Wiser than the miser’s hoards
Is the giver’s choice;
Sweeter than the song of birds
Is the thankful voice.
Welcome smiles on faces sad
As the flowers of spring;
Let the tender hearts be glad
With the joy they bring.
Happier for their pity’s sake
Make their sports and plays,
And from lips of childhood take
Thy perfected praise!
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,
