In seventh grade, Miss Phillips had me memorize "Paul Revere's Ride" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. So I did. After finishing "Jabberwocky" to start off the year of run naming, it seemed obvious what my next effort would be. I calculated that I could arrange to end it on the day of the Boston Marathon, thus neatly tying the verse with the running. And to top it off, the "18th of April" cited in the poem was exactly 250 years ago on Friday.
"Paul Revere's Ride" was first published in The Atlantic Monthly in 1861. |
of the midnight ride of Paul Revereand of my runs like this one here.Hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year,or when the end of this poem shall arrive.By land or sea from the town to-night”They be lost in New Jersey, no turnpike in sight.of the North Church tower as a signal light,—One, if by land, and two, if by sea;But if it be 'puter, then ye shall put three.ready to ride and spread the alarmthe royalists are coming and they mean to do harm!For the country folk to be up and to arm.On up the Park Street and down by the pondto Chester, where merriment and good folk were found.Silently rowed to the Charlestown shoresafe from the royalists and and their childish roar.Where swinging wide at her moorings layAn emperor who would have his way... with each mast and sparacross the moon like a prison bar,that traitorous rogue will go too far.by its own reflection in the tide,For the pacer and the patriot,there's no place left to hide.Wanders and watches with eager ears,wondering what we can do in these years.the muster of men at the barrack door,while the good folk of the country wish back on before.Forgetting their watches, they ran point eight four.and the measured tread of the grenadiers,...already tired of the next few years.By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,the view kept coming, no need to search"Resist! Resist!" he angrily saidAnd startled the pigeons from their perch.and moving shapes of shade,seen through hay-air glasses.to the highest window in the wallfor in the coming fateful brawl,he will see the mighty fall.A moment on the roofs of the townthe sun would soon rise and the breads would be round.Crescent and full, they're having a ball.in their night-encampment on the hillWarning lights blaring red,this couldn't be a drill.that he could hear,like a sentinel's tread,the muskrat's sneeras he left them for dead.creeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!",but veterans all, ’twas bad news to tell.of the place and the hour,A code for unlocking the library’s power.Sixteen falcons thundering overheadPut in the water, a drone menace on the quay.three walkers ramble in a state of dismay.like a bridge of boats coming to destroy, despite our votes.with a heavy stride he knew that those soldiers were on the wrong side.Now he patted his horse's side,no yielding today,he was wholly without fear.Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,Hoping present horrors would give way to rebirth.But mostly he watched with eager searchFive or six hundred? He wondered the worth.above the graves on the hill,his fear for his country grows and grows.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,a somber thought. might is not right.He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns;danger approaches with heighted concerns.a second lamp in the belfry burns!By sea it will bethat good people defeat the tyrant's might.a shape in the moonlight,a bulk in the dark,a sheet on the mark.Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleetFeet flying forward like a harley in heat.And yet, through the gloom and the light,the fate of a nation was riding that night;in two years or late, all will be put right.Kindled the land into flame with its heatfor justice and doing all that is right.And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,are the values and promises we keep.And under the alders, that skirt its edge,trouble may be coming but still hope residesIs heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.Our trusty band stay true to their pledge.When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,he heard the crowing of the cock,running round and roun' the anserine flockWho sniffed a rat come into townAnd felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.when he galloped into Lexingtonwhile everything had gone amok,way down in Washingtonin the moonlight as he passedNo time for talk, too late now,the tyranny would not last.gaze at him with a spectral glareWhen he came to the bridge in Concord town.With a figure of love he took the walkand the twitter of birds among the treesthe sheep felt a shockand the twitter said "Oh Please!"blowing over the meadows brown.Till the running faeries squeezecolors over cap and gown.Who at the bridge would be first to fall,Not from the sleet pelting on his headNor from fog depressing us allpierced by a British musket-ball.Facing a taxing dread,against a tyrant we must still stand tall.how the British Regulars fired and fled,They failed the test as shall we all,if we don't heed the siren call.From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,Poor souls trapped in the tyrant's thrall.Then crossing the fields to emerge againConfused by the tumult of where and when.They’ve trampled good faith,ignored all the code.And only pausing to fire and load.hoping to save values we hold dear.To every Middlesex village and farm,by Essex schools in hurried flight.Shouting a message so powerful, so clear.And a word that shall echo forevermore!Two hundred fifty years to the dayThat echo rings, it won't go away.Through all our history, to the lastThe present is tiny, our future is vast.The people will waken and listen to hearNo matter their sex, gender, color race or creedA message so powerful, so urgent and clear.The crowds of townsfolk who shout and cheerThose who run today and speedthe midnight message of Paul Revere.