The Landlords Tale. - Paul Revere's Ride. - The Wayside Inn - Part First

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    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 the tower of the Old North Church,
    By 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 at 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 farm-yard 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.



    INTERLUDE.

    The Landlord ended thus his tale,
    Then rising took down from its nail
    The sword that hung there, dim with dust
    And cleaving to its sheath with rust,
    And said, "This sword was in the fight."
    The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,
    "It is the sword of a good knight,
    Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;
    What matter if it be not named
    Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,
    Excalibar, or Aroundight,
    Or other name the books record?
    Your ancestor, who bore this sword
    As Colonel of the Volunteers,
    Mounted upon his old gray mare,
    Seen here and there and everywhere,
    To me a grander shape appears
    Than old Sir William, or what not,
    Clinking about in foreign lands
    With iron gauntlets on his hands,
    And on his head an iron pot!"

    All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red
    As his escutcheon on the wall;
    He could not comprehend at all
    The drift of what the Poet said;
    For those who had been longest dead
    Were always greatest in his eyes;
    And be was speechless with surprise
    To see Sir William's plumed head
    Brought to a level with the rest,
    And made the subject of a jest.
    And this perceiving, to appease
    The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears,
    The Student said, with careless ease,
    "The ladies and the cavaliers,
    The arms, the loves, the courtesies,
    The deeds of high emprise, I sing!
    Thus Ariosto says, in words
    That have the stately stride and ring
    Of armed knights and clashing swords.
    Now listen to the tale I bring
    Listen! though not to me belong
    The flowing draperies of his song,
    The words that rouse, the voice that charms.
    The Landlord's tale was one of arms,
    Only a tale of love is mine,
    Blending the human and divine,
    A tale of the Decameron, told
    In Palmieri's garden old,
    By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
    While her companions lay around,
    And heard the intermingled sound
    Of airs that on their errands sped,
    And wild birds gossiping overhead,
    And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall,
    And her own voice more sweet than all,
    Telling the tale, which, wanting these,
    Perchance may lose its power to please."