Part 5 (2/2)

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 sh.o.r.e 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 lighted 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 the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in pa.s.sing, 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 had 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 c.o.c.k And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river's fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weatherc.o.c.k Swim in the moonlight as he pa.s.sed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 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 Middles.e.x 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.

BY SPECIAL REQUEST.

BY FRANK CASTLES.

_A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish Att.i.tude._

Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, ”by special request,”

but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very small _repertoire_, and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do?

(_Pause._) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ----; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him--the ”Mercy”

speech from the ”Merchant of Venice,” and Juliet's ”Balcony scene,” but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost--I mean as he probably was in the flesh.

My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well--”one of my most promising pupils,” but I found that he said that to every one.

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