Clasp Wife, and kiss, and lift the head,
Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.
Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.
Matthews - Poems of American Patriotism
if ye but knew
The least of 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,
_Fire! _
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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
The least of 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,
_Fire! _
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.
HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
[Sidenote: April 19, 1775]
_This poem was written to be sung at the completion of the
Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
TICONDEROGA
V. B. WILSON
[Sidenote: May 10, 1775]
_After the news of Concord fight, a volunteer expedition from
Vermont and Connecticut, under Ethan Alien and Benedict Arnold,
seized Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose military stores were of
great service. From its chime of bells, the French called
Ticonderoga "Carillon. "_
The cold, gray light of the dawning
On old Carillon falls,
And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.
But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,
And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,
With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.
But the sentinel at the postern
Heard not the whisper low;
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon
As he walks on his beat to and fro,
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin
That were dim when he marched away,
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses,
'T is the first for many a day.
A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.
