Freedom Trail, Part 2

 

Pictured above is the Old South Meeting House, and below is a view from inside the Old State House.

 

 

This is the Old State House, where the Boston Massacre occured in 1770. There is a gift shop inside, and I found some cool souvenirs for my family!

I am in the picture below - pink scarf!

 

 

And finally, the home of Paul Revere! This is where our Freedom Trail adventure ended since we didn't have time to continue on to the Old North Church, USS Constitution, and Bunker Hill. We also didn't get to go inside his house since they weren't open for tours at the time. Something to save for another trip!

 

 

Newer buildings had been built adjoining his house, so it was different than what I expected. For some reason, I had pictured his house out in the middle of a quiet field in the country...I suppose it may have been at one time. Here is the view looking north from his home.

 

The streets were amazing, I couldn't imagine trying to driving a carriage on those rough stones, but I could imagine the sound of horses' tramping hooves and soldier's marching boots...Paul Revere across the river, waiting for a light from the Old North Church...

 



Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

On the 18th of April in '75, 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 tonight,
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, k

Kndled 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...

 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

 

History - come to life. Boston 2013.