Part 2

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! 'T is nobly done,--the day's our own--huzzah, huzzah!

LIBERTY TREE.

BY THOMAS PAINE.

(Published in the _Pennsylvania Magazine_, 1775.)

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_.

FREE AMERICA.

[This poem first appeared in the newspapers in 1774, and was ascribed to Joseph Warren.--EDITOR.]

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.

EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE.

BY PHILIP FRENEAU.

[The following note explanatory of references to proper names, etc., in this poem is copied from Duyckinck's edition of Freneau.--EDITOR.]

NOTE.--Sir James Wallace, Admiral Graves, and Captain Montague, were British naval officers, employed on our coast. The _Viper_ and _Rose_ were vessels in the service. Lord Dunmore, the last royal governor of Virginia, had recently, in April, 1775, removed the public stores from Williamsburg, and, in conjunction with a party of adherents, supported by the naval force on the station, was making war on the province. William Tryon, the last Royal governor of New York, informed of a resolution of the Continental Congress: "That it be recommended to the several provincial assemblies in conventions and councils, or committees of safety, to arrest and secure every person in their respective colonies whose going at large may, in their opinion, endanger the safety of the colony or the liberties of America," discerning the signs of the times, took refuge on board the Halifax packet in the harbor, and left the city in the middle of October, 1775.

EMANCIPATION FROM BRITISH DEPENDENCE.

BY PHILIP FRENEAU.

_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.

1775

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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 row'd 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 clim'd 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, Wrapp'd 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 spurr'd, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamp'd the earth, And turn'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth; But mostly he watch'd 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's 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 pass'd, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with 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 farmyard 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 for evermore! 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.

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

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 afire! 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 consign'd so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr'd patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell?

NATHAN HALE.

BY FRANCIS M. FINCH.

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 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, 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 spent 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; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of HALE shall burn!

THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE.

(Moore's "Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution." 1856.)

The breezes went steadily through 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 passed through the wood, as he passed through the wood; And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, As she played with the flood; as she played 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 soon must die; for he soon must die."

The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- The cruel general! the cruel general!-- His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, 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. 'T was 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 prayed for his mother, he asked not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, 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 BATTLE OF TRENTON

(From Griswold's "Curiosities of American literature." 1843.)

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.

The Fate of JOHN BURGOYNE

(From Griswold's "Curiosities of American Literature.")

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.

THE PROGRESS OF SIR JACK BRAG.

(McCarty's National Song-Book.)

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!

WAR AND WASHINGTON.

(As sung during the Revolution.)

BY JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWARD.

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!