I spent
the weekend in a grandfatherly pleasure celebrating my twin granddaughter' 17th
birthday. They live in an historic area of colonial Massachusetts.
Not this
time, but in the past I've stayed at the Colonial Inn in Concord. It was
originally built in 1716 and if you let yourself drift into silent thought
within the quiet of the early evening you can hear the ancient clank of pewter
mugs and muffled conversation of revolution and sedition from the tavern bar
down below.
Not too
far away was the battle of North Bridge when Colonial minutemen exchanged fire
with the British Red Coats and the surge to independence was on.
Just down
the road are the graves of many Concord notables. Thoreau, Emerson, Hawthorne,
and Alcott.
Concord
is a place where history sings, yet the tune today is modern. It is a quaint
village with little shops and an abundance of community life. It’s only nineteen miles from Boston along the old Lexington
Road. Paul Revere was headed to Concord and Lexington when British Soldiers
stopped him.
I found
myself rereading Longfellow’s Paul Revere’s Ride. Henry takes a little poetic license since Revere
never made it Concord or Lexington. Enjoy.
Paul
Revere's Ride
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 he
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, black 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 meadow 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 redcoats 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 for evermore!
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.
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