Remembering April 18 and 19: Paul Revere’s Ride, and the “shot heard ’round the world”

This is mostly an encore post.

April 18 19. Do the dates have significance? Paul Revere's ride, from Paul Revere House

Among other things, it is the date of the firing of the “shot heard ’round the world,” the first shots in the American Revolution. On April 19, 1775, American Minutemen stood to protect arsenals they had created at Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts, against seizure by the British Army then occupying Boston.

April is National Poetry Month. What have we done to celebrate poetry?

What have we done to properly acknowledge the key events of April 18 and 19, 1775? Happily, poetry helps us out in history studies, or can do.

In contrast to my childhood, when we as students had poems to memorize weekly throughout our curriculum, modern students too often come to my classes seemingly unaware that rhyming and rhythm are used for anything other than celebrating materialist, establishment values obtained sub rosa. Poetry, to them, is mostly rhythm; but certainly not for polite company, and never for learning.

Poems slipped from our national curriculum, dropped away from our national consciousness.

And that is one small part of the reason that Aprils in the past two decades turned instead to memorials to violence, and fear that violence will break out again. We have allowed darker ideas to dominate April, and especially the days around April 19.

You and I have failed to properly commemorate the good, I fear. We have a duty to pass along these cultural icons, as touchstones to understanding America.

So, reclaim the high ground. Reclaim the high cultural ground.

Read a poem today. Plan to be sure to have the commemorative reading of “Paul Revere’s Ride” in your classes next April 18 or 19, and “The Concord Hymn” on April 19.

We must work to be sure our heritage of freedom is remembered, lest we condemn our students, our children and grandchildren to having to relearn these lessons of history, as Santayana warned.

Texts of the poems are below the fold, though you may be much better off to use the links and see those sites, the Paul Revere House, and the Minuteman National Historical Park.

Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1860.

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
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, —
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
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,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, —
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, —
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! 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 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,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When be 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 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 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-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

The Concord Hymn
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1837)

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood;
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps,
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream that seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We place with joy a votive stone,
That memory may their deeds redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

O Thou who made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free, —
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raised to them and Thee.

7 Responses to Remembering April 18 and 19: Paul Revere’s Ride, and the “shot heard ’round the world”

  1. Shelley says:

    As a writer myself, you know I will love this post. Even “remedial” students can be shockingly perceptive about real (as opposed to dumbed-down) poetry. I’m tempted now to take the poem in to my college students. Thanks!


  2. […] 1775, American Minutemen stood to protect arsenals they had created at Lexington and Concord, […]read more…. 1月 1st, 1970 | Category: Alltop […]


  3. Ed Darrell says:

    Nice answer. You’re right.

    Here in Texas, though, the idea that a student needs to have a core of knowledge before making critical analysis is not regarded with high belief, nor much honor.

    I had students read the Longfellow aloud, one student per verse. In one of the more difficult-to-discipline classes, after the fifth stanza, they paid rapt attention.

    I think there is something about the rhythm of a rhyming poem that speaks more directly to the hearts of kids. Same with music.


  4. OK, I admit there was a tweak of pleasure in reciting in my grad class. It was less about the fact that most classmates are aspiring administrators, than their ages. Lots of 40-ish people in the class–I’ve got a couple decades on them, and an a couple swings of the instructional-methods pendulum. I grew up in a time when teachers required memorization.

    Why have I benefited from memorizing poetry (and other things, including concertos and sonatas)?

    First–sheer acquisition of knowledge. Sometimes, you have to know something deeply before you can understand or apply it. I learned “O Captain, My Captain” while I was in 8th grade, one year after President Kennedy was shot. The parallels and contrasts drawn by my history teacher using a poem written a year after Lincoln was shot were powerful. Not because she was a great teacher (she wasn’t–she was one of those chapter-a-week types), but because of the images–bleeding drops of red, the ship finally coming into harbor after its fearful trip, great joy and terrible sorrow. The poem helped me make sense, as a kid, of the fears of the adults around me.

    Things that are memorized are internalized as knowledge and can be retrieved for various purposes. They’re at your mental fingertips and can be turned over for examination, or used as tools. As a music teacher, I knew that tools (scales, arpeggios, key construction, rhythmic patterns) had to be memorized before kids could get away from reading notes and begin making music.

    Poems are stories from a different perspective, too. Because you have to work to understand them–the meanings aren’t clearly laid out, as in textbook prose–they can be interpreted in different ways, so kids begin to see that there is seldom one “right” telling of a story.


  5. Ellie says:

    Ms. Flanagan, I asked that question of my oldest son’s English teacher approximately 33 years ago. His sarcastic answer was, “Do you really think this class could understand Milton?” He was not one of the Good Teachers. I hope someone has an answer for you.


  6. Ed Darrell says:

    Thank you, Ms. Flanagan. One of the questions I get frequently is, of what value is the memorization of a poem? It is, after all, ‘just rote memorization.’

    So I’m curious: Other than showing off (and I hope you won’t take that as a pejorative) and getting a good story about how little education administrators actually know, what value have you derived from having memorized those verses?

    Can we articulate the value of such learning? We need to make that value more clear, and better known.


  7. A couple of years ago, exactly, in my graduate seminar in education leadership (full of would-be superintendents working on PhDs at a well-respected Research One university), the Professor entered the room, struck a dramatic pose and said…

    “On the 18th of April” (long pause, class attentive)

    “In seventy-five” (long, silent pause)

    “What?” (gray-haired prof scans the room)

    In a small voice, I say

    “Hardly a man is now alive
    who remembers that famous day and year.”

    (long pause, prof smiling, nodding)
    (I clear my throat and say…)

    “It’s the one that begins ‘Listen my children…'”

    (blank faces)

    “and you shall hear”

    (still nada)

    “of the midnight ride…”

    (a couple of people are getting it now)

    “of…” (muttered)”umm, Paul Revere?”

    Prof points to me and says “Don’t answer!” Then he asks–“who’s the poet?”

    When nobody–not one of the 20-odd people in the room– could answer, or would even try, he let me tell the class. “When did you learn that?” he asked.

    Fifth grade.

    I learned “O Captain, My Captain” (speaking of anniversaries) in 8th grade. And the prologue to Romeo and Juliet in high school. Still with me, along with memorized King James scripture verses, lots of Cummings, Dickinson and Frost and an embarrassingly large cache of song lyrics.

    Why aren’t we using poetry to teach history, literature, culture? Well, two roads diverged in a yellow wood…


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