Poems of American Patriotism. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 to 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 rode 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,

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