The stem, defiant tongue of Adams sprang
That eloquence whose echoes thundered back
From Concord, Lexington, and Bunker's Hill!
Between those years and ours a century lies;
Those patriot's graves are deep with moss and mould,
And yet these walls—the same whose shadows fell
Athwart the crimson snow where Preston charged[3]—
Still cast their shadows; not on troops, nor mob
Exasperated by their wrongs, but on
A jostling, hurrying throng—freeman each one,