Listen my Children…

A repeat, but timely.

The Eighteenth of April in ’75… William W. Longfellow wrote a series of poems called “Tales from a Wayside-Inn” a bit like the Decameron without the naughty-stories. Most of the poems are forgotten, but one has endured…

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

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.

I can’t easily find the recording I want of this – It has part of this poem, and part of Emerson’s “Concord Hymn” and for the life of me I can’t remember who composed it.



16 thoughts on “Listen my Children…

    • This is the one I was thinking of, by Roy Ringwald. The tempo is a “bit” faster than I’ve done it.

      Your link sent me hunting, and that led to what I was looking for. 🙂 Thanks!

  1. Thank you for this!

    I of course remember the famous “bits,” but at 76 had forgotten…if I ever before realized…quite how powerful a piece of writing this really is.

    Sometimes you (I) cry when experiencing art/music/words, because the moment is sad (the king’s death in The King and I) and sometimes because…well, I started out “Oh, this’ll be a fun to read again childhood memory” and then I got caught up, and swept away with the rhythm and the images of a not-yet-nation afraid but ready, on the eve of battle. By the time I was done with the poem, I was crying…a lot. Cathartic in a way, perhaps, but…what an incredible talent.

    Again thanks, for the opportunity to fully experience this for the first time.


      • OMG. I love that song, but I never knew who wrote it. The Calontir song site credited it to Pat Garvey and Victoria Armstrong… who at the time of writing, were married, and singing under the name “Mr. and Mrs. Garvey.” They teamed up with the New Christy Minstrels sometimes, which is why NCM recorded one of their songs. John Denver also recorded their song “Fugacity” under the name “Sugacity.”

        But the marriage broke up, and Victoria remarried to another singer-songwriter folk guy. They formed another duo called “Dan and Vicky,” but never really made it big. Victoria also re-recorded the Garvey material on her own solo CDs, later in life.

        And apparently, these groups were the main inspiration for “Mitch and Mickey” in the movie A Mighty Wind. That’s why I didn’t get it; I never had been exposed to either group. (Although of course there were many fine man/woman duos in the folk genre, such as Peggy Seeger and Ewan McColl. Whose marriage also broke up.)

        • My dad liked the New Christy Minstrels and the Kingston Trio. We had about four or so of their albums, and my brothers and I played them over and over and over and over and…. anyway, I hadn’t heard this one until just couple of months ago..

          • I grew up with them, Odetta, The Limelighters, Ian and Sylvia, Judy Collins, Peter, Paul, and Mary . . . And classical music. MomRed likes ballads, Dad likes classical and some jazz.

  2. I did not realize that much of Longfellow’s work had been lost to time and chance.
    I knew I kept running into the same few, but figured it was just the nature of anthologies..
    I haz the sadz.

  3. While Longfellow is nice, can I be the only person who wants to read “Mike & Rich vs Cthulhu”? 😈

    That has to be better than Real Life! 👿

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