Paul Revere's Ride. (Verse printed as Prose.) 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 phantomship, 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 Old North 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,-up 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. 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 farmyard wall, chasing the red-coats down the lane, then crossing the field 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 nightwind 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 Feast of Belshazzar. (Abridged.) : (Verse printed as Prose.) High on a throne of ivory and gold, from crown to footstool clad in purple fold, Lord of the East from sea to distant sea—the King, Belshazzar, feasteth royally vessels of silver, cups of crusted gold, blush with a brighter red than all they hold; pendulous lamps, like planets of the night, fling on the diadems a fragrant light. No lack of goodly company was there, no lack of laughing eyes to light the cheer. It seemed, no summer-cloud of passing woe could fling its shadow on so fair a show; it seemed the gallant forms that feasted there were all too high for woe, too great for care. Whence then the anxious eye, the altered tone, the dull presentiment no heart would own? It is not that they know the spoiler waits, harnessed for battle, at the brazen gates; it is not that they hear the watchman's call mark the slow minutes on the leagured wall: the clash of quivers and the ring of spears make pleasant music in a soldier's ears; and not a scabbard hideth sword to-night, that hath not glimmered in the front of fight.-May not the blood in every beating vein have quick fore-knowledge of some coming pain? even as the prisoned silver, dead and dumb, shrinks at cold Winter's footfall ere he come. The King is troubled, and his heart's unrest heaves the broad purple of his belted breast: sudden he speaks—“What! doth the beaded juice savour like hyssop, that ye scorn its use? wear ye so pitiful and sad a soul that tramp of foemen scares ye from the bowl? Think ye the gods, on yonder starry floor, tremble for terror when the thunders roar? Are we not gods have we not fought with God? and shall we shiver at a robber's nod? No!-let them batter till the brazen bars ring merry mocking of their idle wars; their fall is fated for tomorrow's sun; the lion rouses when his feast is done :—crown me a cup-and fill the bowls we brought from Judah's temple when the fight was fought:-drink, till the merry madness fills the soul, to Salem's conqueror, in Salem's bowl!" His eager lips are on the jewelled brink—hath the cup poison that he doubts to drink? is there a spell upon the sparkling gold, that so his fevered fingers quit their hold? Whom sees he where he gazes? What is there-freezing his vision into fearful stare? There cometh forth a Hand !—upon the stone graving the symbols of a speech unknown; fingers like mortal fingers !leaving there the blank wall flashing characters of fear ;—and still it glideth silently and slow, and still beneath the spectral letters grow!—now the scroll endeth-now, the seal is set— the Hand is gone!—the record tarries yet. With wand of ebony and sable stole, Chaldæa's wisest scan the spectral scroll: strong in the lessons of a lying art, each comes to gaze, but gazes to depart; and still, for mystic sign and muttered spell, the graven letters guard their secret well; gleam they for warning ?-glare they to condemn ?-God speaketh, but He speaketh not for them. Oh! ever; when the happy laugh is dumb, all the joy gone, and all the anguish come ;-when strong adversity and subtle pain wring the sad soul and rack the throbbing brain ;—when friends once faithful, hearts once all our own, leave us to weep, to bleed, and die alone;-when fears and cares the lonely thought employ, and clouds of sorrow hide the sun of joy ;when weary life, breathing reluctant breath, hath no hope sweeter than the hope of death;-then, the best counsel and the best relief to cheer the spirit or to cheat the grief,—the only calm, the only comfort heard, comes in the music of a Woman's word :—like beacon-bell, on some wild island-shore, silvery ringing in the tempest's roar, whose sound, borne shipward through the midnight gloom, tells of the path, and turns her from her doom. So, in the silence of that awful hour, when baffled magic mourned its parted power-when Kings were pale and Satraps shook for fear-a Woman speaketh--and the wisest hear. She the high daughter of a thousand thrones, telling, with trembling lip and timid tones, of him-the Captive, in the feast forgot, who readeth visions-him, whose wondrous lot sends him to lighten doubt and lessen gloom, and gaze undazzled on the days to come-Daniel the Hebrew,-such his name and race, held by a monarch highest in his grace, he may declare-oh!—bid them quickly send !—so may the mystery have happy end! Calmly and silent-as the fair full moon comes sailing upward in the sky of June-so through the hall the Prophet passed along, so from before him fell the festal throng. His lip was steady and his accent clear, "The King hath needed me, and I am here." "Art thou the Prophet? read me yonder scroll whose undeciphered horror daunts my soul :-there shall be guerdon for the grateful task, fitted for me to give, for thee to ask ;— a chain to deck thee, and a robe to grace,-thine the third throne, and thou the third in place." "Keep for thyself the guerdon and the gold-what God hath graved, God's Prophet shall unfold! Could not thy father's crime, thy father's fate, teach thee this terror thou hast learnt too late? Hast thou not read the lesson of his life, 'Who wars with God shall strive a losing strife? Ay! when his heart was hard, his spirit high, God drove him from his kingly majesty, far from the brotherhood of fellow-men, to seek for dwelling in the desert den: where bitter-biting frost and dews of night schooled him in sorrow, till he knew the right—that God is ruler of the rulers still, and setting up as sovereign whom He will. Oh! hadst thou treasured, in repentant breast, thy father's pride, fall, penitence and rest, and bowed submissive to Jehovah's will, then had thy sceptre been a sceptre still. But thou hast mocked the majesty of heaven, and shamed the vessels to its service given; and thou hast fashioned idols of thine own-idols of gold, of silver, and of stone: to them hast bowed the knee, and breathed the breath, and they must help thee in the hour of death. Woe for the sign unseen, the sin forgot! God was among ye, and ye knew |