听，我的孩子们，你们将会听到
保罗·瑞维尔午夜策马飞奔的传奇，
那是1775年4月18日那一天，
现在几乎已没有人活着
还记得那千古传奇的那一年那一天。
瑞维尔对他的朋友说，“如果英军今晚无论
是从陆地还是从海上来犯，在老北教堂钟楼
的拱门上高挂一盏灯笼作为信号–
一盏灯笼表示从陆地来，两盏灯笼表示从海上来；
我在河对岸看到灯火，
随时会策马飞骑去通风报信，
我将把消息传遍米德尔塞克斯村的农庄，
所有的庄稼汉子们都会武装起来，”
然后他道了声“晚安！”，
伴随着低沉的桨声，
他悄悄地把船划到了查尔斯屯的海岸，
此时月亮刚刚升起在海湾，
英军的战舰萨默塞特号却象鬼影一样在锚地摇晃，
船上的桅杆和横粱穿过月亮，
象监狱的栅栏一样，
海潮中的倒影使战舰显得巨大无比。
同时，瑞维尔的朋友在大街小巷四处探望，
他在宁静中听到英军士兵集合的声响，
还有掷弹兵踏步的节拍，
向岸边他们的船只挺进。
然后他爬上老北教堂的钟楼，
他一步步悄悄地爬上木制的楼梯，
一直爬到钟楼的顶层，
惊飞了栖息在屋檐的野鸽，
鸽群在他周围飞起，
光线在他身上变换着暗影，
通过摇晃、陡峭、高耸的楼梯，
他从顶楼的窗口四下张望，侧耳聆听，
在那一刻，月亮也爬上了屋顶。
在下面，教堂的墓地死一般的沉寂，
在山丘上英军的营地，一片静谧，
他几乎能听到哨兵的脚步声，
晚风哗哗地吹皱了一个个的帐篷，
好象在耳语，“一切都准备好了！”
此时此刻此地，他感到一种神秘的恐惧，
那孤独的钟楼死般的恐惧，
突然他将所有的思虑都抛之脑后–
河面在海湾变得宽阔，
河上黑色弯曲的轮廓随着涨潮而起伏，
象是船桥。
与此同时，河对岸急不可耐的瑞维尔，
脚穿带马刺的马靴，猛地跨上战马，
他轻拍着马，巡视着远近，
马儿也性急地跺着前蹄，
他转动拉紧着缰绳，
焦急地眺望着老北教堂的钟楼，
那钟楼象是从山丘上凸起的墓碑，
却还是那么孤独、幽暗和宁静。
啊，看哪！他突然看到钟楼上微弱的闪光，
然后是一丝的光亮！
他不由自主地从马鞍上站了起来，
转动着缰绳，他徘徊凝视，
直到钟楼上的第二盏灯光也现入眼帘！
瑞维尔策马飞驰，马踏月影，
马蹄下的卵石闪过一串串火星，
你听，那快马飞骑的鞭响！
在惨淡的月光下，
那天晚上一个国家的前途和命运
驮负在这飞驰的马背上，
飞奔的马蹄撞击出的火星，
燎原了这片大地。
他跑过村庄，登上山岗，
他身下是广阔的大地和深深的宁静，
他迎着海潮，跨过林地，
马蹄下的海滩和礁石在马蹄声中一闪而去。
当他策马扬鞭而过米德福特镇的木桥时，
他听到了午夜的钟响，
他还听到公鸡的晨叫，
还有农夫的狗的狂吠，
他还感到日落后河面浮起的潮湿的迷雾。
当他疾驰到莱克星屯时，敲响了子夜钟声。
他看到月光中游动风标的金彩，
镇上会议厅的窗子苍白空荡，
象幽灵的眼睛一样瞪着他，
你看他们那惊呆的样子，
因为他们将见证流淌的鲜血。
凌晨两时的钟响，
他纵马跑到了协和镇的木桥旁，
他听到羊群“羊羊”的低声叫唤，
他还听到林间夜鸟的啾语，
他感到晨风和缓的气息，
吹过河边的褐色的牧草地。
那些在床上安眠的人们呀，
随后将在这桥上第一个倒下，
英军滑膛枪的子弹将射穿他们的胸膛。
后来的一切，你已在史书上读到，
英军是怎样地开火和逃遁–
那些庄稼汉们怎样对他们还以颜色，
从每一墩墙和篱笆后面，
追逐着英军并将他们击毙在地，
庄稼汉子们跨过田野，出没在林间，
他们向英军开火射击，
只有在装填弹药时才有片刻的宁静。
就是这样，保罗·瑞维尔策马飞骑，
午夜送信的呼喊，
传遍了米德尔塞克斯村的农庄–
那挑战的叫喊声中没有一丝的恐惧，
那黑夜中的呼喊，敲打着每一扇门，
每一个字都将永远回响！
过去的这一幕还回荡在耳际，
它贯穿我们的历史，直到永远，
在黑暗、危险和国家召唤的时刻，
人民将会警醒，
去侧耳聆听那策马飞骑的蹄音，
和保罗·瑞维尔午夜送信的千古传奇。
原文：
Paul Revere’s Ride
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 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, 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 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 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-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.