| Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. |
| You stare |
| In the air |
| Like a ghost in a chair, |
| Always looking what I am about; |
| I hate to be watched—I will blow you out." |
| |
| The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. |
| So deep, |
| On a heap |
| Of clouds, to sleep, |
| Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon— |
| Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon." |
| |
| He turned in his bed; she was there again! |
| On high |
| In the sky |
| With her one clear eye, |
| The Moon shone white and alive and plain. |
| Said the Wind—"I will blow you out again." |
| |
| The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. |
| "With my sledge |
| And my wedge |
| I have knocked off her edge! |
| If only I blow right fierce and grim, |
| The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." |
| |
| He blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread. |
| "One puff |
| More's enough |
| To blow her to snuff! |
| One good puff more where the last was bred, |
| And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!" |
| |
| He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone; |
| In the air |
| Nowhere |
| Was a moonbeam bare; |
| Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; |
| Sure and certain the Moon was gone. |
| |
| The Wind, he took to his revels once more; |
| On down |
| In town, |
| Like a merry-mad clown, |
| He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar, |
| "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more! |
| |
| He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; |
| But in vain |
| Was the pain |
| Of his bursting brain; |
| For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, |
| The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. |
| |
| Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, |
| And shone |
| On her throne |
| In the sky alone, |
| A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, |
| Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night. |
| |
| Said the Wind—"What a marvel of power am I! |
| With my breath, |
| Good faith! |
| I blew her to death— |
| First blew her away right out of the sky— |
| Then blew her in; what a strength have I!" |
| |
| But the Moon, she knew nothing about the affair, |
| For, high |
| In the sky, |
| With her one white eye |
| Motionless, miles above the air, |
| She had never heard the great Wind blare. |
| |
| George Macdonald. |
| 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 tonight, |
| 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 phantom ship, 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, |
| By 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; |
| By 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 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 on 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 harry 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 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 twittering 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 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 forever-more; |
| 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. |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |