Hamilton Fish Armstrong

Where, in 1770, Was Shed the First Blood of the Revolution

EAST of the rumble of Broadway,

Among those streets where yesterday

Is clean forgotten in the fray

Of money and of trade,

East from the ivy-shrouded walls

Of gentlemanly old St. Paul’s,

My quiet way I made.

And here, where Nassau touches Ann,

Through all the noisy caravan

Of this and other years,

It seems from far there tingling comes

The march of men—the roll of drums—

A bugle in my ears.

A century and a half ago

(Where now the cursing draymen go),

Its call thrilled out “Beware!”

Then Liberty was something new—

King George had not yet brewed his brew

Nor redcoats drunk their share.

Again that bugle-note is thrilling,

Though ears be deaf and hearts unwilling—

It sings as loudly still

As when they melted leaden kings

Into all sorts of useful things

On top of Golden Hill.