COME all Alumni gather round; | |
| I tell of courage high; | |
| Of Nathan Hale, a college boy, | |
| One not afraid to die. | |
| His father a stout yeoman was; | 5 |
| In Coventry his birth; | |
| And never shone the golden sun | |
| On one of loftier worth. | |
| |
| When he entered the halls of Mother Yale, | |
| And trod beneath her elm, | 10 |
| He seemed some heaven-sent Mercury, | |
| With wingèd feet and helm; | |
| For he was tall, well-knit and strong; | |
| No goodlier youth was seen; | |
| And in after years men proudly showed | 15 |
| His leap on the College Green. | |
| |
| The war cry to New London came, | |
| Where Hale sat in his school. | |
| Then straightway rose the hero up; | |
| Left copy-book and rule. | 20 |
| “I’ve passed among you pleasant days; | |
| But those pleasant days are o’er. | |
| My country calls; I leave my books, | |
| And gird me up for war.” | |
| |
| Hale took the guise of schoolmaster, | 25 |
| Wandering in search of work, | |
| ’Neath plain brown clothes and broad-brimmed hat | |
| His purposes must lurk. | |
| He crossed the Sound at Norwalk | |
| When all was still and dark | 30 |
| And safely trod on hostile ground | |
| Ere rising of the lark. | |
| |
| Through English, Hessians, Waldeckers, | |
| He passed in safety on, | |
| Striving their numbers all to note, | 35 |
| And all their works to con. | |
| From Brooklyn he crossed over here | |
| And passed along our streets; | |
| Though every soldier was his foe, | |
| Yet all he calmly meets. | 40 |
| |
| ’Twas early morn, when on the shore | |
| At Huntington he stood, | |
| He waited but the appointed boat | |
| To bear him o’er the flood, | |
| ’Twas close by Jesse Fleet’s. The leaves | 45 |
| Were fluttering on the trees; | |
| The rippling waves in changing curves, | |
| Obeyed the wandering breeze. | |
| |
| His task was done; the risk was run; | |
| His knowledge all secure. | 50 |
| He’d but to cross the Sound again, | |
| And all would then be sure. | |
| A boat comes round the point—’Tis she,— | |
| The bark to bear him o’er. | |
| He stands to wait, in careless ease, | 55 |
| Her progress from the shore. | |
| |
| Too late! too late! he sees his fault.— | |
| The British uniform | |
| Is in the boat; and near must float | |
| Some ship where red-coats swarm. | 60 |
| He turns too late! the sheltering trees | |
| He never more may gain. | |
| “Stand or you die!” He yields perforce,— | |
| And in the boat is ta’en. | |
| |
| Right close they guarded him, and led, | 65 |
| To where, on Murray Hill, | |
| Sir William Howe’s headquarters were, | |
| In Beekman’s mansion still. | |
| Its owner, a true patriot, | |
| Had to Esopus fled. | 70 |
| They seized his house; his halls they rang | |
| To the hated Briton’s tread. | |
| |
| A greenhouse in the garden stood; | |
| They brought the captive there; | |
| The place was shorn of all its flowers, | 75 |
| The tilèd floor was bare. | |
| Bound, but undaunted, waiting doom, | |
| The youthful Captain stood, | |
| Whate’er he felt, his manly front | |
| Betrayed no changing mood. | 80 |
| |
| Short was his trial, sharp his doom— | |
| At daybreak he must die; | |
| They lead him forth to hold secure | |
| Till dawning tints the sky. | |
| Close guarded to his prison cell, | 85 |
| The doors upon him close, | |
| And he is left to think all night, | |
| Or seek disturbed repose. | |
| |
| But see! the first grey streaks of dawn | |
| Come stealing o’er the sky; | 90 |
| Hale leaves his restless couch that he | |
| May dress himself to die. | |
| They come—with calm he meets them, | |
| And walks with firmest tread; | |
| Upright his graceful, manly form, | 95 |
| Uplifted is his head. | |
| |
| In Chambers Street they halted; | |
| The brutal Cunningham, | |
| With negro Dick, his hangman foul, | |
| Their cursèd work began. | 100 |
| There was a graveyard to the north, | |
| And from a branching tree | |
| The fatal noose hangs ready | |
| That’s to set his spirit free. | |
| |
| “My sole regret is that I have | 105 |
| Only one life to give.” | |
| The furious brute laid hands on him, | |
| That he might not longer live.— | |
| We know not where they buried him, | |
| Belike beneath the tree; | 110 |
| But patriot memories cluster there, | |
| Where’er the spot may be. | |
| |
| And still when comes September, | |
| The month that saw his death, | |
| And the forest leaves begin to change | 115 |
| Beneath the frost-king’s breath, | |
| In cottage and in college hall, | |
| Throughout our native land | |
| Let each faithful heart recall thy part | |
| Amidst the patriot band. | 120 |
| |
