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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, &ldquo;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&mdash; 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.&rdquo; Then he said, and with muffled ear 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,&mdash; 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&rsquo;s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent. And seeming to whisper,

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,&mdash; 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&rsquo;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 arose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry&rsquo;s height A glimmer&mdash;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&rsquo;s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog. That rises after the sun goes down.