Chasing the red-coats down the lane, So through the night rode Paul Revere ; A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 2 INTERLUDE. THE Landlord ended thus his tale, Then rising took down from its nail The sword that hung there, dim with dust, And cleaving to its sheath with rust, And said, "This sword was in the fight." The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, "It is the sword of a good knight, Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; What matter if it be not named Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, Excalibar, or Aroundight, Or other name the books record? Seen here and there and everywhere, To me a grander shape appears Than old Sir William, or what not, All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red As his escutcheon on the wall; He could not comprehend at all The drift of what the Poet said; And this perceiving, to appease The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, The Student said, with careless ease, The arms, the loves, the courtesies, That have the stately stride and ring Listen! though not to me belong The flowing draperies of his song, The words that rouse, the voice that charms. The Landlord's tale was one of arms, Only a tale of love is mine, Blending the human and divine, A tale of the Decameron, told |