"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 sharp-shooters 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!
(Count Casimir Pulaski, the Polish patriot, killed at the siege of Savannah in 1779, had a crimson standard which had been worked for him by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.)
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowléd 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 c'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.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
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 starlight and moonlight he seeks the Briton's camp;
He hears the rustling flag, and the armed 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
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 steel 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, 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.
From the Fame-leaf and the Angel-leaf, from monument to urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, his tragic fate shall learn ; And on Fame-leaf and on Angel-leaf the name of Hale shall burn. FRANCIS MILES FINCH.
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 that 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
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.
THE LAY OF GROTON HEIGHT.
(Read at Centennial Celebration, 1881. Extract furnished at request for the "Patriotic Reader.")
THE word went forth from the throne:
"Desolate! desolate!
Smite, burn, destroy, till their woes shall atone
For the woe and shame of the State!
They have shamed the arms of their king;
They have flouted the terms we bring:
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