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 aman 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 row'd 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 ahuge, 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 climb'd 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 somber rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade; Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down Amoment on the roofs of the quiet town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapp'd 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, Andseeming to whisper, "All is well!" Amoment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, 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 bayAline of black, that bends and floats Onthe rising tide, like abridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurr'd, with aheavy stride, Onthe opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Nowhe patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamp'd the earth, Andturn'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth; But mostly he watch'd with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and somber, and still. And, lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, Aglimmer, and then agleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight Asecond lamp in the belfry burns! Ahurry of hoofs in avillage street, Ashape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by asteed 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. It was twelve by the village clock, When he cross'd 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 rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, 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 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 farmAcry of defiance, and not of fear- Avoice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And aword that shall echo for evermore! 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-beat of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.