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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 he
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, black 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
meadow 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 redcoats 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 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-beats
of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul
Revere.
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