And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
But from the parlor of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir; Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all
The splendor of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlor large and low.
It was now Mr. Lemon's turn, and he read:
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 somber rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall,
A SECOND LAMP IN THE BELFRY BURNS!
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 somber and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry 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
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