The Drum Of Lexington

But yesterday I saw the historic drum
Which William Dimon beat,
Upon that fateful far-off April morn,
Along each winding street,
And on the memorable Green of Lexington,
Bidding the patriots come
And face the banded hosts of tyranny;
At the reveille was a nation born
Pledged to the sacred rights of Liberty.

Now 'neath the rays of the same vernal sun
Peace broods about the Green,
But it remembers yet,
Girdled with stately elms memorial,
The hurtle of the deadly musket-ball,
And how its sod was wet
With sacrificial blood—the whole sad, ruthless scene!

Would that the drum of Lexington again
Might sound its summoning call,
Sound from the rocky coast of Maine
Where Agimenticus, inland, fronts the seas,
To where the long trades sweep and swell and fall
Round the Floridian keys!
Aye, sound from Puget, on which Shasta's crown
Majestically looks down,
E'en to the borders of that stricken land
Beyond the brown coils of the Rio Grande!

Have we grown sleek with sloth?
Sloughed the old virile spirit, taken on
Abasement for a garment? Are we loath
To rouse us, and to don
The rapt heroic valor once again
That girdled us when men indeed were men?
Caution and doubt and fear seem subtly crept
Upon us, and, inept,
We stumble, falter, palter, and we need
Not the smooth word, but the swift, searching deed.
If bleed we must, then rather let us bleed
Than sit inglorious, rich in all the things
Save those which honor brings!

Now every slope of our dear land is fair
Beneath the azure of the April air;
The impatient loam is ready for the seed.
But we? Take heed, take heed,
My brothers! And O you, brave wraith
Of dauntlessness and faith,
You, William Dimon, come!
Come, sound the old reveille on your drum,
The drum of Lexington,
And make us all, in steadfast purpose, one!