'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And—“ Gallop!" gasp'd Joris,—“ for Aix is in sight!
"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan,
Roll'd neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,—
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, lean'd, patted his ear,
Call'd my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;
Clapp'd my hands, laugh'd and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland gallop'd and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees, on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.
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 row'd 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 climb'd to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And started the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
Up the light ladder, slender 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,
Wrapp'd 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, 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 spurr'd, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamp'd the earth,
And turn'd, and tighten'd his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watch'd, 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 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 Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he cross'd 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 rode into Lexington:
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd,
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 work 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-beat of that steed
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
1807-
BARCLAY OF URY.
Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college-green,
Rode the Laird of Ury ;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Press'd the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeer'd at him the serving girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carline, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he pass'd her.
Yet with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And to all he saw and heard
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.
|