By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowListen 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.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
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 saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, black and bare, Gaze at him with a spec...
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