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 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. [Illustration] WARREN'S ADDRESS. BY JOHN PIERPONT. Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,--ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you!--they're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!--and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may,--and die we must: But, oh where can dust to dust Be consign'd so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr'd patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell? [Illustration] [Illustration] NATHAN HALE. BY FRANCIS M. FINCH. To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armèd sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns, By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.