Paul Revere was one of the heroes of the American rebellion against the British, which re-
sulted in all the North American Colonies, except Canada, becoming independent and form.
ing into the United States of America. His great ride is vividly described in this fine poem
by Longfellow. Note how the poet in the fourth, seventh, and tenth verses changes from
the past to the present tense. This is done to make the story more graphic-to quicken its
action. The Middlesex referred to is a district in America named after the English county.
ISTEN, 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.
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Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager cars;
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arm, 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,
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, 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 spurr'd, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horses' side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near;
Then, impetuous, stamp'd the earth,
And turn'd and tightn'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, and bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second light 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 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 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 pass'd,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and
bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As they had 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 word that shall echo 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-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Originally written in German, this little humorous poem was adapted into English verse by Thackeray, the great novelist. THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much, and sorrowed more,
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this serious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, "The mystery I've found-
I'll turn me round"-he turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain-it mattered not a pin-
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right and left, and round about,
And up and down and in and out
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,
The pigtail hangs behind him.
JOY OF LIFE
Mary Russell Mitford was a famous English writer, both of poetry and prose, who died in 1855. These bright verses on the happiness of Nature's life were written by her. HE sun is careering in glory and might,
Mid the deep blue sky and the clouds so
bright;
The billow is tossing its foam on high,
And the summer breezes go lightly by;
The air and the water dance, glitter, and
play-
And why should not I be as merry as they?
The linnet is singing the wild wood through, The fawn's bounding footsteps skim over the dew,
The butterfly flits round the blossoming tree, And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee:
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay,
And why should not I be as merry as they?
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You rascal, what are you about?"
Said he, when he had turned him out.
"I'll teach you soon," the lion said,
"To make a mouse-hole in my head!"
So saying, he prepared his foot
To crush the trembling tiny brute;
But he (the mouse) with tearful eye,
Implored the lion's clemency,
Who thought it best at last to give
His little pris'ner a reprieve.
'Twas nearly twelve months after this,
The lion chanced his way to miss ;
When pressing forward, heedless yet,
He got entangled in a net.
With dreadful rage, he stamped and tore,
And straight commenced a lordly roar ;
When the poor mouse, who heard the noise,
Attended, for she knew his voice.
Then what the lion's utmost strength
Could not effect, she did at length;
With patient labour she applied
Her teeth, the network to divide ;
And so at last forth issued he,
A lion, by a mouse set free.
Few are so small or weak, I guess,
But may assist us in distress,
Nor shall we ever, if we're wise,
The meanest or the least despise.
The author of this wonderful poem, William Blake, was a man of strange thoughts. Here he expresses the great wonder of Nature that God who made the gentle lamb made also the awful tiger of the jungle, with eyes of fire, and all the terrible power of limb and body. It is, indeed, a poem of that wonder which leaves us dumb before the works of the Creator.
TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night!
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the ardour of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire-
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
Did God smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?"
"Where are you go-ing to, my pret-ty maid?' Go-ing a-milk-ing, sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "sir," she said,
Going a-milk-ing, sir," she said.
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