If you stop and listen, then you will hear

Who set the stage for Paul Revere.

‘Twas quite the time to be alive

Midst that call to arms in Seventy-Five.

They went forward with courage, not shackled by fear.

On the fifth anniversary, early in March,

He recalled Boston’s massacre one tense winter night.

Back in Seventeen Seventy it created an arch

To tea in the harbor ‘neath December starlight.

The crates from three ships tossed into the sea

On a brisk winter night in Seventy-Three.

To the king and his council they wished no great harm,

But more of a message against their strong arm

And that heaviest hand that brought on the alarm.

He worked with Sam Adams, John Hancock, and more,

To set things in motion like never before.

A push for liberty that seemed to lay

Dormant ‘til raised by these men from the Bay.

Their true aim was not the ignition of war,

But to raise their own standard, as if a new bar,

Where men are all brothers, even those from afar.

Such a shift in civility could soon turn the tide

Should those across classes and cultures abide.

He worked with his hands, his heart, and his feet

To heal the diseased and to wipe away tears.

His care mended injuries and assuaged many fears.

His day never ended as patients flocked to his door,

And a pathway was worn from his house to the street.

He fixed fingers, fought smallpox and aching of ears;

Every death of the infirmed was a burden he bore.

The shock of more Redcoats produced quite the lurch,

And the feeling of siege that brought on a new dread—

Menacing muskets and boots always add to the dead.

So up went two lanterns atop the North Church

To inform those in Charlestown that the plan that was laid

Was now set in motion, as all were afraid.

War would come hunting for the great and the small,

With no end in sight till they witness the fall

Of farmers, and merchants, and men of renown,

And the burning of fields and the innocent town.

So they prepared a fine steed for Revere’s curtain call.

The moon rose at odd angle to shine on ahead,

Bringing blindness to sailors, but to Revere its good will;

While he who sent the alarm charts the course up the hill.

For the coming day’s battles would negate all that was said,

As brotherhood with the British and olive branches were spent.

The Union Jack and empire’s emblems now would be rent,

From chambers and walls it would not fair thee well.

An army’s march toward Concord now no one could quell.

So Revere, Dawes, and Prescott ride on ahead;

The British hoped for surprise but found many instead.

That April 19 sunrise marked the first lives spent

In a nine-year war that many would say

Was worth every burial to bring forth a new day.

From redoubts and trenches to cannons and moats,

They traveled by worn feet, tired horses, and boats.

From Lexington and Concord to Charlestown’s ebb tide,

Minutemen and militia would rise and not hide,

For the war that was whispered was finally here.

They would come join their brothers and stand side-by-side.

It would be liberty or death, that was finally clear,

Not bowing to tyranny but to a new nation give birth.

A shining city on a hill for those throughout earth.

From long rooms and taverns they’d diligently search

To live out the message first heard in a church.

From resolves to declaration carefully etched by a quill,

Providence blessed the Founders with unwavering skill.

To bear any burden and continue the fight,

God’s outstretched hand filled the gaps in man’s might.

For throughout the ages the human heart yearns

To see the breaking of dawn from a terrible night.

Where the bright light of liberty continually burns.

Conversations in committee and along passing street

To prepare schemes of surveillance when windows went dark.

Strategies struck by a doctor who ignited a spark.

It roused the pure anger of His Majesty’s fleet,

And brought upon Boston a troublesome plight

Of blockade and hunger to impose who was right.

But people of destiny are not thwarted by fright;

They welcomed the fire and were refined by its heat.

There were no calming illusions the road wouldn’t be steep,

From Concord to Boston a crawl, not a leap.

Both Tories and Loyalists quickly chose sides,

Thus producing a province with people on edge,

Where some saw a threshold and others a ledge.

A transitional time like the Romans viewed Ides.

In the middle of June, Redcoats ascend from the dock;

To their front lies Breed’s Hill, to their left lay Charlestown.

Men toiled all night till the sun woke the cock

To build a humble redoubt out of dirt, rock, and log.

The Charles River’s waters, the Mystic’s, and bog

Surround Bunker’s and Breed’s like a stage of renown.

The cannons went silent around three o’clock.

The scene from Copp’s Hill ‘neath the heat of the sun—

Onlookers soak in the scene, astonished, in shock;

The remnants of battle leave civilians aghast.

The destruction of life laid dreadfully bare

By the carnage of war that didn’t seem to play fair.

Patriots hold the small fort until, at the last,

They retreat to the rear under the cover of one.

Others ran like water while he stood like a rock,

But his stature buckled and in prostrate went down,

Brought low to the earth by a foul, brutish flintlock.

Like a rush of wind that bends mighty trees,

Comrades witness the scene and fall to their knees.

How could the British slay such a man of renown?

A mindless bullet’s path traveling straight to his head;

His season of life ended like bright leaves in the fall.

Who could ever imagine this grand doctor was dead?

Upon dear friends his end casts an unusual pall.

In such a surreal moment, what could even be said?

And who would tend to his body after everyone fled?

While down in Philadelphia there went forth a call

For a commander and new army to form a strong wall,

To take the British lion by haunch and by mane,

And purge the land of its stench and its stain.

The path to victory required a long, winding road;

Both soldiers and civilians bore the burden and load.

But a declaration of independence drew the far and the near.

It drew them from cities, from stable and farm;

And what ended in Yorktown began by alarm.

One triggered by a doctor and orator so dear.

One who orchestrated consensus like never before

To usher in generations at liberty’s door.

His name is forgotten and lies in the past.

There are those, through diligence, who know him at last.

For there once was a time when his stance was in need

To heal the sick and bring courage to fear.

He rose to the occasion to write, speak, and lead;

Joseph Warren, it was he, who called Paul Revere.