And now when near to “fifteenthly,” And the urchins thought of their luncheon, And into the half-curtained windows Hotter and hotter the sun shone, And the redbreast dozed in the branches, And the crow on the pine tree’s top, And the squirrel was lost in his musings, The sermon came to a stop. For sharp on the turnpike the clatter Of galloping hoofs resounded, And the granite ring of the roadway Louder and louder sounded; And now no longer the redbreast Was inclined to be dull that day, And now no longer the sexton Slept in his usual way. But all sprang up on the instant, And the widest of eyes grew wider, While on towards the porch, like a tempest, Came sweeping the horse and its rider; And now from the din of the hoof-beats A trumpet voice leapt out, And, tingling to its rafters, The church was alive with the shout,— “Burgoyne’s at Ticonderoga: Would you have the old fort surrender?” “No, no!” cried the parson; “New Hampshire Will send the last man to defend her!” But before he could shoulder his musket A Tory sang up from below, “I hear a great voice out of heaven, sir, Warning us not to go.” Quick from the pulpit descending, With the agile step of a lion,— “The voice you hear is from hell, sir!” Replied the young servant of Zion. And out through the open doorway, And on past the porch he strode, And the congregation came after, And gathered beside the road. Sadly enough the colonel, The minute-men all arraying, From the dusty cocked hat of the rider Drew the lots for going or staying. Then waving his hat as he took it, And putting the spurs to his mare, The stranger rode off to New Ipswich In a cheering that rent the air. Worse than the shock of battle, Now came the sad leave-taking. And to mothers and maids and matrons The deepest of grief and heart-aching; And far on the road through the mountains Whence the rider had just come, They followed the minute-men marching To the sound of the fife and the drum. Long dead have they been who sat there At that feast of things eternal— Long dead the laymen, the deacons, The lawyer, the doctor, the colonel; Long dead the youths and the maidens, And long on the graves of all Have the summers and the winters Their leaves and their snows let fall. But whenever I come to the churchyard, Where, by the side of the pastor, They afterwards laid the colonel, His friend in success and disaster, I see again on the Common The minute-men all in array, And again I behold the departure, The pastor leading the way.