At his loom the pallid weaver, with his feet upon the treadles, Watched the threads alternate rising, with the lifting of the heddles— Not admiring that, so swiftly, at his eager fingers’ urging, Flew the bobbin-loaded shuttle ’twixt the filaments diverging; Only labor dull and cheerless in the work before him seeing, As the warp and woof uniting brought the figures into being. Roared the fire before the bellows; glowed the forge’s dazzling crater; Rang the hammers on the anvil, both the lesser and the greater; Fell the sparks around the smithy, keeping rhythm to the clamor, To the ponderous blows, and clanging of each unrelenting hammer; While the diamonds of labor, from the curse of Adam borrowed, Glittered in a crown of honor on each iron-beater’s forehead. Through the air there came a whisper, deepening quickly into thunder, How the deed was done that morning that would rend the realm asunder; How at Lexington the Briton mingled causeless crime with folly, And a king endangered empire by an ill-considered volley. Then each heart beat quick for vengeance, as the anger-stirring story Told of brethren and of neighbors lying corses stiff and gory. Stops the plough and sleeps the shuttle, stills the blacksmith’s noisy hammer, Come the farmer, smith, and weaver, with a wrath too deep for clamor; But their fiercely purposed doing every glance they give avouches, As they handle rusty firelocks, powder-horns, and bullet-pouches; As they hurry from the workshops, from the fields, and from the forges, Venting curses deep and bitter on the latest of the Georges. Matrons gather at the portals—some with children round them grouping, Some are filled with exultation, some are sad of soul and drooping— Gazing at our hasty levies as they march unskilled but steady, Or prepare their long-kept firelocks, for the combat making ready— Mingling smiles with tears, and praying for our men and those who lead them, That the gracious Lord of battles to a triumph sure may speed them. I was but a beardless stripling on that chilly April morning, When the church-bells backward ringing, to the minute-men gave warning; But I seized my father’s weapons—he was dead who one time bore them— And I swore to use them stoutly, or to nevermore restore them; Bade farewell to sister, mother, and to one than either dearer, Then departed as the firing told of red-coats drawing nearer. On the Britons came from Concord—’twas a name of mocking omen; Concord nevermore existed ’twixt our people and the foemen— On they came in haste from Concord, where a few had stood to fight them, Where they failed to conquer Buttrick, who had stormed the bridge despite them; On they came, the tools of tyrants, ’mid a people who abhorred them; They had done their master’s bidding, and we purposed to reward them.