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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409602" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Landlord's Tale; Paul Revere's Ride</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Listen, my children, and you shall hear <br>Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, <br>On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;<br>Hardly a man is now alive <br>Who remembers that famous day and year. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He said to his friend, 'If the British march <br>By land or sea from the town to-night, <br>Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch <br>Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--<br>One, if by land, and two, if by sea;<br>And I on the opposite shore will be,<br>Ready to ride and spread the alarm<br>Through every Middlesex village and farm,<br>For the country folk to be up and to arm.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then he said, 'Good night!' and with muffled oar<br>Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,<br>Just as the moon rose over the bay,<br>Where swinging wide at her moorings lay<br>The Somerset, British man-of-war;<br>A phantom ship, with each mast and spar<br>Across the moon like a prison bar,<br>And a huge black hulk, that was magnified<br>By its own reflection in the tide. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,<br>Wanders and watches with eager ears,<br>Till in the silence around him he hears<br>The muster of men at the barrack door,<br>The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,<br>And the measured tread of the grenadiers,<br>Marching down to their boats on the shore. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,<br>By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,<br>To the belfry-chamber overhead,<br>And startled the pigeons from their perch<br>On the sombre rafters, that round him made<br>Masses and moving shapes of shade,--<br>By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,<br>To the highest window in the wall,<br>Where he paused to listen and look down <br>A moment on the roofs of the town,<br>And the moonlight flowing over all. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,<br>In their night-encampment on the hill,<br>Wrapped in silence so deep and still<br>That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,<br>The watchful night-wind, as it went<br>Creeping along from tent to tent,<br>And seeming to whisper, 'All is well!'<br>A moment only he feels the spell<br>Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread<br>Of the lonely belfry and the dead;<br>For suddenly all his thoughts are bent<br>On a shadowy something far away,<br>Where the river widens to meet the bay,--<br>A line of black that bends and floats<br>On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,<br>Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride<br>On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.<br>Now he patted his horse's side,<br>Now gazed at the landscape far and near,<br>Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,<br>And turned and tightened his saddle girth;<br>But mostly he watched with eager search<br>The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,<br>As it rose above the graves on the hill,<br>Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.<br>And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height<br>A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!<br>He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,<br>But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight<br>A second lamp in the belfry burns! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A hurry of hoofs in a village street,<br>A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,<br>And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark<br>Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:<br>That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,<br>The fate of a nation was riding that night;<br>And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,<br>Kindled the land into flame with its heat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He has left the village and mounted the steep,<br>And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,<br>Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;<br>And under the alders, that skirt its edge,<br>Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,<br>Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was twelve by the village clock,<br>When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.<br>He heard the crowing of the cock,<br>And the barking of the farmer's dog,<br>And felt the damp of the river fog,<br>That rises after the sun goes down. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was one by the village clock,<br>When he galloped into Lexington.<br>He saw the gilded weathercock<br>Swim in the moonlight as he passed,<br>And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,<br>Gaze at him with a spectral glare,<br>As if they already stood aghast<br>At the bloody work they would look upon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was two by the village clock,<br>When he came to the bridge in Concord town.<br>He heard the bleating of the flock,<br>And the twitter of birds among the trees,<br>And felt the breath of the morning breeze<br>Blowing over the meadows brown.<br>And one was safe and asleep in his bed<br>Who at the bridge would be first to fall,<br>Who that day would be lying dead,<br>Pierced by a British musket-ball. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You know the rest. In the books you have read,<br>How the British Regulars fired and fled,--<br>How the farmers gave them ball for ball,<br>From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,<br>Chasing the red-coats down the lane,<br>Then crossing the fields to emerge again<br>Under the trees at the turn of the road,<br>And only pausing to fire and load. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So through the night rode Paul Revere;<br>And so through the night went his cry of alarm<br>To every Middlesex village and farm,--<br>A cry of defiance and not of fear,<br>A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,<br>And a word that shall echo forevermore!<br>For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,<br>Through all our history, to the last,<br>In the hour of darkness and peril and need,<br>The people will waken and listen to hear<br>The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,<br>And the midnight message of Paul Revere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409602" data-title="Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Landlord's Tale; Paul Revere's Ride de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="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 ..."></div>
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