The Landmarks

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!"