Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf 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 alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy 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 hearsThe 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 perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,—Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA 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 stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,—A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn 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 searchThe 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 heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA 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 sparkStruck 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 clockWhen 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 weathercockSwim 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 aghastAt 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 breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho 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 againUnder 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 alarmTo 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 hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
What it means, line by line
Lines 1 to 23: The speaker invites children to hear a story set on April 18, 1775. Revere arranges for lanterns to show which route the British take, then rows to Charlestown to await the signal. The British warship appears ghostlike and threatening; its masts resemble prison bars, giving the quiet crossing a sense of danger.
Lines 24 to 56: Revere’s friend hears troops heading toward boats and climbs the church tower to watch. Shadows, startled pigeons, and the graveyard slow the action and build suspense. The dead are imagined as soldiers in a silent camp. His brief uneasiness gives way to urgent attention when he spots a dark line of boats on the water.
Lines 57 to 80: Across the water, Revere’s restless movements show his impatience. He watches the tower until a second lantern confirms the British route by sea. The pace quickens as he rides. A spark from his horse’s hoof becomes a symbol of the warning spreading into widespread resistance, linking one rider’s action to the nation’s future.
Lines 81 to 110: Hoofbeats beside the river, animals, fog, and moonlight give the ride a vivid setting. Village clocks track Revere through Medford at midnight, Lexington at one, and Concord at two. These peaceful details contrast with signs of coming bloodshed. The sleeping man who will die at the bridge makes the approaching conflict personal and tragic.
Lines 111 to 130: The speaker briefly describes farmers fighting British troops from fences, walls, and roadsides, then returns to Revere’s warning. The ending presents his cry as defiance rather than fear. Moving beyond that particular night, the speaker imagines the sound of his ride continuing to awaken courage whenever people face danger.
