Never mind the geography and rhyming and rhythm, etc. . . .
Listen my children and you shall hear:
Of the Palin ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Barely any Joe sixpack is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his buddy, "If the Commies march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the lighthouse dome
Of the seaside village 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 Alaskan village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled roar
Silently speedboated to the Wasilla shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Siberia, Commie 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 soldiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Arkhangelsk light,
By the lino stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the lighthouse level overhead,
And startled the eagles 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 across to another Russian town.
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, on the clifftop, stayed 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 lighthouse 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 gloved, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his Skidoo's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and rotated his throttle grip;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The lighthouse tower of the Arkhangelsk town,
As it rose above the corpses on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the lighthouse's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the seat, the throttle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the lighthouse burns.
A hurry of wheels 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 Skidoo 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 Skidoo, 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 spruce trees that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the snow, now loud on the ice,
Is heard the rush of his Skidoo as he rides.
It was twelve by the digital clock
When he crossed the bridge into Juneau city.
He heard the crowing of the ptarmigan,
And the barking of the factory's dog,
And felt the damp of the refinery smog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the digital clock,
When he accelerated into Anchorage.
He saw the gilded weathermoose
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the community hall windows, black 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 digital clock,
When he came to the bridge in Barrow town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the stench of the morning breeze
Blowing over the oilfield 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 Commie rifle ball.
You know the rest. In the picturebooks you have read
How the Commie infantry fired and fled,—
How the hunters drilled them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and minework wall,
Chasing the reds down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to reset and reload.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Alaskan 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'll 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 throttle of that Skidoo,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Tales of a Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Part First, The Landlord's Tale, Paul Revere's Ride
From: Wikisource
Supplementary source: All and any newspapers, magazines.
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