THE LANDMARKS.

Blasting, withering, on it came,

With its hundred tongues of flame,

Where St. Michael's on its way

Stood like chained Andromeda,

Waiting on the rock, like her,

Swift doom or deliverer!

Church that, after sea-moss grew

Over walls no longer new,

Counted generations five,

Four entombed and one alive;

Heard the martial thousand tread

Battleward from Marblehead;

Saw within the rock-walled bay

Treville's liked pennons play,

And the fisher's dory met

By the barge of Lafayette,

Telling good news in advance

Of the coming fleet of France!

Church to reverend memories, dear,

Quaint in desk and chandelier;

Bell, whose century-rusted tongue

Burials tolled and bridals rung;

Loft, whose tiny organ kept

Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept;

Altar, o'er whose tablet old

Sinai's law its thunders rolled!

Suddenly the sharp cry came

“Look! St. Michael's is aflame!”

Round the low tower wall the fire

Snake-like wound its coil of ire.

Sacred in its gray respect

From the jealousies of sect,

“Save it,” seemed the thought of all,

“Save it, though our roof-trees fall!”

Up the tower the young men sprung;

One, the bravest, outward swung

By the rope, whose kindling strands

Smoked beneath the holder's hands,

Smiting down with strokes of power

Burning fragments from the tower.

Then the gazing crowd beneath

Broke the painful pause of breath;

Brave men cheered from street to street,

With home's ashes at their feet;

Houseless women kerchiefs waved:

“Thank the Lord! St. Michael's saved!”

From whose walls the impulse went

Which set free a continent;

From whose pulpit's oracle

Prophecies of freedom fell;

And whose steeple-rocking din

Rang the nation's birth-day in!

Standing at this very hour

Perilled like St. Michael's tower,

Held not in the clasp of flame,

But by mammon's grasping claim.

Shall it be of Boston said

She is shamed by Marblehead?

City of our pride! as there,

Hast thou none to do and dare?

Life was risked for Michael's shrine;

Shall not wealth be staked for thine?

Woe to thee, when men shall search

Vainly for the Old South Church;

When from Neck to Boston Stone,

All thy pride of place is gone;

When from Bay and railroad car,

Stretched before them wide and far,

Men shall only see a great

Wilderness of brick and slate,

Every holy spot o'erlaid

By the commonplace of trade!

City of our love': to thee

Duty is but destiny.

True to all thy record saith,

Keep with thy traditions faith;

Ere occasion's overpast,

Hold its flowing forelock fast;

Honor still the precedents

Of a grand munificence;

In thy old historic way

Give, as thou didst yesterday

At the South-land's call, or on

Need's demand from fired St. John.

Set thy Church's muffled bell

Free the generous deed to tell.

Let thy loyal hearts rejoice

In the glad, sonorous voice,

Ringing from the brazen mouth

Of the bell of the Old South,—