DLTK's Poems
The Midnight Ride of
Paul Revere
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.
