Paul Revere poem {The complete poem}

[webkinzro]

LISTEN,my children and you will hear 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 in tge belfry arch
Of the North Church tower,as a signal light, -
One,if byland,and two,if by sea:
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through ever Middle village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and 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 and at her moorings lay
Thw Somerset,British man-of-war;
A phantom ship,with each mast and spar
Across the moonb like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk,that was magnified
By it's own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile,his friend,through the alley and street
Wanders and watched with eager ears,
Till in the silence around hum him he hears'The muster of meb at the barrack door,
The sound of arms,and the stomps of feet,
And the measured thread of the grenadiers,
Marching down their boats on the shore.


Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
by the wooden stairs,with stealthy thread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the piegons from their perch
On the somber 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 all 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 thread,
The watchful night-wind,as it went creeping along from ent to tent,

And seeming to whisper,"All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and hour,the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On the rising tidee,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 tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with earger search,
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral 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 the lingers and gazes,till full on his sight
A second lamp in berfly burns!

A hurry of hoofs int he village,
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 the nation was riding that night;
And the spark struckout by that steed,in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with it's heat.

He left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneat him tranguil 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 hoofbeats of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve b the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the chicken,
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 meeting-house windows,blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral gaze,
As if they alreadystood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitterof 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 laying 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,
Then crossing the field to emerge again
Under trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So though the night rode Paul revere;
And so though the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middle village and farm,--
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness,a knock at the door,
and a word shallecho forevermore!
For,borne on the night-wind of past,
Though 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-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-messsage of Paul Revere.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,1860.


If your doing a project on Paul Revere this poem is idea for it!☺☻☺☻


~Webkinzro

[alleycat123]

Oh my gosh!! That's awesome!! REP FOR YOU!!