The Landlord's Tale. - Paul Revere's Ride. - The Wayside Inn - Part First

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 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, 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 farm-yard 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.     INTERLUDE.     The Landlord ended thus his tale,     Then rising took down from its nail     The sword that hung there, dim with dust     And cleaving to its sheath with rust,     And said, "This sword was in the fight."     The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,     "It is the sword of a good knight,     Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;     What matter if it be not named     Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,     Excalibar, or Aroundight,     Or other name the books record?     Your ancestor, who bore this sword     As Colonel of the Volunteers,     Mounted upon his old gray mare,     Seen here and there and everywhere,     To me a grander shape appears     Than old Sir William, or what not,     Clinking about in foreign lands     With iron gauntlets on his hands,     And on his head an iron pot!"     All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red     As his escutcheon on the wall;     He could not comprehend at all     The drift of what the Poet said;     For those who had been longest dead     Were always greatest in his eyes;     And be was speechless with surprise     To see Sir William's plumed head     Brought to a level with the rest,     And made the subject of a jest.     And this perceiving, to appease     The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears,     The Student said, with careless ease,     "The ladies and the cavaliers,     The arms, the loves, the courtesies,     The deeds of high emprise, I sing!     Thus Ariosto says, in words     That have the stately stride and ring     Of armed knights and clashing swords.     Now listen to the tale I bring     Listen! though not to me belong     The flowing draperies of his song,     The words that rouse, the voice that charms.     The Landlord's tale was one of arms,     Only a tale of love is mine,     Blending the human and divine,     A tale of the Decameron, told     In Palmieri's garden old,     By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,     While her companions lay around,     And heard the intermingled sound     Of airs that on their errands sped,     And wild birds gossiping overhead,     And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall,     And her own voice more sweet than all,     Telling the tale, which, wanting these,     Perchance may lose its power to please."