had his due,
  And scared by Brooks and Arnold,
    He to the north withdrew.

  To take the stores and cattle
    That we had gathered then,
  Burgoyne sent a detachment
    Of fifteen hundred men;
  By Baum they were commanded,
    To Bennington they went;
  To plunder and to murder
    Was fully their intent.

  But little did they know then
    With whom they had to deal;
  It was not quite so easy
    Our stores and stocks to steal,
  Bold Stark would give them only
    A portion of his lead;
  With half his crew, ere sunset,
    Baum lay among the dead.

  The nineteenth of September,
    The morning cool and clear,
  Brave Gates rode through our army,
    Each soldier's heart to cheer;
  "Burgoyne," he cried, "advances,
    But we will never fly;
  No--rather than surrender,
    We'll fight him till we die!"

  The news was quickly brought us,
    The enemy was near,
  And all along our lines then,
    There was no sign of fear;
  It was above Stillwater
    We met at noon that day,
  And every one expected
    To see a bloody fray.

  Six hours the battle lasted,
    Each heart as true as gold,
  The British fought like lions,
    And we like Yankees bold;
  The leaves with blood were crimson,
    And then did brave Gates cry,
  "'Tis diamond now cut diamond!
    We'll beat them, boys, or die."

  The darkness soon approaching,
    It forced us to retreat
  Into our lines till morning,
    Which made them think us beat;
  But ere the sun was risen,
    They saw before their eyes
  Us ready to engage them,
    Which did them much surprise.

  Of fighting they seem weary,
    Therefore to work they go
  Their thousand dead to bury,
    And breastworks up to throw;
  With grape and bombs intending
    Our army to destroy,
  Or from our works our forces
    By stratagem decoy.

  The seventh day of October
    The British tried again,
  Shells from their cannon throwing,
    Which fell on us like rain;
  To drive us from our stations,
    That they might thus retreat;
  For now Burgoyne saw plainly
    He never could us beat.

  But vain was his endeavor
    Our men to terrify;
  Though death was all around us,
    Not one of us would fly.
  But when an hour we'd fought them,
    And they began to yield,
  Along our lines the cry ran,
    "The next blow wins the field!"

  Great God who guides their battles
    Whose cause is just and true,
  Inspired our bold commander
    The course he should pursue!
  He ordered Arnold forward,
    And Brooks to follow on;
  The enemy was routed!
    Our liberty was won!

  Then, burning all their luggage,
    They fled with haste and fear,
  Burgoyne with all his forces,
    To Saratoga did steer;
  And Gates, our brave commander,
    Soon after him did hie,
  Resolving he would take them,
    Or in the effort die.

  As we came nigh the village,
    We overtook the foe;
  They'd burned each house to ashes,
    Like all where'er they go.
  The seventeenth of October,
    They did capitulate,
  Burgoyne and his proud army
    Did we our prisoners make.

  Now here's a health to Arnold,
    And our commander Gates,
  To Lincoln and to Washington,
    Whom every Tory hates;
  Likewise unto our Congress,
    God grant it long to reign;
  Our Country, Right, and Justice
    Forever to maintain.

  Now finished is my story,
    My song is at an end;
  The freedom we're enjoying
    We're ready to defend;
  For while our cause is righteous,
    Heaven nerves the soldier's arm,
  And vain is their endeavor
    Who strive to do us harm.



    News of the reverse at Saratoga was received in England with
    amazement and consternation, and its effect on the government
    was soon discernible. On February 17, 1778, Lord North
    astonished the House of Commons by rising in his place and
    moving that Parliament repeal the tea tax and other measures
    obnoxious to the Americans, that it renounce forever the right
    of raising a revenue in America, and that commissioners be
    sent to Congress, with full powers for negotiating a peace. So
    complete a political somersault has seldom been turned by an
    English minister.


[February 17, 1778]

      When North first began
      With his taxation plan,
  The Colonies all to supplant,
      To Britain's true cause,
      And her liberty, laws,
  Oh, how did he scorn to recant.

      Oh! how did he boast
      Of his pow'r and his host,
  Alternately swagger and cant;
      Of freedom so dear,
      Not a word would he hear,
  Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant.

      That freedom he swore
      They ne'er should have more,
  Their money to give and to grant;
      Whene'er they addressed,
      What disdain he express'd,
  Not thinking they'd make him recant.

      He armies sent o'er
      To America's shore,
  New government there to transplant;
      But every campaign
      Prov'd his force to be vain,
  Yet still he refus'd to recant.

      But with all their bombast,
      They were so beat at last,
  As to silence his impious rant;
      Who for want of success,
      Could at last do no less
  Than draw in his horns, and recant.

      With his brother Burgoyne,
      He's forc'd now to join,
  And a treaty of peace for to want;
      Says he ne'er will fight,
      But will give up his right
  To taxation, and freely recant.

      With the great General Howe,
      He'd be very glad now,
  He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt;
      And ev'ry proud Scot
      In the devilish plot,
  With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant.

      Old England, alas!
      They have brought to such pass,
  Too late are proposals extant;
      America's lost,
      Our glory at most
  Is only that--tyrants recant.

    But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded
    with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of
    armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain
    proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence
    should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part
    of France was communicated to the British government, and war
    against France was instantly declared.



      Rouse, Britons! at length,
      And put forth your strength
  Perfidious France to resist;
      Ten Frenchmen will fly,
      To shun a black eye,
  If an Englishman doubles his fist.
         Derry down, down, hey derry down.

      But if they feel stout,
      Why let them turn out,
  With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,
      Brave Hardy's sea thunder
      Shall strike them with wonder,
  And make the frogs leap in their bellies!

      For their Dons and their ships
      We care not three skips
  Of a flea--and their threats turn into jest, O!
      We'll bang their bare ribs
      For the infamous fibs
  Cramm'd into their fine manifesto.

      Our brethren so frantic
      Across the Atlantic,
  Who quit their old friends in a huff,
      In spite of their airs,
      Are at their last prayers,
  And of fighting have had quantum suff.

      Then if powers at a distance
      Should offer assistance,
  Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye,"
      Old England's a match
      And more for old scratch,
  A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!
        Derry down, down, hey derry down.

    In spite of this change in the complexion of affairs abroad,
    the situation in America was still critical. Howe had abandoned
    Burgoyne to his fate, but he had not been inactive. He had set
    his heart upon the capture of Philadelphia, and in June, 1777,
    assembled his army at New Brunswick, but finding Washington
    strongly posted on the Heights of Middlebrook and not daring to
    attack him, was forced to retire to New York.


The substance of Sir W.'s last letter from New York, versified.

[June, 1777]

  As to kidnap the Congress has long been my aim,
  I lately resolv'd to accomplish the same;
  And, that none, in the glory, might want his due share,
  All the troops were to Brunswick desir'd to repair.
            Derry down, down, hey derry down.

  There I met them in person, and took the command,
  When I instantly told them the job upon hand;
  I did not detain them with long-winded stuff,
  But made a short speech, and each soldier look'd bluff.

  With this omen elated, towards Quibbletown
  I led them, concluding the day was our own;
  For, till we went thither, the coast was quite clear,--
  But Putnam and Washington, d--n them, were there!

  I own I was stagger'd, to see with what skill
  The rogues were intrenched, on the brow of the hill;
  With a view to dismay them, I show'd my whole force,
  But they kept their position, and car'd not a curse.

  There were then but two ways,--to retreat or attack,
  And to me it seem'd wisest, by far, to go back;
  For I thought, if I rashly got into a fray,
  There might both be the Devil and Piper to pay.

  Then, to lose no more time, by parading in vain,
  I determin'd elsewhere to transfer the campaign;
  So just as we went, we return'd to this place,
  With no other diff'rence,--than mending our pace.

  Where next we proceed, is not yet very clear,
  But, when we get there, be assur'd you shall hear;
  I'll settle that point, when I meet with my brother,--
  Meanwhile, we're embarking for some place or other.

  Having briefly, my lord, told you,--how the land lies,
  I hope there's enough--for a word to the wise;
  'Tis a good horse, they say, that never will stumble,--
  But, fighting or flying,--I'm your very humble.

    Howe, finding the approach to the "rebel capital" by land cut
    off, determined to reach it by water, and about the middle of
    July put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight
    sail, carrying an army of eighteen thousand men. Not until
    the 25th of August did he succeed in landing this force at
    the head of Chesapeake Bay. Washington, though he had only
    eleven thousand men, decided to offer battle, rather than let
    Philadelphia be taken without a blow, and on September 11,
    1777, the armies met at Brandywine Creek. The Americans were
    forced to retire, with a loss of about a thousand men, and the
    British entered Philadelphia two weeks later.


      In their ragged regimentals
      Stood the old Continentals,
          Yielding not,
      When the grenadiers were lunging,
      And like hail fell the plunging
          When the files
          Of the isles,
  From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant
  And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,
          Through the morn!

      Then with eyes to the front all,
      And with guns horizontal,
          Stood our sires;
      And the balls whistled deadly,
      And in streams flashing redly
          Blazed the fires:
          As the roar
          Of the shore,
  Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres
          Of the plain;
  And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,
          Cracking amain!

      Now like smiths at their forges
      Worked the red St. George's
      And the "villainous saltpetre"
      Rung a fierce, discordant metre
          Round their ears;
          As the swift
  With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor
          On our flanks:
  Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire
          Through the ranks!

      Then the bareheaded Colonel
      Galloped through the white infernal
      And his broadsword was swinging
      And his brazen throat was ringing
          Then the blue
          Bullets flew,
  And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden
  And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
          Hurling Death.


    Washington retired to winter quarters at Valley Forge, where,
    through the neglect and mismanagement of Congress, the patriot
    army was so ill-provided with food, clothing, and shelter, and
    endured sufferings so intense that, from disease and desertion,
    it dwindled at times to less than two thousand effective men.


From "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies"


  O'er town and cottage, vale and height,
  Down came the Winter, fierce and white,
  And shuddering wildly, as distraught
  At horrors his own hand had wrought.

  His child, the young Year, newly born,
    Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,
  Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,
    As on a frozen heath benighted.
  In vain the hearths were set aglow,
    In vain the evening lamps were lighted,
  To cheer the dreary realm of snow:
  Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,
  Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.

  How sad the wretch at morn or eve
  Compelled his starving home to leave,
  Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift,
  Toils slowly on from rift to rift,
  Still hearing in his aching ear
  The cry his fancy whispers near,
  Of little ones who weep for bread
  Within an ill-provided shed!

  But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,
    Freezing the tear it caused to start,
  Was the inevitable chill
    Which pierced a nation's agued heart,--
  A nation with its naked breast
  Against the frozen barriers prest,
  Heaving its tedious way and slow
  Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,
  Where every blast that whistled by
  Was bitter with its children's cry.

  Such was the winter's awful sight
  For many a dreary day and night,
  What time our country's hope forlorn,
  Of every needed comfort shorn,
  Lay housed within a hurried tent,
  Where every keen blast found a rent,
  And oft the snow was seen to sift
  Along the floor its piling drift,
  Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,
  Across the night-couch frequent rolled;
  Where every path by a soldier beat,
    Or every track where a sentinel stood,
  Still held the print of naked feet,
    And oft the crimson stains of blood;
  Where Famine held her spectral court,
    And joined by all her fierce allies:
  She ever loved a camp or fort
    Beleaguered by the wintry skies,--
  But chiefly when Disease is by,
  To sink the frame and dim the eye,
  Until, with seeking forehead bent,
    In martial garments cold and damp,
  Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,
    To count the charnels of the camp.

  Such was the winter that prevailed
    Within the crowded, frozen gorge;
  Such were the horrors that assailed
    The patriot band at Valley Forge.

  It was a midnight storm of woes
    To clear the sky for Freedom's morn;
  And such must ever be the throes
    The hour when Liberty is born.

               THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

    Howe's army, meanwhile, spent the winter in Philadelphia; very
    pleasantly, for the most part, and yet not without various
    alarms, one of which was celebrated by Francis Hopkinson in
    some famous verses to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," published in
    the _Pennsylvania Packet_, March 4, 1778.



[January 5, 1778]

  Gallants attend, and hear a friend
    Trill forth harmonious ditty;
  Strange things I'll tell which late befel
    In Philadelphia city.

  'Twas early day, as Poets say,
    Just when the sun was rising,
  A soldier stood on a log of wood,
    And saw a sight surprising.

  As in a maze he stood to gaze
    (The truth can't be deny'd, Sir),
  He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,
    Come floating down the tide, Sir.

  A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,
    This strange appearance viewing,
  First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,
    Then said "Some mischief's brewing:

  "These kegs now hold, the rebels bold,
    Packed up like pickl'd herring;
  And they're come down t' attack the town
    In this new way of ferry'ng."

  The soldier flew, the sailor too,
    And, scar'd almost to death, Sir,
  Wore out their shoes to spread the news,
    And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.

  Now up and down, throughout the town
    Most frantic scenes were acted;
  And some ran here, and others there,
    Like men almost distracted.

  Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,
    But said the earth had quaked;
  And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
    Ran thro' the streets half naked.

  _Sir William_ he, snug as a flea,
    Lay all this time a snoring;
  Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm
    In bed with Mrs. Loring.

  Now in a fright, he starts upright,
    Awaked by such a clatter;
  He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
    "For God's sake, what's the matter?"

  At his bedside he then espy'd,
    _Sir Erskine_ at command, Sir;
  Upon one foot he had one boot,
    And t' other in his hand, Sir.

  "Arise, arise," _Sir Erskine_ cries,
    "The rebels--more's the pity--
  Without a boat, are all afloat,
    And rang'd before the city.

  "The motley crew, in vessels new,
    With Satan for their guide, Sir,
  Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,
    Come driving down the tide, Sir.

  "Therefore prepare for bloody war;
    These kegs must all be routed;
  Or surely we dispis'd shall be,
    And British valor doubted."

  The royal band now ready stand,
    All ranged in dread array, Sir,
  On every slip, on every ship,
    For to begin the fray, Sir.

  The cannons roar from shore to shore;
    The small-arms loud did rattle;
  Since wars began I'm sure no man
    E'er saw so strange a battle.

  The _rebel_ dales, the _rebel_ vales,
    With _rebel_ trees surrounded,
  The distant woods, the hills and floods,
    With _rebel_ echoes sounded.

  The fish below swam to and fro,
    Attack'd from every quarter;
  Why, sure (thought they), the De'il's to pay
    'Mong folks above the water.

  The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made
    Of _rebel_ staves and hoops, Sir,
  Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,
    The conq'ering British troops, Sir.

  From morn to night these men of might
    Display'd amazing courage;
  And when the sun was fairly down,
    Retired to sup their porridge.

  A hundred men, with each a pen,
    Or more, upon my word, Sir,
  It is most true, would be too few,
    Their valor to record, Sir.

  Such feats did they perform that day
    Against these wicked kegs, Sir,
  That years to come, _if they get home_,
    They'll make their boasts and brags, Sir.

               FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

    Another pleasant story of the same period, which also has its
    foundation in fact, is told by Mr. Carleton in "The Little
    Black-Eyed Rebel." The heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and
    she succeeded more than once in helping to smuggle through
    letters from soldiers in the Continental army to their wives in


  A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down
  With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;
  And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly,
  Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.

  His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,
  The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;
  But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,
  And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.

  He drove up to the market, he waited in the line;
  His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine;
  But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,
  Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.

  "Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;
  And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd;
  But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,
  Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.

  For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day,
  Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,
  Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;
  And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.

  But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind,
  Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:
  And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;
  Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.

  So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red;
  "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said:
  And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,
  And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.

  "You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.
  "I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;
  And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,
  With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.

  Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,
  And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!
  Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!"
  And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.

  Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,
  And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;
  And, "Miss, _I_ have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;
  But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.

  With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,
  Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the
  "There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"
  Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in her eye.

               WILL CARLETON.

[5] From _Poems for Young Americans_, published by Harper & Bros.

    Early in May, Sir Henry Clinton succeeded Howe in command
    of the British forces, and on June 18, 1778, evacuated
    Philadelphia, and started, with his whole army, for New York.
    Washington started in pursuit, and on Sunday, June 28, ordered
    General Charles Lee, in command of the advance guard, to fall
    upon the British left wing near Monmouth Court-House. Instead
    of pressing forward, Lee ordered his men to retire, and they
    began to fall into disorder. At that moment, Washington,
    summoned by Lafayette, galloped up, white with rage, ordered
    Lee to the rear, re-formed the troops, and drove the British
    back. Night put an end to the conflict, and Clinton managed
    to get away under cover of the darkness, leaving his wounded


[June 28, 1778]

  Whilst in peaceful quarters lying
    We indulge the glass till late,
  Far remote the thought of dying,
    Hear, my friends, the soldier's fate:
  From the summer's sun hot beaming,
    Where yon dust e'en clouds the skies,
  To the plains where heroes bleeding,
    Shouts and dying groans arise.
      Halt! halt! halt! form every rank here;
        Mark yon dust that climbs the sky,
      To the front close up the long rear,
        See! the enemy is nigh;
      Platoons march at proper distance,
        Cover close each rank and file,
      They will make a bold resistance,
        Here, my lads, is gallant toil.

  Now all you from downy slumber
    Roused to the soft joys of love,
  Waked to pleasures without number,
    Peace and ease your bosoms prove:
  Round us roars Bellona's thunder,
    Ah! how close the iron storm,
  O'er the field wild stalks pale wonder,
    Pass the word there, form, lads, form.
      To the left display that column,
        Front, halt, dress, be bold and brave;
      Mark in air yon fiery volume,
        Who'd refuse a glorious grave;
      Ope your boxes, quick, be ready,
        See! our light-bobs gain the hill;
      Courage, boys, be firm and steady,
        Hence each care, each fear lie still.

  Now the dismal cannon roaring
    Speaks loud terror to the soul,
  Grape shot wing'd with death fast pouring,
    Ether rings from pole to pole;
  See, the smoke, how black and dreary,
    Clouds sulphureous hide the sky,
  Wounded, bloody, fainting, weary,
    How their groans ascend on high!
      Firm, my lads; who breaks the line thus?
        Oh! can brave men ever yield,
      Glorious danger now combines us,
        None but cowards quit the field.
      To the rear each gun dismounted;
        Close the breach, and brisk advance.
      All your former acts recounted
        This day's merit shall enhance.

  Now half-choked with dust and powder,
    Fiercely throbs each bursting vein:
  Hark! the din of arms grows louder,
    Ah! what heaps of heroes slain!
  See, from flank to flank wide flashing,
    How each volley rends the gloom;
  Hear the trumpet; ah! what clashing,
    Man and horse now meet their doom;
      Bravely done! each gallant soldier
        Well sustained this heavy fire;
      Alexander ne'er was bolder;
        Now by regiments retire.
      See, our second line moves on us,
        Ope your columns, give them way,
      Heaven perhaps may smile upon us,
        These may yet regain the day.

  Now our second line engaging,
    Charging close, spreads carnage round,
  Fierce revenge and fury raging,
    Angry heroes bite the ground.
  The souls of brave men here expiring
    Call for vengeance e'en in death,
  Frowning still, the dead, the dying,
    Threaten with their latest breath.
      To the left obliquely flying,
        Oh! be ready, level well,
      Who could think of e'er retiring,
        See, my lads, those volleys tell.
      Ah! by heavens, our dragoons flying,
        How the squadrons fill the plain!
      Check them, boys, ye fear not dying,
        Sell your lives, nor fall in vain.

  Now our left flank they are turning;
    Carnage is but just begun;
  Desperate now, 'tis useless mourning,
    Farewell, friends, adieu the sun!
  Fix'd to die, we scorn retreating,
    To the shock our breasts oppose,
  Hark! the shout, the signal beating,
    See, with bayonets they close:
      Front rank charge! the rear make ready!
        Forward, march--reserve your fire!
      Now present, fire brisk, be steady,
        March, march, see their lines retire!
      On the left, our light troops dashing,
        Now our dragoons charge the rear,
      Shout! huzza! what glorious slashing,
        They run, they run, hence banish fear!

  Now the toil and danger's over,
    Dress alike the wounded brave,
  Hope again inspires the lover,
    Old and young forget the grave;
  Seize the canteen, poise it higher,
    Rest to each brave soul that fell!
  Death for this is ne'er the nigher,
    Welcome mirth, and fear farewell.

               R. H.


[June 28, 1778]

  Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;
    These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;
  Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,
    Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;
  Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,
      Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

  All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,
    Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;
  Then on Monmouth plain encamping, tired and footsore with the tramping,
    Lay all wearily and drearily the forces of the crown,
  With their resting horses neighing and their evening bugles playing,
      And their sentries pacing slow to and fro.

  Ere the day to night had shifted, camp was broken, knapsacks lifted,
    And in motion was the vanguard of our swift-retreating foes;
  Grim Knyphausen rode before his brutal Hessians, bloody Tories--
    They were fit companions, truly, hirelings these and traitors those--
  While the careless jest and laughter of the teamsters coming after
      Rang around each creaking wain of the train.

  'Twas a quiet Sabbath morning; nature gave no sign of warning
    Of the struggle that would follow when we met the Briton's might;
  Of the horsemen fiercely spurring, of the bullets shrilly whirring,
    Of the bayonets brightly gleaming through the smoke that wrapped the
  Of the cannon thunder-pealing, and the wounded wretches reeling,
      And the corses gory red of the dead.

  Quiet nature had no prescience; but the Tories and the Hessians
    Heard the baying of the bugles that were hanging on their track;
  Heard the cries of eager ravens soaring high above the cravens;
    And they hurried, worn and worried, casting startled glances back,
  Leaving Clinton there to meet us, with his bull-dogs fierce to greet us,
      With the veterans of the crown, scarred and brown.

  For the fight our souls were eager, and each Continental leaguer,
    As he gripped his firelock firmly, scarce could wait the word to fire;
  For his country rose such fervor, in his heart of hearts, to serve her,
    That it gladdened him and maddened him and kindled raging ire.
  Never panther from his fastness, through the forest's gloomy vastness,
      Coursed more grimly night and day for his prey.

  I was in the main force posted; Lee, of whom his minions boasted,
    Was commander of the vanguard, and with him were Scott and Wayne.
  What they did I know not, cared not; in their march of shame I shared
    But it startled me to see them panic-stricken back again,
  At the black morass's border, all in headlong, fierce disorder,
      With the Briton plying steel at their heel.

  Outward cool when combat waging, howsoever inward raging,
    Ne'er had Washington shown feeling when his forces fled the foe;
  But to-day his forehead lowered, and we shrank his wrath untoward,
    As on Lee his bitter speech was hurled in hissing tones and low:
  "Sir, what means this wild confusion? Is it cowardice or collusion?
      Is it treachery or fear brings you here?"

  Lee grew crimson in his anger--rang his curses o'er the clangor,
    O'er the roaring din of battle, as he wrathfully replied;
  But his raging was unheeded; fastly on our chieftain speeded,
    Rallied quick the fleeing forces, stayed the dark, retreating tide;
  Then, on foaming steed returning, said to Lee, with wrath still burning,
      "Will you now strike a blow at the foe?"

  At the words Lee drew up proudly, curled his lip and answered loudly;
    "Ay!" his voice rang out, "and will not be the first to leave the
  And his word redeeming fairly, with a skill surpassed but rarely,
    Struck the Briton with such ardor that the scarlet column reeled;
  Then, again, but in good order, past the black morass's border,
      Brought his forces rent and torn, spent and worn.

  As we turned on flanks and centre, in the path of death to enter,
    One of Knox's brass six-pounders lost its Irish cannoneer;
  And his wife who, 'mid the slaughter, had been bearing pails of water
    For the gun and for the gunner, o'er his body shed no tear.
  "Move the piece!"--but there they found her loading, firing that
      And she gayly, till we won, worked the gun.

  Loud we cheered as Captain Molly waved the rammer; then a volley
    Pouring in upon the grenadiers, we sternly drove them back;
  Though like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought
    That, though struck with heat, and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no
  There she stood amid the clamor, busily handling sponge and rammer,
      While we swept with wrath condign on their line.

  From our centre backward driven, with his forces rent and riven,
    Soon the foe re-formed in order, dressed again his shattered ranks;
  In a column firm advancing, from his bayonets hot rays glancing
    Showed in waving lines of brilliance as he fell upon our flanks,
  Charging bravely for his master: thus he met renewed disaster
      From the stronghold that we held back repelled.

  Monckton, gallant, cool, and fearless, 'mid his bravest comrades
    Brought his grenadiers to action but to fall amid the slain;
  Everywhere their ruin found them; red destruction rained around them
    From the mouth of Oswald's cannon, from the musketry of Wayne;
  While our sturdy Continentals, in their dusty regimentals,
      Drove their plumed and scarlet force, man and horse.

  Beamed the sunlight fierce and torrid o'er the raging battle horrid,
    Till, in faint exhaustion sinking, death was looked on as a boon;
  Heat, and not a drop of water--heat, that won the race of slaughter,
    Fewer far with bullets dying than beneath the sun of June;
  Only ceased the terrible firing, with the Briton slow retiring,
      As the sunbeams in the west sank to rest.

  On our arms so heavily sleeping, careless watch our sentries keeping,
    Ready to renew the contest when the dawning day should show;
  Worn with toil and heat, in slumber soon were wrapt our greatest number,
    Seeking strength to rise again and fall upon the wearied foe;
  For we felt his power was broken! but what rage was ours outspoken
      When, on waking at the dawn, he had gone.

  In the midnight still and sombre, while our force was wrapt in slumber,
    Clinton set his train in motion, sweeping fast to Sandy Hook;
  Safely from our blows he bore his mingled Britons, Hessians, Tories--
    Bore away his wounded soldiers, but his useless dead forsook;
  Fleeing from a worse undoing, and too far for our pursuing:
      So we found the field our own, and alone.

  How that stirring day comes o'er me! How those scenes arise before me!
    How I feel a youthful vigor for a moment fill my frame!
  Those who fought beside me seeing, from the dim past brought to being,
    By their hands I fain would clasp them--ah! each lives but in a name;
  But the freedom that they fought for, and the country grand they wrought
      Is their monument to-day, and for aye.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    The most famous incident of the fight, next to Washington's
    encounter with Lee, is the exploit of a camp follower named
    Molly Pitcher or Molly McGuire. She was a sturdy, red-haired,
    freckle-faced Irishwoman, and during the battle was engaged in
    carrying water to her husband, who was a cannoneer. A bullet
    killed him at his post and Molly, seizing his rammer as it
    fell, sprang to take his place. She served the gun with skill
    and courage, and on the following morning, covered with dirt
    and blood, she was presented by General Greene to Washington,
    who conferred upon her a sergeant's commission.


[June 28, 1778]

  'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town,
    For Lee was beating a wild retreat;
  The British were riding the Yankees down,
    And panic was pressing on flying feet.

  Galloping down like a hurricane
    Washington rode with his sword swung high,
  Mighty as he of the Trojan plain
    Fired by a courage from the sky.

  "Halt, and stand to your guns!" he cried.
    And a bombardier made swift reply.
  Wheeling his cannon into the tide,
    He fell 'neath the shot of a foeman nigh.

  Molly Pitcher sprang to his side,
    Fired as she saw her husband do.
  Telling the king in his stubborn pride
    Women like men to their homes are true.

  Washington rode from the bloody fray
    Up to the gun that a woman manned.
  "Molly Pitcher, you saved the day,"
    He said, as he gave her a hero's hand.

  He named her sergeant with manly praise,
    While her war-brown face was wet with tears--
  A woman has ever a woman's ways,
    And the army was wild with cheers.



  All day the great guns barked and roared;
  All day the big balls screeched and soared;
  All day, 'mid the sweating gunners grim,
  Who toiled in their smoke-shroud dense and dim,
  Sweet Molly labored with courage high,
  With steady hand and watchful eye,
  Till the day was ours, and the sinking sun
  Looked down on the field of Monmouth won,
  And Molly standing beside her gun.

  Now, Molly, rest your weary arm!
  Safe, Molly, all is safe from harm.
  Now, woman, bow your aching head,
  And weep in sorrow o'er your dead!

  Next day on that field so hardly won,
  Stately and calm stands Washington,
  And looks where our gallant Greene doth lead
  A figure clad in motley weed--
  A soldier's cap and a soldier's coat
  Masking a woman's petticoat.
  He greets our Molly in kindly wise;
  He bids her raise her tearful eyes;
  And now he hails her before them all
  Comrade and soldier, whate'er befall,
  "And since she has played a man's full part,
  A man's reward for her loyal heart!
  And Sergeant Molly Pitcher's name
  Be writ henceforth on the shield of fame!"

  Oh, Molly, with your eyes so blue!
  Oh, Molly, Molly, here's to you!
  Sweet honor's roll will aye be richer
  To hold the name of Molly Pitcher.

               LAURA E. RICHARDS.

    About the middle of July, a strong French fleet, commanded by
    Count D'Estaing, arrived off Sandy Hook, bringing with it M.
    Gérard, the first minister from France to the United States. It
    was found that the ships could not pass the bar at the mouth of
    New York harbor, and it was decided to attempt the capture of
    the British force which held Newport, R. I., but the expedition
    proved a failure, and the French sailed away to Boston to refit.


[August, 1778]

  From Lewis, Monsieur Gérard came,
    To Congress in this town, sir,
  They bow'd to him, and he to them,
    And then they all sat down, sir.

  Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup
    You shall bientôt behold, sir;
  This was believ'd as gospel true,
    And Jonathan felt bold, sir.

  So Yankee Doodle did forget
    The sound of British drum, sir,
  How oft it made him quake and sweat,
    In spite of Yankee rum, sir.

  He took his wallet on his back,
    His rifle on his shoulder,
  And veow'd Rhode Island to attack
    Before he was much older.

  In dread array their tatter'd crew
    Advanc'd with colors spread, sir,
  Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo,
    King Hancock at their head, sir.

  What numbers bravely cross'd the seas,
    I cannot well determine,
  A swarm of rebels and of fleas,
    And every other vermin.

  Their mighty hearts might shrink they tho't,
    For all flesh only grass is,
  A plenteous store they therefore bought
    Of whiskey and molasses.

  They swore they'd make bold Pigot squeak,
    So did their good ally, sir,
  And take him pris'ner in a week,
    But that was all my eye, sir.

  As Jonathan so much desir'd
    To shine in martial story,
  D'Estaing with politesse retir'd,
    To leave him all the glory.

  He left him what was better yet,
    At least it was more use, sir,
  He left him for a quick retreat
    A very good excuse, sir.

  To stay, unless he rul'd the sea,
    He thought would not be right, sir,
  And Continental troops, said he,
    On islands should not fight, sir.

  Another cause with these combin'd
    To throw him in the dumps, sir,
  For Clinton's name alarmed his mind,
    And made him stir his stumps, sir.

    Lord Howe came up, soon afterwards, with the British fleet, and
    made a pretence of blockading the French in Boston harbor, but
    prudently withdrew when he saw the French were ready to put to
    sea again. The latter abandoned all attempt to coöperate with
    the Americans and sailed away for the West Indies.


[September, 1778]

  When the French fleet lay
  In Massachusetts bay
        In that day

  When the British squadron made
  Its impudent parade
        Of blockade;

  All along and up and down
  The harbor of the town,--
        The brave, proud town

  That had fought with all its might
  Its bold, brave fight
        For the right,

  To win its way alone
  And hold and rule its own,
        Such a groan

  From the stanch hearts and stout
  Of the Yankees there went out:
        But to rout

  The British lion then
  Were maddest folly, when
        One to ten

  Their gallant allies lay,
  Scant of powder, day by day
        In the bay.

  Chafing thus, impatient, sore,
  One day along the shore
        Slowly bore

  A clipper schooner, worn
  And rough and forlorn,
        With its torn

  Sails fluttering in the air:
  The British sailors stare
        At her there,

  So cool and unafraid.
  "What! she's running the blockade,
        The jade!"

  They all at once roar out,
  Then--"Damn the Yankee lout!"
        They shout.

  Athwart her bows red hot
  They send a challenge shot;
        But not

  An inch to right or left she veers,
  Straight on and on she steers,
        Nor hears

  Challenge or shout, until
  Rings forth with British will
        A shrill

  "Heave to!" Then sharp and short
  Question and quick retort
        Make British sport.

  "What is it that you say,--
  Where do I hail from pray,
        What is my cargo, eh?

  "My cargo? I'll allow
  You can hear 'em crowin' now,
        At the bow.

  "And I've long-faced gentry too,
  For passengers and crew,
        Just a few,

  "To fatten up, you know,
  For home use, and a show
        Of garden sass and so.

  "And from Taunton town I hail;
  Good Lord, it was a gale
        When I set sail!"

  The British captain laught
  As he leaned there abaft:
        "'Tis a harmless craft,

  "And a harmless fellow too,
  With his long-faced gentry crew;
        Let him through,"

  He cried; and a gay "Heave ahead!"
  Sounded forth, and there sped
        Down the red

  Sunset track, unafraid,
  Straight through the blockade,
        This jade

  Of a harmless craft,
  Packed full to her draught,
        Fore and aft,

  With powder and shot,
  One day when, red hot
        The British got

  Their full share and more
  Of this cargo, they swore,
        With a roar,

  At the trick she had played,
  This "damned Yankee jade"
        Who had run the blockade!

               NORA PERRY.

    The abortive expedition against Rhode Island practically ended
    the war at the north, and for a time the scene of activity was
    transferred to the frontier. The Indians had naturally allied
    themselves with the British at the beginning of the war, and
    early in September, 1777, attacked Fort Henry, near Wheeling,
    but were beaten off after a desperate fight, during which the
    garrison was saved by the famous exploit of Elizabeth Zane.


[September, 1777]

  Women are timid, cower and shrink
  At show of danger, some folk think;
  But men there are who for their lives
  Dare not so far asperse their wives.
  We let that pass--so much is clear,
  Though little perils they may fear,
  When greater perils men environ,
  Then women show a front of iron;
  And, gentle in their manner, they
  Do bold things in a quiet way,
  And so our wondering praise obtain,
  As on a time did Betty Zane.

  A century since, out in the West,
  A block-house was by Girty pressed--
  Girty, the renegade, the dread
  Of all that border, fiercely led
  Five hundred Wyandots, to gain
  Plunder and scalp-locks from the slain;
  And in this hold--Fort Henry then,
  But Wheeling now--twelve boys and men
  Guarded with watchful ward and care
  Women and prattling children there,
  Against their rude and savage foes,
  And Betty Zane was one of those.

  There had been forty-two at first
  When Girty on the border burst;
  But most of those who meant to stay
  And keep the Wyandots at bay,
  Outside by savage wiles were lured,
  And ball and tomahawk endured,
  Till few were left the place to hold,
  And some were boys and some were old;
  But all could use the rifle well,
  And vainly from the Indians fell,
  On puncheon roof and timber wall,
  The fitful shower of leaden ball.

  Now Betty's brothers and her sire
  Were with her in this ring of fire,
  And she was ready, in her way,
  To aid their labor day by day,
  In all a quiet maiden might.
  To mould the bullets for the fight,
  And, quick to note and so report,
  Watch every act outside the fort;
  Or, peering through the loopholes, see
  Each phase of savage strategy--
  These were her tasks, and thus the maid
  The toil-worn garrison could aid.

  Still, drearily the fight went on
  Until a week had nearly gone,
  When it was told--a whisper first,
  And then in loud alarm it burst--
  Their powder scarce was growing; they
  Knew where a keg unopened lay
  Outside the fort at Zane's--what now?
  Their leader stood with anxious brow.
  It must be had at any cost,
  Or toil and fort and lives were lost.
  Some one must do that work of fear;
  What man of men would volunteer?

  Two offered, and so earnest they,
  Neither his purpose would give way;
  And Shepherd, who commanded, dare
  Not pick or choose between the pair.
  But ere they settled on the one
  By whom the errand should be done,
  Young Betty interposed, and said,
  "Let me essay the task instead.
  Small matter 'twere if Betty Zane,
  A useless woman, should be slain;
  But death, if dealt on one of those,
  Gives too much vantage to our foes."

  Her father smiled with pleasure grim--
  Her pluck gave painful pride to him;
  And while her brothers clamored "No!"
  He uttered, "Boys, let Betty go!
  She'll do it at less risk than you;
  But keep her steady in your view,
  And be your rifles shields for her.
  If yonder foe make step or stir,
  Pick off each wretch who draws a bead,
  And so you'll serve her in her need.
  Now I recover from surprise,
  I think our Betty's purpose wise."

  The gate was opened, on she sped;
  The foe, astonished, gazed, 'tis said,
  And wondered at her purpose, till
  She gained that log-hut by the hill.
  But when, in apron wrapped, the cask
  She backward bore, to close her task,
  The foemen saw her aim at last,
  And poured their fire upon her fast.
  Bullet on bullet near her fell,
  While rang the Indians' angry yell;
  But safely through that whirring rain,
  Powder in arms, came Betty Zane.

  They filled their horns, both boys and men,
  And so began the fight again.
  Girty, who there so long had stayed,
  By this new feat of feet dismayed,
  Fired houses round and cattle slew,
  And moved away--the fray was through.
  But when the story round was told
  How they maintained the leaguered hold,
  It was agreed, though fame was due
  To all who in that fight were true,
  The highest meed of praise, 'twas plain,
  Fell to the share of Betty Zane.

  A hundred years have passed since then;
  The savage never came again.
  Girty is dust; alike are dead
  Those who assailed and those bestead.
  Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands,
  A crowded city proudly stands;
  But of the many who reside
  By green Ohio's rushing tide,
  Not one has lineage prouder than
  (Be he or poor or rich) the man
  Who boasts that in his spotless strain
  Mingles the blood of Betty Zane.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which
    the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in
    northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted
    many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly
    exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to
    serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the
    eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve
    hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the
    garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and
    burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly
    a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation.


[July 3, 1778]

  Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse,
    While she attempts to tell
  Of poor Wyoming's overthrow
    By savage sons of hell.

  One hundred whites, in painted hue,
    Whom Butler there did lead,
  Supported by a barb'rous crew
    Of the fierce savage breed.

  The last of June the siege began,
    And several days it held,
  While many a brave and valiant man
    Lay slaughtered on the field.

  Our troops marched out from Forty Fort
    The third day of July,
  Three hundred strong, they marched along,
    The fate of war to try.

  But oh! alas! three hundred men
    Is much too small a band
  To meet eight hundred men complete,
    And make a glorious stand.

  Four miles they marchèd from the Fort
    Their enemy to meet,
  Too far indeed did Butler lead,
    To keep a safe retreat.

  And now the fatal hour is come--
    They bravely charge the foe,
  And they, with ire, returned the fire,
    Which prov'd our overthrow.

  Some minutes they sustained the fire,
    But ere they were aware,
  They were encompassed all around,
    Which prov'd a fatal snare.

  And then they did attempt to fly,
    But all was now in vain,
  Their little host--by far the most--
    Was by those Indians slain.

  And as they fly, for quarters cry;
    Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n!
  Hard to relate--their dreadful fate,
    No quarters must be given.

  With bitter cries and mournful sighs,
    They seek some safe retreat,
  Run here and there, they know not where,
    Till awful death they meet.

  Their piercing cries salute the skies--
    Mercy is all their cry:
  "Our souls prepare God's grace to share,
    We instantly must die."

  Some men yet found are flying round
    Sagacious to get clear;
  In vain to fly, their foes too nigh!
    They front the flank and rear.

  And now the foe hath won the day,
    Methinks their words are these:
  "Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race,
    Will this your Congress please?

  "Your pardons crave, you them shall have,
    Behold them in our hands;
  We'll all agree to set you free,
    By dashing out your brains.

  "And as for you, enlisted crew,
    We'll raise your honors higher:
  Pray turn your eye, where you must lie,
    In yonder burning fire."

  Then naked in those flames they're cast,
    Too dreadful 'tis to tell,
  Where they must fry, and burn and die,
    While cursed Indians yell.

  Nor son, nor sire, these tigers spare,--
    The youth, and hoary head,
  Were by those monsters murdered there,
    And numbered with the dead.

  Methinks I hear some sprightly youth
    His mournful state condole:
  "Oh, that my tender parents knew
    The anguish of my soul!

  "But oh! there's none to save my life,
    Or heed my dreadful fear;
  I see the tomahawk and knife,
    And the more glittering spear.

  "When years ago, I dandled was
    Upon my parents' knees,
  I little thought I should be brought
    To feel such pangs as these.

  "I hoped for many a joyful day,
    I hoped for riches' store--
  These golden dreams are fled away;
    I straight shall be no more.

  "Farewell, fond mother; late I was
    Locked up in your embrace;
  Your heart would ache, and even break,
    If you could know my case.

  "Farewell, indulgent parents dear,
    I must resign my breath;
  I now must die, and here must lie
    In the cold arms of death.

  "For oh! the fatal hour is come,
    I see the bloody knife,--
  The Lord have mercy on my soul!"
    And quick resigned his life.

  A doleful theme; yet, pensive muse,
    Pursue the doleful theme;
  It is no fancy to delude,
    Nor transitory dream.

  The Forty Fort was the resort
    For mother and for child,
  To save them from the cruel rage
    Of the fierce savage wild.

  Now, when the news of this defeat
    Had sounded in our ears,
  You well may know our dreadful woe,
    And our foreboding fears.

  A doleful sound is whispered round,
    The sun now hides his head;
  The nightly gloom forebodes our doom,
    We all shall soon be dead.

  How can we bear the dreadful spear,
    The tomahawk and knife?
  And if we run, the awful gun
    Will rob us of our life.

  But Heaven! kind Heaven, propitious power!
    His hand we must adore.
  He did assuage the savage rage,
    That they should kill no more.

  The gloomy night now gone and past,
    The sun returns again,
  The little birds from every bush
    Seem to lament the slain.

  With aching hearts and trembling hands,
    We walkèd here and there,
  Till through the northern pines we saw
    A flag approaching near.

  Some men were chose to meet this flag,
    Our colonel was the chief,
  Who soon returned and in his mouth
    He brought an olive leaf.

  This olive leaf was granted life,
    But then we must no more
  Pretend to fight with Britain's king,
    Until the wars are o'er.

  And now poor Westmoreland is lost,
    Our forts are all resigned,
  Our buildings they are all on fire,--
    What shelter can we find?

  They did agree in black and white,
    If we'd lay down our arms,
  That all who pleased might quietly
    Remain upon their farms.

  But oh! they've robbed us of our all,
    They've taken all but life,
  And we'll rejoice and bless the Lord,
    If this may end the strife.

  And now I've told my mournful tale,
    I hope you'll all agree
  To help our cause and break the jaws
    Of cruel tyranny.

               URIAH TERRY.



    At the outbreak of the Revolution, the colonies had no navy,
    but a number of cruisers and privateers were soon fitted out,
    and by the end of 1776 nearly three hundred British vessels had
    fallen into the hands of the Americans. This activity was kept
    up during the succeeding year, the cruise of the Fair American,
    as described in the old ballad of that name, being one of the
    most noteworthy.



  The twenty-second of August,
    Before the close of day,
  All hands on board of our privateer,
    We got her under weigh;
  We kept the Eastern shore along,
    For forty leagues or more,
  Then our departure took for sea,
    From the isle of Mauhegan shore.

  Bold Hawthorne was commander,
    A man of real worth,
  Old England's cruel tyranny
    Induced him to go forth;
  She, with relentless fury,
    Was plundering all our coast,
  And thought, because her strength was great,
    Our glorious cause was lost.

  Yet boast not, haughty Britons,
    Of power and dignity,
  By land thy conquering armies,
    Thy matchless strength at sea;
  Since taught by numerous instances
    Americans can fight,
  With valor can equip their stand,
    Your armies put to flight.

  Now farewell to fair America,
    Farewell our friends and wives;
  We trust in Heaven's peculiar care
    For to protect their lives;
  To prosper our intended cruise
    Upon the raging main,
  And to preserve our dearest friends
    Till we return again.

  The wind it being leading,
    It bore us on our way,
  As far unto the southward
    As the Gulf of Florida;
  Where we fell in with a British ship,
    Bound homeward from the main;
  We gave her two bow-chasers,
    And she returned the same.

  We haulèd up our courses,
    And so prepared for fight;
  The contest held four glasses,
    Until the dusk of night;
  Then having sprung our main-mast,
    And had so large a sea,
  We dropped astern and left our chase
    Till the returning day.

  Next morn we fished our main-mast,
    The ship still being nigh,
  All hands made for engaging,
    Our chance once more to try;
  But wind and sea being boisterous,
    Our cannon would not bear,
  We thought it quite imprudent
    And so we left her there.

  We cruisèd to the eastward,
    Near the coast of Portugal,
  In longitude of twenty-seven
    We saw a lofty sail;
  We gave her chase, and soon perceived
    She was a British snow
  Standing for fair America,
    With troops for General Howe.

  Our captain did inspect her
    With glasses, and he said,
  "My boys, she means to fight us,
    But be you not afraid;
  All hands repair to quarters,
    See everything is clear,
  We'll give her a broadside, my boys,
    As soon as she comes near."

  She was prepared with nettings,
    And her men were well secured,
  And bore directly for us,
    And put us close on board;
  When the cannon roared like thunder,
    And the muskets fired amain,
  But soon we were alongside
    And grappled to her chain.

  And now the scene it altered,
    The cannon ceased to roar,
  We fought with swords and boarding-pikes
    One glass or something more,
  Till British pride and glory
    No longer dared to stay,
  But cut the Yankee grapplings,
    And quickly bore away.

  Our case was not so desperate
    As plainly might appear;
  Yet sudden death did enter
    On board our privateer.
  Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons,
    The valiant and the brave,
  Fell glorious in the contest,
    And met a watery grave.

  Ten other men were wounded
    Among our warlike crew,
  With them our noble captain,
    To whom all praise is due;
  To him and all our officers
    Let's give a hearty cheer;
  Success to fair America
    And our good privateer.

    The Americans were not without their losses, and one of the
    most serious occurred early in 1778. On the morning of March
    7, the 32-gun frigate Randolph, Captain Nicholas Biddle, while
    cruising off Barbadoes, fell in with the English 64-gun ship
    of the line Yarmouth, and attacked immediately. The fight had
    lasted about an hour when the Randolph's magazine was in some
    way fired, and the ship blew up. Of the crew of three hundred
    and fifteen, only four were saved.


[March 7, 1778]

  What distant thunders rend the skies,
  What clouds of smoke in volumes rise,
    What means this dreadful roar!
  Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,
  Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,
    Or Etna's self no more!

  Shock after shock torments my ear;
  And lo! two hostile ships appear,
    Red lightnings round them glow:
  The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,
  The Randolph thirty-two--no more--
    And will she fight this foe!

  The Randolph soon on Stygian streams
  Shall coast along the land of dreams,
    The islands of the dead!
  But fate, that parts them on the deep,
  Shall save the Briton, still to weep
    His ancient honors fled.

  Say, who commands that dismal blaze,
  Where yonder starry streamer plays;
    Does Mars with Jove engage!
  'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,
  Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires
    With more than mortal rage.

  Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball
  Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;
    Her bravest sons expire;
  Did Mars himself approach so nigh,
  Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly
    The Randolph's fiercer fire.

  The Briton views his mangled crew,
  "And shall we strike to _thirty-two_"
    (Said Hector, stained with gore);
  "Shall Britain's flag to these descend--
  Rise, and the glorious conflict end,
    Britons, I ask no more!"

  He spoke--they charged their cannon round,
  Again the vaulted heavens resound,
    The Randolph bore it all,
  Then fixed her pointed cannons true--
  Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;
    Britain, the warriors fall.

  The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,
  Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,
    Her boldest heroes dead--
  She saw amidst her floating slain
  The conquering Randolph stem the main--
    She saw, she turned, and fled!

  That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,
  Dear Biddle, had the powers divine
    Been kind as thou wert brave;
  But fate, who doomed thee to expire,
  Prepared an arrow tipped with fire,
    And marked a watery grave,

  And in that hour when conquest came
  Winged at his ship a pointed flame
    That not even _he_ could shun--
  The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled,
  The bursting Randolph ruin spread,
    And lost what honor won.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    Among the most successful of the Yankee privateers was the
    Providence, and her most famous exploit was performed in July,
    1779, when she attacked a fleet of merchantmen, under convoy
    of a ship of the line and some cruisers, and captured ten
    prizes, nine of which, valued at over a million dollars, were
    got safely to Boston. The Providence was commanded by Abraham
    Whipple, the hero of the Gaspee exploit and of a hundred others.


[July, 1779]

  Come listen and I'll tell you
    How first I went to sea,
  To fight against the British
    And earn our liberty.
  We shipped with Cap'n Whipple
    Who never knew a fear,
  The Captain of the Providence,
    The Yankee Privateer.

  We sailed and we sailed
    And made good cheer,
  There were many pretty men
    On the Yankee Privateer.

  The British Lord High Admiral
    He wished old Whipple harm,
  He wrote that he would hang him
    At the end of his yard arm.
  "My Lord," wrote Cap'n Whipple back,
    "It seems to me it's clear
  That if you want to hang him,
    You must catch your Privateer."

  We sailed and we sailed
    And made good cheer,
  For not a British frigate
    Could come near the Privateer.

  We sailed to the south'ard,
    And nothing did we meet,
  Till we found three British frigates
    And their West Indian fleet.
  Old Whipple shut our ports
    As we crawled up near,
  And he sent us all below
    On the Yankee Privateer.

  So slowly he sailed
    We dropped to the rear,
  And not a soul suspected
    The Yankee Privateer.

  At night we put the lights out
    And forward we ran
  And silently we boarded
    The biggest merchantman.
  We knocked down the watch,--
    And the lubbers shook for fear,
  She's a prize without a shot
    To the Yankee Privateer.

  We sent the prize north
    While we lay near
  And all day we slept
    On the bold Privateer.

  For ten nights we followed,
    And ere the moon rose,
  Each night a prize we'd taken
    Beneath the Lion's nose.
  When the British looked to see
    Why their ships should disappear,
  They found they had in convoy
    A Yankee Privateer.

  But we sailed and sailed
    And made good cheer!
  Not a coward was on board
    Of the Yankee Privateer.

  The biggest British frigate
    Bore round to give us chase,
  But though he was the fleeter
    Old Whipple wouldn't race,
  Till he'd raked her fore and aft,
    For the lubbers couldn't steer,
  Then he showed them the heels
    Of the Yankee Privateer.

  Then we sailed and we sailed
    And we made good cheer,
  For not a British frigate
    Could come near the Privateer.

  Then northward we sailed
    To the town we all know,
  And there lay our prizes
    All anchored in a row;
  And welcome were we
    To our friends so dear,
  And we shared a million dollars
    On the bold Privateer.

  We'd sailed and we'd sailed
    And we made good cheer,
  We had all full pockets
    On the bold Privateer.

  Then we each manned a ship
    And our sails we unfurled,
  And we bore the Stars and Stripes
    O'er the oceans of the world.
  From the proud flag of Britain
    We swept the seas clear,
  And we earned our independence
    On the Yankee Privateer.

  Then landsmen and sailors,
    One more cheer!
  Here is three times three
    For the Yankee Privateer!

               ARTHUR HALE.

    The achievements of other American naval captains were soon
    eclipsed by those of John Paul Jones, a Scotch sailor, settled
    in Virginia, who, at the outbreak of the war, offered his
    services to Congress. In 1776, on board the Alfred, in the
    Delaware River, he raised the first flag of the Revolution,--a
    pine tree, with a rattlesnake coiled at the foot, and the
    motto, "Don't tread on me."


  A song unto Liberty's brave Buccaneer,
    Ever bright be the fame of the patriot Rover,
  For our rights he first fought in his "black privateer,"
    And faced the proud foe ere our sea they cross'd over,
          In their channel and coast,
          He scattered their host,
  And proud Britain robbed of her sea-ruling boast,
  And her rich merchants' barks shunned the ocean in fear
  Of Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

  In the first fleet that sailed in defence of our land,
    Paul Jones forward stood to defend freedom's arbor,
  He led the bold Alfred at Hopkins' command,
    And drove the fierce foeman from Providence harbor,
          'Twas his hand that raised
          The first flag that blazed,
  And his deeds 'neath the "Pine tree" all ocean amaz'd,
  For hundreds of foes met a watery bier
  From Paul Jones, fair Liberty's brave Buccaneer.

  His arm crushed the Tory and mutinous crew
    That strove to have freemen inhumanly butchered;
  Remember his valor at proud Flamborough,
    When he made the bold Serapis strike to the Richard;
          Oh! he robbed of their store
          The vessels sent o'er
  To feed all the Tories and foes on our shore,
  He gave freemen the spoils and long may they revere
  The name of fair Liberty's bold Buccaneer.

    In 1778 he was sent with the 18-gun ship Ranger to prowl about
    the British coasts. He entered the Irish Channel, seized the
    Lord Chatham, set fire to the shipping at Whitehaven, and
    captured the British 20-gun sloop Drake, after a fierce fight.
    With the Drake and several merchant prizes, he made his way to
    Brest, and prepared for a more important expedition which was
    fitting out for the following year.



  'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,
  And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the
      pitch-pine spars,--
  With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale,
  On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale.

  It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,
  As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
  With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
  And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

  There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,
  And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
  And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout
  But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silv'ry track.

  The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
  And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,
  And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each
  And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford

  The nightly robes our good ship wore were her own top-sails three,
  Her spanker and her standing jib--the courses being free;
  "Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!"
  And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.

  What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
  'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltee's,
  For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four
  We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

  Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past--
  "Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your top-sail to the mast!"
  Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered
  And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot

  "Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her
  And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British
  And amidst a thundering shower of shot with stun'-sails hoisting away,
  Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

    The new squadron sailed for the English coast in the summer
    of 1779. It consisted of the flagship--a clumsy old Indiaman
    called the Duras, whose name Jones changed to Bon Homme
    Richard--and four consorts. The summer was spent in cruising
    about the British coast and so much damage was done that Paul
    Jones became a sort of bogey to all England.


  Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four,
  That cannot be match'd, if we trace the world o'er,
  For none of such fame ever stept o'er the stones,
  As Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones.

  Thro' a mad-hearted war, which old England will rue,
  At London, at Dublin, and Edinburgh, too,
  The tradesmen stand still, and the merchant bemoans
  The losses he meets with from such as Paul Jones.

  How happy for England, would Fortune but sweep
  At once all her treacherous foes to the deep;
  For the land under burthens most bitterly groans,
  To get rid of some that are worse than Paul Jones.

  To each honest heart that is Britain's true friend,
  In bumpers I'll freely this toast recommend,
  May Paul be converted, the Ministry purg'd,
  Old England be free, and her enemies scourg'd!

  If success to our fleets be not quickly restor'd,
  The Leaders in office to shove from the board;
  May they all fare alike, and the De'il pick the bones
  Of Green, Jemmy Twitcher, Lord North, and Paul Jones!

    On September 23, 1779, the little squadron sighted a British
    fleet of forty sail off Flamborough Head. They were merchantmen
    bound for the Baltic under convoy of the Serapis, forty-four,
    and the Countess of Scarborough, twenty. Captain Jones
    instantly gave chase, ordering his consorts to form in line
    of battle, but the Alliance, whose command had been given to
    a Frenchman, ran off to some distance, leaving the Richard to
    attack the Serapis single-handed, while the Pallas took care of
    the Scarborough.


[September 23, 1779]

  An American frigate from Baltimore came,
  Her guns mounted forty, the Richard by name;
  Went to cruise in the channel of old England,
  With a noble commander, Paul Jones was the man.

  We had not sail'd long before we did espy
  A large forty-four, and a twenty close by:
  These two warlike ships, full laden with store,
  Our captain pursued to the bold Yorkshire shore.

  At the hour of twelve, Pierce came alongside.
  With a loud speaking-trumpet, "Whence came you?" he cried;
  "Quick give me an answer, I hail'd you before,
  Or this very instant a broadside I'll pour."

  Paul Jones he exclaimed, "My brave boys, we'll not run:
  Let every brave seaman stand close to his gun;"
  When a broadside was fired by these brave Englishmen,
  We bold buckskin heroes return'd it again.

  We fought them five glasses, five glasses most hot,
  Till fifty brave seamen lay dead on the spot,
  And full seventy more lay bleeding in their gore,
  Whilst Pierce's loud cannon on the Richard did roar.

  Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,
  "Our ship is a-sinking, likewise in a flame;"
  Paul Jones he replied, in the height of his pride,
  "If we can do no better, we'll sink alongside."

  At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:
  The flag of proud Britain was forced to come down,
  The Alliance bore down and the Richard did rake,
  Which caused the heart of Richard to ache.

  Come now, my brave buckskin, we've taken a prize,
  A large forty-four, and a twenty likewise;
  They are both noble vessels, well laden with store!
  We will toss off the can to our country once more.

  God help the poor widows, who shortly must weep
  For the loss of their husbands, now sunk in the deep!
  We'll drink to brave Paul Jones, who, with sword in hand,
  Shone foremost in action, and gave us command.

    The Serapis was greatly superior to the Richard in armament and
    fighting qualities, but Jones succeeded in running his vessel
    into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their
    yardarms interlocked and both ships were soon covered with dead
    and wounded. At the end of two hours, the Serapis was on fire;
    but the Richard was already sinking. Half an hour later the
    Serapis surrendered. The Richard was kept afloat with great
    difficulty until morning, when she sank.


[September 23, 1779]

  O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet,
  The guardian of a numerous fleet,
    Serapis from the Baltic came:
  A ship of less tremendous force
  Sail'd by her side the self-same course,
    Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.

  And now their native coasts appear,
  Britannia's hills their summits rear
    Above the German main;
  Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,
  They southward coast along the shore,
    Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.

  Full forty guns Serapis bore,
  And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,
    Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars--
  What flag that rides the Gallic seas
  Shall dare attack such piles as these,
    Design'd for tumults and for wars!

  Now from the top-mast's giddy height
  A seaman cry'd--"Four sail in sight
    Approach with favoring gales."
  Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,
  Stood off to sea, these ships to meet,
    And closely brac'd his shivering sails.

  With him advanc'd the Countess bold,
  Like a black tar in wars grown old:
    And now these floating piles drew nigh.
  But, muse, unfold what chief of fame
  In the other warlike squadron came,
    Whose standards at his mast-head fly.

  'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led
  As bold a crew as ever bled
    Upon the sky-surrounded main;
  The standards of the western world
  Were to the willing winds unfurl'd,
    Denying Britain's tyrant reign.

  The Good-Man-Richard led the line;
  The Alliance next: with these combine
    The Gallic ship they Pallas call,
  The Vengeance arm'd with sword and flame;
  These to attack the Britons came--
    But _two_ accomplish'd all.

  Now Phoebus sought his pearly bed:
  But who can tell the scenes of dread,
    The horrors of that fatal night!
  Close up these floating castles came:
  The Good-Man-Richard bursts in flame;
    Serapis trembled at the sight.

  She felt the fury of _her_ ball:
  Down, prostrate, down the Britons fall;
    The decks were strew'd with slain:
  Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;
  And, while the black artillery flash'd,
    Loud thunders shook the main.

  Alas! that mortals should employ
  Such murdering engines to destroy
    That frame by heaven so nicely join'd;
  Alas! that e'er the god decreed
  That brother should by brother bleed,
    And pour'd such madness in the mind.

  But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear,
  The rights of man demand your care:
    For _these_ you dare the greedy waves.
  No tyrant, on destruction bent,
  Has plann'd thy conquest--thou art sent
    To humble tyrants and their slaves.

  See!--dread Serapis flames again--
  And art thou, Jones, among the slain,
    And sunk to Neptune's caves below?--
  He lives--though crowds around him fall,
  Still he, unhurt, survives them all;
    Almost alone he fights the foe.

  And can your ship these strokes sustain?
  Behold your brave companions slain,
    All clasp'd in ocean's cold embrace;
  STRIKE, OR BE SUNK--the Briton cries--
  SINK IF YOU CAN--the chief replies,
    Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.

  Then to the side three guns he drew
  (Almost deserted by his crew),
    And charg'd them deep with woe;
  By Pearson's flash he aim'd hot balls;
  His main-mast totters--down it falls--
    O'erwhelming half below.

  Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield,
  But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,
    And thus was heard to cry--
  "With hell, not mortals, I contend;
  What art thou--human, or a fiend,
    That dost my force defy?

  "Return, my lads, the fight renew!"--
  So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;
    But call'd, alas! in vain;
  Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;
  Some to their deep recesses fled,
    And hosts were shrouded in the main.

  Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,
  He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,
    And yielded to his gallant foe;
  Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,--
  Thus both their haughty colors struck,
    Confessing what the brave can do.

  But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy
  These ships possest so gloriously,
    Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:
  Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,
  That the proud Briton overcame,
    Even she forsook thee on thy way;

  For when the morn began to shine,
  Fatal to her, the ocean brine
    Pour'd through each spacious wound;
  Quick in the deep she disappear'd;
  But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,
    With conquest and with glory crown'd.

  Go on, great man, to scourge the foe,
  And bid these haughty Britons know
    They to our _Thirteen Stars_ shall bend;
  Those _Stars_ that, veil'd in dark attire,
  Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,
    But radiant now ascend.

  Bend to the Stars that flaming rise
  In western, not in eastern, skies,
    Fair Freedom's reign restored--
  So when the Magi, come from far,
  Beheld the God-attending Star,
    They trembled and ador'd.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    Another remarkable action was that between the Hyder Ali
    and the General Monk. The latter, a cruiser mounting twenty
    nine-pounders, had been harassing the American shipping in
    Delaware Bay, and the merchants of Philadelphia finally
    equipped the Hyder Ali, an old merchantman, with sixteen
    six-pounders, put Joshua Barney in command and started him
    after the British ship.


[April, 1782]

  Come all ye lads who know no fear,
  To wealth and honor with me steer
  In the Hyder Ali privateer,
      Commanded by brave Barney.

  She's new and true, and tight and sound,
  Well rigged aloft, and all well found--
  Come away and be with laurel crowned,
      Away--and leave your lasses.

  Accept our terms without delay,
  And make your fortunes while you may,
  Such offers are not every day
      In the power of the jolly sailor.

  Success and fame attend the brave,
  But death the coward and the slave,
  Who fears to plough the Atlantic wave,
      To seek the bold invaders.

  Come, then, and take a cruising bout,
  Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,
  She has been tried both in and out,
      And answers expectation.

  Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,
  Distress our trade, insult our shore--
  Teach them to know their reign is o'er,
      Bold Philadelphia sailors!

  We'll teach them how to sail so near,
  Or to venture on the Delaware,
  When we in warlike trim appear
      And cruise without Henlopen.

  Who cannot wounds and battle dare
  Shall never clasp the blooming fair;
  The brave alone their charms should share,
      The brave are their protectors.

  With hand and heart united all,
  Prepared to conquer or to fall,
  Attend, my lads, to honor's call,
      Embark in our Hyder Ali.

  From an Eastern prince she takes her name,
  Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,
  Usurping Britons brought to shame,
      His country's wrongs avenging;

  See, on her stern the waving stars--
  Inured to blood, inured to wars,
  Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,
      To scourge these warlike Britons.

  Here's grog enough--then drink a bout,
  I know your hearts are firm and stout;
  American blood will never give out,
      And often we have proved it.

  Though stormy oceans round us roll,
  We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,
  Befriended by the cheering bowl,
      Sworn foes to melancholy:

  When timorous landsmen lurk on shore,
  'Tis ours to go where cannons roar--
  On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,
      Despisers of all danger;

  And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,
  Shall guard us over the gloomy wave;
  A fearful heart betrays the knave--
      Success to the Hyder Ali.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    The Hyder Ali sailed down the bay April 8, 1782, and met the
    Englishman near the capes. By skilful manoeuvring, Barney
    was able to rake his antagonist; then, lashing fast, poured
    several broadsides in rapid succession into the enemy, who
    struck their colors at the end of thirty minutes.



[April 8, 1782]

  O'er the waste of waters cruising,
    Long the General Monk had reigned;
  All subduing, all reducing,
    None her lawless rage restrained:
  Many a brave and hearty fellow
    Yielding to this warlike foe,
  When her guns began to bellow
    Struck his humbled colors low.

  But grown bold with long successes,
    Leaving the wide watery way,
  She, a stranger to distresses,
    Came to cruise within Cape May:
  "Now we soon (said Captain Rogers)
    Shall their men of commerce meet;
  In our hold we'll have them lodgers,
    We shall capture half their fleet.

  "Lo! I see their van appearing--
    Back our topsails to the mast--
  They toward us full are steering
    With a gentle western blast:
  I've a list of all their cargoes,
    All their guns, and all their men:
  I am sure these modern Argos
    Can't escape us one in ten:

  "Yonder comes the Charming Sally
    Sailing with the General Greene--
  First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,
    Taking her is taking them:
  She intends to give us battle,
    Bearing down with all her sail--
  Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!
    To take her we cannot fail.

  "Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder,
    Soon shall terrify this foe;
  We shall maul her, we shall wound her,
    Bringing rebel colors low."--
  While he thus anticipated
    Conquests that he could not gain,
  He in the Cape May channel waited
    For the ship that caused his pain.

  Captain Barney then preparing,
    Thus addressed his gallant crew--
  "Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,
    Let your hearts be firm and true;
  This is a proud English cruiser,
    Roving up and down the main,
  We must fight her--must reduce her,
    Though our decks be strewed with slain.

  "Let who will be the survivor,
    We must conquer or must die,
  We must take her up the river,
    Whate'er comes of you or I:
  Though she shows most formidable
    With her eighteen pointed nines,
  And her quarters clad in sable,
    Let us balk her proud designs.

  "With four nine-pounders, and twelve sixes
    We will face that daring band;
  Let no dangers damp your courage,
    Nothing can the brave withstand.
  Fighting for your country's honor,
    Now to gallant deeds aspire;
  Helmsman, bear us down upon her,
    Gunner, give the word to fire!"

  Then yardarm and yardarm meeting,
    Strait began the dismal fray,
  Cannon mouths, each other greeting,
    Belched their smoky flames away:
  Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,
    That from Barney's cannons flew,
  Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,
    Killed and wounded half her crew.

  Captain Rogers strove to rally
    But they from their quarters fled,
  While the roaring Hyder Ali
    Covered o'er his decks with dead.
  When from their tops their dead men tumbled,
    And the streams of blood did flow,
  Then their proudest hopes were humbled
    By their brave inferior foe.

  All aghast, and all confounded,
    They beheld their champions fall,
  And their captain, sorely wounded,
    Bade them quick for quarters call.
  Then the Monk's proud flag descended,
    And her cannon ceased to roar;
  By her crew no more defended,
    She confessed the contest o'er.

  Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,
    You have humbled one proud foe,
  No brave action this surpasses,
    Fame shall tell the nation so--
  Thus be Britain's woes completed,
    Thus abridged her cruel reign,
  Till she ever, thus defeated,
    Yields the sceptre of the main.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    The last naval action of the war occurred December 19, 1782,
    when the American ship, South Carolina, forty guns, was chased
    and captured, off the Delaware, by the British ships Quebec,
    Diomede, and Astrea, carrying ninety-eight guns. A few days
    later a ballad describing the affair appeared in the loyalist
    papers as a letter "from a dejected Jonathan, a prisoner taken
    in the South Carolina, to his brother Ned at Philadelphia."


[December 19, 1782]

      My dear brother Ned,
      We are knock'd on the head,
  No more let America boast;
      We may all go to bed,
      And that's enough said,
  For the South Carolina we've lost.

      The pride of our eyes,
      I swear is a prize,
  You never will see her again,
      Unless thro' surprise,
      You are brought where she lies,
  A prisoner from the false main.

      Oh Lord! what a sight!--
      I was struck with affright,
  When the Diomede's shot round us fell,
      I feared that in spite,
      They'd have slain us outright,
  And sent us directly to h--l.

      The Quebec did fire,
      Or I'm a curs'd liar,
  And the Astrea came up apace;
      We could not retire
      From the confounded fire,
  They all were so eager in chase.

      The Diomede's shot
      Was damnation hot,
  She was several times in a blaze;
      It was not my lot
      To go then to pot,
  But I veow, I was struck with amaze.

      And Ned, may I die,
      Or be pok'd in a sty,
  If ever I venture again
      Where bullets do fly,
      And the wounded do cry,
  Tormented with anguish and pain.

      The Hope, I can tell,
      And the brig Constance fell,
  I swear, and I veow, in our sight;
      The first I can say,
      Was taken by day,
  But the latter was taken at night.

      I die to relate
      What has been our fate,
  How sadly our navies are shrunk;
      The pride of our State
      Begins to abate,
  For the branches are lopp'd from the trunk.

      The Congress must bend,
      We shall fall in the end,
  For the curs'd British sarpents are tough;
      But, I think as you find,
      I have enough penn'd
  Of such cursèd, such vexatious stuff.

      Yet how vexing to find
      We are left all behind,
  That by sad disappointment we're cross'd;
      Ah, fortune unkind!
      Thou afflicted'st my mind,
  When the South Carolina we lost.

      Our enemy vile,
      Cunning Digby does smile,
  Is pleasèd at our mischance;
      He useth each wile
      Our fleets to beguile,
  And to check our commerce with France.

      No more as a friend,
      Our ships to defend,
  Of South Carolina we boast;
      As a foe in the end,
      She will us attend,
  For the South Carolina we've lost.



    For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth, Sir
    Henry Clinton remained cooped up in New York, while Washington,
    established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him.
    The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of
    Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York
    was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put
    to work on the fortifications.



  Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,
  Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!
      For the sake of our King,
      Come labor and sing.
  You left all you had for his honor and glory,
  And he will remember the suffering Tory.
      We have, it is true,
      Some small work to do;
  But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,
  And never regard what the rebels may say,
  But throw off your jerkins and labor away.

  To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,
  To pull down old houses and dig the canal,
      To build and destroy,
      Be this your employ,
  In the daytime to work at our fortifications,
  And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.
      The King wants your aid,
      Not empty parade;
  Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,
  Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;
  This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.

  Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,
  The French and the rebels are coming next summer,
      And the forts we must build
      Though the Tories are killed.
  Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,
  For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.
      If York we can hold,
      I'll have you enroll'd;
  And after you're dead, your names shall be read,
  As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,
  And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.

  'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,
  And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.
      Then scour up your mortars,
      And stand to your quarters,
  'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
  They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
      Their hearts should not fail 'em,
      No balls will assail 'em,
  Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,
  For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
  Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing
    the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a
    garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of
    fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington,
    nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the
    task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men
    for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed
    the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the
    outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by


[July 16, 1779]

  Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,
    Night on the stars of their battle-flag,
  Threading the maze of the dark morass
    Under the frown of the Thunder Crag;

  Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,
    Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,
  Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,
    Grim in the promise of work to do.

  "Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!
    Let not a whisper your march betray!
  Out with the flint from the musket lock!
    Now! let the bayonet find the way!"

  "Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.
    Swift came the shot of the waking foe.
  Bright flashed the axe of the Pioneer
    Smashing the abatis, blow on blow.

  Little they tarried for British might!
    Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!
  Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,
    Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!

  Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once more
    Sentinel giants of Freedom's throne,
  Massive and proud! to the Eastern shore
    Bellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"

  Echo our cheers for the Men of old!
    Shout for the Hero who led his band
  Braving the death that his heart foretold
    Over the parapet, "spear in hand!"

               ARTHUR GUITERMAN.


[July 16, 1779]

  'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,
  Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,
  Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,
  Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.
  Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;
  Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.

  Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fen
  File upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?
  Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;
  Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;
  Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,
  Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.

  Hark,--the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!
  Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry, _To arms!_
  Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;
  Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:
  Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are set
  Now at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!

  Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,
  Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;
  Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,--
  Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!
  _Forward, my braves!_ he cries, and the heroes hearten again;
  _Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!_

  Die!--did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?
  Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime!
  Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,
  From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;
  But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more bright
  Than his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.

               CLINTON SCOLLARD.

    The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the
    boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron
    Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike
    expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the
    charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at
    least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart
    of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours
    with her.


  From the commandant's quarters on Westchester height
  The blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:
  On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,
  But the redcoats are wary--the Hudson's between.
  Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon--'twill be dark;
  'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"
  And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,
  And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"

  Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,
  Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,
  Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.
  Not a word--not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!
  Once across, once again in the seat and away--
  Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;
  And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path know
  To the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.

  Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,
  Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,
  Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.
  With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;
  Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.
  Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,
  And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow--
  Half in smiles, half in tears--Theodosia Prevost.

  Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!
  What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,
  Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's view
  Like this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?
  She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,
  For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;
  British gallants by day through her doors come and go,
  But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.

  Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,
  When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?
  Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,
  And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past--
  But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;
  Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,
  When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,
  He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"


    In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the
    American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he
    advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene
    was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans
    to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared
    not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton
    retreated toward Elizabethtown.


[June 23, 1780]

  You know there goes a tale,
  How Jonas went on board a whale,
      Once, for a frolic;
        And how the whale
        Set sail
      And got the cholic;
  And, after a great splutter,
    Spew'd him up upon the coast,
    Just like woodcock on a toast,
  With trail and butter.

  There also goes a joke,
  How Clinton went on board the Duke
      Count Rochambeau to fight;
        As he didn't fail
        To set sail
        The first fair gale,
      For once we thought him right;
  But, after a great clutter,
    He turn'd back along the coast,
    And left the French to make their boast,
  And Englishmen to mutter.

  Just so, not long before,
        Old Knyp,
        And old Clip
  Went to the Jersey shore,
  The rebel rogues to beat;
        But, at Yankee farms,
        They took alarms,
        At little harms,
  And quickly did retreat.

    Then after two days' wonder,
  March'd boldly up to Springfield town,
  And swore they'd knock the rebels down.
        But as their foes
        Gave them some blows,
        They, like the wind,
        Soon changed their mind.
        And, in a crack,
        Returned back,
    From not one third their number.

    On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British
    passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set
    it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them
    shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was
    kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge
    described in Mr. Harte's poem.


[June 23, 1780]

  Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height
  Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
  Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,--
  You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.
  Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
  Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

  Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard
  Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word
  Down at Springfield? What, No? Come--that's bad; why he had
  All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name
  Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,
  For he loved the Lord God,--and he hated King George!

  He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
  Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way
  At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
  Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
  But God--and that one of the hireling crew
  Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay,
  And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

  Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand
  By the old church to-day;--think of him and his band
  Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat
  Of that reckless advance,--of that straggling retreat!
  Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,--
  And what could you, what should you, what would you do?

  Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch
  For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,
  Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
  With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load
  At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,
  Rang his voice,--"Put Watts into 'em,--Boys, give 'em Watts!"

  And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow
  Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
  You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,--
  But not always a hero like this,--and that's all.

               BRET HARTE.

    Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a
    blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was
    a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780,
    General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland
    troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the
    American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by
    the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair
    which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called
    "The Cow-Chace."


[July 21, 1780]


  To drive the kine one summer's morn,
    The Tanner took his way;
  The calf shall rue that is unborn
    The jumbling of that day.

  And Wayne descending steers shall know,
    And tauntingly deride;
  And call to mind in every low,
    The tanning of _his_ hide.

  Yet Bergen cows still ruminate,
    Unconscious in the stall,
  What mighty means were used to get,
    And loose them after all.

  For many heroes bold and brave,
    From Newbridge and Tappan,
  And those that drink Passaic's wave,
    And those who eat supawn;

  And sons of distant Delaware,
    And still remoter Shannon,
  And Major Lee with horses rare,
    And Proctor with his cannon.

  All wond'rous proud in arms they came,
    What hero could refuse
  To tread the rugged path to fame,
    Who had a pair of shoes!

  At six, the host with sweating buff,
    Arrived at Freedom's pole;
  When Wayne, who thought he'd time enough,
    Thus speechified the whole:

  "O ye, whom glory doth unite,
    Who Freedom's cause espouse;
  Whether the wing that's doom'd to fight,
    Or that to drive the cows,

  "Ere yet you tempt your further way,
    Or into action come,
  Hear, soldiers, what I have to say,
    And take a pint of rum.

  "Intemp'rate valor then will string
    Each nervous arm the better;
  So all the land shall I O sing,
    And read the Gen'ral's letter.

  "Know that some paltry refugees,
    Whom I've a mind to fright,
  Are playing h--l amongst the trees
    That grow on yonder height.

  "Their fort and blockhouses we'll level,
    And deal a horrid slaughter;
  We'll drive the scoundrels to the devil,
    And ravish wife and daughter.

  "I, under cover of th' attack,
    Whilst you are all at blows,
  From English neighb'rhood and Nyack,
    Will drive away the cows;

  "For well you know the latter is
    The serious operation,
  And fighting with the refugees
    Is only demonstration."

  His daring words, from all the crowd,
    Such great applause did gain,
  That every man declar'd aloud
    For serious work with Wayne.

  Then from the cask of rum once more,
    They took a heady gill;
  When one and all, they loudly swore,
    They'd fight upon the hill.

  But here--the Muse hath not a strain
    Befitting such great deeds;
  Huzza! they cried, huzza! for Wayne,
    And shouting,--did their needs.


  Near his meridian pomp, the sun
    Had journey'd from th' horizon;
  When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on,
    Of heroes drunk as pison.

  The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths,
    Reëchoed through the wood;
  Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes,
    And some to swim in blood.

  At Irving's nod 'twas fine to see
    The left prepare to fight;
  The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,
    Drew off upon the right.

  Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate,
    Nor can the Muse assist her;
  Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat,
    Or he that gives a clyster.

  For greatly one was signaliz'd,
    That fought on Chestnut Hill;
  And Canada immortaliz'd
    The vender of the pill.

  Yet their attendance upon Proctor,
    They both might have to boast of;
  For there was business for the doctor,
    And hats to be disposed of.

  Let none uncandidly infer,
    That Stirling wanted spunk;
  The self-made peer had sure been there,
    But that the peer was drunk.

  But turn we to the Hudson's banks,
    Where stood the modest train,
  With purpose firm, tho' slender ranks,
    Nor car'd a pin for Wayne.

  For them the unrelenting hand
    Of rebel fury drove,
  And tore from ev'ry genial band
    Of friendship and of love.

  And some within the dungeon's gloom,
    By mock tribunals laid,
  Had waited long a cruel doom
    Impending o'er each head.

  Here one bewails a brother's fate,
    There one a sire demands,
  Cut off, alas! before their date,
    By ignominious hands.

  And silver'd grandsires here appear'd
    In deep distress serene,
  Of reverent manners that declar'd
    The better days they'd seen.

  Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine,
    Thine all these tales of woe;
  Shall at thy dire insatiate shrine
    Blood never cease to flow?

  And now the foe began to lead
    His forces to th' attack;
  Balls whistling unto balls succeed,
    And make the blockhouse crack.

  No shot could pass, if you will take
    The Gen'ral's word for true;
  But 'tis a d----ble mistake,
    For ev'ry shot went thro'.

  The firmer as the rebels press'd,
    The loyal heroes stand;
  Virtue had nerv'd each honest breast,
    And industry each hand.

  In valor's frenzy, Hamilton
    Rode like a soldier big,
  And Secretary Harrison,
    With pen stuck in his wig.

  But lest their chieftain, Washington,
    Should mourn them in the mumps,
  The fate of Withrington to shun,
    They fought behind the stumps.

  But ah, Thaddeus Posset, why
    Should thy poor soul elope?
  And why should Titus Hooper die,
    Ay, die--without a rope?

  Apostate Murphy, thou to whom
    Fair Shela ne'er was cruel,
  In death shalt hear her mourn thy doom,
    "Och! would ye die, my jewel?"

  Thee, Nathan Pumpkin, I lament,
    Of melancholy fate;
  The gray goose stolen as he went,
    In his heart's blood was wet.

  Now, as the fight was further fought,
    And balls began to thicken,
  The fray assum'd, the gen'rals thought,
    The color of a lickin'.

  Yet undismay'd the chiefs command,
    And to redeem the day,
  Cry, SOLDIERS, CHARGE! they hear, they stand,
    They turn and run away.


  Not all delights the bloody spear,
    Or horrid din of battle;
  There are, I'm sure, who'd like to hear
    A word about the cattle.

  The chief whom we beheld of late,
    Near Schralenberg haranging,
  At Yan Van Poop's unconscious sat
    Of Irving's hearty banging.

  Whilst valiant Lee, with courage wild,
    Most bravely did oppose
  The tears of woman and of child,
    Who begg'd he'd leave the cows.

  But Wayne, of sympathizing heart,
    Required a relief,
  Not all the blessings could impart
    Of battle or of beef.

  For now a prey to female charms,
    His soul took more delight in
  A lovely hamadryad's arms,
    Than cow-driving or fighting.

  A nymph the refugees had drove
    Far from her native tree,
  Just happen'd to be on the move,
    When up came Wayne and Lee.

  She, in Mad Anthony's fierce eye,
    The hero saw portray'd,
  And all in tears she took him by--
    The bridle of his jade.

  "Hear," said the nymph, "oh, great commander!
    No human lamentations;
  The trees you see them cutting yonder,
    Are all my near relations.

  "And I, forlorn! implore thine aid,
    To free the sacred grove;
  So shall thy prowess be repaid
    With an immortal's love."

  Now some, to prove she was a goddess,
    Said this enchanting fair
  Had late retirèd from the Bodies
    In all the pomp of war.

  The drums and merry fifes had play'd
    To honor her retreat,
  And Cunningham himself convey'd
    The lady through the street.

  Great Wayne, by soft compassion sway'd,
    To no inquiry stoops,
  But takes the fair afflicted maid
    Right into Yan Van Poop's.

  So Roman Anthony, they say,
    Disgraced th' imperial banner,
  And for a gypsy lost a day,
    Like Anthony the tanner.

  The hamadryad had but half
    Receiv'd redress from Wayne,
  When drums and colors, cow and calf,
    Came down the road amain.

  And in a cloud of dust was seen
    The sheep, the horse, the goat,
  The gentle heifer, ass obscene,
    The yearling and the shoat.

  And pack-horses with fowls came by,
    Be-feather'd on each side,
  Like Pegasus, the horse that I
    And other poets ride.

  Sublime upon his stirrups rose
    The mighty Lee behind,
  And drove the terror-smitten cows
    Like chaff before the wind.

  But sudden see the woods above
    Pour down another corps,
  All helter-skelter in a drove,
    Like that I sung before.

  Irving and terror in the van,
    Came flying all abroad;
  And cannon, colors, horse, and man,
    Ran tumbling to the road.

  Still as he fled, 'twas Irving's cry,
    And his example too,
  "Run on, my merry men--for why?
    The shot will not go thro'."

  As when two kennels in the street,
    Swell'd with a recent rain,
  In gushing streams together meet
    And seek the neighboring drain;

  So met these dung-born tribes in one,
    As swift in their career,
  And so to Newbridge they ran on--
    But all the cows got clear.

  Poor Parson Caldwell, all in wonder,
    Saw the returning train,
  And mourn'd to Wayne the lack of plunder
    For them to steal again.

  For 'twas his right to steal the spoil, and
    To share with each commander,
  As he had done at Staten Island
    With frost-bit Alexander.

  In his dismay, the frantic priest
    Began to grow prophetic;
  You'd swore, to see his laboring breast,
    He'd taken an emetic.

  "I view a future day," said he,
    "Brighter than this dark day is;
  And you shall see what you shall see,
    Ha! ha! one pretty Marquis!

  "And he shall come to Paulus Hook,
    And great achievements think on;
  And make a bow and take a look,
    Like Satan over Lincoln.

  "And every one around shall glory
    To see the Frenchman caper;
  And pretty Susan tell the story
    In the next Chatham paper."

  This solemn prophecy, of course,
    Gave all much consolation,
  Except to Wayne, who lost his horse
    Upon that great occasion.

  His horse that carried all his prog,
    His military speeches,
  His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,
    Blue stockings and brown breeches.

  And now I've clos'd my epic strain,
    I tremble as I show it,
  Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne,
    Should ever catch the poet.

               JOHN ANDRÉ.

    The last stanza was singularly prophetic. The Americans relied
    for the defence of the Hudson upon the impregnable position at
    West Point, to the command of which Benedict Arnold had been
    appointed in July, 1780. Arnold, one of the most brilliant
    officers in the army, had been treated with great injustice
    by Congress, and to revenge himself determined to betray
    West Point into the hands of the British. He therefore opened
    communication with Clinton, and on September 21 Major André was
    sent to confer with the traitor. While returning to the British
    lines the following night, he was captured by an American
    outpost, who searched him, discovered the papers giving the
    details of the plot, and took him back to the American lines,
    refusing his offers of reward for his release.


[September 23, 1780]

  Come all you brave Americans,
    And unto me give ear,
  And I'll sing you a ditty
    That will your spirits cheer,
  Concerning a young gentleman
    Whose age was twenty-two;
  He fought for North America,
    His heart was just and true.

  They took him from his dwelling,
    And they did him confine,
  They cast him into prison,
    And kept him there a time.
  But he with resolution
    Resolv'd not long to stay;
  He set himself at liberty,
    And soon he ran away.

  He with a scouting-party
    Went down to Tarrytown,
  Where he met a British officer,
    A man of high renown,
  Who says unto these gentlemen,
    "You're of the British cheer,
  I trust that you can tell me
    If there's any danger near?"

  Then up stept this young hero,
    John Paulding was his name,
  "Sir, tell us where you're going,
    And, also, whence you came?"
  "I bear the British flag, sir;
    I've a pass to go this way,
  I'm on an expedition,
    And have no time to stay."

  Then round him came this company,
    And bid him to dismount;
  "Come, tell us where you're going,
    Give us a strict account;
  For we are now resolvèd
    That you shall ne'er pass by."
  Upon examination
    They found he was a spy.

  He beggèd for his liberty,
    He plead for his discharge,
  And oftentimes he told them,
    If they'd set him at large,
  "Here's all the gold and silver
    I have laid up in store,
  But when I reach the city,
    I'll give you ten times more."

  "I scorn the gold and silver
    You have laid up in store,
  And when you get to New York,
    You need not send us more;
  But you may take your sword in hand
    To gain your liberty,
  And if that you do conquer me,
    Oh, then you shall be free."

  "The time it is improper
    Our valor for to try,
  For if we take our swords in hand,
    Then one of us must die;
  I am a man of honor,
    With courage true and bold,
  And I fear not the man of clay,
    Although he's cloth'd in gold."

  He saw that his conspiracy
    Would soon be brought to light;
  He begg'd for pen and paper,
    And askèd leave to write
  A line to General Arnold,
    To let him know his fate,
  And beg for his assistance;
    But now it was too late.

  When the news it came to Arnold,
    It put him in a fret;
  He walk'd the room in trouble,
    Till tears his cheek did wet;
  The story soon went through the camp,
    And also through the fort;
  And he callèd for the Vulture
    And sailèd for New York.

  Now Arnold to New York has gone,
    A-fighting for his king,
  And left poor Major André
    On the gallows for to swing;
  When he was executed,
    He look'd both meek and mild;
  He look'd upon the people,
    And pleasantly he smil'd.

  It mov'd each eye with pity,
    Caus'd every heart to bleed,
  And every one wished him releas'd
    And Arnold in his stead.
  He was a man of honor,
    In Britain he was born;
  To die upon the gallows
    Most highly he did scorn.

  A bumper to John Paulding!
    Now let your voices sound,
  Fill up your flowing glasses,
    And drink his health around;
  Also to those young gentlemen
    Who bore him company;
  Success to North America,
    Ye sons of liberty!

    Arnold learned of André's capture just in time to escape to a
    British ship in the river, and Washington, arriving soon after,
    prevented his treacherous disposition of the American forces
    from being taken advantage of by the enemy.



[September 25, 1780]

  Arnold! the name, as heretofore,
  Shall now be Benedict no more:
  Since, instigated by the devil,
  Thy ways are turned from good to evil.

  'Tis fit we brand thee with a name
  To suit thy infamy and shame;
  And, since of treason thou'rt convicted,
  Thy name shall be maledicted.
  Unless, by way of contradiction,
  We style thee Britain's Benediction.
  Such blessings she, with lavish hand,
  Confers on this devoted land.

  For instance, only let us mention
  Some proof of her benign intention;
  The slaves she sends us o'er the deep,
  And bribes to cut our throats in sleep.
  To take our lives and scalps away,
  The savage Indians keeps in pay,
  And Tories worse, by half, than they.

  Then, in this class of Britain's heroes,--
  The Tories, savage Indians, negroes,--
  Recorded Arnold's name shall stand,
  While Freedom's blessings crown our land,
  And odious for the blackest crimes,
  Arnold shall stink to latest times.


  Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow,
    I love you much better than ever I did;
  You live like a prince, with Hal may get mellow,--
    But mind that you both do just what I bid."

  Quoth Arnold to Satan: "My friend, do not doubt me!
    I will strictly adhere to all your great views;
  To you I'm devoted, with all things about me--
    You'll permit me, I hope, to die in my shoes."

               _New Jersey Gazette_, November 1, 1780.

    André was tried by court-martial September 29, and condemned
    to be hanged as a spy. Clinton, with whom André was a warm
    personal favorite, made a desperate effort to save him, but in
    vain; and a petition from André himself that he might be shot
    instead of hanged was also rejected.


[October 1, 1780]

  It is not the fear of death
    That damps my brow,
  It is not for another breath
    I ask thee now;
  I can die with a lip unstirr'd
    And a quiet heart--
  Let but this prayer be heard
    Ere I depart.

  I can give up my mother's look--
    My sister's kiss;
  I can think of love--yet brook
    A death like this!
  I can give up the young fame
    I burn'd to win--
  All--but the spotless name
    I glory in.

  Thine is the power to give,
    Thine to deny,
  Joy for the hour I live--
    Calmness to die.
  By all the brave should cherish,
    By my dying breath,
  I ask that I may perish
    By a soldier's death!


    Accordingly, on Monday, October 2, 1780, the adjutant-general
    of the British army was led to the gallows, and shared the fate
    which had befallen Nathan Hale four years before.


  This is the place where André met that death
  Whose infamy was keenest of its throes,
  And in this place of bravely yielded breath
  His ashes found a fifty years' repose;

  And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,
  With those who have been kings in blood or fame,
  As Honor here some compensation gave
  For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

  But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,
  Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,
  Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed
  The loving pity and regret they bore.

  In view of all he lost,--his youth, his love,
  And possibilities that wait the brave,
  Inward and outward bound, dim visions move
  Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.

  The country's Father! how do we revere
  His justice,--Brutus-like in its decree,--
  With André-sparing mercy, still more dear
  Had been his name,--if that, indeed, could be!


    But Arnold, the chief offender, had escaped, and a plan was set
    on foot to abduct him from the midst of the British and bring
    him back to the American lines. The execution of this plot was
    intrusted to John Champe, a sergeant-major in Lee's cavalry. On
    the night of October 20, Champe mounted his horse and seemingly
    deserted to the British, escaping a hot pursuit. He gained
    Arnold's confidence, and made every arrangement to abduct him,
    but was foiled at the last moment by Arnold's embarkation on
    an expedition to the south.


[October 20, 1780]

  Come sheathe your swords! my gallant boys,
    And listen to the story,
  How Sergeant Champe, one gloomy night,
    Set off to catch the Tory.

  You see the general had got mad
    To think his plans were thwarted,
  And swore by all, both good and bad,
    That Arnold should be carted.

  So unto Lee he sent a line,
    And told him all his sorrow,
  And said that he must start the hunt
    Before the coming morrow.

  Lee found a sergeant in his camp,
    Made up of bone and muscle,
  Who ne'er knew fear, and many a year
    With Tories had a tussle.

  Bold Champe, when mounted on old Rip,
    All button'd up from weather,
  Sang out, "good-by!" crack'd off his whip,
    And soon was in the heather.

  He gallop'd on towards Paulus Hook,
    Improving every instant--
  Until a patrol, wide awake,
    Descried him in the distance.

  On coming up, the guard call'd out
    And asked him where he's going--
  To which he answer'd with his spur,
    And left him in the mowing.

  The bushes pass'd him like the wind,
    And pebbles flew asunder,
  The guard was left far, far behind,
    All mix'd with mud and wonder.

  Lee's troops paraded, all alive,
    Although 'twas one the morning,
  And counting o'er a dozen or more,
    One sergeant is found wanting.

  A little hero, full of spunk,
    But not so full of judgment,
  Press'd Major Lee to let him go,
    With the bravest of his reg'ment.

  Lee summon'd cornet Middleton,
    Expressèd what was urgent,
  And gave him orders how to go
    To catch the rambling sergeant.

  Then forty troopers, more or less,
    Set off across the meader;
  'Bout thirty-nine went jogging on
    A-following their leader.

  At early morn, adown a hill,
    They saw the sergeant sliding;
  So fast he went, it was not ken't
    Whether he's rode, or riding.

  None lookèd back, but on they spurr'd,
    A-gaining every minute.
  To see them go, 'twould done you good,
    You'd thought old Satan in it.

  The sergeant miss'd 'em, by good luck,
    And took another tracing,
  He turn'd his horse from Paulus Hook,
    Elizabethtown facing.

  It was the custom of Sir Hal
    To send his galleys cruising,
  And so it happenèd just then
    That two were at Van Deusen's.

  Strait unto these the sergeant went,
    And left old Rip, all standing,
  A-waiting for the blown cornet,
    At Squire Van Deusen's landing.

  The troopers didn't gallop home,
    But rested from their labors;
  And some 'tis said took gingerbread
    And cider from the neighbors.

  'Twas just at eve the troopers reach'd
    The camp they left that morning.
  Champe's empty saddle, unto Lee,
    Gave an unwelcome warning.

  "If Champe has suffered, 'tis my fault;"
    So thought the generous major;
  "I would not have his garment touch'd
    For millions on a wager!"

  The cornet told him all he knew,
    Excepting of the cider.
  The troopers, all, spurred very well,
    But Champe was the best rider!

  And so it happen'd that brave Champe
    Unto Sir Hal deserted,
  Deceiving him, and you, and me,
    And into York was flirted.

  He saw base Arnold in his camp,
    Surrounded by the legion,
  And told him of the recent prank
    That threw him in that region.

  Then Arnold grinn'd, and rubb'd his hands,
    And e'enmost choked with pleasure,
  Not thinking Champe was all the while
    A "taking of his measure."

  "Come now," says he, "my bold soldier,
    As you're within our borders,
  Let's drink our fill, old care to kill,
    To-morrow you'll have orders."

  Full soon the British fleet set sail!
    Say! wasn't that a pity?
  For thus it was brave Sergeant Champe
    Was taken from the city.

  To southern climes the shipping flew,
    And anchored in Virginia,
  When Champe escaped and join'd his friends
    Among the picininni.

  Base Arnold's head, by luck, was sav'd,
    Poor André was gibbeted;
  Arnold's to blame for André's fame,
    And André's to be pitied.

    After the flurry consequent upon André's capture and execution,
    affairs at New York settled back into the old routine. A sort
    of lethargy seemed to possess the British leaders, and the
    Americans grew bolder and bolder, sometimes pushing their
    foraging expeditions within the British lines, and on one
    occasion seizing a quantity of hay and setting fire to some
    houses within sight of Clinton's quarters. The next day, the
    Loyalist disgust was voiced in some verses written by Joseph
    Stansbury and stuck up about the town.



      "Has the Marquis La Fayette
      Taken off all our hay yet?"
  Says Clinton to the wise heads around him:
      "Yes, faith, Sir Harry,
      Each stack he did carry,
  And likewise the cattle--confound him!

      "Besides, he now goes,
      Just under your nose,
  To burn all the houses to cinder."
      "If that be his project,
      It is not an object
  Worth a great man's attempting to hinder.

      "For forage and house
      I care not a louse;
  For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow:
      I swear I'll not do more
      To keep them in humor,
  Than play on my violoncello.

      "Since Charleston is taken,
      'Twill sure save my bacon,--
  I can live a whole year on that same, sir;
      Ride about all the day,
      At night, concert or play;
  So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir.

      "If growlers complain,
      I inactive remain--
  Will do nothing, nor let any others!
      'Tis sure no new thing
      To serve thus our king--
  Witness Burgoyne, and two famous Brothers!"

               JOSEPH STANSBURY.

    Another of Stansbury's lyrics, and perhaps the best he ever
    wrote, is "The Lords of the Main," intended for the use of the
    British sailors then engaged in fighting their ancient foes,
    France and Spain.



  When Faction, in league with the treacherous Gaul,
    Began to look big, and paraded in state,
  A meeting was held at Credulity Hall,
    And Echo proclaimed their ally good and great.
      By sea and by land
      Such wonders are planned--
  No less than the bold British lion to chain!
      "Well hove!" says Jack Lanyard,
      "French, Congo, and Spaniard,
  Have at you!--remember, we're Lords of the Main.
  Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main;
  The Tars of old England are Lords of the Main!"

  Though party-contention awhile may perplex,
    And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense,
  If perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex,
    In defiance of hell we'll chastise the offence.
      When danger alarms,
      'Tis then that in arms
  United we rush on the foe with disdain;
      And when the storm rages,
      It only presages
  Fresh triumphs to Britons as Lords of the Main!
  Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main--
  Let thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of the Main!

  Then, Britons, strike home--make sure of your blow:
    The chase is in view--never mind a lea shore.
  With vengeance o'ertake the confederate foe:
    'Tis now we may rival our heroes of yore!
      Brave Anson, and Drake,
      Hawke, Russell, and Blake,
  With ardor like yours, we defy France and Spain!
      Combining with treason,
      They're deaf to all reason;
  Once more let them feel we are Lords of the Main.
  Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the Main--
  The first-born of Neptune are Lords of the Main!

               JOSEPH STANSBURY.

    Among the desperate and foolish expedients to which the British
    resorted in the hope of winning America back to her allegiance
    was that of sending Prince William Henry, afterwards William
    IV, to New York in 1781. The Tory authorities of the city
    overwhelmed him with adulation, but in the country at large,
    his visit excited only derision.



  Prince William, of the Brunswick race,
  To witness George's sad disgrace
    The royal lad came over,
  Rebels to kill, by right divine--
  Derived from that illustrious line,
    The beggars of Hanover.

  So many chiefs got broken pates
  In vanquishing the rebel states,
    So many nobles fell,
  That George the Third in passion cried:
  "Our royal blood must now be tried;
    'Tis that must break the spell;

  "To you [the fat pot-valiant swain
  To Digby said], dear friend of mine,
    To you I trust my boy;
  The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,
  Rebellion die when he appears,
    My Tories leap with joy."

  So said, so done--the lad was sent,
  But never reached the continent,
    An island held him fast--
  Yet there his friends danced rigadoons,
  The Hessians sung in high Dutch tunes,
    "Prince William's come at last!"

  "Prince William's come!"--the Briton cried--
  "Our labors now will be repaid--
    Dominion be restored--
  Our monarch is in William seen,
  He is the image of our queen,
    Let William be adored!"

  The Tories came with long address,
  With poems groaned the royal press,
    And all in William's praise--
  The youth, astonished, looked about
  To find their vast dominions out,
    Then answered in amaze:

  "Where all your vast domain can be,
  Friends, for my soul I cannot see;
    'Tis but an empty name;
  Three wasted islands and a town
  In rubbish buried--half burnt down,
    Is all that we can claim;

  "I am of royal birth, 'tis true.
  But what, my sons, can princes do,
    No armies to command?
  Cornwallis conquered and distrest--
  Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest--
    I curse--and quit the land."

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    The war in the North thereafter was confined, on the part of
    the British, to predatory raids along the coasts, of which
    "The Descent on Middlesex" is a fair example. On the afternoon
    of July 22, 1781, a party of Royalist refugees surrounded
    the church, where the people of Middlesex were at prayer,
    and took fifty of them captive, among them Schoolmaster St.
    John, of Norwalk, the author of the following ingenuous ballad
    describing their experiences.


[July 22, 1781]

  July the twenty-second day,
  The precise hour I will not say,
  In seventeen hundred and eighty-one,
  A horrid action was begun.

  While to the Lord they sing and pray,
  The Tories who in ambush lay,
  Beset the house with brazen face,
  At Middlesex, it was the place.

  A guard was plac'd the house before,
  Likewise behind and at each door;
  Then void of shame, those men of sin
  The sacred temple enter'd in.

  The reverend Mather closed his book,
  How did the congregation look!
  Those demons plunder'd all they could,
  Either in silver or in gold.

  The silver buckles which we use,
  Both at the knees and on the shoes,
  These caitiffs took them in their rage,
  Had no respect for sex or age.

  As they were searching all around,
  They several silver watches found;
  While they who're plac'd as guards without,
  Like raging devils rang'd about.

  Run forty horses to the shore,
  Not many either less or more;
  With bridles, saddles, pillions on;
  In a few minutes all was done.

  The men from hence they took away,
  Upon that awful sacred day,
  Was forty-eight, besides two more
  They chanc'd to find upon the shore.

  On board the shipping they were sent,
  Their money gone, and spirits spent,
  And greatly fearing their sad end,
  This wicked seizure did portend.

  They hoisted sail, the Sound they cross'd,
  And near Lloyd's Neck they anchor'd first;
  'Twas here the Tories felt 'twas wrong
  To bring so many men along.

  Then every man must tell his name,
  A list they took, and kept the same;
  When twenty-four of fifty men
  Were order'd to go home again.

  The twenty-six who stay'd behind,
  Most cruelly they were confin'd;
  On board the brig were order'd quick,
  And then confin'd beneath the deck.

  A dismal hole with filth besmear'd,
  But 'twas no more than what we fear'd;
  Sad the confinement, dark the night,
  But then the devil thought 'twas right.

  But to return whence I left off.
  They at our misery made a scoff;
  Like raving madmen tore about,
  Swearing they'd take our vitals out.

  They said no quarter they would give
  Nor let a cursèd rebel live;
  But would their joints in pieces cut,
  Then round the deck like turkeys strut.

  July, the fourth and twentieth day,
  We all marched off to Oyster Bay;
  To increase our pains and make it worse,
  They iron'd just six pair of us.

  But as they wanted just one pair,
  An iron stirrup lying there
  Was taken and on anvil laid,
  On which they with a hammer paid.

  And as they beat it inch by inch,
  They bruis'd their wrists, at which they flinch;
  Those wretched caitiffs standing by,
  Would laugh to hear the sufferers cry.

  Although to call them not by name,
  From Fairfield county many came;
  And were delighted with the rout,
  To see the rebels kick'd about.

  At night we travell'd in the rain,
  All begg'd for shelter, but in vain,
  Though almost naked to the skin;
  A dismal pickle we were in.

  Then to the half-way house we came,
  The "Half-way House" 'tis called by name,
  And there we found a soul's relief;
  We almost miss'd our dreadful grief.

  The people gen'rously behav'd,
  Made a good fire, some brandy gave,
  Of which we greatly stood in need,
  As we were wet and cold indeed.

  But ere the house we did attain,
  We trembled so with cold and rain,
  Our irons jingled--well they might--
  We shiver'd so that stormy night.

  In half an hour or thereabout,
  The orders were, "Come, all turn out!
  Ye rebel prisoners, shabby crew,
  To loiter thus will never do."

  'Twas now about the break of day,
  When all were forc'd to march away;
  With what they order'd we complied,
  Though cold, nor yet one quarter dried.

  We made a halt one half mile short
  Of what is term'd Brucklyn's fort;
  Where all were hurried through the street:
  Some overtook us, some we met.

  We now traversing the parade,
  The awful figure which we made,
  Caus'd laughter, mirth, and merriment,
  And some would curse us as we went.

  Their grandest fort was now hard by us;
  They show'd us that to terrify us;
  They show'd us all their bulwarks there,
  To let be known how strong they were.

  Just then the Tory drums did sound,
  And pipes rang out a warlike round;
  Supposing we must thence conclude
  That Britain ne'er could be subdued.

  Up to the guard-house we were led,
  Where each receiv'd a crumb of bread;
  Not quite one mouthful, I believe,
  For every man we did receive.

  In boats, the ferry soon we pass'd,
  And at New York arriv'd at last;
  As through the streets we pass'd along,
  Ten thousand curses round us rang.

  But some would laugh, and some would sneer,
  And some would grin, and others leer;
  A mixèd mob, a medley crew,
  I guess as e'er the devil knew.

  To the Provost we then were haul'd,
  Though we of war were prisoners call'd;
  Our irons now were order'd off,
  And we were left to sneeze and cough.

  But oh! what company we found.
  With great surprise we look'd around:
  I must conclude that in that place,
  We found the worst of Adam's race.

  Thieves, murd'rers, and pickpockets too,
  And everything that's bad they'd do;
  One of our men found to his cost,
  Three pounds, York money, he had lost.

  They pick'd his pocket quite before
  We had been there one single hour;
  And while he lookèd o'er and o'er,
  The vagrants from him stole some more.

  We soon found out, but thought it strange
  We never were to be exchang'd
  By a cartel, but for some men
  Whom they desir'd to have again.

  A pack with whom they well agree,
  Who're call'd the loyal company,
  Or "Loyalists Associated,"
  As by themselves incorporated.

  Our food was call'd two-thirds in weight
  Of what a soldier has to eat;
  We had no blankets in our need,
  Till a kind friend did intercede.

  Said he, "The prisoners suffer so,
  'Tis quite unkind and cruel, too;
  I'm sure it makes my heart to bleed,
  So great their hardship and their need."

  And well to us was the event,
  Fine blankets soon to us were sent;
  Small the allowance, very small,
  But better far than none at all.

  An oaken plank, it was our bed,
  An oaken pillow for the head,
  And room as scanty as our meals,
  For we lay crowded head and heels.

  In seven days or thereabout,
  One Jonas Weed was taken out,
  And to his friends he was resign'd,
  But many still were kept behind.

  Soon after this some were parol'd,
  Too tedious wholly to be told;
  And some from bondage were unstrung,
  Whose awful sufferings can't be sung.

  The dread smallpox to some they gave,
  Nor tried at all their lives to save,
  But rather sought their desolation,
  As they denied 'em 'noculation.

  To the smallpox there did succeed
  A putrid fever, bad indeed;
  As they before were weak and spent,
  Soon from the stage of life they went.

  For wood we greatly stood in need,
  For which we earnestly did plead;
  But one tenth part of what we wanted
  Of wood, to us was never granted.

  The boiling kettles which we had,
  Were wanting covers, good or bad;
  The worst of rum that could be bought,
  For a great price, to us was brought.

  For bread and milk, and sugar, too,
  We had to pay four times their due;
  While cash and clothing which were sent,
  Those wretched creatures did prevent.

  Some time it was in dark November,
  But just the day I can't remember,
  Full forty of us were confin'd
  In a small room both damp and blind,

  Because there had been two or three,
  Who were not of our company,
  Who did attempt the other day,
  The Tories said, to get away.

  In eighteen days we were exchang'd,
  And through the town allowed to range;
  Of twenty-five that were ta'en,
  But just nineteen reach'd home again.

  Four days before December's gone,
  In seventeen hundred eighty-one,
  I hail'd the place where months before,
  The Tories took me from the shore.

               PETER ST. JOHN.



    After the surrender of Burgoyne, the military attitude of the
    British in the Northern States was, as has been seen, purely
    defensive, but the Southern States were the scene of vigorous
    fighting. The King had set his heart on the reduction of
    Georgia and the Carolinas, and it looked for a time as though
    he would be gratified. In General Augustine Prevost there
    was at last found a man after the King's own heart, and his
    barbarities and vandalism were among the most monstrous of the
    war. General Benjamin Lincoln was sent south to oppose him, and
    was soon joined by Count Pulaski and his legion.



    When the dying flame of day
    Through the chancel shot its ray,
    Far the glimmering tapers shed
    Faint light on the cowlèd head;
    And the censer burning swung,
    Where, before the altar, hung
    The crimson banner, that with prayer
    Had been consecrated there.
  And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
  Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

    "Take thy banner! May it wave
    Proudly o'er the good and brave;
    When the battle's distant wail
    Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
    When the clarion's music thrills
    To the hearts of these lone hills,
    When the spear in conflict shakes,
    And the strong lance shivering breaks.

    "Take thy banner! and, beneath
    The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
    Guard it, till our homes are free!
    Guard it! God will prosper thee!
    In the dark and trying hour,
    In the breaking forth of power,
    In the rush of steeds and men,
    His right hand will shield thee then.

    "Take thy banner! But when night
    Closes round the ghastly fight,
    If the vanquished warrior bow,
    Spare him! By our holy vow,
    By our prayers and many tears,
    By the mercy that endears,
    Spare him! he our love hath shared!
    Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared!

    "Take thy banner! and if e'er
    Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
    And the muffled drum should beat
    To the tread of mournful feet,
    Then this crimson flag shall be
    Martial cloak and shroud for thee."

  The warrior took that banner proud,
  And it was his martial cloak and shroud!


    In August, 1779, the French fleet under D'Estaing appeared
    off the coast of Georgia, and plans were made for the capture
    of Savannah. The place was closely invested by the French and
    Americans, and for nearly a month the siege was vigorously
    carried on. But D'Estaing grew impatient, and on October 9 an
    attempt was made to carry the place by storm. The assailants
    were totally defeated, losing more than a thousand men, while
    the British loss was only fifty-five. Count Pulaski was among
    the slain.


[October 9, 1779]

      Come let us rejoice,
      With heart and with voice,
  Her triumphs let loyalty show, sir,
      While bumpers go round,
      Reëcho the sound,
  Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

      With warlike parade,
      And his Irish brigade,
  His ships and his spruce Gallic host, sir,
      As proud as an elf,
      D'Estaing came himself,
  And landed on Georgia's coast, sir.

      There joining a band
      Under Lincoln's command,
  Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir,
      'Gainst the town of Savannah
      He planted his banner,
  And then he felt wondrous big, sir.

      With thund'ring of guns,
      And bursting of bombs,
  He thought to have frighten'd our boys, sir:
      But amidst all their din,
      Brave Maitland push'd in,
  And Moncrieffe cried, "A fig for your noise," sir.

      Chagrined at delay,
      As he meant not to stay,
  The Count form'd his troops in the morn, sir.
      Van, centre, and rear
      March'd up without fear,
  Cock sure of success, by a storm, sir.

      Though rude was the shock,
      Unmov'd as a rock,
  Stood our firm British bands to their works, sir,
      While the brave German corps,
      And Americans bore
  Their parts as intrepid as Turks, sir.

      Then muskets did rattle,
      Fierce ragèd the battle,
  Grape shot it flew thicker than hail, sir.
      The ditch fill'd with slain,
      Blood dyed all the plain,
  When rebels and French turnèd tail, sir.

      See! see! how they run!
      Lord! what glorious fun!
  How they tumble, by cannon mowed down, sir!
      Brains fly all around,
      Dying screeches resound,
  And mangled limbs cover the ground, sir.

      There Pulaski fell,
      That imp of old Bell,
  Who attempted to murder his king, sir.
      But now he is gone
      Whence he'll never return;
  But will make hell with treason to ring, sir.

      To Charleston with fear
      The rebels repair;
  D'Estaing scampers back to his boats, sir,
      Each blaming the other,
      Each cursing his brother,
  And--may they cut each other's throats, sir.

      Scarce three thousand men
      The town did maintain,
  'Gainst three times their number of foes, sir,
      Who left on the plain,
      Of wounded and slain,
  Three thousand to fatten the crows, sir.

      Three thousand! no less!
      For the rebels confess
  Some loss, as you very well know, sir.
      Then let bumpers go round,
      And reëcho the sound,
  Huzza for the King and Prevost, sir.

    As soon as Clinton learned of this victory, he determined to
    capture Charleston, where General Lincoln was stationed with
    three thousand men. Lincoln decided to withstand a siege,
    hoping for reinforcements; but none came, and on May 12, 1780,
    to avoid a wanton waste of life, he surrendered his army and
    the city to the British.


[May 12, 1780]

  King Hancock sat in regal state,
  And big with pride and vainly great,
      Address'd his rebel crew:
  "These haughty Britons soon shall yield
  The boasted honors of the field,
      While our brave sons pursue.

  "Six thousand fighting men or more,
  Protect the Carolina shore,
      And Freedom will defend;
  And stubborn Britons soon shall feel,
  'Gainst Charleston, and hearts of steel,
      How vainly they contend."

  But ere he spake, in dread array,
  To rebel foes, ill-fated day,
      The British boys appear;
  Their mien with martial ardor fir'd,
  And by their country's wrongs inspir'd,
      Shook Lincoln's heart with fear.

  See Clinton brave, serene, and great,
  For mighty deeds rever'd by fate,
      Direct the thund'ring fight,
  While Mars, propitious god of war,
  Looks down from his triumphal car
      With wonder and delight.

  "Clinton," he cries, "the palm is thine,
  'Midst heroes thou wert born to shine
      A great immortal name,
  And Cornwallis' mighty deeds appear
  Conspicuous each revolving year,
      The pledge of future fame."

  Our tars, their share of glories won,
  For they among the bravest shone,
      Undaunted, firm, and bold;
  Whene'er engag'd, their ardor show'd
  Hearts which with native valor glow'd,
      Hearts of true British mould.

    The whole of South Carolina was soon overrun by the British;
    estates were confiscated, houses were burned, and alleged
    traitors hanged without trial. Organized resistance was
    impossible, but there soon sprang up in the state a number
    of partisan leaders, foremost among whom was Francis Marion,
    perhaps the most picturesque figure of the Revolution. No act
    of cruelty ever sullied the brightness of his fame, but no
    partisan leader excelled him in ability to distress the enemy
    in legitimate warfare.


  We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
    His friends and merry men are we;
  And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
    We burrow in the cypress-tree.
  The turfy hammock is our bed,
    Our home is in the red deer's den,
  Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
    For we are wild and hunted men.

  We fly by day and shun its light,
    But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,
  We mount and start with early night,
    And through the forest track our foe.
  And soon he hears our chargers leap,
    The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,
  And ere he drives away his sleep,
    And rushes from his camp, he dies.

  Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
    That will not ask a kind caress
  To swim the Santee at our need,
    When on his heels the foemen press,--
  The true heart and the ready hand,
    The spirit stubborn to be free,
  The twisted bore, the smiting brand,--
    And we are Marion's men, you see.

  Now light the fire and cook the meal,
    The last perhaps that we shall taste;
  I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
    And that's a sign we move in haste.
  He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
    You hear his order calm and low.
  Come, wave your torch across the dark,
    And let us see the boys that go.

  We may not see their forms again,
    God help 'em, should they find the strife!
  For they are strong and fearless men,
    And make no coward terms for life;
  They'll fight as long as Marion bids,
    And when he speaks the word to shy,
  Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,
    Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

  Now stir the fire and lie at ease,--
    The scouts are gone, and on the brush
  I see the Colonel bend his knee,
    To take his slumbers too. But hush!
  He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;
    The man that's fighting day by day
  May well, when night comes, take a change,
    And down upon his knees to pray.

  Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand
    The sly and silent jug that's there;
  I love not it should idly stand
    When Marion's men have need of cheer.
  'Tis seldom that our luck affords
    A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
  And dry potatoes on our boards
    May always call for such a draught.

  Now pile the brush and roll the log;
    Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
  That's half the time in brake and bog
    Must never think of softer bed.
  The owl is hooting to the night,
    The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
  And in that pond the flashing light
    Tells where the alligator sank.

  What! 'tis the signal! start so soon,
    And through the Santee swamp so deep,
  Without the aid of friendly moon,
    And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
  But courage, comrades! Marion leads,
    The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
  So clear your swords and spur your steeds,
    There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.

  We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
    We leave the swamp and cypress-tree,
  Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,
    And ready for the strife are we.
  The Tory camp is now in sight,
    And there he cowers within his den;
  He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
    He fears, and flies from Marion's men.



  Our band is few, but true and tried,
    Our leader frank and bold;
  The British soldier trembles
    When Marion's name is told.
  Our fortress is the good greenwood,
    Our tent the cypress-tree;
  We know the forest round us
    As seamen know the sea.
  We know its walls of thorny vines,
    Its glades of reedy grass,
  Its safe and silent islands
    Within the dark morass.

  Woe to the English soldiery
    That little dread us near!
  On them shall light at midnight
    A strange and sudden fear:
  When, waking to their tents on fire,
    They grasp their arms in vain,
  And they who stand to face us
    Are beat to earth again;
  And they who fly in terror deem
    A mighty host behind,
  And hear the tramp of thousands
    Upon the hollow wind.

  Then sweet the hour that brings release
    From danger and from toil;
  We talk the battle over,
    We share the battle's spoil.
  The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
    As if a hunt were up,
  And woodland flowers are gathered
    To crown the soldier's cup.
  With merry songs we mock the wind
    That in the pine-top grieves,
  And slumber long and sweetly
    On beds of oaken leaves.

  Well knows the fair and friendly moon
    The band that Marion leads--
  The glitter of their rifles,
    The scampering of their steeds.
  'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
    Across the moonlight plain;
  'Tis life to feel the night-wind
    That lifts his tossing mane.
  A moment in the British camp--
    A moment--and away,
  Back to the pathless forest
    Before the peep of day.

  Grave men there are by broad Santee,
    Grave men with hoary hairs;
  Their hearts are all with Marion,
    For Marion are their prayers.
  And lovely ladies greet our band
    With kindliest welcoming,
  With smiles like those of summer,
    And tears like those of spring.
  For them we wear these trusty arms,
    And lay them down no more
  Till we have driven the Briton
    Forever from our shore.


    Among the members of Marion's band was a gigantic Scotsman
    named Macdonald, the hero of many daring escapades, of which
    his raid through Georgetown, S. C., with only four troopers,
    was the most remarkable. Georgetown was a fortified place,
    defended by a garrison of three hundred men.



  I remember it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,
  And the legion lay idle and listless that day,
  A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,
  And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,
  When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade,
  Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot for a raid.
  Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring,
  Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

  We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright,
  To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight;
  Yet he chose from our numbers _four_ men and no more.
  "Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as fourscore,
  If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead,
  With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed.
  Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring,
  Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

  In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form
  Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm
  When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and stark,
  And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the dark;
  His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free,
  With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee,
  His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing--
  Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!

  'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride,
  Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide,
  The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms,
  A soft _dolce_ were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms,
  When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout,
  With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without,
  Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring,
  "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

  Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout,
  That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt,
  And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they,
  "Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day.
  Are the works, think you, strong? God of heaven, what a din!
  'Tis the front wall besieged--have the rebels rushed in?
  It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring
  Of 'death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!'"

  Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we sped,
  And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red;
  And the ground here and there by an ominous stain
  Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain:
  A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose,
  With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all loose,
  By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down,
  To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer through the crown,
  And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring
  With "Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

  Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left
  Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece uncleft,
  What should we do next, but--as careless and calm
  As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm
  'Mid a land of pure peace--just serenely drop down
  On the few constant friends who still stopped in the town.
  _What_ a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing,
  As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King?--

  Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars
  Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars
  From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss,
  On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss,
  Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast
  Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash _ruse_ at last;
  So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling
  The old watch-words abroad, "Down with Redcoats and King!"

  As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track
  We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back,
  And beheld their long earth-works all compassed in flame:
  With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls came,
  And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt the trees
  Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag bees;
  Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring
  The shouts, "Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King!"

  Ah! _that_ was a feat, lads, to boast of! What men
  Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with _us_ then?
  Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow
  I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now--
  The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down,
  Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town:
  Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to wring--
  Ay! _my_ muscles are firm still; _I_ fought 'gainst the King!

  Dare you doubt it? well, give me the weightiest of all
  The sheathed sabres that hang there, unlooped on the wall;
  Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp;
  Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp
  The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing sweep
  I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep--
  That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling
  To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King.

               PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

    Second alone to Marion in this wild warfare was Thomas Sumter,
    a Virginian, destined to serve his country in other ways.
    During the summer of 1780, he kept up so brisk a guerrilla
    warfare that Cornwallis called him "the greatest plague in the


  When Carolina's hope grew pale
    Before the British lion's tread,
  And Freedom's sigh in every gale
    Was heard above her martyr'd dead;

  When from her mountain heights subdued,
    In pride of place forbid to soar,
  Her Eagle banner, quench'd in blood,
    Lay sullen on the indignant shore,

  Breathing revenge, invoking doom,
    Tyrant! upon thy purple host,
  When all stood wrapt in steadfast gloom,
    And silence brooded o'er her coast,

  Stealthy, as when from thicket dun,
    The Indian springs upon his bow,
  Up rose, South Mount, thy warrior son,
    And headlong darted on the foe.

  Not in the pride of war he came,
    With bugle note and banner high,
  And nodding plume, and steel of flame,
    Red battle's gorgeous panoply!

  With followers few, but undismay'd,
    Each change and chance of fate withstood,
  Beneath her sunshine and her shade,
    The same heroic brotherhood!

  From secret nook, in other land,
    Emerging fleet along the pine,
  Prone down he flew before his band,
    Like eagle on the British line!

  Catacoba's waters smiled again,
    To see her Sumter's soul in arms;
  And issuing from each glade and glen,
    Rekindled by war's fierce alarms,

  Throng'd hundreds through the solitude
    Of the wild forest, to the call
  Of him whose spirit, unsubdued,
    Fresh impulse gave to each, to all.

  By day the burning sands they ply,
    Night sees them in the fell ravine;
  Familiar to each follower's eye,
    The tangled brake, the hall of green.

  Roused by their tread from covert deep,
    Springs the gaunt wolf, and thus while near
  Is heard, forbidding thought of sleep,
    The rattling serpent's sound of fear!

  Before or break of early morn,
    Or fox looks out from copse to close,
  Before the hunter winds his horn.
    Sumter's already on his foes!

  He beat them back! beneath the flame
    Of valor quailing, or the shock!
  And carved, at last, a hero's name
    Upon the glorious Hanging Rock!

  And time, that shades or sears the wreath,
    Where glory binds the soldier's brow,
  Kept bright her Sumter's fame in death,
    His hour of proudest triumph, now.

  And ne'er shall tyrant tread the shore
    Where Sumter bled, nor bled in vain;
  A thousand hearts shall break, before
    They wear the oppressor's chains again.

  O never can thy sons forget
    The mighty lessons taught by thee;
  Since--treasured by the eternal debt--
    Their watchword is thy memory!

               J. W. SIMMONS.

    South Carolina was too important to be left dependent upon the
    skill of partisan commanders, and General Gates was hurried to
    the scene, only to be ignominiously defeated by Cornwallis at
    Camden, and routed with a loss of two thousand men. Cornwallis,
    elated by this victory, started for North Carolina; but the
    country was thoroughly aroused, and on October 7 a detachment
    of twelve hundred men was brought to bay on King's Mountain,
    and either killed or captured.


[October 7, 1780]

  'Twas on a pleasant mountain
    The Tory heathens lay,
  With a doughty major at their head,
    One Ferguson, they say.

  Cornwallis had detach'd him
    A-thieving for to go,
  And catch the Carolina men,
    Or bring the rebels low.

  The scamp had rang'd the country
    In search of royal aid,
  And with his owls, perchèd on high,
    He taught them all his trade.

  But ah! that fatal morning,
    When Shelby brave drew near!
  'Tis certainly a warning
    That ministers should hear.

  And Campbell, and Cleveland,
    And Colonel Sevier,
  Each with a band of gallant men,
    To Ferguson appear.

  Just as the sun was setting
    Behind the western hills,
  Just then our trusty rifles sent
    A dose of leaden pills.

  Up, up the steep together
    Brave Williams led his troop,
  And join'd by Winston, bold and true,
    Disturb'd the Tory coop.

  The royal slaves, the royal owls,
    Flew high on every hand;
  But soon they settled--gave a howl,
    And quarter'd to Cleveland.

  I would not tell the number
    Of Tories slain that day,
  But surely it is certain
    That none did run away.

  For all that were a-living,
    Were happy to give up;
  So let us make thanksgiving,
    And pass the bright tin-cup.

  To all the brave regiments,
    Let's toast 'em for their health,
  And may our good country
    Have quietude and wealth.

    This brilliant victory restored hope to the patriots of the
    South, and Cornwallis soon found himself in a dangerous
    position. He was finally forced to detach Tarleton, with eleven
    hundred men, to attack Daniel Morgan's little army of nine
    hundred men, which was threatening his line of communications.
    On Tarleton's approach, Morgan retreated to a grazing ground
    known as the Cowpens near King's Mountain, and here, on January
    17, 1781, Tarleton attacked him, only to be completely routed.


[January 17, 1781]

  To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning,
    Tarleton hurried, hot and eager for the fight;
  From the Cowpens, sore confounded, on that January morning,
    Tarleton hurried somewhat faster, fain to save himself by flight.

  In the morn he scorned us rarely, but he fairly found his error,
    When his force was made our ready blows to feel;
  When his horsemen and his footmen fled in wild and pallid terror
    At the leaping of our bullets and the sweeping of our steel.

  All the day before we fled them, and we led them to pursue us,
    Then at night on Thickety Mountain made our camp;
  There we lay upon our rifles, slumber quickly coming to us,
    Spite the crackling of our camp-fires and our sentries' heavy tramp.

  Morning on the mountain border ranged in order found our forces,
    Ere our scouts announced the coming of the foe;
  While the hoar-frost lying near us, and the distant water-courses,
    Gleamed like silver in the sunlight, seemed like silver in their glow.

  Morgan ranged us there to meet them, and to greet them with such favor
    That they scarce would care to follow us again;
  In the rear, the Continentals--none were readier, nor braver;
    In the van, with ready rifles, steady, stern, our mountain men.

  Washington, our trooper peerless, gay and fearless, with his forces
    Waiting panther-like upon the foe to fall,
  Formed upon the slope behind us, where, on raw-boned country horses,
    Sat the sudden-summoned levies brought from Georgia by McCall.

  Soon we heard a distant drumming, nearer coming, slow advancing--
    It was then upon the very nick of nine.
  Soon upon the road from Spartanburg we saw their bayonets glancing,
    And the morning sunlight playing on their swaying scarlet line.

  In the distance seen so dimly, they looked grimly; coming nearer,
    There was naught about them fearful, after all,
  Until some one near me spoke in voice than falling water clearer,
    "Tarleton's quarter is the sword-blade, Tarleton's mercy is the ball."

  Then the memory came unto me, heavy, gloomy, of my brother
    Who was slain while asking quarter at their hand;
  Of that morning when was driven forth my sister and my mother
    From our cabin in the valley by the spoilers of the land.

  I remembered of my brother slain, my mother spurned and beaten.
    Of my sister in her beauty brought to shame;
  Of the wretches' jeers and laughter, as from mud-sill up to rafter
    Of the stripped and plundered cabin leapt the fierce, consuming flame.

  But that memory had no power there in that hour there to depress me--
    No! it stirred within my spirit fiercer ire;
  And I gripped my sword-hilt firmer, and my arm and heart grew stronger;
    And I longed to meet the wronger on the sea of steel and fire.

  On they came, our might disdaining, where the raining bullets leaden
    Pattered fast from scattered rifles on each wing;
  Here and there went down a foeman, and the ground began to redden;
    And they drew them back a moment, like the tiger ere his spring.

  Then said Morgan, "Ball and powder kill much prouder men than George's;
    On your rifles and a careful aim rely.
  They were trained in many battles--we in workshops, fields, and forges;
    But we have our homes to fight for, and we do not fear to die."

  Though our leader's words we cheered not, yet we feared not; we awaited,
    Strong of heart, the threatened onset, and it came:
  Up the sloping hill-side swiftly rushed the foe so fiercely hated;
    On they came with gleaming bayonet 'mid the cannon's smoke and flame.

  At their head rode Tarleton proudly; ringing loudly o'er the yelling
    Of his men we heard his voice's brazen tone;
  With his dark eyes flashing fiercely, and his sombre features telling
    In their look the pride that filled him as the champion of the throne.

  On they pressed, when sudden flashing, ringing, crashing, came the firing
    Of our forward line upon their close-set ranks;
  Then at coming of their steel, which moved with steadiness untiring.
    Fled our mountaineers, re-forming in good order on our flanks.

  Then the combat's raging anger, din, and clangor, round and o'er us
    Filled the forest, stirred the air, and shook the ground;
  Charged with thunder-tramp the horsemen, while their sabres shone before
    Gleaming lightly, streaming brightly, through the smoky cloud around.

  Through the pines and oaks resounding, madly bounding from the mountain,
    Leapt the rattle of the battle and the roar;
  Fierce the hand-to-hand engaging, and the human freshet raging
    Of the surging current urging past a dark and bloody shore.

  Soon the course of fight was altered; soon they faltered at the leaden
    Storm that smote them, and we saw their centre swerve.
  Tarleton's eye flashed fierce in anger; Tarleton's face began to redden;
    Tarleton gave the closing order--"Bring to action the reserve!"

  Up the slope his legion thundered, full three hundred; fiercely spurring,
    Cheering lustily, they fell upon our flanks;
  And their worn and wearied comrades, at the sound so spirit-stirring,
    Felt a thrill of hope and courage pass along their shattered ranks.

  By the wind the smoke-cloud lifted lightly drifted to the nor'ward,
    And displayed in all their pride the scarlet foe;
  We beheld them, with a steady tramp and fearless, moving forward,
    With their banners proudly waving, and their bayonets levelled low.

  Morgan gave his order clearly--"Fall back nearly to the border
    Of the hill and let the enemy come nigher!"
  Oh! they thought we had retreated, and they charged in fierce disorder,
    When out rang the voice of Howard--"To the right about, face!--Fire!"

  Then upon our very wheeling came the pealing of our volley,
    And our balls made red a pathway down the hill;
  Broke the foe and shrank and cowered; rang again the voice of Howard--
    "Give the hireling dogs the bayonet!"--and we did it with a will.

  In the meanwhile one red-coated troop, unnoted, riding faster
    Than their comrades on our rear in fury bore;
  But the light-horse led by Washington soon brought it to disaster,
    For they shattered it and scattered it, and smote it fast and sore.

  Like a herd of startled cattle from the battlefield we drove them;
    In disorder down the Mill-gap road they fled;
  Tarleton led them in the racing, fast he fled before our chasing,
    And he stopped not for the dying, and he stayed not for the dead.

  Down the Mill-gap road they scurried and they hurried with such
    We had never seen such running in our lives!
  Ran they swifter than if seeking homes to taste domestic sweetness,
    Having many years been parted from their children and their wives.

  Ah! for some no wife to meet them, child to greet them, friend to shield
    To their home o'er ocean never sailing back;
  After them the red avengers, bitter hate for death had sealed them,
    Yelped the dark and red-eyed sleuth-hound unrelenting on their track.

  In their midst I saw one trooper, and around his waist I noted
    Tied a simple silken scarf of blue and white;
  When my vision grasped it clearly to my hatred I devoted
    Him, from all the hireling wretches who were mingled there in flight.

  For that token in the summer had been from our cabin taken
    By the robber-hands of wrongers of my kin;
  'Twas my sister's--for the moment things around me were forsaken;
    I was blind to fleeing foemen, I was deaf to battle's din.

  Olden comrades round me lying dead or dying were unheeded;
    Vain to me they looked for succor in their need.
  O'er the corses of the soldiers, through the gory pools I speeded,
    Driving rowel-deep my spurs within my madly-bounding steed.

  As I came he turned, and staring at my glaring eyes he shivered;
    Pallid fear went quickly o'er his features grim;
  As he grasped his sword in terror, every nerve within him quivered,
    For his guilty spirit told him why I solely sought for him.

  Though the stroke I dealt he parried, onward carried, down I bore him--
    Horse and rider--down together went the twain:

  "Quarter!"--He! that scarf had doomed him! stood a son and brother o'er
    Down through plume and brass and leather went my sabre to the brain--
    Ha! no music like that crushing through the skull-bone to the brain.

               THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

    Tarleton's defeat deprived Cornwallis of nearly a third of his
    forces, and his situation became more desperate than ever.
    He kept on across North Carolina and engaged Greene in an
    indecisive action at Guilford Court-House on March 15, and
    then retreated to Wilmington. Greene, with splendid strategy,
    started at once for South Carolina, captured nearly all the
    forts there in British hands, and on September 8 fell upon
    the British at Eutaw Springs, compelling them to retreat to


[September 8, 1781]

  Hark! 'tis the voice of the mountain,
    And it speaks to our heart in its pride,
  As it tells of the bearing of heroes
    Who compassed its summits and died!
  How they gathered to strife as the eagles,
    When the foeman had clambered the height!
  How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,
    They hunted him down for the fight.

  Hark! through the gorge of the valley,
    'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe;
  Our own quickly sounds for the rally,
    And we snatch down the rifle and go.
  As the hunter who hears of the panther,
    Each arms him and leaps to his steed,
  Rides forth through the desolate antre,
    With his knife and his rifle at need.

  From a thousand deep gorges they gather,
    From the cot lowly perched by the rill,
  The cabin half hid in the heather,
    'Neath the crag which the eagle keeps still;
  Each lonely at first in his roaming,
    Till the vale to the sight opens fair,
  And he sees the low cot through the gloaming,
    When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

  Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble
    For the hunt of the insolent foe,
  And soon shall his myrmidons tremble
    'Neath the shock of the thunderbolt's blow.
  Down the lone heights now wind they together,
    As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,
  And now, as they group on the heather,
    The keen scout delivers his tale:

  "The British--the Tories are on us,
    And now is the moment to prove
  To the women whose virtues have won us,
    That our virtues are worthy their love!
  They have swept the vast valleys below us
    With fire, to the hills from the sea;
  And here would they seek to o'erthrow us
    In a realm which our eagle makes free!"

  No war-council suffered to trifle
    With the hours devote to the deed;
  Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,
    Swift followed the bound to the steed;
  And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,
    All panting with rage at the sight,
  Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,
    As he lay in his camp on the height.

  Grim dashed they away as they bounded,
    The hunters to hem in the prey,
  And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,
    Then the British rose fast to the fray;
  And never with arms of more vigor
    Did their bayonets press through the strife.
  Where, with every swift pull of the trigger,
    The sharpshooters dashed out a life!

  'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;
    'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;
  Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,
    Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;
  Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,
    As from danger to danger he flies.
  Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,
    With its "touch me who dare" and he dies!

  An hour, and the battle is over;
    The eagles are rending the prey;
  The serpents seek flight into cover,
    But the terror still stands in the way:
  More dreadful the doom that on treason
    Avenges the wrongs of the state;
  And the oak-tree for many a season
    Bears fruit for the vultures of fate!




  At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:
    Their limbs with dust are covered o'er--
  Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
    How many heroes are no more!

  If in this wreck of ruin they
    Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
  O smite thy gentle breast, and say
    The friends of freedom slumber here!

  Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain,
    If goodness rules thy generous breast,
  Sigh for the wasted, rural reign;
    Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

  Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
    You too may fall and ask a tear;
  'Tis not the beauty of the morn
    That proves the evening shall be clear--

  They saw their injured country's woe;
    The flaming town, the wasted field;
  Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
    They took the spear,--but left the shield.

  Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
    The Britons they compelled to fly;
  None distant viewed the fatal plain,
    None grieved, in such a cause, to die--

  But, like the Parthians famed of old,
    Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
  These routed Britons, full as bold,
    Retreated, and retreating slew.

  Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
    Though far from Nature's limits thrown,
  We trust they find a happier land,
    A brighter sunshine of their own.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    Cornwallis, meanwhile, had marched off toward Virginia,
    reaching Petersburg May 20, 1781, joining the British forces
    there and raising his army to five thousand men. He marched
    down the peninsula and established himself at Yorktown, adding
    the garrison of Portsmouth to his army, so that it numbered
    over seven thousand men.


  Cornwallis led a country dance,
    The like was never seen, sir,
  Much retrograde and much advance,
    And all with General Greene, sir.

  They rambled up and rambled down,
    Joined hands, then off they run, sir.
  Our General Greene to Charlestown,
    The earl to Wilmington, sir.

  Greene in the South then danced a set,
    And got a mighty name, sir,
  Cornwallis jigged with young Fayette,
    But suffered in his fame, sir.

  Then down he figured to the shore,
    Most like a lordly dancer,
  And on his courtly honor swore
    He would no more advance, sir.

  Quoth he, my guards are weary grown
    With footing country dances,
  They never at St. James's shone,
    At capers, kicks, or prances.

  Though men so gallant ne'er were seen,
    While sauntering on parade, sir,
  Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth green,
    Or at a masquerade, sir.

  Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts,
    For stumps and briars meet, sir?
  Or stand they chance with hunting-shirts,
    Or hardy veteran feet, sir?

  Now housed in York, he challenged all,
    At minuet or all 'amande,
  And lessons for a courtly ball
    His guards by day and night conned.

  This challenge known, full soon there came
    A set who had the bon ton,
  De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame
    Fut brillant pour un long tems.

  And Washington, Columbia's son,
    Whom easy nature taught, sir,
  That grace which can't by pains be won,
    Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir.

  Now hand in hand they circle round
    This ever-dancing peer, sir;
  Their gentle movements soon confound
    The earl as they draw near, sir.

  His music soon forgets to play--
    His feet can move no more, sir,
  And all his bands now curse the day
    They jiggèd to our shore, sir.

  Now Tories all, what can ye say?
    Come--is not this a griper,
  That while your hopes are danced away,
    'Tis you must pay the piper?

    Here an unexpected factor entered upon the scene. A magnificent
    French fleet under Count de Grasse had sailed for the
    Chesapeake, and Washington, with a daring worthy of Cæsar or
    Napoleon, decided to transfer his army from the Hudson to
    Virginia and overwhelm Cornwallis. On August 19 Washington's
    army crossed the Hudson at King's Ferry and started on its
    four hundred mile march. On September 18 it appeared before
    Yorktown. The French squadron was already on the scene, and
    Cornwallis was in the trap. There was no escape. On October 17
    he hoisted the white flag, and two days later the British army,
    over seven thousand in number, laid down its arms.


[October 19, 1781]

  When British troops first landed here,
    With Howe commander o'er them,
  They thought they'd make us quake for fear,
    And carry all before them;
  With thirty thousand men or more,
    And she without assistance,
  America must needs give o'er,
    And make no more resistance.

  But Washington, her glorious son,
    Of British hosts the terror,
  Soon, by repeated overthrows,
    Convinc'd them of their error;
  Let Princeton, and let Trenton tell,
    What gallant deeds he's done, sir,
  And Monmouth's plains where hundreds fell,
    And thousands more have run, sir.

  Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd
    Virginia's old dominion,
  Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be;
    And so was North's opinion.
  From State to State with rapid stride,
    His troops had march'd before, sir,
  Till quite elate with martial pride,
    He thought all dangers o'er, sir.

  But our allies, to his surprise,
    The Chesapeake had enter'd;
  And now too late, he curs'd his fate,
    And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd,
  For Washington no sooner knew
    The visit he had paid her,
  Than to his parent State he flew,
    To crush the bold invader.

  When he sat down before the town,
    His Lordship soon surrender'd;
  His martial pride he laid aside,
    And cas'd the British standard;
  Gods! how this stroke will North provoke,
    And all his thoughts confuse, sir!
  And how the Peers will hang their ears,
    When first they hear the news, sir.

  Be peace, the glorious end of war,
    By this event effected;
  And be the name of Washington
    To latest times respected;
  Then let us toast America,
    And France in union with her;
  And may Great Britain rue the day
    Her hostile bands came hither.


  Come, all ye bold Americans, to you the truth I tell,
  'Tis of a sad disaster, which late on Britain fell;
  'Twas near the height of Old Yorktown, where the cannons loud did roar,
  A summons to Cornwallis, to fight or else give o'er.

  A summons to surrender was sent unto the lord,
  Which made him feel like poor Burgoyne and quickly draw his sword,
  Saying, "Must I give o'er those glittering troops, those ships and armies
  And yield to General Washington, and his brave noble crew?"

  A council to surrender this lord did then command;
  "What say you, my brave heroes, to yield you must depend;
  Don't you hear the bomb-shells flying, boys, and the thundering cannon's
  De Grasse is in the harbor, and Washington's on shore."

  'Twas on the nineteenth of October, in the year of '81,
  Cornwallis did surrender to General Washington;
  Six thousand chosen British troops march'd out and grounded arms;
  Huzza, ye bold Americans, for now sweet music charms.

  Six thousand chosen British troops to Washington resign'd,
  Besides some thousand Hessians that could not stay behind;
  Both refugees and Tories all, when the devil gets his due,
  O now we have got thousands, boys, but then we should have few.

  Unto New York this lord has gone, surrendering you see,
  And for to write these doleful lines unto his majesty;
  For to contradict those lines, which he before had sent,
  That he and his brave British crew were conquerors where they went.

  Here's a health to General Washington, and his brave noble crew,
  Likewise unto De Grasse, and all that liberty pursue;
  May they scourge these bloody tyrants, all from our Yankee shore,
  And with the arms of Freedom cause the wars they are all o'er.

    "Early on a dark morning of the fourth week in October, an
    honest old German, slowly pacing the streets of Philadelphia
    on his night watch, began shouting, 'Basht dree o'glock, und
    Gornvallis ish dakendt!' and light sleepers sprang out of bed
    and threw up their windows." The whole country burst into
    jubilation at the news, and every village green was ablaze with



  "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
    How the voice rolled down the street
  Till the silence rang and echoed
    With the stir of hurrying feet!
  In the hush of the Quaker city,
    As the night drew on to morn,
  How it startled the troubled sleepers,
    Like the cry for a man-child born!

  "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
    How they gathered, man and maid,
  Here the child with a heart for the flint-lock,
    There the trembling grandsire staid!
  From the stateliest homes of the city,
    From hovels that love might scorn,
  How they followed that ringing summons,
    Like the cry for a king's heir born!

  "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
    I can see the quick lights flare,
  See the glad, wild face at the window,
    Half dumb in a breathless stare.
  In the pause of an hour portentous,
    In the gloom of a hope forlorn,
  How it throbbed to the star-deep heavens,
    Like the cry for a nation born!

  "Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken."
    How the message is sped and gone
  To the farm and the town and the forest
    Till the world was one vast dawn!
  To distant and slave-sunk races,
    Bowed down in their chains that morn,
  How it swept on the winds of heaven,
    Like a cry for God's justice born!



(Written soon after the surrender of Cornwallis)

  When a certain great King, whose initial is G.,
  Forces stamps upon paper and folks to drink tea;
  When these folks burn his tea and stampt-paper, like stubble,
  You may guess that this King is then coming to trouble.

  But when a Petition he treads under feet,
  And sends over the ocean an army and fleet,
  When that army, half famished, and frantic with rage,
  Is cooped up with a leader whose name rhymes to _cage_;
  When that leader goes home, dejected and sad;
  You may then be assur'd the King's prospects are bad.

  But when B. and C. with their armies are taken
  This King will do well if he saves his own bacon:
  In the year Seventeen hundred and eighty and two
  A stroke he shall get, that will make him look blue;
  And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive,
  When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive.

  In the year eighty-three, the affair will be over
  And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover;
  The face of the Lion will then become pale,
  He shall yield fifteen teeth and be sheared of his tail--
  O King, my dear King, you shall be very sore,
  From the _Stars_ and the _Stripes_ you will mercy implore,
  And your Lion shall growl, but hardly bite more.--

               PHILIP FRENEAU.



    The news of Cornwallis's surrender was received with
    consternation in Great Britain. The King declared that he would
    abdicate rather than acknowledge the independence of the United
    States, Lord North resigned, Lord Germaine was dismissed, and
    Sir Henry Clinton was superseded in command of the army by Sir
    Guy Carleton.


[May, 1782]

  The dog that is beat has a right to complain--
  Sir Harry returns, a disconsolate swain,
  To the face of his master, the devil's anointed,
  To the country provided for thieves disappointed.

  Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall:
  He concluded the weakest must go to the wall.
  The more he was flatter'd, the bolder he grew:
  He quitted the old world to conquer the new.

  But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison
  (And they have been curious beyond all comparison),
  He now must go home, at the call of his king,
  To answer the charges that Arnold may bring.

  But what are the acts which this chief has achieved?
  If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved:
  And the more, as he fought for his national glory,
  Nor valued, a farthing, the _right_ of the story.

  This famous great man, and two birds of his feather,
  In the Cerberus frigate came over together:
  But of all the bold chiefs that remeasure the trip,
  Not two have been known to return in one ship.

  Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport,
  They are very well pleased as long as unhurt;
  But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye,
  Ends the fray; and they go to their daddy and cry.

  Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many!
  You said all our paper was not worth a penny:
  ('Tis nothing but rags, quoth honest Will Tryon:
  Are rags to discourage the sons of the lion?)

  But Clinton thought thus: "It is folly to fight,
  When things may by easier methods come right:
  There is such an art as counterfeit-ation,
  And I'll do my utmost to honor our nation:

  "I'll show this damn'd country that I can enslave her,
  And that by the help of a skilful engraver;
  And then let the rebels take care of their bacon;
  We'll play 'em a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken."

  But the project succeeded not quite to your liking;
  So you paid off your artist, and gave up bill-striking:
  But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on:
  You had surely been hang'd had you tried it in Britain.

  At the taking of Charlestown you cut a great figure,
  The terms you propounded were terms full of rigor,
  Yet could not foresee poor Charley's disgrace,
  Nor how soon your own colors would go to the case.

  When the town had surrender'd, the more to disgrace ye
  (Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia),
  You broke all the terms yourself had extended,
  Because you supposed the rebellion was ended.

  Whoever the Tories mark'd out as a Whig,
  If gentle, or simple, or little, or big,
  No matter to you--to kill 'em and spite 'em,
  You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em.

  Then, thinking these rebels were snug and secure,
  You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour
  (The face of the latter no mask need be draw'd on,
  And to fish for the devil, my bait should be Rawdon).

  Returning to York with your ships and your plunder,
  And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under,
  The first thing that struck you as soon as you landed
  Was the fortress at West Point where Arnold commanded.

  Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver,
  We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river;
  The east and the south losing communication,
  The Yankees will die by the act of starvation."

  So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas),
  Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows;
  Your loss, I conceive, than your gain was far greater,
  You lost a good fellow and got a damn'd traitor.

  Now Carleton comes over to give you relief;
  A knight, like yourself, and commander-in-chief;
  But the _chief_ he will get, you may tell the dear honey,
  Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money.

  Now, with "Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel;
  Away to your master, and honestly tell,
  That his arms and his artists can nothing avail;
  His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale.

  Advise him, at length to be just and sincere,
  Of which not a symptom as yet doth appear;
  As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy,
  Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie.

               _Freeman's Journal_, May 22, 1782.

    George III also declared that he would retain the cities of
    New York and Charleston at all hazards, but it was soon out of
    his power to retain Charleston, at least. General Leslie, in
    command there, found himself in dire straits for supplies, and
    on December 14, 1782, evacuated the city and sailed away for


[December 14, 1782]

  His triumphs of a moment done;
  His race of desolation run,
  The Briton, yielding to his fears,
  To other shores with sorrow steers:

  To other shores--and coarser climes
  He goes, reflecting on his crimes,
  His broken oaths, a murder'd _Hayne_,
  And blood of thousands, spilt in vain.

  To _Cooper's_ stream, advancing slow,
  _Ashley_ no longer tells his woe,
  No longer mourns his limpid flood
  Discolor'd deep with human blood.

  Lo! where those social streams combine
  Again the friends of Freedom join;
  And, while they stray where once they bled,
  Rejoice to find their tyrants fled,

  Since memory paints that dismal day
  When British squadrons held the sway,
  And circling close on every side,
  By sea and land retreat deny'd--

  Shall she recall that mournful scene,
  And not the virtues of a GREENE,
  Who great in war--in danger try'd,
  Has won the day, and crush'd their pride.

  Through barren wastes and ravag'd lands
  He led his bold undaunted bands,
  Through sickly climes his standard bore
  Where never army marched before:

  By fortitude, with patience join'd
  (The virtues of a noble mind),
  He spread, where'er our wars are known,
  His country's honor and his own.

  Like Hercules, his generous plan
  Was to redress the wrongs of men;
  Like him, accustom'd to subdue,
  He freed a world from _monsters_ too.

  Through every want and every ill
  We saw him persevering still,
  Through Autumn's damps and Summer's heat,
  Till his great purpose was complete.

  Like the bold eagle, from the skies
  That stoops, to seize his trembling prize,
  He darted on the slaves of kings
  At Camden heights and Eutaw Springs.

  Ah! had our friends that led the fray
  Surviv'd the ruins of that day,
  We should not damp our joy with pain,
  Nor, sympathizing, now complain.

  Strange! that of those who nobly dare
  Death always claims so large a share,
  That those of virtue most refin'd
  Are soonest to the grave consign'd!--

  But fame is theirs--and future days
  On pillar'd brass shall tell their praise;
  Shall tell--when cold neglect is dead--
  "These for their country fought and bled."

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    However the King might froth and bluster, it was evident that
    he was beaten. He was forced to bow to the inevitable, and on
    December 5, 1782, in his speech at the opening of Parliament,
    he recommended that peace be made with the colonies in America,
    and that they be declared free and independent.



[December 5, 1782]

  Grown sick of war, and war's alarms,
    Good George has changed his note at last--
  Conquest and death have lost their charms;
    He and his nation stand aghast,
      To think what fearful lengths they've gone,
      And what a brink they stand upon.

  Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell,
    If you advised him to retreat
  Before our vanquished thousands fell,
    Prostrate, submissive at his feet:
      Awake once more his latent flame,
      And bid us yield you all you claim.

  The Macedonian wept and sighed
    Because no other world was found
  Where he might glut his rage and pride,
    And by its ruin be renowned;
      The world that Sawney wished to view
      George fairly had--and lost it too!

  Let jarring powers make war or peace,
    Monster!--no peace can greet your breast!
  Our murdered friends can never cease
    To hover round and break your rest!
      The Furies will your bosom tear,
      Remorse, distraction, and despair
      And hell, with all its fiends, be there!

  Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail
    Hence, freighted for your odious shore;
  May tempests o'er her strength prevail,
    Destruction round her roar!
  May Nature all her aids deny,
    The sun refuse his light,
  The needle from its object fly,
    No star appear by night:
      Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime,
      Directs the prow to some more Christian clime.

  Genius! that first our race designed,
    To other kings impart
  The finer feelings of the mind,
    The virtues of the heart;
  Whene'er the honors of a throne
    Fall to the bloody and the base,
  Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down,
    Like his, be their disgrace!

  Hibernia, seize each native right!
    Neptune, exclude him from the main;
  Like her that sunk with all her freight,
  The Royal George, take all his fleet,
    And never let them rise again;
  Confine him to his gloomy isle,
    Let Scotland rule her half,
  Spare him to curse his fate awhile,
    And Whitehead, thou to write his epitaph.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.


  O Thou, that sendest out the man
    To rule by land and sea,
  Strong mother of a Lion-line,
  Be proud of those strong sons of thine
    Who wrench'd their rights from thee!

  What wonder if in noble heat
    Those men thine arms withstood,
  Retaught the lesson thou had'st taught,
  And in thy spirit with thee fought,--
    Who sprang from English blood!

  But thou rejoice with liberal joy,
    Lift up thy rocky face,
  And shatter, when the storms are black,
  In many a streaming torrent back,
    The seas that shock thy base!

  Whatever harmonies of law
    The growing world assume,
  Thy work is thine--the single note
  From that deep chord which Hampden smote
    Will vibrate to the doom.

               ALFRED TENNYSON.

    A preliminary treaty of peace was finally agreed upon. Carleton
    received orders to evacuate New York, and on October 18, 1783,
    Congress issued a general order disbanding the American army.


[October 18, 1783]

  Ye brave Columbian bands! a long farewell!
  Well have ye fought for freedom--nobly done
  Your martial task--the meed immortal won--
  And Time's last records shall your triumphs tell.

  Once friendship made their cup of suff'rings sweet--
  The dregs how bitter, now those bands must part!
  Ah! never, never more on earth to meet;
  Distill'd from gall that inundates the heart,
  What tears from heroes' eyes are seen to start!

  Ye, too, farewell, who fell in fields of gore,
  And chang'd tempestuous toil for rest serene;
  Soon shall we join you on the peaceful shore
  (Though gulfs irremeable roll between),
  Thither by death-tides borne, as ye full soon have been.

               DAVID HUMPHREYS.

    November 25 was fixed upon as the date for the evacuation
    of New York. Early on that day, Carleton got his troops on
    shipboard, and by the middle of the afternoon the city was in
    the hands of the Americans. The song which is given below was
    composed for and sung upon this occasion.


[November 25, 1783]

  They come!--they come!--the heroes come
  With sounding fife, with thundering drum;
  Their ranks advance in bright array,--
  The heroes of America!

  He comes!--'tis mighty Washington
  (Words fail to tell all he has done),
  Our hero, guardian, father, friend!
  His fame can never, never end.

  He comes!--he comes!--our Clinton comes!
  Justice her ancient seat resumes:
  From shore to shore let shouts resound,
  For Justice comes, with Freedom crown'd.

  She comes!--the angelic virgin--Peace,
  And bids stern War his horrors cease;
  Oh! blooming virgin, with us stay,
  And bless, oh! bless America.

  Since Freedom has our efforts crown'd,
  Let flowing bumpers pass around:
  The toast is, "Freedom's favorite son,
  Health, peace, and joy to Washington!"

    On Thursday, December 4, the principal officers of the army
    assembled at Fraunce's Tavern to take a final leave of their
    beloved chief. A few days later, at Annapolis, Washington
    resigned his commission, and betook himself to the quiet of his
    estate at Mount Vernon.


[December, 1783]

  The great unequal conflict past,
    The Briton banished from our shore,
  Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last,
    And hostile nations rage no more;
      From fields of death the weary swain
      Returning, seeks his native plain.

  In every vale she smiles serene,
    Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise,
  New charms she adds to every scene,
    Her brighter sun illumes our skies.
      Remotest realms admiring stand,
      And hail the _Hero_ of our land:

  He comes!--the Genius of these lands--
    Fame's thousand tongues his worth confess,
  Who conquer'd with his suffering bands,
    And grew immortal by distress:
      Thus calms succeed the stormy blast,
      And valor is repaid at last.

  O WASHINGTON!--thrice glorious name,
    What due rewards can man decree--
  Empires are far below thy aim,
    And sceptres have no charms for thee;
      _Virtue_ alone has your regard,
      And she must be your great reward.

  Encircled by extorted power,
    _Monarchs_ must envy your _Retreat_
  _Who_ cast, in some ill-fated hour,
    Their country's freedom at their feet;
      'Twas yours to act a nobler part,
      For injur'd Freedom had your heart.

  For ravag'd realms and conquer'd seas
    Rome gave the great imperial prize,
  And, swell'd with pride, for feats like these,
    Transferr'd her heroes to the skies:--
      A brighter scene your deeds display,
      You gain those heights a different way.

  When _Faction_ rear'd her bristly head,
    And join'd with tyrants to destroy,
  Where'er you march'd the monster fled,
    Timorous her arrows to employ:
      Hosts catch'd from you a bolder flame,
      And despots trembled at your name.

  Ere war's dread horrors ceas'd to reign,
    What leader could your place supply?--
  Chiefs crowded to the embattled plain,
    Prepar'd to conquer or to die--
      Heroes arose--but none, like you,
      Could save our lives and freedom too.

  In swelling verse let kings be read,
    And princes shine in polish'd prose;
  Without such aid your triumphs spread
    Where'er the convex ocean flows,
      To Indian worlds by seas embrac'd,
      And Tartar, tyrant of the waste.

  Throughout the east you gain applause,
    And soon the _Old World_, taught by you,
  Shall blush to own her barbarous laws,
    Shall learn instruction from the _New_.
      Monarchs shall hear the humble plea,
      Nor urge too far the proud decree.

  Despising pomp and vain parade,
    At home you stay, while France and Spain
  The secret, ardent wish convey'd,
    And hail'd you to their shores in vain:
      In _Vernon's_ groves you shun the throne,
      Admir'd by kings, but seen by none.

  Your fame, thus spread to distant lands,
    May envy's fiercest blasts endure,
  Like Egypt's pyramids it stands,
    Built on a basis more secure;
      Time's latest age shall own in you
      The patriot and the statesman too.

  Now hurrying from the busy scene,
    Where thy _Potowmack's_ waters flow,
  May'st thou enjoy thy rural reign,
    And every earthly blessing know;
      Thus he, who Rome's proud legions sway'd,
      Return'd, and sought his sylvan shade.

  Not less in wisdom than in war
    _Freedom_ shall still employ your mind,
  _Slavery_ must vanish, wide and far,
    Till not a trace is left behind;
      Your counsels not bestow'd in vain,
      Shall still protect this infant reign.

  So, when the bright, all-cheering sun
    From our contracted view retires,
  Though folly deems his race is run,
    On other worlds he lights his fires:
      Cold climes beneath his influence glow,
      And frozen rivers learn to flow.

  O say, thou great, exalted name!
    What Muse can boast of equal lays,
  Thy worth disdains all vulgar fame,
    Transcends the noblest poet's praise.
      Art soars, unequal to the flight,
      And genius sickens at the height.

  For States redeem'd--our western reign
    Restor'd by thee to milder sway,
  Thy conscious glory shall remain
    When this great globe is swept away
      And _all_ is lost that pride admires,
      And all the pageant scene expires.

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    Early in January, word reached America that the definite
    treaty of peace had been signed at Paris on November 30, 1783.
    The independence of the United States was acknowledged; the
    Mississippi was set as the western boundary of the country, the
    St. Croix and the Great Lakes as the northern, and the Gulf of
    Mexico as the southern. On January 14, 1784, this treaty was
    ratified by Congress.


  'Tis God that girds our armor on,
  And all our just designs fulfils;
  Through Him our feet can swiftly run,
  And nimbly climb the steepest hills.

  Lessons of war from Him we take,
  And manly weapons learn to wield;
  Strong bows of steel with ease we break,
  Forced by our stronger arms to yield.

  'Tis God that still supports our right,
  His just revenge our foes pursues;
  'Tis He that with resistless might,
  Fierce nations to His power subdues.

  Our universal safeguard He!
  From Whom our lasting honors flow;
  He made us great, and set us free
  From our remorseless bloody foe.

  Therefore to celebrate His fame,
  Our grateful voice to Heaven we'll raise;
  And nations, strangers to His name,
  Shall thus be taught to sing His praise.

    A day of solemn thanksgiving was set apart and universally
    observed throughout the country, which set its face toward the
    future, with a heart full of hope and high resolve.


  The Lord above, in tender love,
    Hath sav'd us from our foes;
  Through Washington the thing is done,
    The war is at a close.

  America has won the day,
    Through Washington, our chief;
  Come let's rejoice with heart and voice,
    And bid adieu to grief.

  Now we have peace, and may increase
    In number, wealth, and arts,
  If every one, like Washington,
    Will strive to do their parts.

  Then let's agree, since we are free,
    All needless things to shun;
  And lay aside all pomp and pride,
    Like our great Washington.

  Use industry, and frugal be,
    Like Washington the brave;
  So shall we see, 'twill easy be,
    Our country for to save,

  From present wars and future foes,
    And all that we may fear;
  While Washington, the great brave one,
    Shall as our chief appear.

  Industry and frugality
    Will all our taxes pay;
  In virtuous ways, we'll spend our days,
    And for our rulers pray.

  The Thirteen States, united sets,
    In Congress simply grand;
  The Lord himself preserve their health,
    That they may rule the land.

  Whilst every State, without its mate,
    Doth rule itself by laws,
  Will sovereign be, and always free;
    To grieve there is no cause.

  But all should try, both low and high,
    Our freedom to maintain;
  Pray God to bless our grand Congress,
    And cease from every sin.

  Then sure am I, true liberty
    Of every sort will thrive;
  With one accord we'll praise the Lord,
    All glory to Him give.

  To whom all praise is due always,
    For He is all in all;
  George Washington, that noble one,
    On His great name doth call.

  Our Congress too, before they do,
    Acknowledge Him supreme;
  Come let us all before Him fall,
    And glorify His name.


From "Psalm of the West"

  Land of the Wilful Gospel, thou worst and thou best;
  Tall Adam of lands, new-made of the dust of the West;
  Thou wroughtest alone in the Garden of God, unblest
  Till He fashioned lithe Freedom to lie for thine Eve on thy breast--
    Till out of thy heart's dear neighborhood, out of thy side,
    He fashioned an intimate Sweet one and brought thee a Bride.
    Cry hail! nor bewail that the wound of her coming was wide.
  Lo, Freedom reached forth where the world as an apple hung red;
  _Let us taste the whole radiant round of it_, gayly she said:
  _If we die, at the worst we shall lie as the first of the dead._
    Knowledge of Good and of Ill, O Land! she hath given thee;
    Perilous godhoods of choosing have rent thee and riven thee;
    Will's high adoring to Ill's low exploring hath driven thee--
    Freedom, thy Wife, hath uplifted thy life and clean shriven thee!
  Her shalt thou clasp for a balm to the scars of thy breast,
  Her shalt thou kiss for a calm to thy wars of unrest,
  Her shalt extol in the psalm of the soul of the West.
    For Weakness, in freedom, grows stronger than Strength with a chain;
    And Error, in freedom, will come to lamenting his stain,
    Till freely repenting he whiten his spirit again;
  And Friendship, in freedom, will blot out the bounding of race;
  And straight Law, in freedom, will curve to the rounding of grace;
  And Fashion, in freedom, will die of the lie in her face.

               SIDNEY LANIER.

[6] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D.
Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.




  Oh mother of a mighty race,
  Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
  The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
  Admire and hate thy blooming years.
      With words of shame
  And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

  For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
  That tints thy morning hills with red;
  Thy step--the wild deer's rustling feet
  Within thy woods are not more fleet;
      Thy hopeful eye
  Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

  Ay, let them rail--those haughty ones,
  While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
  They do not know how loved thou art,
  How many a fond and fearless heart
      Would rise to throw
  Its life between thee and the foe.

  They know not, in their hate and pride,
  What virtues with thy children bide;
  How true, how good, thy graceful maids
  Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades;
      What generous men
  Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;--

  What cordial welcomes greet the guest
  By thy lone rivers of the West;
  How faith is kept, and truth revered,
  And man is loved, and God is feared,
      In woodland homes,
  And where the ocean border foams.

  There's freedom at thy gates and rest
  For earth's down-trodden and opprest,
  A shelter for the hunted head,
  For the starved laborer toil and bread.
      Power, at thy bounds,
  Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

  Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow
  Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
  Deep in the brightness of the skies
  The thronging years in glory rise,
      And, as they fleet,
  Drop strength and riches at thy feet.




    The war was ended, but the five years following 1783 were
    perhaps the most critical in the history of the American
    people. The country was at the verge of bankruptcy, there
    was discontent everywhere. In Massachusetts, the malcontents
    found a leader in Daniel Shays, rose in rebellion, looted the
    country, and were not dispersed for nearly a year.


  Huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;
  Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, and Day;
  Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;
  Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws:
  Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush;
  Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush.
  New laws and new charters our books shall display,
  Composed by conventions and Counsellor Grey.

  Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown,
  We'll make them to know we can let them alone.
  Of Glasgow or Pelham we'll make a seaport,
  And there we'll assemble our General Court:
  Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work,
  And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork;
  In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a peer
  On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year.

  Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we'll spurn,
  As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn,
  And sit the whole term, without pension or fee,
  Nor Cushing nor Sewal look graver than we.
  Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough;
  Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff;
  Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain,
  That poor people no more shall have cause to complain.

  To Congress and impost we'll plead a release;
  The French we can beat half-a-dozen apiece;
  We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance;
  And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance.
  Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;
  Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day;
  Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;
  Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws.

               ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD.

    A federal convention was proposed, and in May, 1787, there
    assembled at Philadelphia fifty-five men appointed by the
    various states to devise an adequate constitution for a federal


[May, 1787]

  Concentred here th' united wisdom shines,
  Of learn'd judges, and of sound divines:
  Patriots, whose virtues searching time has tried,
  Heroes, who fought, where brother heroes died;
  Lawyers, who speak, as Tully spoke before,
  Sages, deep read in philosophic lore;
  Merchants, whose plans are to no realms confin'd,
  Farmers--the noblest title 'mongst mankind:
  Yeomen and tradesmen, pillars of the state;
  On whose decision hangs Columbia's fate.

  September, 1787.

    George Washington was chosen president of the convention;
    the doors were locked, and the Herculean task of making a
    constitution begun. Washington himself, in a burst of noble
    eloquence, braced the delegates for the task before them. The
    problem was to devise a government which should bind all the
    states without impairing their sovereignty.



  Be then your counsels, as your subject, great,
  A world their sphere, and time's long reign their date.
  Each party-view, each private good, disclaim,
  Each petty maxim, each colonial aim;
  Let all Columbia's weal your views expand,
  A mighty system rule a mighty land;
  Yourselves her genuine sons let Europe own,
  Not the small agents of a paltry town.
    Learn, cautious, what to alter, where to mend;
  See to what close projected measures tend.
  From pressing wants the mind averting still,
  Thinks good remotest from the present ill:
  From feuds anarchial to oppression's throne,
  Misguided nations hence for safety run;
  And through the miseries of a thousand years,
  Their fatal folly mourn in bloody tears.
    Ten thousand follies thro' Columbia spread;
  Ten thousand wars her darling realms invade.
  The private interest of each jealous state;
  Of rule th' impatience and of law the hate.
  But ah! from narrow springs these evils flow,
  A few base wretches mingle general woe;
  Still the same mind her manly race pervades;
  Still the same virtues haunt the hallow'd shades.
  But when the peals of war her centre shook,
  All private aims the anxious mind forsook.
  In danger's iron-bond her race was one,
  Each separate good, each little view unknown.
  Now rule, unsystem'd, drives the mind astray;
  Now private interest points the downward way:
  Hence civil discord pours her muddy stream,
  And fools and villains float upon the brim;
  O'er all, the sad spectator casts his eye,
  And wonders where the gems and minerals lie.
    But ne'er of freedom, glory, bliss, despond:
  Uplift your eyes those little clouds beyond;
  See there returning suns, with gladdening ray,
  Roll on fair spring to chase this wint'ry day.
    'Tis yours to bid those days of Eden shine:
  First, then, and last, the federal bands entwine:
  To this your every aim and effort bend:
  Let all your efforts here commence and end.
    O'er state concerns, let every state preside;
  Its private tax controul; its justice guide;
  Religion aid; the morals to secure;
  And bid each private right thro' time endure.
  Columbia's interests public sway demand,
  Her commerce, impost, unlocated land;
  Her war, her peace, her military power;
  Treaties to seal with every distant shore;
    To bid contending states their discord cease;
  To send thro' all the calumet of peace;
  Science to wing thro' every noble flight;
  And lift desponding genius into light.
    Be then your task to alter, aid, amend;
  The weak to strengthen, and the rigid bend;
  The prurient lop; what's wanted to supply;
  And grant new scions from each friendly sky.

               TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

    There was a natural antagonism between large and small
    states, and more than once the convention was on the verge
    of dissolution; but a compromise was finally reached, the
    constitution as we know it was evolved and signed by all the
    delegates, and on September 17, 1787, the convention adjourned.
    The constitution was familiarly styled the "new roof."





  Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools,
  Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules;
  Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line,
  And plenty of pins of American pine:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
  Our government firm, and our citizens free_.


  Come, up with _the plates_, lay them firm on the wall,
  Like the people at large, they're the groundwork of all;
  Examine them well, and see that they're sound,
  Let no rotten part in our building be found:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
  A government firm, and our citizens free_.


  Now hand up the _girders_, lay each in his place,
  Between them the _joists_, must divide all the space;
  Like assemblymen _these_ should lie level along,
  Like _girders_, our senate prove loyal and strong:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
  A government firm over citizens free_.


  The _rafters_ now frame; your _king-posts_ and _braces_,
  And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places;
  Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine,
  And your pins be all made of American pine:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
  A government firm over citizens free_.


  Our _king-posts_ are _judges_; how upright they stand,
  Supporting the _braces_; the laws of the land:
  The laws of the land, which divide right from wrong,
  And strengthen the weak, by weak'ning the strong:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
  Laws equal and just, for a people that's free_.


  Up! up! with the _rafters_; each frame is a _state_:
  How nobly they rise! their span, too, how great!
  From the north to the south, o'er the whole they extend,
  And rest on the walls, whilst the walls they defend:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
  Combined in strength, yet as citizens free_.


  Now enter the _purlins_, and drive your pins through;
  And see that your joints are drawn home and all true.
  The _purlins_ will bind all the rafters together:
  The strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather:
  _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
  United as states, but as citizens free_.


  Come, raise up the _turret_; our glory and pride;
  In the centre it stands, o'er the whole to _preside_:
  The sons of Columbia shall view with delight
  Its pillars, and arches, and towering height:
  _Our roof is now rais'd, and our song still shall be,
  A federal head o'er a people that's free_.


  Huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete;
  The world shall admire Columbia's fair seat;
  Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof,
  And thousands shall come to dwell under our roof:
  _Whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be,
  Our government firm, and our citizens free_.

               FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

    The new constitution had still to be submitted to the several
    states for ratification. One after another they fell into line,
    but Massachusetts held back. On January 9, 1788, the convention
    met, and week after week dragged by in fierce debate; but
    finally, on February 6, 1788, the Constitution was ratified by
    a majority of nineteen votes.


[February 6, 1788]

  The 'Vention did in Boston meet
    But State House could not hold 'em,
  So they went to Federal Street,
    And there the truth was told 'em.
      Yankee doodle, keep it up!
      Yankee doodle, dandy,
      Mind the music and the step,
      And with the girls be handy.

  They every morning went to prayer;
    And then began disputing;
  Till opposition silenced were,
    By arguments refuting.

  Then 'Squire Hancock, like a man
    Who dearly loves the nation,
  By a Concil'atory plan,
    Prevented much vexation.

  He made a _woundy_ Fed'ral speech,
    With sense and elocution;
  And then the Yankees did beseech
    T' adopt the Constitution.

  The question being outright put
    (Each voter independent),
  The Fed'ralists agreed to adopt,
    And then propose amendments.

  The other party seeing then
    The People were against them,
  Agreed, like honest, faithful men,
    To mix in peace amongst 'em.

  The Boston folks are deuced lads,
    And always full of notions;
  The boys, the girls, their mams and dads,
    Were fill'd with joy's commotions.

  So straightway they procession made,
    Lord, how _nation_ fine, sir!
  For every man of every trade
    Went with his tools--to dine, sir.

  John Foster Williams in a ship
    Join'd with the social band, sir
  And made the lasses dance and skip,
    To see him sail on land, sir!

  O then a whopping feast began,
    And all hands went to eating,
  They drank their toasts, shook hands and sung--
    Huzza for 'Vention meeting!

  Now, politicians, of all kinds,
    Who are not yet derided,
  May see how Yankees speak their minds,
    And yet we're not decided.

  Then from this sample, let 'em cease
    Inflammatory writing;
  For freedom, happiness, and peace,
    Are better far than fighting.

  So here I end my Federal song,
    Composed of thirteen verses;
  May agriculture flourish long,
    And commerce fill our purses.

    Hot battles were still to be fought in some of the other
    states,--hottest of all in New York,--but by midsummer of 1788
    all the states had ratified the Constitution, and it stood an
    accomplished fact.


  Poets may sing of their Helicon streams;
  Their gods and their heroes are fabulous dreams!
      They ne'er sang a line
      Half so grand, so divine
      As the glorious toast
      We Columbians boast--
  The Federal Constitution, boys, and Liberty forever.

  The man of our choice presides at the helm;
  No tempest can harm us, no storm overwhelm;
      Our sheet anchor's sure,
      And our bark rides secure;
      So here's to the toast
      We Columbians boast--
  The Federal Constitution and the President forever.

  A free navigation, commerce, and trade,
  We'll seek for no foe, of no foe be afraid;
      Our frigates shall ride,
      Our defence and our pride;
      Our tars guard our coast,
      And huzza for our toast--
  The Federal Constitution, trade and commerce forever.

  Montgomery and Warren still live in our songs;
  Like them our young heroes shall spurn at our wrongs:
      The world shall admire
      The zeal and the fire,
      Which blaze in the toast
      We Columbians boast--
  The Federal Constitution and its advocates forever.

  When an enemy threats, all party shall cease;
  We bribe no intruders to buy a mean peace;
      Columbia will scorn
      Friends and foes to suborn;
      We'll ne'er stain the toast
      Which as freemen we boast--
  The Federal Constitution, and integrity forever.

  Fame's trumpet shall swell in Washington's praise,
  And time grant a furlough to lengthen his days;
      May health weave the thread
      Of delight round his head.
      No nation can boast
      Such a name, such a toast,
  The Federal Constitution, boys, and Washington forever.

               WILLIAM MILNS.

    The Continental Congress, in putting an end to its troubled
    existence, decreed that the first presidential election should
    be held on the first Wednesday of January, 1789, and that the
    Senate and House of Representatives should assemble on the
    first Wednesday in March.


[April 6, 1789]

    Columbus looked; and still around them spread,
  From south to north, th' immeasurable shade;
  At last, the central shadows burst away,
  And rising regions open'd on the day.
  He saw, once more, bright Del'ware's silver stream,
  And Penn's throng'd city cast a cheerful gleam;
  The dome of state, that met his eager eye,
  Now heav'd its arches in a loftier sky.
  The bursting gates unfold: and lo, within,
  A solemn train in conscious glory shine.
  The well-known forms his eye had trac'd before,
  In diff'rent realms along th' extended shore;
  Here, grac'd with nobler fame, and rob'd in state,
  They look'd and mov'd magnificently great.
    High on the foremost seat, in living light,
  Majestic Randolph caught the hero's sight:
  Fair on his head, the civic crown was plac'd,
  And the first dignity his sceptre grac'd.
  He opes the cause, and points in prospect far,
  Thro' all the toils that wait th' impending war--
  But, hapless sage, thy reign must soon be o'er,
  To lend thy lustre, and to shine no more.
  So the bright morning star, from shades of ev'n,
  Leads up the dawn, and lights the front of heav'n,
  Points to the waking world the sun's broad way,
  Then veils his own, and shines above the day.
  And see great Washington behind thee rise,
  Thy following sun, to gild our morning skies;
  O'er shadowy climes to pour the enliv'ning flame,
  The charms of freedom and the fire of fame.
  Th' ascending chief adorn'd his splendid seat,
  Like Randolph, ensign'd with a crown of state;
  Where the green patriot bay beheld, with pride,
  The hero's laurel springing by its side;
  His sword, hung useless, on his graceful thigh,
  On Britain still he cast a filial eye;
  But sov'reign fortitude his visage bore,
  To meet their legions on th' invaded shore.
    Sage Franklin next arose, in awful mien,
  And smil'd, unruffled, o'er th' approaching scene;
  High, on his locks of age, a wreath was brac'd,
  Palm of all arts, that e'er a mortal grac'd;
  Beneath him lies the sceptre kings have borne,
  And crowns and laurels from their temples torn.
  Nash, Rutledge, Jefferson, in council great,
  And Jay and Laurens op'd the rolls of fate.
  The Livingstons, fair Freedom's gen'rous band,
  The Lees, the Houstons, fathers of the land,
  O'er climes and kingdoms turn'd their ardent eyes,
  Bade all th' oppressed to speedy vengeance rise;
  All pow'rs of state, in their extended plan,
  Rise from consent to shield the rights of man.
  Bold Wolcott urg'd the all-important cause;
  With steady hand the solemn scene he draws;
  Undaunted firmness with his wisdom join'd,
  Nor kings nor worlds could warp his stedfast mind.
    Now, graceful rising from his purple throne,
  In radiant robes, immortal Hosmer shone;
  Myrtles and bays his learned temples bound,
  The statesman's wreath, the poet's garland crown'd:
  Morals and laws expand his liberal soul,
  Beam from his eyes, and in his accents roll.
  But lo! an unseen hand the curtain drew,
  And snatch'd the patriot from the hero's view;
  Wrapp'd in the shroud of death, he sees descend
  The guide of nations and the muses' friend.
  Columbus dropp'd a tear. The angel's eye
  Trac'd the freed spirit mounting thro' the sky.
    Adams, enrag'd, a broken charter bore,
  And lawless acts of ministerial pow'r;
  Some injur'd right in each loose leaf appears,
  A king in terrors and a land in tears;
  From all the guileful plots the veil he drew,
  With eye retortive look'd creation through;
  Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan,
  Trac'd all the steps of liberty and man;
  Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung,
  And Independence thunder'd from his tongue.

               JOEL BARLOW.

    The first business was the counting of the electoral votes.
    There were sixty-nine of them, and every one was for George
    Washington, of Virginia.


  God wills no man a slave. The man most meek,
  Who saw Him face to face on Horeb's peak,
  Had slain a tyrant for a bondman's wrong,
  And met his Lord with sinless soul and strong.
  But when, years after, overfraught with care,
  His feet once trod doubt's pathway to despair,
  For that one treason lapse, the guiding hand
  That led so far now barred the promised land.
  God makes no man a slave, no doubter free;
  Abiding faith alone wins liberty.

  No angel led our Chieftain's steps aright;
  No pilot cloud by day, no flame by night;
  No plague nor portent spake to foe or friend;
  No doubt assailed him, faithful to the end.

  Weaklings there were, as in the tribes of old,
  Who craved for fleshpots, worshipped calves of gold,
  Murmured that right would harder be than wrong,
  And freedom's narrow road so steep and long;
  But he who ne'er on Sinai's summit trod,
  Still walked the highest heights and spake with God;
  Saw with anointed eyes no promised land
  By petty bounds or pettier cycles spanned,
  Its people curbed and broken to the ring,
  Packed with a caste and saddled with a King,--
  But freedom's heritage and training school,
  Where men unruled should learn to wisely rule,
  Till sun and moon should see at Ajalon
  King's heads in dust and freemen's feet thereon.

  His work well done, the leader stepped aside,
  Spurning a crown with more than kingly pride,
  Content to wear the higher crown of worth,
  While time endures, First Citizen of earth.

               JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

    Washington left Mount Vernon on April 16, and started for New
    York, where, on April 30, 1789, he took the oath of office as
    President of the United States.


[April 30, 1789]

    The sword was sheathed: in April's sun
    Lay green the fields by Freedom won;
  And severed sections, weary of debates,
  Joined hands at last and were United States.

    O City sitting by the Sea!
    How proud the day that dawned on thee,
  When the new era, long desired, began,
  And, in its need, the hour had found the man!

    One thought the cannon salvos spoke,
    The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke,
  The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls,
  And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's!

    How felt the land in every part
    The strong throb of a nation's heart,
  As its great leader gave, with reverent awe,
  His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law!

    That pledge the heavens above him heard,
    That vow the sleep of centuries stirred;
  In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent
  Their gaze on Freedom's great experiment.

    Could it succeed? Of honor sold
    And hopes deceived all history told.
  Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past,
  Was the long dream of ages true at last?

    Thank God! the people's choice was just,
    The one man equal to his trust,
  Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good,
  Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude!

    His rule of justice, order, peace,
    Made possible the world's release;
  Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust,
  And rule alone, which serves the ruled, is just;

    That Freedom generous is, but strong
    In hate of fraud and selfish wrong,
  Pretence that turns her holy truth to lies,
  And lawless license masking in her guise.

    Land of his love! with one glad voice
    Let thy great sisterhood rejoice;
  A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set,
  And, God be praised, we are one nation yet.

    And still we trust the years to be
    Shall prove his hope was destiny,
  Leaving our flag, with all its added stars,
  Unrent by faction and unstained by wars.

    Lo! where with patient toil he nursed
    And trained the new-set plant at first,
  The widening branches of a stately tree
  Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea.

    And in its broad and sheltering shade,
    Sitting with none to make afraid,
  Were we now silent, through each mighty limb,
  The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him.

    Our first and best!--his ashes lie
    Beneath his own Virginian sky.
  Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave,
  The storm that swept above thy sacred grave!

    For, ever in the awful strife
    And dark hours of the nation's life,
  Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word,
  Their father's voice his erring children heard!

    The change for which he prayed and sought
    In that sharp agony was wrought;
  No partial interest draws its alien line
  'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine!

    One people now, all doubt beyond,
    His name shall be our Union-bond;
  We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now
  Take on our lips the old Centennial vow.

    For rule and trust must needs be ours;
    Chooser and chosen both are powers
  Equal in service as in rights; the claim
  Of Duty rests on each and all the same.

    Then let the sovereign millions, where
    Our banner floats in sun and air,
  From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold,
  Repeat with us the pledge a century old!


    Benjamin Franklin had been in ill-health for many months, and
    the end came at Philadelphia, April 17, 1790. He was born at
    Boston, January 17, 1706.


[April 17, 1790]

  Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
  The glory of its native wood,
  By storms destroyed, or length of years,
  Demands the tribute of our tears.

  The pile, that took long time to raise,
  To dust returns by slow decays;
  But, when its destined years are o'er,
  We must regret the loss the more.

  So long accustomed to your aid,
  The world laments your exit made;
  So long befriended by your art,
  Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!--

  When monarchs tumble to the ground
  Successors easily are found;
  But, matchless Franklin! what a few
  Can hope to rival such as you,
  Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,
  And turned the lightning's darts aside!

               PHILIP FRENEAU.

    On November 6, 1792, George Washington was again unanimously
    chosen President of the United States, and was inaugurated on
    March 4, 1793.


  This was the man God gave us when the hour
  Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun;
  Who dared a deed and died when it was done
  Patient in triumph, temperate in power,--
  Not striving like the Corsican to tower
  To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater son
  To win the world and weep for worlds unwon,
  Or lose the star to revel in the flower.
  The lives that serve the eternal verities
  Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and pride
  Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray
  Smoking across the crests of cavernous seas
  Is impotent to hasten or delay
  The everlasting surges of the tide.

               JOHN HALL INGHAM.

    On September 19, 1796, Washington issued his "farewell
    address," declining a third term as President.


  Where may the wearied eye repose
    When gazing on the Great;
  Where neither guilty glory glows,
    Nor despicable state?
  Yes--one--the first--the last--the best--
  The Cincinnatus of the West,
    Whom envy dared not hate,
  Bequeath the name of Washington,
  To make men blush there was but one!

               LORD BYRON.

    The election was held on November 8, 1796, and the electoral
    votes were counted February 8, 1797. John Adams received
    seventy-one, Thomas Jefferson sixty-eight, Thomas Pinckney
    fifty-nine, and Aaron Burr thirty. Adams assumed office March
    4, 1797. Relations with both France and England had become more
    than ever strained, and a war, especially with the former,
    seemed certain. These circumstances gave birth to one of the
    most popular political songs ever written in America.



  Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought
    For those rights which unstained from your sires have descended,
  May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought,
    And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.
      'Mid the reign of mild peace,
      May your nation increase,
  With the glory of Rome and the wisdom of Greece;
    And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
    Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,
  The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd,
    To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.
      But should pirates invade,
      Though in thunder array'd,
  Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
    Had justly ennobled our nation in story,
  Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,
    And enveloped the sun of American glory.
      But let traitors be told,
      Who their country have sold,
  And barter'd their God for his image in gold,
    That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
    And society's base threats with wide dissolution;
  May peace, like the dove who return'd from the flood,
    Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution.
      But, though peace is our aim,
      Yet the boon we disclaim,
  If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame;
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms:
    Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision,
  Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,
    We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division.
      While, with patriot pride,
      To our laws we're allied,
  No foe can subdue us, no faction divide,
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak;
    Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd;
  But long ere our nation submits to the yoke,
    Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd.
      Should invasion impend,
      Every grove would descend,
  From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend.
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;
    Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion;
  Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;
    Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion.
      Foes assail us in vain,
      Though their fleets bridge the main,
  For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,
    Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;
  For, unmov'd, at its portal, would Washington stand,
    And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!
      His sword from the sleep
      Of its scabbard would leap,
  And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep!
    For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

  Let fame to the world sound America's voice;
    No intrigues can her sons from their government sever;
  Her pride is her Adams; her laws are his choice,
    And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever.
      Then unite heart and hand,
      Like Leonidas' band,
  And swear to the God of the ocean and land,
    That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
    While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.

               ROBERT TREAT PAINE.

    On May 28, 1798, Congress authorized a provisional army of
    ten thousand men and empowered the President to instruct the
    commanders of American ships of war to seize French armed
    vessels attacking American merchantmen, or hovering about
    the coast for that purpose. Public excitement ran high, and
    when Hopkinson's "Hail Columbia" was sung one night at a
    Philadelphia theatre, it met with instantaneous success.


[First sung at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, May, 1798]

  Hail! Columbia, happy land!
  Hail! ye heroes, heav'n-born band,
  Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
  Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
  And when the storm of war was gone,
  Enjoyed the peace your valor won;
  Let independence be your boast,
  Ever mindful what it cost,
  Ever grateful for the prize,
  Let its altar reach the skies.

    _Chorus_--Firm, united let us be,
                   Rallying round our liberty,
                   As a band of brothers joined,
                   Peace and safety we shall find.

  Immortal patriots, rise once more!
  Defend your rights, defend your shore;
  Let no rude foe with impious hand,
  Let no rude foe with impious hand
  Invade the shrine where sacred lies
  Of toil and blood the well-earned prize;
  While offering peace, sincere and just,
  In heav'n we place a manly trust,
  That truth and justice may prevail,
  And ev'ry scheme of bondage fail.

  Sound, sound the trump of fame!
  Let Washington's great name
  Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
  Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
  Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear
  Listen with a joyful ear;
  With equal skill, with steady pow'r,
  He governs in the fearful hour
  Of horrid war, or guides with ease
  The happier time of honest peace.

  Behold the chief, who now commands,
  Once more to serve his country stands,
  The rock on which the storm will beat!
  The rock on which the storm will beat!
  But armed in virtue, firm and true,
  His hopes are fixed on heav'n and you.
  When hope was sinking in dismay,
  When gloom obscured Columbia's day,
  His steady mind, from changes free,
  Resolved on death or liberty.

               JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

    Word crossed the ocean that Napoleon was gathering a great
    fleet at Toulon and it was generally believed that he intended
    to invade America. The fleet, of course, was intended for his
    expedition to Egypt, and the idea that he hoped to conquer
    America seems ludicrous enough, but some verses written by
    Thomas Green Fessenden in July, 1798, show how seriously it was



[July, 1798]

  Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause
  Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws;
  Should foes then invade us, to battle we'll hie,
  For the GOD OF OUR FATHERS will be our ally!
      Let Frenchmen advance,
      And all Europe join France,
    Designing our conquest and plunder;
      United and free
      Forever we'll be,
    And our cannon shall tell them in thunder,
  That foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
  Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

  When Britain assail'd us, undaunted we stood,
  Defended the land we had purchas'd with blood,
  Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast,
  If the old world united should menace our coast:--
      Should millions invade,
      In terrour array'd,
    Our liberties bid us surrender,
      Our country they'd find
      With bayonets lin'd,
    And Washington here to defend her,
  For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy
  Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

  Should Buonapart' come with his sans culotte band,
  And a new sort of freedom we don't understand,
  And make us an offer to give us as much
  As France has bestow'd on the Swiss and the Dutch,
      His fraud and his force
      Will be futile of course;
    We wish for no _Frenchified_ Freedom:
      If folks beyond sea
      Are to bid us be free,
    We'll send for them when we shall need 'em.
  But sans culotte Frenchmen we'll ever defy,
  Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

  We're anxious that Peace may continue her reign,
  We cherish the virtues which sport in her train;
  Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh,
  And we shiver at Horrour's funereal cry!
      But still, though we prize
      That child of the skies,
    We'll never like slaves be accosted.
      In a war of defence
      Our means are immense,
    And we'll fight till our _all_ is exhausted:
  For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
  Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!

  The EAGLE of FREEDOM with rapture behold,
  Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold!
  The flood-gates of glory are open on high,
  And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky!
      They come from above
      With a message of love,
    To bid us be firm and decided;
      "At Liberty's call,
      Unite one and all,
    For you conquer, unless you're divided.
  Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy,
  Till the continent sinks and the ocean is dry!

  "Americans, seek no occasion for war;
  The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor:
  But if in defence of your rights you should arm,
  Let toils ne'er discourage, nor dangers alarm.
      For foes to your peace
      Will ever increase,
    If freedom and fame you should barter,
      Let those rights be yours,
      While nature endures,
    For OMNIPOTENCE gave you the charter!"
  Then foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
  Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!


    Though there was to be no invasion to repel, the new navy was
    soon to win its spurs. On February 9, 1799, the Constellation,
    Captain Truxton, sighted the 36-gun frigate, Insurgente, off
    St. Kitts, in the West Indies, and promptly gave chase. The
    Frenchman was overhauled about the middle of the afternoon, and
    after a fierce engagement was forced to surrender. Two months
    later, Napoleon agreed to receive the American envoy "with the
    respect due a powerful nation," and all danger of war was soon


[February 9, 1799]

  When Freedom, fair Freedom, her banner display'd,
  Defying each foe whom her rights would invade,
  Columbia's brave sons swore those rights to maintain,
  And o'er ocean and earth to establish her reign;
      United they cry,
      While that standard shall fly,
      Resolved, firm, and steady,
      We always are ready
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

  Tho' Gallia through Europe has rushed like a flood,
  And deluged the earth with an ocean of blood:
  While by faction she's led, while she's governed by knaves,
  We court not her smiles, and will ne'er be her slaves;
      Her threats we defy,
      While our standard shall fly,
      Resolved, firm, and steady,
      We always are ready
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

  Tho' France with caprice dares our Statesmen upbraid,
  A tribute demands, or sets bounds to our trade;
  From our young rising Navy our thunders shall roar,
  And our Commerce extend to the earth's utmost shore.
      Our cannon we'll ply,
      While our standard shall fly;
      Resolved, firm, and steady,
      We always are ready
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

  To know we're resolved, let them think on the hour,
  When Truxton, brave Truxton off Nevis's shore,
  His ship mann'd for battle, the standard unfurl'd,
  And at the Insurgente defiance he hurled;
      And his valiant tars cry,
      While our standard shall fly,
      Resolved, firm, and steady,
      We always are ready
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

  Each heart beat exulting, inspir'd by the cause;
  They fought for their country, their freedom and laws;
  From their cannon loud volleys of vengeance they pour'd,
  And the standard of France to Columbia was lower'd.
      Huzza! they now cry,
      Let the Eagle wave high;
      Resolved, firm, and steady,
      We always are ready
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

  Then raise high the strain, pay the tribute that's due
  To the fair Constellation, and all her brave Crew;
  Be Truxton revered, and his name be enrolled,
  'Mongst the chiefs of the ocean, the heroes of old.
      Each invader defy,
      While such heroes are nigh,
      Who always are ready,
      Resolved, firm, and steady
  To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.


[February 9, 1799]

  Come all ye Yankee sailors, with swords and pikes advance,
  'Tis time to try your courage and humble haughty France,
      The sons of France our seas invade,
      Destroy our commerce and our trade,
      'Tis time the reck'ning should be paid!
          To brave Yankee boys.

  On board the Constellation, from Baltimore we came,
  We had a bold commander and Truxton was his name!
      Our ship she mounted forty guns,
      And on the main so swiftly runs,
      To prove to France Columbia's sons
          Are brave Yankee boys.

  We sailed to the West Indies in order to annoy
  The invaders of our commerce, to burn, sink, and destroy;
      Our Constellation shone so bright,
      The Frenchmen could not bear the sight,
      And away they scamper'd in affright,
          From the brave Yankee boys.

  'Twas on the 9th of February, at Montserrat we lay,
  And there we spy'd the Insurgente just at the break of day,
      We raised the orange and the blue,
      To see if they our signals knew,
      The Constellation and her crew
          Of brave Yankee boys.

  Then all hands were called to quarters, while we pursued in chase,
  With well-prim'd guns, our tompions out, well spliced the main brace.
      Soon to the French we did draw nigh,
      Compelled to fight, they were, or fly,
      The word was passed, "CONQUER OR DIE,"
          My brave Yankee boys.

  Lord! our Cannons thunder'd with peals tremendous roar,
  And death upon our bullets' wings that drenched their decks with gore,
      The blood did from their scuppers run,
      Their chief exclaimed, "We are undone!"
      Their flag they struck, the battle won,
          By the brave Yankee boys.

  Then to St. Kitts we steered, we bro't her safe in port,
  The grand salute was fired and answered from the fort,
      John Adams in full bumpers toast,
      George Washington, Columbia's boast,
      And now "the girl we love the most!"
          My brave Yankee boys.


    On December 14, 1799, George Washington died at Mount Vernon
    after an illness lasting only a few days. The funeral took
    place four days later, with only such ceremonials as the
    immediate neighborhood provided.


  For him who sought his country's good
  In plains of war, mid scenes of blood;
  Who, in the dubious battle's fray,
  Spent the warm noon of life's bright day,
  That to a world he might secure
  Rights that forever shall endure,
      Rear the monument of fame!
      Deathless is the hero's name.

  For him, who, when the war was done,
  And victory sure, and freedom won,
  Left glory's theatre, the field,
  The olive branch of peace to wield;
  And proved, when at the helm of state,
  Though great in war, in peace as great;
      Rear the monument of fame!
      Deathless is the hero's name!

  For him, whose worth, though unexpress'd,
  Lives cherish'd in each freeman's breast,
  Whose name, to patriot souls so dear,
  Time's latest children shall revere,
  Whose brave achievements praised shall be,
  While beats one breast for liberty;
      Rear the monument of fame!
      Deathless is the hero's name!

  But why for him vain marbles raise?
  Can the cold sculpture speak his praise?
  Illustrious shade! we can proclaim
  Our gratitude, but not thy fame.
  Long as Columbia shall be free,
  She lives a monument of thee;
      And may she ever rise in fame,
      To honor thy immortal name!

    Since 1785 it had been necessary to protect American commerce
    from the Barbary corsairs by paying tribute, but their demands
    grew so exorbitant that war was at last declared against
    Tripoli, and a squadron dispatched to the Mediterranean. One
    of this squadron was the Philadelphia, which ran aground and
    was captured by the pirates on October 31, 1803. The ship was
    towed into the harbor of Tripoli and anchored under the guns
    of the fortress. On the night of February 15, 1804, a party
    of seventy-five headed by Lieutenants Decatur and Lawrence
    and Midshipman Bainbridge, entered the harbor, boarded the
    Philadelphia, drove the Turkish crew overboard, set fire to the
    ship, and escaped without losing a man, having performed what
    Lord Nelson called "the most daring act of the age."


[February 15, 1804]

  _By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore
    He would scourge us from the seas;
  Yankees should trouble his soul no more--
  By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,
    Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,
  And troubled his soul no more._

  The moon was dim in the western sky,
    And a mist fell soft on the sea,
  As we slipped away from the Siren brig
    And headed for Tripoli.

  Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay,
    Before us the empty night;
  And when again we looked behind
    The Siren was gone from our sight.

  Nothing behind us, and nothing before,
    Only the silence and rain,
  As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
    And cast us up again.

  Through the rain and the silence we stole along,
    Cautious and stealthy and slow,
  For we knew the waters were full of those
    Who might challenge the Mastico.

  But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost
    Of the ship we had come to see,
  Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame
    Rolling uneasily.

  And as we looked, the mist drew up
    And the moon threw off her veil,
  And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight,
    Ghostly and drear and pale.

  Then spoke Decatur low and said:
    "To the bulwarks shadow all!
  But the six who wear the Tripoli dress
    Shall answer the sentinel's call."

  "What ship is that?" cried the sentinel.
    "No ship," was the answer free;
  "But only a Malta ketch in distress
    Wanting to moor in your lee.

  "We have lost our anchor, and wait for day
    To sail into Tripoli town,
  And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night,
    So cast a cable down."

  Then close to the frigate's side we came,
    Made fast to her unforbid--
  Six of us bold in the heathen dress,
    The rest of us lying hid.

  But one who saw us hiding there
    "_Americano!_" cried.
  Then straight we rose and made a rush
    Pellmell up the frigate's side.

  Less than a hundred men were we,
    And the heathen were twenty score;
  But a Yankee sailor in those old days
    Liked odds of one to four.

  And first we cleaned the quarter-deck,
    And then from stern to stem
  We charged into our enemies
    And quickly slaughtered them.

  All around was the dreadful sound
    Of corpses striking the sea,
  And the awful shrieks of dying men
    In their last agony.

  The heathen fought like devils all,
    But one by one they fell,
  Swept from the deck by our cutlasses
    To the water, and so to hell.

  Some we found in the black of the hold,
    Some to the fo'c's'le fled,
  But all in vain; we sought them out
    And left them lying dead;

  Till at last no soul but Christian souls
    Upon that ship was found;
  The twenty score were dead, and we,
    The hundred, safe and sound.

  And, stumbling over the tangled dead,
    The deck a crimson tide,
  We fired the ship from keel to shrouds
    And tumbled over the side.

  Then out to sea we sailed once more
    With the world as light as day,
  And the flames revealed a hundred sail
    Of the heathen there in the bay.

  All suddenly the red light paled,
    And the rain rang out on the sea;
  Then--a dazzling flash, a deafening roar,
    Between us and Tripoli!

  Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before,
    Only the silence and rain;
  And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
    And cast us up again.

  _By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore
    He would scourge us from the seas;
  Yankees should trouble his soul no more--
  By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,
    Then lighted his hookah and took his ease,
  And troubled his soul no more._

               BARRETT EASTMAN.

    Arrangements were made to bombard the port and a concerted
    attack was made August 3, 1804. Two gunboats were captured
    and three sunk, and the shore batteries badly damaged. Attack
    after attack followed, and the war was finally ended by Tripoli
    renouncing all claim to tribute and releasing all American
    prisoners. It was during the first assault that Reuben James
    saved Decatur's life.


[August 3, 1804]

  Three ships of war had Preble when he left the Naples shore,
  And the knightly king of Naples lent him seven galleys more,
  And never since the Argo floated in the middle sea
  Such noble men and valiant have sailed in company
  As the men who went with Preble to the siege of Tripoli.
  Stewart, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur--how their names ring out like gold!--
  Lawrence, Porter, Trippe, Macdonough, and a score as true and bold;
  Every star that lights their banner tells the glory that they won;
  But one common sailor's glory is the splendor of the sun.

  Reuben James was first to follow when Decatur laid aboard
  Of the lofty Turkish galley and in battle broke his sword.
  Then the pirate captain smote him, till his blood was running fast,
  And they grappled and they struggled, and they fell beside the mast.
  Close behind him Reuben battled with a dozen, undismayed,
  Till a bullet broke his sword-arm, and he dropped the useless blade.
  Then a swinging Turkish sabre clove his left and brought him low,
  Like a gallant bark, dismasted, at the mercy of the foe.
  Little mercy knows the corsair: high his blade was raised to slay,
  When a richer prize allured him where Decatur struggling lay.
  "Help!" the Turkish leader shouted, and his trusty comrade sprung,
  And his scimetar like lightning o'er the Yankee captain swung.

  Reuben James, disabled, armless, saw the sabre flashed on high,
  Saw Decatur shrink before it, heard the pirate's taunting cry,
  Saw, in half the time I tell it, how a sailor brave and true
  Still might show a bloody pirate what a dying man can do.
  Quick he struggled, stumbling, sliding in the blood around his feet,
  As the Turk a moment waited to make vengeance doubly sweet.
  Swift the sabre fell, but swifter bent the sailor's head below,
  And upon his 'fenceless forehead Reuben James received the blow!

  So was saved our brave Decatur; so the common sailor died;
  So the love that moves the lowly lifts the great to fame and pride.
  Yet we grudge him not his honors, for whom love like this had birth--
  For God never ranks His sailors by the Register of earth!

               JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

    In the spring of 1808 the schooner Betsy, of Marblehead,
    commanded by "Skipper Ireson," sighted a wreck while passing
    Cape Cod on her way home from the West Indies. It was dark
    at the time, and the sea was running high, so that she was
    unable to render any assistance. Another vessel soon afterwards
    rescued the people on the wreck, and they reached shore in
    season for news of the occurrence to reach Marblehead before
    the Betsy's arrival. A crowd met the vessel at the wharf, and
    the sailors, when called to account, protested that Ireson
    would not let them go to the relief of the wrecked vessel. The
    mob thereupon seized the unfortunate skipper, and putting him
    into an old dory, started to drag him to Beverly, where they
    said he belonged, in order to show him to his own people.



  Of all the rides since the birth of time,
  Told in story or sung in rhyme,--
  On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
  Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,
  Witch astride of a human back,
  Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,--
  The strangest ride that ever was sped
  Was Ireson's out from Marblehead!
    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

  Body of turkey, head of fowl,
  Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
  Feathered and ruffled in every part,
  Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
  Scores of women, old and young,
  Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
  Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
  Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
      By the women o' Morble'ead!"

  Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
  Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
  Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
  Bacchus round some antique vase,
  Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
  Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
  With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
  Over and over the Mænads sang:
    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
      By the women o' Morble'ead!"

  Small pity for him!--He sailed away
  From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,--
  Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
  With his own town's-people on her deck!
  "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
  Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
  Brag of your catch of fish again!"
  And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

  Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
  That wreck shall lie forevermore.
  Mother and sister, wife and maid,
  Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
  Over the moaning and rainy sea,--
  Looked for the coming that might not be!
  What did the winds and the sea-birds say
  Of the cruel captain who sailed away?--
    Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

  Through the street, on either side,
  Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
  Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
  Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
  Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
  Hulks of old sailors run aground,
  Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
  And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
      By the women o' Morble'ead!"

  Sweetly along the Salem road
  Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
  Little the wicked skipper knew
  Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
  Riding there in his sorry trim,
  Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
  Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
  Of voices shouting, far and near:
    "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
    Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
      By the women o' Morble'ead!"

  "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--
  "What to me is this noisy ride?
  What is the shame that clothes the skin
  To the nameless horror that lives within?
  Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
  And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
  Hate me and curse me,--I only dread
  The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
    Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!

  Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
  Said, "God has touched him! why should we!"
  Said an old wife mourning her only son,
  "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
  So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
  Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
  And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
  And left him alone with his shame and sin.
    Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
    Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
      By the women of Marblehead!


    Later investigation proved that Ireson was in no way
    responsible for the abandonment of the disabled ship, and that
    his crew had lied in order to save themselves.



  Old Flood Ireson! all too long
  Have jeer and gibe and ribald song
  Done thy memory cruel wrong.

  Old Flood Ireson, bending low
  Under the weight of years and woe,
  Crept to his refuge long ago.

  Old Flood Ireson sleeps in his grave;
  Howls of a mad mob, worse than the wave,
  Now no more in his ear shall rave!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Gone is the pack and gone the prey,
  Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day
  Is hunted still down Time's highway.

  Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare
  Hooting and tooting the same old air,
  Drags him along the old thoroughfare.

  Mocked evermore with the old refrain,
  Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,
  Jingling and jolting he comes again

  Over that road of old renown,
  Fair broad avenue, leading down
  Through South Fields to Salem town,

  Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong,
  Mounted high on the car of song,
  Sight that cries, O Lord! how long

  Shall heaven look on and not take part
  With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,
  Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?

  Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame
  Wipes away with tears of shame
  Stains from many an injured name,

  Shall not, in the tuneful line,
  Beams of truth and mercy shine
  Through the clouds that darken thine?

  Take henceforth, perturbèd sprite,
  From the fever and the fright,
  Take the rest,--thy well-earned right.

  Along the track of that hard ride
  The form of Penitence oft shall glide,
  With tender Pity by her side;

  And their tears, that mingling fall
  On the dark record they recall,
  Shall cleanse the stain and expiate all.




    The treaty of peace with England which closed the Revolution
    provided for the payment of English creditors and the
    restoration of confiscated estates, but the individual
    states refused to carry out this agreement, and England, in
    consequence, retained possession of some of the Western posts.
    To this were soon added other causes of annoyance, principal
    among which was the right claimed by England to impress into
    her service seamen of British birth, wherever found, and to
    stop and search the ships of the United States for this purpose.


  Ye brave sons of Freedom, come join in the chorus,
    At the dangers of war do not let us repine,
  But sing and rejoice at the prospect before us,
    And drink it success in a bumper of wine.
          At the call of the nation,
          Let each to his station,
          And resist depredation,
        Which our country degrades;
          Ere the conflict is over,
          Our rights we'll recover,
          Or punish whoever
        Our honor invades.

  We're abused and insulted, our country's degraded,
    Our rights are infringed both by land and by sea;
  Let us rouse up, indignant, when those rights are invaded,
    And announce to the world, "We're united and free!"
          By our navy's protection
          We'll make our election,
          And in every direction
        Our trade shall be free;
          No British oppression,
          No Gallic aggression
          Shall disturb the possession
       We claim to the sea.

  Then Columbia's ships shall sail on the ocean,