Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/438

Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,
First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
"I'll borrow your tools, my friend," he said,
"And temper these blades if I lose my head!"

So he wrought away till the sun went down,
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: "I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather." A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.
"Say on. I never have shirked," said he;
"What may this wonderful task—work be?"

"To go by the light of the evening star
On an urgent errand, swift and far—
From town to town and from farm to farm
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!
Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten, upon your way!"
He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
"Ere the clock strikes nine," said Gershom Beach,
"Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;