POETS Day! “Paul Revere’s Ride”

It’s Independence Day on a Thursday, so I’ll assume there’s no need to encourage anyone to start the weekend early.

I read The Declaration of Independence to my children every July 4^th and every time I start to choke up at “firm reliance.” It was the ruin of so many of them and the most consequential insistence of agency since Magna Carta. Children should hear it outside of class, hear that resolute voice of Jefferson, press that it’s not a special day because we get to see a fireworks show but that we get to see a fireworks show because it’s a special day.

I don’t know what other celebratory stuff we’ll get up to. I’m thinking about spatchcocking a chicken and cooking it on the grill, weighed down with a foil wrapped brick or two: salt, pepper, a bit of spicy paprika and served with grilled rounds of pineapple over a bed of mixed lettuces and herbs tossed with a red wine or champagne vinaigrette. Maybe some white beans. Hot dogs are the easy celebration ‘Merica food of choice. If you want to overly complicate things, my hot dog sauce recipe is here and only considerably more expensive though way more labor intensive than buying a pre-made store brand.

This week’s poem is a long one, so I’ll be short. Longfellow made myth out of truth, and I’ve not read anything better on his “Paul Revere’s Ride” than Dana Gioia’s essay “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: On ‘Paul Revere’s Ride.’” Years ago, I accidentally plagiarized Gioia. It was a cut and paste accident that was corrected as quickly as possible once realized, but for a horrid five minutes or so I credited myself with one of his quotes instead of crediting myself for a paragraph from an older post I wrote that included one of his quotes with proper attribution. Despite hyper-attentiveness to error regarding the man, I’m not going to quote from his essay here. Gun shy. Follow the link and read the whole thing. It’s short and, as would be expected, edifying.

I’ve made it known that I’m not a big Longfellow fan. I admire him and recognize his worth. He’s just not my cup of tea – I suppose today I should say coffee instead – but when he shines, he shines. Listen to Gioia.

I would like to point out the simplicity of the poem’s title. It’s not epic. It’s not a proclamation of The Ride of Paul Revere or contextualized as The Ride that Sparked a Revolution. Longfellow wanted to cast Revere as a mythic figure, to give us a song of origin, but he well recognized the American spirit. “How the farmers gave them ball for ball.” No Agamemnon. This was a citizen’s contribution.

Happy Independence Day.

Paul Revere’s Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

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 to the tower of the church,
Up 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 on 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 that flies 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 when 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 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 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.