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LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
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Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
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On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
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Hardly a man is now alive
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Who remembers that famous day and year.
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He said to his friend, ‘If the British march
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By land or sea from the town to-night,
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Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
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Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
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One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
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And I on the opposite shore will be,
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Ready to ride and spread the alarm
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Through every Middlesex village and farm,
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For the country folk to be up and to arm.’
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Then he said, ‘Good-night!’ and with muffled oar
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Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
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Just as the moon rose over the bay,
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Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
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The Somerset, British man-of-war;
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A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
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Across the moon like a prison bar,
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And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
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By its own reflection in the tide.
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Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
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Wanders and watches with eager ears,
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Till in the silence around him he hears
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The muster of men at the barrack door,
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The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
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And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
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Marching down to their boats on the shore.
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Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
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By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
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To the belfry-chamber overhead,
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And startled the pigeons from their perch
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On the sombre rafters, that round him made
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Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
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By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
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To the highest window in the wall,
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Where he paused to listen and look down
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A moment on the roofs of the town,
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And the moonlight flowing over all.
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Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
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In their night-encampment on the hill,
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Wrapped in silence so deep and still
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That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
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The watchful night-wind, as it went
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Creeping along from tent to tent,
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And seeming to whisper, ‘All is well!’
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A moment only he feels the spell
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Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
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Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
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For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
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On a shadowy something far away,
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Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
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A line of black that bends and floats
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On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
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Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
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Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
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On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
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Now he patted his horse’s side,
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Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
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Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
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And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
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But mostly he watched with eager search
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The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
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As it rose above the graves on the hill,
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Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
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And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
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A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
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He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
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But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
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A second lamp in the belfry burns!
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A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
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A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
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And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
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Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
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That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
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The fate of a nation was riding that night;
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And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
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Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
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He has left the village and mounted the steep,
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And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
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Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
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And under the alders that skirt its edge,
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Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
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Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
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It was twelve by the village clock,
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When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
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He heard the crowing of the cock,
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And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
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And felt the damp of the river fog,
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That rises after the sun goes down.
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It was one by the village clock,
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When he galloped into Lexington.
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He saw the gilded weathercock
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Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
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And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
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Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
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As if they already stood aghast
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At the bloody work they would look upon.
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It was two by the village clock,
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When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
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He heard the bleating of the flock,
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And the twitter of birds among the trees,
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And felt the breath of the morning breeze
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Blowing over the meadows brown.
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And one was safe and asleep in his bed.
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Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
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Who that day would be lying dead,
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Pierced by a British musket-ball.
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You know the rest. In the books you have read,
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How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
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How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
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From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
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Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
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Then crossing the fields to emerge again
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Under the trees at the turn of the road,
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And only pausing to fire and load.
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So through the night rode Paul Revere;
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And so through the night went his cry of alarm
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To every Middlesex village and farm,—
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A cry of defiance and not of fear,
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A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
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And a word that shall echo forevermore!
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For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
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Through all our history, to the last,
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In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
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The people will waken and listen to hear
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The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
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And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
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