[Peace-discuss] Eighteenth of April

[C. G. Estabrook]

     A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
  And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
  Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
  That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
  He has left the village and mounted the steep,
  And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
  Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
  And under the alders that skirt its edge,
  Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
  Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides...

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