But hear, O ye swains, ’tis a tale most profane,
    How all the tyrannical powers,
  Kings, Commons, and Lords, are united amain. 
    To cut down this guardian of ours;
  From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,
    Through the land let the sound of it flee,
  Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,
    In defence of our Liberty Tree.

THOMAS PAINE.

* * * * *

HYMN: 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
    Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
  Here once the embattled farmers stood,
    And fired the shot heard round the world.

  The foe long since in silence slept;
    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
  And Time the ruined bridge has swept
    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

  On this green bank, by this soft stream,
    We set to-day a votive stone;
  That memory may their deed redeem,
    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

  Spirit, that made those heroes dare
    To die, or leave their children free,
  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
    The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

WARREN’S ADDRESS.[A]

[Footnote A:  General Joseph Warren, who fell at the battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775.]

  Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! 
  Will ye give it up to slaves? 
  Will ye look for greener graves? 
      Hope ye mercy still? 
  What’s the mercy despots feel? 
  Hear it in that battle-peal! 
  Read it on yon bristling steel! 
      Ask it,—­ye who will.

  Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
  Will ye to your homes retire? 
  Look behind you!—­they’re afire! 
      And, before you, see
  Who have done it!  From the vale
  On they come!—­and will ye quail? 
  Leaden rain and iron hail
      Let their welcome be!

  In the God of battles trust! 
  Die we may,—­and die we must: 
  But, O, where can dust to dust
      Be consigned so well,
  As where heaven its dews shall shed
  On the martyred patriot’s bed,
  And the rocks shall raise their head,
      Of his deeds to tell?

JOHN PIERPONT.

* * * * *

“THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES.”

FROM AN “ODE ON THE CELEBRATION OF THE
BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, JUNE 17, 1825,”

      The trump hath blown,
    And now upon that reeking hill
  Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball;
    While with terrific signal shrill,
  The vultures from their bloody eyries flown,
      Hang o’er