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 were 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 saddlegirth;

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 Med

ford 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 Con-
cord 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.

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.

INTERLUDE.

THE Landlord ended thus his tale,
Then rising took down from its nail
The sword that hung there, dim with
dust,

And cleaving to its sheath with rust,
And said, "This sword was in the fight."
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,
"It is the sword of a good knight,
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;
What matter if it be not named
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,
Excalibar, or Aroundight,

Or other name the books record?
Your ancestor, who bore this sword
As Colonel of the volunteers,
Mounted upon his old gray mare,
Seen here and there and everywhere,
To me a grander shape appears
Than old Sir William, or what not,
Clinking about in foreign lands
With iron gauntlets on his hands,
And on his head an iron pot!"

All laughed; the landlord's face grew red

As his escutcheon on the wall;

He could not comprehend at all
The drift of what the Poet said;
For those who had been longest dead
Were always greatest in his eyes;
And he was speechless with surprise
To see Sir William's plumed head
Brought to a level with the rest,
And made the subject of a jest.
And this perceiving, to appease
The Landlord's wrath, the other's fears,
The Student said, with careless ease,
"The ladies and the cavaliers,
The arms, the loves, the courtesies,
The deeds of high emprise, I sing!
Thus Ariosto says, in words
That have the stately stride and ring
Of armed knights and clashing swords.
Now listen to the tale I bring;
Listen! though not to me belong
The flowing draperies of his song,
The words that rouse, the voice that
charms.

The Landlord's tale was one of arms,
Only a tale of love is mine,
Blending the human and divine,
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri's garden old,
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
While her companions lay around,
And heard the intermingled sound
Of airs that on their errands sped,
And wild birds gossiping overhead,
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall,
And her own voice more sweet than all,
Telling the tale, which, wanting these,
Perchance may lose its power to please."

Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed

The river Arno, like a winding road, And from its banks were lifted high in air

The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair;

To him a marble tomb, that rose above His wasted fortunes and his buried love. For there, in banquet and in tournament,

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent,

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped,

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, The ideal woman of a young man's dream.

And dreamily before his half-closed sight

Floated the vision of his lost delight. Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird Dreamed of the chase, and in his

slumber heard

The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings that dare

The headlong plunge through eddying gulfs of air,

Then, starting broad awake upon his perch,

Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a

church,

And, looking at his master, seemed to say,

"Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?"

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; The tender vision of her lovely face,

I will not say he seems to see, he sees, In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild,

Coming undaunted up the garden walk, And looking not at him, but at the hawk, "Beautiful falcon!" said he, "would that I

Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!"

The voice was hers, and made strange

echoes start

Through all the haunted chambers of his heart,

As an æolian harp through gusty doors Of some old ruin its wild music pours.

"Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said,

His hand laid softly on that shining head.

"Monna Giovanna-Will you let me

stay

A little while, and with your falcon play?

We live there, just beyond your garden wall,

In the great house behind the poplars tall."