Paul Revere
- Arguably the first FReeper - he didn't even have dial-up but he had a horse and lantern and made historic use of both.
Posted on 04/18/2015 10:14:35 AM PDT by gusopol3
The Landlord's Tale; 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 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 Reve
Wow. That looks very weird but is well recited:)
That was pretty cool. Thanks. By ‘animation’, I was expecting a cartoon or CGI of the actual ride, but this was a pleasant surprise.
I had always heard that it was actually "The Regulars are coming" or "The Regulars are out".
Good call.
Interesting...and a great poem!
Longfellow was a poet and a mythologist in the sense that he created wonderful poetry about our history, to create a warm sense of connection with it.
He was not, however, trying to be an accurate historian. This is why Sarah Palin was unfairly mocked after repeating what she’d heard at a historical presentation of Paul Revere’s ride.
My ancestors were John Alden and Priscilla Morrison, so we listened to Longfellow’s “The Courtship of Miles Standish” and enjoyed it very much, but we giggled at the historical outlandishness.
This is a great book:
http://www.amazon.com/Paul-Reveres-David-Hackett-Fischer/dp/0195098315
Ride, ride though the night be cold,
Ride, ride 'til the truth be told,
Ride, ride like that man of old,
Ride like Paul Revere.
In '75, upon an April night,
The air was chilly and the moon shown bright;
They rowed him past the man-o-war,
Landed on the Charlestown shore,
Where the finest steed was ready for
The Ride of Paul Revere.
Ride, ride though the night be cold,
Ride, ride 'til the truth be told,
Ride, ride like that man of old,
Ride like Paul Revere.
He knew the British had the road patrolled,
Set out for Cambridge with a spirit bold;
He met two Regulars face-to-face,
Turned about at a lightning pace,
Until those men gave up the chase
And on rode Paul Revere.
Ride, ride though the night be cold,
Ride, ride 'til the truth be told,
Ride, ride like that man of old,
Ride like Paul Revere.
Arrived in Medford Town at 12 o'clock
And there alerted Adams and Hancock;
Ev'ry house, didn't miss a one,
Was aroused on that midnight run,
All the way to Lexington
On the ride of Paul Revere.
Ride, ride though the night be cold,
Ride, ride 'til the truth be told,
Ride, ride like that man of old,
Ride like Paul Revere.
But there were many who remained in bed
And, in history, their names are dead;
When faith and freedom within you die,
And when you hear the midnight cry,
And hoofbeats cross the moonlit sky,
Will you ride with Paul Revere?
Ride, ride though the night be cold,
Ride, ride 'til the truth be told,
Ride, ride like that man of old,
Ride like Paul Revere.
Nice
But he did sneak back and help John Hancock escape arrest.
How old do you have to be to even know this happened?
My understanding is that Palin was mocked for saying Revere told the British that the militia was gathering, which he did when captured by a British scouting party and his horse taken. He was released when the scouting party fearing being attacked by a large force of militia returned to their base.
I am also a direct descendant of John Alden and Priscilla Mullins through their great-granddaughter, Sarah Alden who married Seth Brett. Yes, Longfellow’s “The Courtship of Miles Standish” is fiction.
My third grade teacher told us it was “here come the Limey bastards!”
Easter was on April 16th that year so the moon would have been a bit past full. Easter is always on the Sunday after the first full moon of spring (Northern hemisphere anyway), but that means full moon could have been any night from April 9 to April 15. It could have been just past full or already past third quarter by April 18th--in the latter case it wouldn't have risen until around midnight.
Sorry - I wrote “Morrison” when I meant “Mullins.” The other name just came out because she’s an author of a book I recently read!
I am descended from Elizabeth, their second daughter, and William Pabodie.
Second child, first daughter. Sigh.
Paul Revere
- Arguably the first FReeper - he didn't even have dial-up but he had a horse and lantern and made historic use of both.
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