Alerting everyone...

A Historic Coincidence

While was reading the history of Greece,

my dear American friend Clarice,

has found surprisingly, the other day,

(in the July 4 holiday),

that the Greek Marathon victory,

and an event in American history,

had similarities to a point.

Chronologically of course disjoint,

but with the same bravery,

the same ideal, "freedom”, not slavery…..

               __________________

390 BC,

Phedippides runs....

 to warn as many Athenians as he may 

that the Persian  army is on its way….

He runs through Pallini County,

                                   an offer to his compatriots, a bounty…

                                          
Attica,    he is alerting everyone…                                    

The Greeks with such brave men won….

1860 AD, 

Paul Revere rides.....

to warn as many Americans as he may,

that the British army is on its way….

He rides through Middlesex County, 
an offer to his compatriots, a bounty…

                                          

 Massachusetts,     he is alerting everyone…

 The Americans with such brave men won….
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Texts and Narration: Odysseus Heavilayias - ROTTERDAM //
Language adjustments and text adaptation: Kellene G Safis - CHICAGO//
Digital adaptation and text editing: Cathy Rapakoulia Mataraga - PIRAEUS//
                                         

source

Between 9 and 10 p.m. on the night of April 18, 1775, Joseph Warren told Revere and William Dawes that the king's troops were about to embark in boats from Boston bound for Cambridge and the road to Lexington and Concord. Warren's intelligence suggested that the most likely objectives of the regulars' movements later that night would be the capture of Adams and Hancock. 

They did not worry about the possibility of regulars marching to Concord, since the supplies at Concord were safe, but they did think their leaders in Lexington were unaware of the potential danger that night. Revere and Dawes were sent out to warn them and to alert colonial militias in nearby towns

"Paul Revere's Ride" (1860) is a poem by American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that commemorates the actions of American patriot Paul Revere on April 18, 1775,

______________   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.

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 Utopia