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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere1, 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 muffled2 oar3 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 phantom4 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 alley5 and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster6 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 perch7 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 watchful8 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 dread9 Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent10 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 tightened11 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 spectral12 and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer13, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle14 he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs15 in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles16, 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, Kindled17 the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil18 and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders19, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now load on the ledge20, 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 galloped21 into Lexington. He saw the gilded22 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 bloody23 work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord24 town. He heard the bleating25 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 defiance26, 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 peril27 and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 点击 ![]()
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