James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
April 19The Minute Men of Northboro
By Wallace Rice (18591939)
’T
’Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood;
When down the road from Marlboro’ we hear a sound of speed—
A cracking whip and clanking hoofs—a case of crying need!
And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood,
Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed.
To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State;
They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say,
Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson’s gate.
“Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun;
“Upon the common, in the dawn, the redcoat butchers slay;
“On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way;
“We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run:
“All Middlesex and Worcester’s up: Pray God, ours is the day!”
The seed may wait, the fertile ground upsmiling to the spring.
They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now,
At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.
The flints are picked, the powder’s dry, the rifles shine like new.
Within their Captain’s yard enranked they hear the Parson’s prayer
Unto the God of armies for the battles they must share;
He asks that to their Fathers and their Altars they be true,
For Country and for Liberty unswervingly to dare.
With shining eyes they’ve blest their babes and bid their wives good-by.
The hands that here release the plow have taken up a strife
That shall not end until all earth has heard the battle-cry.
At every crossroad comes the message of a fleeing foe:
The British force, though trebled, fails against the advancing tide.
Our rifles speak from fence and tree—in front, on every side.
The British fall: the Minute Men have mixed with bitterest woe
Their late vainglorious vaunting and their military pride.
No uniforms gleam in the sun where on and on they plod;
But generations yet unborn their valor shall declare:
They strike for Massachusetts Bay; they serve New England’s God.
On Worcester and on Middlesex their flag’s forever furled.
Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; ours is the victor’s prize:
That day of bourgeoning has seen a race of freemen rise.
A Nation born in fearlessness stands forth before the world
With God her shield, the Right her sword, and Freedom in her eyes.
They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; they cheer for Washington.
In thankfulness they speed their bolt against the British Crown;
And take the plow again in peace, their warrior’s duty done.