“Paul Revere’s Ride” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow






Last night was the 238th anniversary of Paul Revere’s Ride & today is the 238th anniversary of Lexington & Concord and the “Shot Heard Round the World.

So read some classic poetry by Longfellow today!



Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


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 he 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, black 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 meadow 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 redcoats 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 for 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.





The Innkeeper poem –free short video

John Piper, reading his short poem, “The Innkeeper.” This story is eleven minutes long, but if you are looking for something shorter to show for church or other event, there is a link to a shorter version of it in the link below.

https://www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/hope-for-the-hurting-this-christmas-video

“To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet (first American poet)

I love the “to my husband” poem written by the first American poet, Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672). It is a poem that she wrote to her husband that I would like to share with readers today on my and Ray’s thirtieth wedding anniversary.

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more tham whole Mines of gold,
Or al the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee maniforld, I pray.
Then while we live, in love lets so prsever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

day 98: rhyming word dictionary

Ending our posts on National Poetry Month–((https://languagelady365.blogspot.com/2011/04/day-83-national-poetry-month-part-i-of.html ).

No poet is equipped without his or her handy rhyming dictionary! The one I have linked below is a thorough adult version. Very impressive.

There are rhyming word dictionaries (the one we have is softcover from Scholastic–and is very thorough for a student) for children as well.

Check this one out for adults: https://www.amazon.com/Complete-Rhyming-Dictionary-Including-Poets/dp/0440212057

day 97: poetry handbook

More for National Poetry Month ((https://languagelady365.blogspot.com/2011/04/day-83-national-poetry-month-part-i-of.html ).

If you are interested in learning more about writing poetry or improving the poetry you do write, you might want to obtain the poetry handbook described below. I like trying different kinds than I normally write (which are nearly alwyas rhymed verse of fairly “normal” rhyme schemes–ABAB, AABBCC, ABCB, etc.). A handbook such as this one helps me learn about other styles–and challenges me to give them a try!

There are many handbooks out there–but the one below received rave reviews, is not too long, and is written by an award-winning poet.

Amazon.com Review: This slender guide by Mary Oliver deserves a place on the shelves of any budding poet. In clear, accessible prose, Oliver (winner of both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award for poetry) arms the reader with an understanding of the technical aspects of poetry writing. Her lessons on sound, line (length, meter, breaks), poetic forms (and lack thereof), tone, imagery, and revision are illustrated by a handful of wonderful poems (too bad Oliver was so modest as to not include her own). What could have been a dry account is infused throughout with Oliver’s passion for her subject, which she describes as “a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind.” One comes away from this volume feeling both empowered and daunted. Writing poetry is good, hard work.

 
 

https://www.amazon.com/Poetry-Handbook-Mary-Oliver/dp/0156724006

Tomorrow–tips on getting started writing or teaching poetry.

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