What was it, that passed like an ominous breath—­
    Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? 
    What is it?  The valley is peaceful still,
    And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. 
    It was not a sound—­nor a thing of sense—­
    But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense
    That thrills the being of those who see
    At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

    The air of the valley has felt the chill: 
    The workers pause at the door of the mill;
    The housewife, keen to the shivering air,
    Arrests her foot on the cottage stair,
    Instinctive taught by the mother-love,
    And thinks of the sleeping ones above. 
    Why start the listeners?  Why does the course
    Of the mill-stream widen?  Is it a horse—­
    Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say—­
    That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way! 
    God! what was that, like a human shriek
    From the winding valley?  Will nobody speak? 
    Will nobody answer those women who cry
    As the awful warnings thunder by?

    Whence come they?  Listen!  And now they hear
    The sound of galloping horse-hoofs near;
    They watch the trend of the vale, and see
    The rider who thunders so menacingly,
    With waving arms and warning scream
    To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. 
    He draws no rein, but he shakes the street
    With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet;
    And this the cry he flings to the wind;
    “To the hills for your lives!  The flood is behind!”

                                        But onward still,
    In front of the roaring flood is heard
    The galloping horse and the warning word. 
    Thank God! the brave man’s life is spared! 
    From Williamsburg town he nobly dared
    To race with the flood and take the road
    In front of the terrible swath it mowed. 
    For miles it thundered and crashed behind,
    But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind;
    “They must be warned!” was all he said,
    As away on his terrible ride he sped.

JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY.

* * * * *

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.

    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.