And the mower thinks to him
Cry both bell and drum,
"Morgan Stanwood, where art thou?
Here th' invaders come!"
"Morgan Stanwood" need no more
Bell and drum-beat call;
He is one who, hearing once,
Answers once for all.
Ne'er the mower murmured then,
"Half my grass is mown,
Homespun isn't soldier-wear,
Each may save his own."
Fallen scythe and aftermath
Lie forgotten now;
Winter need may come and find
But a barren mow.
Down the musket comes. "Good wife,—
Wife, a quicker flint!"
And the face that questions face
Hath no color in 't.
"Wife, if I am late to-night,
Milk the heifer first;—
Ruth, if I'm not home at all,—
Worse has come to worst."
Morgan Stanwood sped along,
Not the common road;
Over wall and hill-top straight,
Straight to death, he strode;
Leaving her to hear at night
Tread of burdened men,
By the gate and through the gate,
At the door, and then—
Ever after that to hear,
When the grass is sweet,
Through the gate and through the night,
Slowly coming feet.
Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone;
Here the door-step lies;
One may stand thereon and think,—
For the thought will rise,—