Paul Revere’s =
Ride
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
~~
Dr Bob Griffin =
[email protected] =
www.grif.net =
"Jesus =
Knows Me, This I =
Love!"