Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“Said Prescott: ‘Come and see him
When hang’d[5] and no dispute.’
Who domineers o’er woman’s tears
Is less a man than brute!

“And I, for one, would enter
This British lion’s lair,
And volunteer to fetch him here,
Or die beside him there.”

“Sure death!” his comrades mutter’d;
“The troops guard every road.
A man to try your scheme should fly;
We know no other mode.”

“He quarters now,” said Barton,
“At Overton’s,[6] the Friend’s,
Whose house is by the bay-road nigh
Where by the bay it bends.

“The roads are block’d by soldiers;
We cannot reach him thus.
What then?—A way across the bay
May yet remain for us.

“I know three frigates guard it.[7]
But when, some moonless night,
By clouds beset, the wind and wet
Have swept the sky of light;

“And when the breeze and breakers
Out-sound a rowlock’s beat,
Amid the roar a muffled oar
Might safely pass the fleet.”

His comrades hush’d and heard him;
Then swore to try the feat;
And soon with more each held an oar
To row him past the fleet.[8]

The night was dark and stormy;
The bay was wild and wide;
And, deftly weigh’d, each paddle-blade
Like velvet stroked the tide.

They near’d the English frigates,
They heard their sentries’ feet,
They heard a bell, and then “All’s well”[9]
Re-echo’d through the fleet.

They pull’d around a guard-boat[9];
They struck the land, and then
Filed softly out, and moved about,
Like shadows more than men.

They split in three small parties[10];
And each stole softly round,
A sentry near a guard-house here,
And there a camping ground.

At last the three were guarding
The house on every side,
With six or eight before the gate[13]
They just had open’d wide.

“Your countersign!” a sentry[11]
Call’d out; and Barton said:
“Have none to-night”;—his tone was light—
“Have here deserters fled?”

“Ah, from the boats?” the guard said.
“Yes,” Barton hiss’d, “from one!”
But as he hiss’d he clutch’d, nor miss’d,
The sentry’s throat and gun.

The sentry gasp’d and gave it;
Lay gunless, gagg’d, and bound.
Our men had pass’d the door, at last,
Nor yet had roused a sound.

The Quaker sat there reading[12]
“What would you have?” he said;
Then, when they ask’d for Prescott, cast
His eyes up o’er his head.

As whist as cats the captors
Crept up each tell-tale stair,[13]
And cross’d the floor to where a door
Was lock’d, nor time to spare.

Then one of them—Jack Sisson,[13]
A burly, patriot black—
Bent down his frame, and, taking aim,
Burst through, and flung it back.

They saw the general starting,[14]
And bounding forth from bed,
And seizing hold his watch of gold
That hung beside his head.

“Let darkness take you robbers
From sword,” he cried, “and shot!”
“No robber harms; put up those arms,”
He heard, nor left the spot.

“We came to take you captive,
Alive,” he heard, “or dead.
If you alarm the camp, the harm
Will fall on you,” they said.[14]

“Move on.”—“I dress,” he told them.[15]
But they, in tones polite,
Replied: “Not so. We came, you know,
Without our wives to-night.

“Your cloak is all you need now,
The night is black and hot.
Your last resort—our time too short!—
Thank God you were not shot.”

Down stairs they march’d their captive.
But hark! In some far room
A window crash’d—and Barton dash’d
Out doors and through the gloom.

No harm was done; for others
Had swiftly caught and bound
The general’s aid, just where he made
A leap to reach the ground.[16]

So now they held three captives;
And these, by daggers led,
They slipt about the camp and out,
As needles flit with thread.

At last they reach’d the water,
At last, row’d o’er the tide;
None heard their oars upon the shores,
Or boats by which they hied.

They pass’d the English frigates,
They heard their sentries’ feet,
They heard, “All’s well!” call’d out to tell
How fool’d had been the fleet.[9]

And then their stroke was bolder:
For Warwick Point[17] they bore.
A coach and pair were there to bear
Their captive far from shore.

Here[17] Prescott broke the silence:
“Your push was boldly plann’d.”
Said Barton: “Yes, and with success”;
And took the reins in hand.

Success it was for Newport.
The foe knew all it meant;
They lock’d no more a prison door
Against our innocent.

Success it was for Barton.
In days like those of old
No envy rife, nor party strife,
Would slur a deed so bold.

Through all our homes in Newport,
Through all our camps afar,
Men praised his name, and hoped he came
As victory’s morning star.

Where Freedom’s day was dawning,
The man, whose light so shone
To bless the land, appear’d more grand
Because he rose alone.

Erelong, a grateful Congress
Chose one that for him brought
A sword on which inscriptions rich
Recorded all they thought.[18]

In green Vermont they gave him
A generous land-grant too.[18]
A part of what we all had got
By fighting, seem’d his due.

But what by far was fittest,
And cheer’d in every tent,
Were words that raised this man we praised
To lead our regiment.[19]

Where few and frail the forces
Our land could call its own,
All felt that he would steadfast be,
And fight, though left alone.

FOOTNOTES

[1] “Brig.-Gen. Prescott ... had been nurtured in the lap of aristocracy, and taught all its exclusive precepts.... He was a tyrant at heart, and, having the opportunity, he exercised a tyrant’s plentiful prerogatives.”—_Lossing’s Pict. Field Bk. of the Rev._, vol. ii., p. 74. “William Barton was a native of Providence, Rhode Island.... Lieutenant-Colonel in the militia of his State ... when he planned and executed the expedition for the abduction of General Prescott,” who commanded the British forces at Newport, Rhode Island.—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[2] “Prescott ... had a fine sidewalk made for his accommodation along Pelham and up Spring streets; for which purpose, he took the door steps.”—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[3] “His habit, while walking the streets, if he saw any of the inhabitants conversing together, was to shake his cane at them, and say: ‘Disperse ye rebels.’ He was also in the habit, when he met citizens in the streets, of commanding them to take off their hats, and, unless the order was instantly complied with, it was enforced by a rap of his cane.”—_Idem_, p. 74.

[4] “He overtook a Quaker who did not doff his hat. The general, who was on horseback, dashed ... him against a stone wall, knocked off his hat, and then put him under guard.”—_Idem._

[5] “Prescott caused many citizens of Newport to be imprisoned, some of them for months, without any assigned reason. Among others ... William Tripp.... He had a ... family, but the tyrant would not allow him to hold any communication with them either written or verbal.... His wife sought ... a personal interview.... A captain, ... echoing his master’s words ... informed her, as he shut the door in her face, that he expected her husband would be hung as a rebel in less than a week.”—_Idem._

[6] “General Prescott was quartered at the house of a Quaker, named Overton.”—_Idem_, p. 75.

[7] “These were three British frigates with their guard-boats ... almost in front of Prescott’s quarters.”—_Idem._

[8] “With a few chosen men, Barton embarked in four whale boats with muffled oars at Warwick Point at nine o’clock in the evening.”—_Idem._, p. 75. “Mr. Barton, by request, furnished me with the following list of the names of those who accompanied his father on his perilous expedition. OFFICERS.—Andrew Stanton, Eleazer Adams, Samuel Potter, James Wilcox. NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS.—Joshua Babcock and Samuel Phillips. PRIVATES.—Benjamin Pren, James Potter, Henry Fisher, James Parker, Joseph Guild, Nathan Smith, Isaac Brown, Billington Crumb, James Haines, Samuel Apis, Alderman Crank, Oliver Simmons, Jack Sherman, Joel Briggs, Clark Packard, Samuel Cory, James Weaver, Clark Crandall, Sampson George, Joseph Ralph, Jedediah Grenale, Richard Hare, Darius Wale, Joseph Denis, William Bruff, Charles Hassett, Thomas Wilcox, Pardon Cory, Jeremiah Thomas, John Hunt, Thomas Austin, Daniel Page (a Narraganset Indian), Jack Sisson (black), and—Howe or Whiting, boat-steerer.”—_Idem_, p. 76. _Note._

[9] “They heard the cry: ‘All’s well,’ from the guard-boat of the enemy as they passed silently.”—_Idem_, p. 76.

[10] “Barton divided his men into several squads.... The main portion passed ... between a British guard-house and the encampment of a company of light-horse, while the remainder was ... to approach Prescott’s quarters from the rear.”—_Idem._

[11] “As Barton and his men approached the gate, a sentinel hailed them twice, and then demanded the countersign. ‘We have no countersign to give,’ Barton said, and quickly added: ‘Have you seen any deserters here to-night?’ The sentinel was misled by this question, supposing them to be friends ... until his musket was seized, and himself bound and menaced with instant death if he made any noise.”—_Idem._

[12] “Barton entered the front passage boldly. Mr. Overton sat alone reading.... Barton inquired for Gen. Prescott’s room. Overton pointed upward, signifying that it was directly over.”—_Idem_, p. 77.

[13] “With four strong men and Sisson, a powerful negro ... Barton ascended the stairs, and gently tried the door. It was locked; no time was to be lost ... the negro drew back ... and using his head for a battering-ram, burst open the door at the first effort.”—_Idem._

[14] “The general supposing the intruders to be robbers, sprang from his bed, and seized his gold watch that was hanging upon the wall. Barton ... told him he was his prisoner, and that perfect silence was now his only safety.”—_Idem._

[15] “Prescott begged time to dress, but it being a hot July night, and time precious, Barton refused acquiescence, feeling that it would not be cruel to take him ... where he could make his toilet ... at his leisure. So, throwing his cloak around him ... the prisoner was hurried to the shore.”—_Idem._

[16] “Prescott’s aid, hearing the noise in the general’s room, leaped from a window to escape, but was captured.”—_Idem._

[17] “At Warwick Point ... Prescott first broke the silence by saying to Col. Barton: ‘Sir, you have made a bold push, to-night.’ ‘We have been fortunate,’ coolly replied Barton. Captain Elliot was there with a coach to convey the prisoners to Providence.”—_Idem._

[18] “For that service Congress honored him by the presentation of a sword, and also by a grant of land in Vermont.”—_Idem_, p. 75. _Note._

[19] “And on the 24th of December following he was promoted to the rank and pay of colonel in the Continental army.”—_Idem_, p. 77.

MISCELLANEOUS.

A SONG ON SINGING.

A SUPPOSED IMPROMPTU.

The board is bare, the lights are low,
My songs are sung, but, ere we go,
One more I bring, and answer so
Your kindly plaudits ringing.
No wealth and rank belong to me,
But yet, where thought and word are free,
The voice alone a power may be,
And rule the world by singing.

How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong,
And rare and regal rose in song,
The call sublime that roused the strong
From hut and hamlet springing,
Like avalanches launch’d in might,
Where thunder shakes an Alpine height,
Resistless down its path of white,
Has right been led by singing.

How oft, when sounds of war awoke,
And wide as earth a vision broke
Of sword and gun in flash and smoke,
And flags o’er freemen springing;
Where few escaped the foeman’s power,
As fail’d the chief and fell the tower,
The land has yet survived the hour
When nerved anew by singing.

All else, at last, with death may meet,—
Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat,
Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet,
When victory’s cheers are ringing;
But e’en the dead whose deeds inspire
The minstrel, o’er the grave or pyre
May rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire,
And lead their race through singing.

Nor less the power of song, when peace
Has dawn’d apace, and hopes increase,
As men in thrall have found release,
Their fetters from them flinging.
Oh, what could make their thanks complete,
Did crowds exultant fail to meet
In great Town Hall, or village street,
And shout their joy in singing!

Or when sad souls the wine would quaff
Of mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh,
What sparkling draughts in their behalf,
The comic bard comes bringing!
And ever, round the social board,
As full the foaming pledge is pour’d,
See how good-will the heart could hoard
Is lavish’d with the singing.

How blest are homes, all fill’d with song,
The mother’s hum, the choral strong,
The hymn that bears great thoughts that throng
Where all pure hope is winging!
How heaves the breast in air so sweet,
How thrills the blood it fills to meet,
While all the spirit bounds to greet
The joys of life in singing!

There let sweet love a pair ensnare
With dainty dreams of visions fair,
Wherein, like wings athrob the air,
Rare wedding bells are ringing.
Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart,
What tunes upon the lip will start,
As if true love could not impart
Such sweets except through singing!

The cares may come that track success,
Or storms of swift and full distress
May make of life a wilderness,
A flood of anguish bringing;
The sorrows of the soul will rise,
And pour their woe through weeping eyes,
And drain at last the source of sighs,
When hearts o’erflow in singing.

If doubt and vice with cloud and tide
Surround a wretch whose father’s pride
And mother’s love have wellnigh died,
And sister’s hands are wringing,
Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar,
He too may heed the friendly shore,
Where others, won from woes before,
Their heartfelt praise are singing.

Through mists that, like a shroud around,
In densest folds the soul had bound,
My life has known a song to sound,
Nerve dying hope by ringing
As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell
Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell—
The soul they would have borne to hell
Was warn’d from it by singing.

A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,
Were earth that knew no songs of glee;
And what would heaven beyond it be
If anthems ne’er were springing
From voices there, where funeral knells
Are sweeter far than marriage bells
To love call’d hence that ever dwells
Within the sound of singing!

The wise who once thought heavenly spheres,
As all unroll’d their store of years,
Woke music through their atmospheres
That soft and far was ringing;
Heard subtler music, it may be,
Where love rules all, yet all are free,
And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree,
For all beat time in singing.

Ah, when no lights of life remain,
As dimly death’s cold draft we drain,
How sweetly then will sound the strain
From heaven through darkness winging,
Where choirs above through endless years
Praise love that ransoms all from fears
Nor asks for aught, save what to seers
Appears to be glad singing!

But stay—to keep below with men
The minstrel knows not how nor when.
Here end I then—yet once again
Let echoes answer, ringing
To that which lulls the babe at birth,
And voices all the good of earth,
Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—
Eternal sway to singing!

THE MUSIC OF LIFE.

Music round the world is ringing,
Sweeter ne’er is heard by man;
Music angel hosts were singing,
Ere the morning stars began;
Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music,
Music one awakes to hear
Trailing on a train of echoes
O’er a mild and moonlit meer;
More it moves than martial marches,
More than gleams of long-lost hope,
More than suns to glory lifting
Dew they draw from plain and slope;
Music ’tis that thrills us only
In the art that hearts control,
When the breath of ardor holy
Softly stirs a sighing soul.

Music in the breast is bringing
Every soul its own reward,
Like the lute’s that tunes to singing
Only tones that with it chord.
Let the heart devoid of pleasure
Throb as throbs its rhythmic beat,
Soon will joys that none can measure
Round it and within it meet,—
Joys without in those about it,
Joys within, that pulsing come,
Firm of tread as warriors marching
Where before them rolls the drum;
Known by inward senses only,
Only known like bliss above,
Life of life and order holy,
Sounds the music soft of love.

MY IDEAL.

She came: she went: ’twas all a dream,
A groundless hope, a barren scheme;
And yet a dearer dream did seem
Than ever made a dawn seem drear.
She tuned sweet music in my breast,
Till every sad or joyous guest,
That sway’d it once, with wondering rest,
Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near.

She came: she went: a beam sublime
That, straying toward a sunless clime,
Trembled along the edge of Time
And then in fright sped back amain.
Ah, wherefore came she if to go!
I had not known the half of woe
Had I not felt that heavenly glow,
And, match’d with it, found earth so vain.

She came: she went: I know I dream’d;
Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d;
But yet how dear the future seem’d,
And, though it was the world, how real!
Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon,
And change to night what had been noon!
Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon
To grant to me a form ideal?

CAGED.

Our jest and gossip ceased at last;
It seem’d as if my lips were fast.
Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then;
My mind could only think, “Amen.”
But soon she cried out, “How absurd!”
And laugh’d, whereat her little bird
Caught up the music of the word,
And trill’d an echo, loud and long,
Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song.

“That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!—
Flew in the window here, one spring.
We caught and caged him, and he grew
The sweetest pet that ever flew;
I hold my finger toward him so,
And down he flies and lights, you know,
And pecks my hair and lips, and oh,
How jauntily—you ought to see—
He perks his head and chirps for me!

“Last year, he flew away, one day,
And then, the scene we had! the way
We wept for him; and search’d the town!
And how it made the neighbors frown
The twentieth time we ask’d for him!
But, just as day was growing dim,
He lit on yonder ash-tree limb;
And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew;
Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!”

With this again she laugh’d at him;
And I,—I thought the room grew dim;
And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,—
For I—I know one other bird
That longs and longs to fly to you;
And, dearest, you may cage it, too;
’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.”
And then she blush’d, and then she wept,
And then this bird of love she kept.

WHATEVER THE MISSION OF LIFE MAY BE.

Whatever the mission of life may be,
Let love keep true, and let thought keep free,
And never, whatever may cause the plan,
Enlarge the calling to lessen the man.
The cut of a coat,
Cant chatter’d by rote,
A priestly or princely state remote
From the ties that bind
A man to mankind,
Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind;
For God, who made us, made only a man,
No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan.
Far better a friend that is friendly to God,
Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod.

Help on no ways nor words that extol
The vise of a bias that binds the soul;
No rank held up by holding down
True worth as an underling stript of his crown;
No cause with a lie
For a party-cry
To catch the low or to court the high;
No life with a creed
That ends all the need
Of knowing or growing in thought or deed.—
Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of light
Can abide your waiting and grow more bright.
Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought:
Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

THE DESTINY-MAKER.

She came; and I who linger’d there,
I saw that she was very fair;
And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d,
There rose a trembling wish for rest.
But I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
I turn’d me to my task and wrought,
And so forgot the passing thought.

She paused; and I who question’d there,
I heard she was as good as fair;
And in my soul a still, small voice
Enjoin’d me not to check my choice.
But I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
I bade the gentle guardian down,
And strove to think about renown.

She left; and I who wander, fear
There comes no more to see or hear;
Those walls that ward my paradise
Are very high, nor open twice.
And I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
Can only wait without the gate
And sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”

DRAMATIC.

HAYDN.

This poem was suggested by the tale entitled “A First Love,” in the “Musical Sketches” of Elize Polko. Her authority for the narrative was the historical fact that the wife of Haydn had a sister who was beloved by him, and who entered a convent. My own authority for the imagined connection indicated in the poem between the marriage of Haydn and the influence of the father and the priest, is derived from such passages as these, which may be found in every biography of the musician: “Forced to seek a lodging” (_i.e._ when a boy in Vienna), “by chance he met with a wig-maker, named Keller, who had often noticed and been delighted with the beauty of his voice at the Cathedral, and now offered him an asylum. This Haydn most gladly accepted; and Keller received him as a son.... His residence here had, however, a fatal influence on his after life.... Keller had two daughters; his wife and himself soon began to think of uniting the young musician to one of them; and even ... ventured to name the subject to Haydn.... He did not forget his promise to his old friend Keller, of his marrying his daughter.... But he soon found that she ... had ... a mania for priests and nuns.... He was himself incessantly annoyed and interrupted in his studies by their clamorous conversation.... At length he separated from his wife, whom, however, he always, in pecuniary concerns, treated with perfect honor.” _Biographical Dictionary of Musicians_, 2 vols., London, 1827.

Such facts, taken in connection with the well-known piety of Haydn, are a sufficient warrant, as I think, for my supposing that “priests and nuns” who so annoyed him had had something to do with drawing into a convent that member of the family whom he had loved the most. In the poem I have endeavored to bring the personality of the musician before the mind of the reader by using the name Haydn, rather than his baptismal name, Joseph.