Year: 1875

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-ive Hardly man is now alive

 Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend 'If the British marcl By land or sea from the town tonight, Hang lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower, as signal light One, if by land and two, if by sea; And on the opposite shore will be Ready to ride andspread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and arm." Then he said [" Goodnight !" and with muffiet | oar l 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 prison bar, And huge black hulk, that was magnifed By it's own reflection in the tide.

 Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and

 street, l Wanders and watches with eager ears l 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 tower overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch, On the somber rafters, that round him make 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 moon flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped ill silence so deep and still That he could hear, like the sentinels tread, The watohful nlght-wind as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper 1" All is well!" 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 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 bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred with 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 somber and still, And To as he looks, on the belfry's height glimmer, and then gleam of light He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But fingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp ill the belfry burns. hurry of hoofs in the village street, shape in the moonlight, bulk in tho dark And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, Struck out by stced flying fearless and feet That was all And yet through the gloom and

 the light

 The fate of nation was riding that night And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight

 Kindled theland into flame with it's 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 it's 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 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 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 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 ovor 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, voice in the darkness, knock at the door And 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.

 HENRY WADswoRTH LoNaFELLow. 

 A Homicide in Stamford, Conn.

 Arthur Slater, aged about twenty