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
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain's purple crest,
And Summer's white and folded clouds
Written at the old home in Portland
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,