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 sombre 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, and 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 he gazed at 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 sombre 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, black 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 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 meadow 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 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 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.

END

I still can see his giddy face
and feel his wet and warm embrace.
Right now I see him standing there:
He’s young and strong with dark brown hair.
Where could that strength and youth now be?
I think he lent them both to me.
He lent a bit of each that day.
What’s good is good to give away.
I also have his giddy glee
when now my daughter swims to me.

copyright Eric Metaxas 2008

Babe Ruth was the Kaiser of Clout.
He knew how to hit ‘em out.
His full name was George Herman Ruth.
His number was three, and that’s the truth.
There isn’t any doubt.

Babe Ruth was the Marquis of Might.
His shots were out of sight.
One year he blasted sixty such.
It’s nothing if you’ve got the touch
Of supersonic flight.

Babe Ruth was the Baron of Blast.
His swing started back in the past.
It rolled through the present with a mighty crack,
And shot toward the future and it didn’t look back.
Even Gehrig was outclassed.

Babe Ruth was the Sovereign of Swing.
There’s no sense arguing.
He wore a pinstriped uniform
With a waistband larger than the norm.
He was a one-man summer thunderstorm!
I think that’s everything.

Wait! Babe Ruth was the Badboy of Boom!
He was the ruling Vizier of Vava and Voom!
He was the Prophet of every pitcher’s Doom!
He was the Poster Boy of Breathing Room!
And the Architect of ZOOM!

He was the True Conjugator of Going, Gone!
The Mad Inventor of the Bronxian Bomb!
He was the Grand Archduke of Outta Here!
And the Lord High Mayor of Wait til This Year!

Have I made myself quite clear??!!

So HAIL to the Sultan of Swat!

to the Master Blasting Monster Tot!

To the Longball-hitting Lancelot!

To the Pinstriped Prince of the Lunar Shot!

And the Reigning Rajah of the Clean-up Spot!

Babe Ruth . . . is the SULTAN . . . OF SWAT!!!

selah

Please tell us, sloppy Aloysius,
With your mane so golden yellow.
Tell us, pray, what makes you
Such a slovenly and unkempt fellow?

Is there neither comb nor brush
To tame your golden mane so fair?
Just what example would you set,
Thou ruler with unruly hair!?

Now, he rises with his answer!
See the jungle’s fearsome king!
“Ah, ya wouldn’t understand,” he says.
“On accounta it’s a lion thing!”

And so into his realm he pads,
but as he goes he grumbling adds:

“Plus, if my hair was gelled and coiffed,
The other beasts’d think me soft.
Lest we gets taken to the cleaners,
We lions puts on tough demeanors!”

But some there are who still don’t know
that seated by an open window
there was one weary listener
whose sleepiness caused quite a stir!

Eutychus was the young man’s name.
It’s hard to say who was to blame,
but Eutychus couldnít stay awake,
which just then was a huge mistake.

For when he dozed he came to spill
Right past the third floor windowsill!
And then he plunged three stories down
Until at last he hit the ground!
And there I’m told he breathed his last.
All those who saw it were aghast!

But Paul embraced the fallen lad,
and in the only voice he had
(though things looked rather dark and grim)
Paul said, “The life is still in him!”

And so it was, for soon he rose
And wiggled all his sleepy toes
And gave the crowd a great surprise
When soon he opened both his eyes.

And how the people wept for joy
to welcome back their sleeping boy,
and praised the Lord, that though once dead
he rose once more—and went to bed.

And go to bed they all now did
and closed each heavy, weary lid.
And dreamt of Him Who’d paid the cost
to give them life which they had lost.

And we don’t need a coat or hat
to cover this (or cover that).
Nor do we need a parasol
or much of anything at all.

It seems to be the truth indeed
that we have everything we need.
And more than that, if truth be told,
though what we have cannot be sold.

We’ve got the stars (& sun & moon).
We’ve got the months (incl. June).
We’ve got the sky (in blue or gray).
We’ve got the night time (and the day.)

We’ve got the sounds that crickets make
and have the bird songs (when they wake).
And then on top of everything
we have the dew that mornings bring.

And when the rain begins to fall
we think of Him Who made it all.

He healed the first and second ones,
The third and fourth also.
And then he healed the fifth and sixth,
With only four to go!

And then he healed those four as well,
Ten lepers out of ten!
He healed them all, both great and small,
Healed every one of them!

But only one returned, you say,
Just one of all those ten?
Where did they go, those other nine?
Pray what became of them?

Perhaps they all went fishing,
With fishing rods and twine,
Perhaps they all went sailing
At twenty one past nine!

Perhaps they’re in a jungle,
With lions all around!
Perhaps they’re in a treetop
And can’t get to the ground!

Perhaps they’re miles and miles away
Too tired to come back.
Perhaps if they walk all those miles
They’ll get a heart attack!

Perhps they’ve lost their gravity
And floated to the Moon!
Perhaps if they are coming back
It won’t be very soon.

Perhaps we’l never, ever know
Perhaps we’ll stop perhapsing
Pehaps we’ll cease right here and now
Because our time is lapsing.

But no! we say, we’ve got to know.
Where are the other nine?
We must go on perhapsing
Until the sun won’t shine.

And then we’ll start supposing
Until the stars don’t shine!
To find out where’ they’ve gone, you see,
To find the other nine!

But now we’re getting tired.
Perhaps we’ll have a nap.
Perhaps we’ll search tomorrow
With a compass and a map!

Perhaps we’ll board a great big ship
To look for them at sea.
Pehaps we’ll sail on Tuesday
At seventeen past three.

Perhaps we will, perhaps we won’t.
Who knows what we will do?
But this we know: it’s getting late,
And now at least we’re through!

But even though we’re going to bed
There is one thing we’ve learned:

HOWEVER they have gone away

WHATEVER was their reason,

WHEREVER they have travelled to –

They ought to have returned!