Paul Revere's Ride
Listen,
my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the
eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and
year. He said to his friend,
"If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a
lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a
signal-light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore
will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and
farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where
swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom
ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge
black hulk, that was magnified By
its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with
eager ears, Till in the silence
around him he hears The muster of
men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the
grenadiers Marching down to their
boats on the shore. Then he
climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On
the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By
the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where
he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the
moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and
still That he could hear, like a
sentinel's tread, The watchful
night-wind, as it went Creeping
along from tent to tent, And
seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are
bent On a shadowy something far
away, Where the river widens to
meet the bay, -- A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of
boats. Meanwhile, impatient to
mount and ride, Booted and
spurred, with a heavy stride, On
the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and
near, Then impetuous stamped the
earth, And turned and tightened
his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North
Church, As it rose above the
graves on the hill, Lonely and
spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's
height, A glimmer, and then a
gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his
sight A second lamp in the belfry
burns! 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 that flies 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.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into
Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he
passed, And the meeting-house
windows, blank and bare, Gaze at
him with a spectral glare, As if
they already stood aghast At the
bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord
town. He heard the bleating of the
flock, And the twitter of birds
among the trees, And felt the
breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe
and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day
would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you
have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them
ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats
down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the
turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the
night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A
voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo
forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history,
to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken
and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight
message of Paul Revere.
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