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The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere: A Revolution Begins

The Semiquincentennial of the American Revolution, Part One.

The American Revolution, a pivotal event in history, was a time of great change and upheaval in the United States. It marked the birth of a new nation and set the stage for the principles of democracy and freedom we hold dear today. Friday, 18 April 2025, a momentous day that marked the 250th anniversary of Paul Revere's midnight ride to warn Lexington and Concord: "The British are coming!"

I dedicate this post to all of us who share a deep love for American history, genealogists I met through Ancestry.com, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and my fellow writers in the Mindful Writing Group.

Paul Revere’s Ride

By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807—1882)

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 to the tower of the church, Up 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 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 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 that flies 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 when 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 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 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.

The History of Paul Revere's Ride

In the quiet hours of the night on 18 April, 1775, the air was thick with tension, and the moon cast a ghostly light over the streets of Boston. Paul Revere, a silversmith by trade and a devoted member of the Patriot cause, received a clandestine message from Joseph Warren, one of the leading figures of the Sons of Liberty. Warren had learned that the British Army was preparing to march, and the colonists needed to be alerted. The fate of the fledgling nation rested on their readiness to respond.

As the clock struck a late hour, Revere mounted his horse, his heart racing with fear and resolve. Just days before, whispers of British intentions had filled the taverns and salons of Boston, provoking fears of a crackdown on the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, which had gathered in Concord to strategize their growing resistance. Little did they know how close the enemy was.

Earlier that day, Revere had arranged a plan with Robert Newman, the sexton of the Old North Church, to signal the townspeople. They had devised a simple yet effective code: one lantern if the British came by land, two lanterns if they came by sea. Two lanterns flickered to life in the church tower as the clock struck midnight. This signal traveled through the darkness, setting the stage for the urgent race against time.

Revere crossed the Charles River by rowboat, quietly slipping past the HMS Somerset, the British warship that lay at anchor, obscured by the shadows. The water was cold, but a fire was in his belly, urging him onward. Once he reached Charlestown, he wasted no time, hopping onto his horse, and with a swift kick of the heels, he rode hard towards Lexington. His mission now was to inform the colonists and ignite a spark of rebellion in their hearts.

As he rode through the stillness of the countryside, Revere’s voice cut through the darkness like a clarion call. “The British are coming!” he shouted as he raced from house to house, pounding on doors and waking families—some half-asleep, others terrified. His words were met with disbelief and determination; the Patriots began to rouse from their homes, grasping their muskets and gathering their courage.

In the shadows, his route wound through present-day Somerville, Medford, and Arlington, each town transformed into a center of mobilization. Along the way, he enlisted the help of fellow patriots, men, and boys who shared his fervor for freedom. He encountered familiar faces, and soon, he was not alone; fellow riders joined him, each committed to spreading the urgent news across the land.

As dawn approached, he had company in the form of William Dawes, who had set out on his mission. Together, they galloped toward Lexington, their mounts pounding against the dirt roads, sending dust clouds into the air. But danger lurked around every corner—British patrols were searching for them, tasked with detaining any Patriot who might foil their plans.

In one particularly harrowing moment near Somerville, Revere and Dawes were nearly caught by a British patrol. They ducked and weaved through back alleys, their breath coming in quick gasps as they skillfully evaded capture. During this chaos, Revere remembered the somber sight of a displayed corpse, a local slave who had met a tragic fate, a stark reminder of the turbulent world they were entangled in. It fueled his resolve; this was a personal mission and part of a larger struggle against oppression.

After a narrow escape, they were joined by Samuel Prescott, who would ride with them towards Concord. The three men forged ahead, each bearing the weight of the revolution on their shoulders. They knew the importance of informing their leaders—men like John Hancock and Samuel Adams—who were in danger of capture by the advancing British troops.

The sun began to rise, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, illuminating the path ahead. The ride to Concord became a symphony of urgency, echoing through the fields and into the colonists' hearts. As they passed through towns, the trio shouted their warnings loud and clear, stirring the spirit of resistance among their fellow countrymen. Soon, Revere’s call to arms became a rallying cry, inspiring many more riders to take up the charge until there were probably as many as 40 riders spreading the news throughout Middlesex County.

When the British troops landed, chaos had turned to action among the colonists. Groups of men gathered in Lexington and Concord, readying themselves for the impending confrontation. When the British Army finally made their way towards Lexington, they were met not with fear but with defiance—a testament to the collective will of the American spirit ignited by Revere’s harrowing ride.

Later, as the coffeehouses and taverns filled with tales of gallantry, the night of 18 April would be immortalized in various forms, including Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s famous poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride.” Although some details were romanticized in the retelling, the essence of bravery and the fight for freedom remained intact—a spirit that took root in the budding nation.

As we approach the Semiquincentennial of the American Revolution, we remember that fateful night that began a fight for liberty that would resonate through generations. Paul Revere’s midnight ride was more than just a warning; it was a flashpoint for a revolution that sought to carve out a new identity for a nation forged through the fires of courage and sacrifice. It reminds us of the sacrifices made and the enduring love for freedom that binds us all.

About Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Upon his return, he published his first significant poetry collections, Voices of the Night in 1839 and Ballads and Other Poems in 1841. By the age of 47, Longfellow decided to step away from the classroom, choosing to devote his life to writing. This decision brought him to reside in a historic home in Cambridge, Massachusetts—the very headquarters of George Washington during the Revolutionary War. Here, amidst the echoes of the past, he poured his heart into verses that would resonate for generations.

However, life was not without its sorrows for Longfellow. He faced devastating loss when his first wife, Mary Potter, tragically died in 1835 after a heartbreaking miscarriage. His second wife, Frances Appleton, whom he adored dearly, suffered a tragic fate in 1861 when her dress caught fire, leading to her untimely death. In the wake of such heartache, Longfellow grappled with the words that once flowed so freely from his pen. For a time, he turned his focus to translating works from foreign languages, seeking solace in the voices of other poets.

Longfellow’s writing style was as eclectic as his experiences. He deftly navigated the realms of lyric poetry, experimenting with various forms and structures, including hexameter and free verse. His works sang melodiously, echoing the principles he often articulated: “What a writer asks of his reader is not much to like as to listen.” In these lines, one could hear his deep understanding of poetry as music—a symphony of words meant to flow and resonate.

Though intensely private, Longfellow occasionally let fragments of his life seep into his poetry. Notably, his sorrow after losing his daughter Fanny in 1848 manifested in the poignant poem “Resignation.” It stands as a universal expression of mourning, avoiding the confines of personal pronouns to speak to the collective grief of humanity. Similarly, his tribute to Frances, the haunting sonnet “The Cross of Snow,” remained unpublished during his lifetime, a quiet testament to his enduring love and loss.

Longfellow’s poetry began to embody moral teachings as time passed, moving from overt didacticism to a more nuanced exploration of life’s deeper meanings. In his work, he often employed allegory, portraying death as a mere bedtime for a cranky child in his poem “Nature.” His metaphors drew inspiration from a vast tapestry of legends, myths, and literature, from the haunting tales of Norse mythology expressed in “The Skeleton in Armor “ to the rich folklore of Finnish legends that colored The Song of Hiawatha.

While contemporary American issues often felt distant to him, he longed for a national literature that echoed the vastness and diversity of the land. In his novel Kavanagh, a character expresses this yearning with passion, declaring, “We want a national epic that shall correspond to the size of the country…” This strong advocacy for a uniquely American literary identity illustrated his belief in fostering a vibrant artistic culture.

One of Longfellow’s lasting legacies was his role as a translator. His complete translation of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy set a standard and became a cornerstone for those eager to engage with high culture. Moreover, in 1845, he compiled The Poets and Poetry of Europe. This significant anthology brought the beauty of foreign poetry to American readers, many of whom were otherwise inaccessible to such treasures.

By the time he reached the 1870s, Longfellow took on the ambitious project of overseeing a 31-volume anthology titled Poems of Places, gathering verses from around the world. However, his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson expressed disappointment, finding the endeavor less worthy of Longfellow’s talents, suggesting that he was wasting precious time when he could be crafting original works.

Despite the challenges and the weight of loss he bore, Longfellow remained a beacon of literary brilliance. His words echo through the annals of time, inviting readers to pause, listen, and reflect on the beauty and complexity of life. His legacy endures, a testament to the power of poetry and the deep connections it fosters across generations. Ultimately, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s story is one of resilience, artistry, and an unwavering dedication to the written word.

Coming Up...

As we gather to reflect on this 250th anniversary, we honor the courage and resilience of those who fought for their beliefs and freedoms. This isn't just a tale of battles and strategies; it’s a story of the human spirit yearning for liberty, a story that resonates even today.

I invite you to join me on this exploration of the American Revolution—a time when ordinary individuals became extraordinary leaders, taking a stand for future generations. Together, let’s delve into the events that shaped our nation and celebrate the enduring ideals of freedom and justice that continue to inspire us.

Let’s remember the legacy of those brave souls who dared to dream of a better future. Tomorrow, we embark on this enlightening journey together!

See you tomorrow!

NOTE: My thanks to WordPress AI for generating the illustrations for this post. My thanks also to Poetry.com and Wikipedia.com. Thank you to my writing compadres, the Mindful Writers. Thanks to all of my history teachers for igniting in me a love for US History, especially the American Revolution. And to the Daughters of the American Revolution.

Source: The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere: A Revolution Begins

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