Personal Poems, Complete

THE LANDMARKS.

This poem was read at a meeting of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history.

     I.
     THROUGH the streets of Marblehead
     Fast the red-winged terror sped;

     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!"

     II.
     In the heart of Boston town
     Stands the church of old renown,

     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,—

     Ringing clearly, with a will,
     "What she was is Boston still!"

     1879