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Listen my children,and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On
the eightenth of April,in Seventy-five: Hardly a man os now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his
friend,:If the British march By land or by sea from the town tonight,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North
Church tower as a signal light,- One,if by land,two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore 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 goonight with
muffled roar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings
lay
The,SOMERSET 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 thentide. Meanwhile,his friends through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eger 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 grnadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stais,with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch ON the somber rafters,that round him amde 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 the churchyard,lay the dead,
In their
night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in the 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 a 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's tower of the Old North Church.
As it rose above the graves on the hill. Lonely and spectral and sombre still.
And lo!as he looks,on the belfry height A glimmer and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle,the bridle 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
struckmout by that steed,in his flight, Kindled the land to flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him,trnquiland 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 trmp 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 farmers
dog.
And he 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,blankand 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 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
Rvever: And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and arm,- 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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