It was not the instant feeling and pressure of despotism that roused them to resist, but the principle on which that arm was extended. They could have paid the impositions of the British government, had they been increased a thousandfold; but payment acknowledged right, and they spurned the consequences of that acknowledgment. But, above all, they realized that those burdens, though light in themselves, would to coming ages—to us, their posterity—be heavy, and probably insupportable. They preferred to meet the trial in their own times, and to make the sacrifices in their own persons, that we and our descendants, their posterity, might reap the harvest and enjoy the increase. Generous men, exalted patriots, immortal statesmen! For this deep moral and social affection, for this elevated self-devotion, this bold daring, the multiplying millions of your posterity, as they spread backward to the lakes, and from the lakes to the mountains, and from the mountains to the western waters, shall annually, in all future time, come up to the temples of the Most High, with song and anthem, and thanksgiving; with cheerful symphonies and hallelujahs, to repeat your names; to look steadfastly on the brightness of your glory; to trace its spreading rays to the points from which they emanate; and to seek in your character and conduct a practical illustration of public duty in every occurring social exigency. THE SONG OF THE CANNON BY SAM WALTER FOSS When the diplomats cease from their capers, Their red-tape requests and replies, Their shuttlecock battle of papers, Their saccharine parley of lies; When the plenipotentiary wrangle Is tied in a chaos of knots, And becomes an unwindable tangle Of verbals unmarried to thoughts; When they’ve anguished and argued profoundly, Asserted, assumed, and averred, Then I end up the dialogue roundly With my monosyllabical word. Not mine in a speech academic, No lexicon lingo is mine, And in politic parley, polemic, I was never created to shine. But I speak with some show of decision, And I never attempt to be bland, I hurl my one word with precision, My hearers—they all understand. It requires no labored translation, Its pith and its import to glean; They gather its signification; They know at the first what I mean. The codes of the learned legations, Of form, and of rule, and decree, The etiquette books of the nations,— They were never intended for me. When your case is talked into confusion, Then hush you, my diplomat friend, Give me just a word in conclusion, Let me bring the dispute to an end. Ye diplomats, cease to aspire, A case that’s appealed to debate, It has gone to a court that is higher, And I’m the Attorney for Fate. PAUL REVERE’S RIDE[9] (April 18, 1775.) BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW