New England’s old three-cornered hat still guards this ancient town, The men who followed Lafayette are marching up and down. The spirit born at Lexington, and all the men are here, With fife and drum, and here they come, and each a brigadier! The heirs of Freedom ne’er broke ranks, or failed to face the brunt, In every fight for righteousness our men are at the front; In every battle fought for peace the past and future meet, And grenadiers and cavaliers still flank each home and street. The covenants our fathers made forever move in rhyme, They’ve never found the Port of Rest; the iron tongues of Time Are bugling men to saddle, and comrades, side by side, From Gettysburg to Flanders join in a dusty ride! And here they come! and there they come! The farmer and the knight, And dead men, shouting--“load and fire!” from parapets of light. And every one a mother’s son, the khaki, and the gold, Old Glory prancing on ahead, a shout in every fold! In every star a mother’s prayer, in every stripe is found A country’s solace for the slain to wrap him, ’round and ’round. March on, and let your scabbards swing, your swords shall never rust; Ride! Ride! ye belted horsemen! the sacrificial trust Of bygone days is haloed by bayonet and scroll, Where millions read a simple creed that binds a nation’s soul. High on the walls of Heaven it crowns a lifting sky; Hats off! ye peoples of the earth, America goes by! Written on the return of the Plymouth Boys from the World War. BURIAL HILL. How many years have ripened, gone to seed, and died, Since first this Holy Precinct of the Dead was set apart and sanctified. Sunset and purple cloud have kept their vestal watch, The morning breezes played, And noontide spanned the waters, day by day; The lightnings and the frost disturb them nevermore, Wrapt in a reverie of God, they heed not if the Shepherd-stars be caring for a weary world or no, Or violets be budding in the melting snows. They wonder not at creeds of men, Or why their prayers are lost in space; Long since they found the sky-hung stretches of Eternity, The pastorals of peace. And yet, as ’twere a spectral mist, I half suspect they may return sometime, Remembering the beauty of this sylvan scene, The wide blue vista of the deep, Its glinting sails; Perhaps they come to brush away the withered leaves that clog our minds, And blaze a trail for Immortality, More sunshine and more flowers; To help us hear the blackbird’s whistle in the trees, The rustle in the hedge, The whisper in the grass when dandelions bloom, The madrigals that lift the dampness hanging over graves. THE OLD ROAD DOWN TO PLYMOUTH. The old road down to Plymouth can never change for me, In vagabond abandon it roams a century, Braids through the dusky mornings, and evening’s afterglow, An irridescent sunbeam, no matter where I go.