O men in red! if ye but knew The least of the 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. SIDNEY LANIER. [3] From Poems by Sidney Lanier, copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. LEXINGTON [April 19, 1775] Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing! Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet! Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum. Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath,-- Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.