Comrades salute the nine-year-old
Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!"
The men's hearts glowed like living coals,
And Regnier cried, "Why do we stay?"
And to the roll of the little drum
They rode upon their vengeful way;
But each one as he passed the child
His sword with earuest purpose drew,
And cried in brave or tender tones,
"Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!"
"I come, my regiment, I come!"
But never Petit Jean again
His drum beat for the Forty-third:
They found him lying with the slain.
They put the medal on his breast,
Together clasped his childish hands,
And dug, with many a bitter tear,
A grave for him in Egypt's sands.
'Tis near a century ago
But still his memory is green;
The Regiment has not a name
So dear as that of Petit Jean;
And many a weary soldier has
To brave and noble deeds been stirred
By the tale of the little nine-year-old
Who died among the Forty-third.
TILGHMAN'S RIDE FROM YORKTOWN TO PHILADELPHIA. OCTOBER 19. 1781.-HOWARD PYLE.
ABRIDGED FOR PUBLIC READING.
From day to day came a heavy roar,
Like the boom of the surf on a distant shore,
Or the rumble of thunder far away,
An ominons sound, from day to day,
To the south, where York and Gloucester lay;
And from night to night
Now smouldering deep, now glowing bright,
Staining the black sky off to the south
With a smear of red, like a belch from the month
Of the pit; while the rumble and roar came clear
Through the hush of the night to the listening car,
From over by Yorktown, far below,
That autumn a hundred years ago.
But the heavy booming from day to day
Suddenly ceased, and a silence lay
Where just before
That beat on the ear like the surf on the shore.
'Twas as if the pulse of the air had stopped,
And a death-like silence had swiftly dropped
On the leaden beat of that pulse instead.
Then the listening folk to each other said,
With many a doubting shake of the head:
"Now what has happened at York below?
Is it peril to friend, or peril to foe?"
While the scowling Tories gathered about,
And swore, "The Yankees are put to rout,
As they often were put to rout before."
The southern road, in the days of yore,
Ran south toward Yorktown, stretching away,
Girding the earth like a ribbon of gray,
A fine old high-road, making its way
To the south where in haze it melts to the eye Toward the quarter where York and Gloucester lie. And the people gathered along the road
From far and near, to the tavern broad,
To the cross-road store, to the court-house town,
To catch the news as it came from down
By Yorktown, far away to the south
Then rumor was passed from mouth to mouth,
Now of a victory, now of a rout;
And wild reports were bandied about,
First rising with hope, then sinking to doubt.
Up the road comes the sound of the beat
And the regular rhythm of galloping feet,
As a horseman, riding with whip and goad,
Leaves a dusty trail behind on the road
A way to the south. Each muscle and vein
Of his charger knots with the nervous strain
As, with head stretched forward and streaming mane,
It bends to the pace, its nostrils red,
And flecks of foam on its breast and head,
Galloping free, with the ringing sound
Of the iron hoofs on the solid ground.
As they flash like a bolt past the eager crowd,
The horseman rises and shouts aloud-
While the Tories cower and slink away-
"Cornwallis is taken at York to-day!"
From north to south, from east to west,
From the dewy dale to the mountain crest,
Like the fire that spreads through the crackling sedge,
In the autumn time by the river's edge,
So the news is carried from village to town,
Over the windy hill-tops, down
Through the valleys. It spreads as the breezes blowCornwallis is taken in York below!
Through the dewy incense, cool and light,
That breathes from the east where the sky grows bright, A lonely rider, galloping fast,
Along the stretch of the high-road passed,
So on and on through the brightening day,
Till the sun leaps up on his pathless way.
Now the noontide sun on the tavern eaves
Sleeps broadly, or down through the maple leaves,
All crimson and gold, it showers around
In the front of the porch on the dusty ground.
The loungers gather, a dozen or more,
On the high-backed benches beside the door,
When suddenly, over the bridge at the mill
That spans a babbling stony rill,
Over the bridge till it thunders again,
A rider comes riding with might and main,
Up the hill, without check of rein,
Till he stops at the sign of the Weathervane.
Then the placid surface of village chat,
The talk of the crops, and of this and of that,
Is broken and shivered in different rings
At the news from the south that the horseman brings: "Cornwallis is taken!" Then cheer on cheer
Rings merrily out, and far and near
The people gather, with noise and shout,
While the fifer and drummer go marching about
With a trailing crowd of boys and men;
And the flag is raised at the tavern then,
And shakes to the breeze with its colors gay,
While the traveler gallops along his way.
The sombre wings of the silent night
Are softly folded. The frosty light
Of a million stars is glittering high,
Like a silver dust on the purple sky.
But now through the hush of the night around Comes the distant sound
Of the measured pound
Of a horse's hoofs on the solid ground.
At first it throbs to the listening ear,
But ever it sounds more full, more clear,
Galloping, galloping, nearer fast,
The rider shouts as he gallops past:
"Cornwallis is taken at York at last."
Then away and away, with a fainter beat
And a duller thud of the horse's feet;
But back through the silent night he hears
The sound of shouts and of ringing cheers.
By noon, by night,
Through the early light
Of the misty morning, fresh and bright-
He gallops by night, he gallops by day,
To Philadelphia far away:
For he brings the news of joy and of cheer
To the Congress of States assembled there.
A bush like death in the silent street;
Not a sound is heard but the lonely beat
Of the queer old watchman, up and down
Through the silence of Philadelphia town.
For the quaint old town lay fast asleep,
All wrapped around with a silence deep;
Only the watch, with his lantern and bill,
Stops as he walks the streets all still,
And gives, with a quavering, sing-song call,
The hours: "Tis two o' the clock, and all
Is well in the morning." The voice rings near
And loud in the silence; then, faint and clear,
Another voice like an echo fell:
"Tis two o' the clock, and all is well
In the morning." Another, another, till
They die in the distance, and all is still,
And the watchman resumes his lonely beat
With swaying light down the silent street.
Then suddenly falls another sound
On the heavy silence that broods around,→
Of galloping feet on the stony ground.
With a clatter of iron hoofs, and a spark
Struck now and then from a stone in the dark,
Past the gleam of the corner light,
He rides, with a flash through the shadows of night
Of steel and buckle and sabre bright.
The President's house stood grim and black,
Where the rider leaped from the horse's back,
And with a hitch of the strap or rein
He knocked at the door and he shouted amain,
With so loud a knock and so brave a shout
That the watch came crowding around, about,
And thought to arrest him out and out
For a tipsy rake on a drunken bout.
The door is opened, a stream of light
Throws a sudden glare on the inky night
That shines on the watch, and a stranger there
All stained with dust, in the flickering glare,
While their breaths go up on the frosty air.
Then he tells his news, in the ruddy glow:
"Cornwallis is taken at York below."
When the watchmen have heard the news, they cry It out with the hours, and far and nigh
It is taken up, until, one by one,
They carry it out through the sleeping town:
"Three o' the clock, and all is well.
Oh, hear the news that I have to tell:
Cornwallis is taken. The news to-day
Was brought from Yorktown, far away.”
At first 'twas the gleam of a single light
That flickered across the dusk of night;
Then footsteps hurrying here and there;
Then a cheer rang out on the frosty air.
Then the seal of silence is broken, and out-
Where the empty night was just before-
Bursts the pent-up life with a mighty roar.
Then rolling down through the darkness, fell
The deep-toned bay of the State-house bell,
With a clash and a loud vibrating tone
That speak of a joy; and, one by one,
The others join in a swell of sound
Of exultation that roars around;
While bonfires, blazing up and down
Through the length and breadth of the shouting town, GG*
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