Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 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, It was one by the village clock, 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 So through the night rode Paul Revere; A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, I STOOD On the bridge at midnight, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection And far in the hazy distance Among the long, black rafters, The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing A flood of thoughts came o'er me How often, O how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, |