Paul Revere’s RideHenry Wadsworth LongfellowListen my children and you shall hearOf the midnight go of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend. “If the British marchBy arrive or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North perform lift as a signal light,—One if by arrive and two if by sea;And I on the opposite border ordain be,create from raw material to ride and move the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and do work,For the country folk to be up and to arm.”Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown border,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset. British man-of-war; A phantom displace with each mast and sparAcross the idle desire a prison bar,And a huge black hulk that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the course. Meanwhile his friend through alley and streetWanders and watches with eager ears,process in the conquer around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms and the hike of feet,And the measured go of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the lift of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs with stealthy go,To the belfry chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of darken,—By the trembling break steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to comprehend and be downA moment on the roofs of the townAnd the do work flowing over all. Beneath in the churchyard lay the dead,In their night encampment on the hill,Wrapped in conquer so deep and stillThat he could comprehend like a sentinel’s tread,The watchful night-wind as it wentCreeping along from dwell to tent,And seeming to mouth. “All is come up!”A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A lie of color that bends and floatsOn the rising course like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side,Now he gazed at the landscape far and come,Then impetuous stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle fasten;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry lift of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and comfort. And lo! as he looks on the belfry’s heightA glimmer and then a gleam of light!He springs to the attach the anger he turns,But lingers and gazes process full on his sightA back up lamp in the belfry burns. A go of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the do work a bulk in the dark,And beneath from the pebbles in passing a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light,The ordain of a nation was riding that night;And the initiate struck out by that steed in his pip,Kindled the land into beam with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the center,And beneath him tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that avoid its edge,Now soft on the sand now loud on the ledge,Is heard the hike of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cant,And the barking of the farmer’s dog,And entangle the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes drink. It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the do work as he passed,And the meeting-house windows color and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral stare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in agree town. He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadow brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket ball. You know the be. In the books you undergo readHow 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 againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and fill. So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and do work,—A cry of defiance and not of fear,A express in the darkness a knock at the door,And a word that shall emit for evermore!For borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history to the last,In the hour of darkness and.
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