| |
| 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. | 5 |
| |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
| |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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 | 95 |
| 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. | 100 |
| |
| 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 | 105 |
| 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. | 110 |
| |
| 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, | 115 |
| 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 | 120 |
| 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, | 125 |
| 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. | 130 |
| |
