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 farm-yard wall;
Chasing the redcoats 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 GLOVE AND THE LIONS

BY LEIGH HUNT

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side; And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride.

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws.

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled one on another,

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous

smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;

Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame,

With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same:

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be;

He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!

"Kings, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous

fine;

I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then looked on

him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild!

The leap was quick; return was uick; he soon regained his place;

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face:

"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat:

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity sets love a task like that!"

KUBLA KHAN: OR, A VISION IN A DREAM

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

In Xanada did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail,
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momentarily the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

THE "ROYAL GEORGE"

BY WILLIAM COWPER

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down with the Royal George
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down
With thrice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.