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 church-yard, 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.

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 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 farm-yard 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 Middlesex village and farm,—

A cry of defiance and not of fear,

9179

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.

THANGBRAND THE PRIEST

From The Saga of King Olaf in Tales of a Wayside Inn'

There in Iceland, o'er their books

Pored the people day and night;
But he did not like their looks,

Nor the songs they used to write.
"All this rhyme

Is waste of time!"

Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the skalds and saga-men:

Is it to be wondered at

That they quarreled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer

Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?

All the folk in Altafiord

Boasted of their island grand;

Saying in a single word,

"Iceland is the finest land

That the sun

Doth shine upon!"

Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

And he answered, "What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town!"
Every skald

Satires scrawled

On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Something worse they did than that:

And what vexed him most of all

Was a figure in shovel hat,

Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go

Sprawling below,

"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."

Hardly knowing what he did,

Then he smote them might and main;

Thorvald Veile and Veterlid

Lay there in the alehouse slain.

"To-day we are gold,

To-morrow mold!"

Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

Much in fear of axe and rope,

Back to Norway sailed he then.
"O King Olaf! Little hope

Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,

With bending head,

Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.

KAMBALU

The Spanish Jew's Tale' in Tales of a Wayside Inn'

I

NTO the city of Kambalu,

By the road that leadeth to Ispahan,
At the head of his dusty caravan,
Laden with treasure from realms afar,
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
Rode the great captain Alau.

The Khan from his palace window gazed,

And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised,
The flash of harness and jeweled sheath,

And the shining scimitars of the guard,

And the weary camels that bared their teeth, As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred. Into the shade of the palace-yard.

Thus into the city of Kambalu

Rode the great captain Alau;

And he stood before the Khan, and said:-
"The enemies of my lord are dead;

All the Kalifs of all the West

Bow and obey thy least behest;

The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,
The weavers are busy in Samarcand,
The miners are sifting the golden sand,
The divers plunging for pearls in the seas,
And peace and plenty are in the land.

"Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone,
Rose in revolt against thy throne:

His treasures are at thy palace-door,

With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore; His body is dust o'er the desert blown.