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 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 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.

66

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one of the most famous of American poets and essayists, was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819; died there in 1891. He graduated from Harvard and took up the study of law, but soon gave it up for literature. Among his early writings were a volume of poems in 1844, and "The Vision of Sir Launfal," one of his most beautiful pieces in 1848. His "Biglow Papers" became very popular for their quaint humor and satire. In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor of modern Languages at Harvard. Among his best works are, in addition to those mentioned above, 66 "The Cathedral," 'Heartsease and Rue," "Under the Willows" and "American Ideas for English Readers." His life had many interests in addition to those of literature. The Civil War stirred him deeply and brought forth some of his finest work. He was Minister to Spain, and later Minister to England. He, as well as Longfellow, made a warm place for himself in the hearts of the British people, and after his death a window to his memory was placed in the chapter house of Westminster Abbey. Lowell saw clearly the cleavage between right and wrong, and used with great effect his prose and verse to aid causes that had strongly appealed to him. His pen was his weapon, and he used it well.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
(Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers)

Ο

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST

VER his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away,

First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay;

Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With out faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its Benedicite;

And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us:
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:

'Tis heaven alone that is given away,

'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days,
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and

sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,— In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it;
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
"Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by:

And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,—
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

"Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, "Tis the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow?

PART FIRST

Y golden spurs now bring to me,

mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;

Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;

Here on the rushes will I sleep,

And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim;
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,

And into his soul the vision flew.