The Down Range Forum
Member Section => Down Range Cafe => Topic started by: Solus on April 19, 2017, 03:19:31 PM
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Concord Hymn
By Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
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Yes indeed! Been visiting the Old North Bridge for several years now.
About Forty miles..
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When I first saw the title of the thread I was thinking what the hell is SHRTW day? It didn't take me too long to figure it out.
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I've read this poem (hymn) every time I visit the park.
I get choked up every time...
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Paul Revere's Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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 to-night,
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 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 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 he 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, 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 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 meadow 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 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,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall 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 hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
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Great chance to catch up on history through the eyes of those who care.
Being on the road and making deliveries, I miss out on many of these events until I get here. Sadly, modern media ignores most of what made us what and who we are today.
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As many times as I've read "Paul Revere's Ride", it still give me chills.
One stanza in particular in the "Star Spangled Banner" does also...
"And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,"
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As many times as I've read "Paul Revere's Ride", it still give me chills.
One stanza in particular in the "Star Spangled Banner" does also...
"And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,"
Every single time.
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Don't forget about Sybil Ludington.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of a lovely feminine Paul Revere
Who rode an equally famous ride
Through a different part of the countryside
In April, Seventeen Seventy-Seven
A smokey glow in the eastern heaven
A fiery herald of war and slaughter
Came to the eyes of the Colonel's daughter
"Danbury's burning," she cried aloud
The Colonel answered, "Tis but a cloud"
A cloud reflecting the campfire's red
So hush you, Sybil, and go to bed
The door's flung open, a voice is heard
Danbury's burning — I rode with word
Send a messenger, get your men!
His message finished, the horseman then
Staggered wearily to chair
And fell exhausted in a slumber there
The Colonel muttered, and who my friend,
Who is the messenger I can send?
Who is my messenger to be?
Said Sybil Ludington, "You have me."
So over the trails to the towns and farms
Sybil delivered the call to arms,
Up! up! there, soldier! You're needed to come!
The British are marching! — and then the drum
Of her horse's feet as she rode apace
To bring more men to the meeting place
Such is the legend of Sybil's ride
To summon the men from the countryside
A true tale, making her title clear
As a lovely feminine Paul Revere.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sybil_Ludington
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Paul Revere was badly discredited as a result of the failed Penobscot exposition.
He was one of the commanders .
The ships were caught by the British in Penobscot Bay so the troops took to shore, lost all organization and straggled back to Mass through the woods.
Revere returned alone having misplaced his entire command.
As a result there is no general mention of him except his ride.
It was also Revere who printed and circulated the classic propaganda picture of the Boston Massacre.
His shop also got the contract for the copper sheeting for the hull of USS Constitution.
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Really liking this thread...not that I started it, but what others are adding.
What great men and women were committed to the creation of this nation.
.... “mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred Honor,”....risking so much for an idea and ideal that changed the world.
Not just men...there were women who fought as men, served as spies and hand stitched a flag...
Our heroes today are just as valuable....they are so much better prepared and supported, they guard and protect rather than create our nation....
To steal a bit form Mike B's signature they "stand on the shoulders of those who Stood before"...
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All the American battle flags were hand stitched by local ladies until about WW II.