Part 16
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, 115 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 120 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, 125 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. 130
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE
Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- On Apuleius's Golden Ass,[312] Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,[313] Witch astride of a human back, 5 Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,[314]-- 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 10 By the women of Marblehead!
Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 15 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, 20 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 25 Bacchus[315] 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[316] sang: 30 "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,[317]-- 35 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!" 40 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 45 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! 50 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! 55
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, 60 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 65 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. 70 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, 75 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 80 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!" 85 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?" 90 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, 95 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!
BARCLAY OF URY
Up the streets of Aberdeen[318] By the kirk[319] and college green Rode the Laird[320] of Ury. Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 5 Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master; And the begging carlin,[321] late 10 Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen Came he slowly riding; 15 And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word, Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 20 Loose and free and froward; Quoth the foremost, 'Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!'
But from out the thickening crowd 25 Cried a sudden voice and loud: 'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!' And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried, Scarred and sunburned darkly, 30
Who with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there, Cried aloud: 'God save us, Call ye coward him who stood Ankle deep in Lützen's[322] blood, 35 With the brave Gustavus?'
'Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord; 'Put it up, I pray thee: Passive to his holy will, 40 Trust I in my Master still, Even though He slay me.
'Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death, Not by me are needed.' 45 Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old, Now so meekly pleaded.
'Woe's the day!' he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head, 50 And a look of pity; 'Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city!
'Speak the word, and, master mine, 55 As we charged on Tilly's[323] line, And his Walloon[324] lancers, Smiting through their midst we'll teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers!' 60
'Marvel not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end,' Quoth the Laird of Ury; 'Is the sinful servant more Than his gracious Lord who bore 65 Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
'Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame, All these vain ones offer; While for them He suffereth long, 70 Shall I answer wrong with wrong, Scoffing with the scoffer?
'Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, 75 Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me.
'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door; 80 And the snooded[325] daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown From red fields of slaughter.
'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 85 Hard the old friend's falling off, Hard to learn forgiving; But the Lord his own rewards, And his love with theirs accords, Warm and fresh and living. 90
'Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest 95 For the full day-breaking!'
So the Laird of Ury said, Turning slow his horse's head Towards the Tolbooth[326] prison, Where, through iron gates, he heard 100 Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen!
Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial; 105 Every age on him who strays From its broad and beaten ways Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear, Angel comfortings can hear, 110 O'er the rabble's laughter; And while Hatred's fagots burn, Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet 115 Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow[327]; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow. 120
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the Future borrow; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain, 125 Paint the golden morrow!
BARBARA FRIETCHIE
Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep, 5 Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; 10
Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 15 Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; 20
In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right 25 He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
'Halt!'--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 'Fire!'--out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. 30
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.
'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 But spare your country's flag,' she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word; 40
'Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!' he said.
All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost 45 Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. 50
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 55 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! 60
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls[328];" When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_,[329] 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[330]; 5 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: 10 "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? 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, 15 When the Mohawks[331] 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. 20
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 25 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the 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, 30 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, 35 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. 40
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan[332] 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 red-coats' ranks were forming; 45 At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened 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, 50 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,-- 55 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. 60
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),-- 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, 65 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[333] 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; 70 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; 75 Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!
O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats 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. 80
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be doubted! 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 so),-- "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they beaten?"--"Wait a while."
O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: 85 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 were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! 90 The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,-- The robbing, murdering red-coats, 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? 95 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! 100
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 for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!"
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, 105 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 afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;" 110 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 bayonets fixed for storming: 115 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! 120
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?