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 the tower
of the Old North Church,
By 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 at 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 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.
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 after 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 he 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
farm-yard 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.
