The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1875-05-06
PAUL RIDE.
BY HENnY 1oNerL1c

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
OF the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
the eighteenth day of April, in seventy-hye;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
said to his friend "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to- night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belly arch
OF the North Church tower, as a signal light
One, If by land, and two, if by sea;
And 1 on the opposite shore will be
Ready TO ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm
For the countrywide to be up and arm"
Then he said Goodnight !! and with mufied 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 magnifed
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 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 boat 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 started the pigeons from their perch,
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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 church-yard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like the sentinels tread,
The watchful pight-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper " All is WELT"
Amoment 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
Lime 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 horses side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and frightened his horses 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 lol as he looks, on the belfry's height
4 glimmer, and then a CLEAN Of light
He springs to the saddle, the bride he turns,
But fingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in q village street,
Ashape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing,
Struck out by q 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 its fight
Kindled the land into fame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep
Ia 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.
1t was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town;
He heard the growing of the cock
And the barking of the farmers dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village cloak
When he galoped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the Westinghouse windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with spectral glare,
As If they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
1t was two by the village clock
When he came to the bridge at 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 fed.
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
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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.