The title of "First Defenders" has been given to the five companies of Pennsylvania troops, two of which were from Schuylkill Co., one from Reading, one from Allentown, and one from Lewistown, Pa., that marched through Baltimore on the day before the Massachusetts soldiers were mobbed in the streets on the way to defend the national capital. After running the gauntlet of a furious rabble, the five companies reached Washington on the evening of the 18th, and were quartered in the Capitol Building. A pool of blood, which ran from the wounded cheek of "Nick" Biddle, marked the spot on the Capitol floor, where he lay that night. It was the first blood shed in the war for the Union. His grave is in the colored churchyard in Pottsville, Pa. The grave of "Nick" Biddle a Mecca should be, To Pilgrims who seek in this land of the free, The tombs of the lowly as well as the great, Who struggled for freedom in war or debate; For there lies a black man distinguished from all In that his veins furnished the first blood to fall In war for the Union, when traitors assailed Its brave "First Defenders," whose hearts never quailed. The eighteenth of April, eighteen sixty-one, Was the day "Nick" Biddle his great laurels won, In Baltimore city, where riot ran high, He stood by our banner to do or to die; And onward, responsive to liberty’s call— The Capital City to reach ere it fall. Brave Biddle with others as true and as brave, Marched through the wild tempest, the nation to save. Their pathway was fearful, surrounded by foes, Who strove in fierce madness their course to oppose; Who hurl threats and curses defiant of law, And think by such methods they may overawe The gallant defenders, who nevertheless Hold back their resentment as forward they press, And conscious of noble endeavor, despise The flashing of weapons and traitorous eyes. Behold now the crisis! The mob thirsts for blood! It strikes down "Nick" Biddle, and opens the flood; The torrents of crimson from hearts that are true, That shall deepen and widen, shall clean and renew, The land of our fathers by slavery cursed. The blood of "Nick" Biddle—yes, it is the first, The patter of raindrops presaging the storm, That will rage and destroy till the nation reform. How strange, too, it seems that the Capitol floor, Where slave-holders sat in the Congress of yore, And forged for his kindred chains heavy to bear, To bind down the black man in endless despair, Should be stained with his blood, and thus sanctified, Made sacred to Freedom, through time to abide, A temple of justice, with every right For all of the nation—black, red men and white. The grave of "Nick" Biddle, though humble it be, Is nobler by far in the sight of the free Than tombs of those chieftains whose sinful crusade,