https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/paul-reveres-ride

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 to the tower of the church,
Up 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 on 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 that flies 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 when 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 be 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 farmyard-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.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of a lovely feminine Paul Revere
Who rode an equally famous ride
Through a different part of the countryside
In April, Seventeen Seventy-Seven
A smokey glow in the eastern heaven
A fiery herald of war and slaughter
Came to the eyes of the Colonel's daughter
"Danbury's burning," she cried aloud
The Colonel answered, "Tis but a cloud"
A cloud reflecting the campfire's red
So hush you, Sybil, and go to bed
The door's flung open, a voice is heard
Danbury's burning — I rode with word
Send a messenger, get your men!
His message finished, the horseman then
Staggered wearily to chair
And fell exhausted in a slumber there
The Colonel muttered, and who my friend,
Who is the messenger I can send?
Who is my messenger to be?
Said Sybil Ludington, "You have me."
So over the trails to the towns and farms
Sybil delivered the call to arms,
Up! up! there, soldier! You're needed to come!
The British are marching! — and then the drum
Of her horse's feet as she rode apace
To bring more men to the meeting place
Such is the legend of Sybil's ride
To summon the men from the countryside
A true tale, making her title clear
As a lovely feminine Paul Revere.

I remember learning that poem in elementary school. I wonder if they still teach it.

That poem always gets to me.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=P-6dhICCzcw

quote:

Originally posted by Kravashera:
I remember learning that poem in elementary school. I wonder if they still teach it.

I bet if you could question everyone in the country maybe 1 in a thousand would even know what we are talking about or been exposed to it.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: BamaJeepster,

One of my Grandfathers on my mothers side responded to the Lexington Alarm.

I looked back through my family history. He was 89 when he died, on his death certificate, there was the comment "A Soldier of the Revolution". A more fitting epitaph could not be conceived. Too bad it is not on his grave stone.

Good poem, bad history.

A relative lived in Lexington during the Bicentennial celebration in 1976, in an old home near the center of town and the various festivities. He had a sign made up that read:

"NewtoSig House

Home of the Patriot Isaac Newtosig, who, upon hearing The Alarm, fortified himself with Rum Cake and went to bed, awakening ready for The Battle early on the morning of the 20th."

He delighted in telling that, of the hundreds or even thousands of tourists who came through town during the celebration year, not one got the joke.

It's worth noting that this is also the anniversary of Doolittle's Raid on Tokyo, 18 April 1942.

quote:

Originally posted by 0658:
One of my Grandfathers on my mothers side responded to the Lexington Alarm.

I looked back through my family history. He was 89 when he died, on his death certificate, there was the comment "A Soldier of the Revolution". A more fitting epitaph could not be conceived. Too bad it is not on his grave stone.

That's is just completely awesome... "a soldier of the revolution"!

Timely. I'm listening to the book Bunker Hill by Nathaniel Philbric. Quite an interesting accounting of the events that led up to this and of the battle that ensued though I haven't got to that part yet.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: BRL,

quote:

Originally posted by BRL:
Timely. I'm listening to the book Bunker Hill by Nathaniel Philbric. Quiet an interesting accounting of the events that led up to this and of the battle that ensued though I haven't got to that part yet.

That's a great book - I read the Kindle edition. I usually get whatever Philbrick puts out as soon as it's released.

quote:

Originally posted by 0658:
One of my Grandfathers on my mothers side responded to the Lexington Alarm.

I looked back through my family history. He was 89 when he died, on his death certificate, there was the comment "A Soldier of the Revolution". A more fitting epitaph could not be conceived. Too bad it is not on his grave stone.

You should join Ancestry and post a picture of the gravestone, obituary, and some history of his involvement in the Revolution.

https://www.ancestry.com/