And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 50 The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1858. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE Listen, my children, and you shall hear 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, 10 One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 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, 21 Now he patted his horse's side, As it rose above the graves on the hill, 70 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, He heard the crowing of the cock, 90 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 farm-yard 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, 120 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! THE SICILIAN'S TALE King Robert of Sicily1 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 10 "He has put down the mighty from their 1 This tale has had wide distribution and many retellings from Gesta Romanorum to William Morris's The Earthly Paradise. 51 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 60 Until at last he reached the banquet-room, Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet your eyes, 160 Is an impostor in a king's disguise. Do you not know me? does no voice within Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; 170 |