Classic Poem

Sixty full years, if next September come,
Since I was sitting in my attic room;
I knew six weeks of holiday were done,
I knew the work of manhood was begun.

For sixty years to live at some one's cry,
" Go there, my Figaro! " " Come here, my boy! "
" Sleep on your arms, to march at some alarm,
List! if the Redcoats land at Phipps's Farm. "

For sixty years! And now the trumpets cease.
Was not my last appeal the cry for Peace?
Life's bondage over! See there the silent sign!
Quiet for you, my boy, along the line!