Where yet, firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood,

With its heavenward-pointing finger the Church of St. Michael stood.

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail,

A cry of horror, blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings up-driven, a single flaming

brand

Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand.

“Will it fade?" The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips;

Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships,

A baleful1 gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp2 to a steady beacon grown.

"Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand,

For the love of the perill'd city, plucks down yon burning brand!"

So cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the people

heard;

But they look'd each one at his fellow; and no man spoke a word.

1 Baleful: fraught with evil; threatening

2 Will-o'-wisp: a flickering, moving light seen at times in marshy places and church-yards. It is supposed to be the result of animal and vegetable decomposition.

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturn'd to

the sky,

Clings to a column, and measures the dizzy spire with

his eye?

Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height?

Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight?

But see! he has stepp'd on the railing; he climbs with his feet and his hands;

And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he stands;

Now once, and once only, they cheer him, a single tempestuous breath,

And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death.

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire,

Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire.

He stops! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track,

And, hurl'd on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shatter'd and black.

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air:

At the church-door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair;

And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of

The unknown hero, whose daring could compass a deed so grand.

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they

gaze?

And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and

amaze?

He stood in the gate of the temple he had perill'd his life to save;

And the face of the hero undaunted was the sable face of a slave.

With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud,

And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd:

"You may keep your gold; I scorn it! — but answer

If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man?"

He stepp'd but a short space backward; and from all the women and men

There were only sobs for answer; and the mayor call'd for a pen,

And the great seal of the city, that he might read who

ran:

And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from

its door, a man.

MARY A. P. STANSBURY.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.

ENGLAND'S sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far

away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad

day;

And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair,

He with step so slow and weaken'd, she with sunny, floating hair;

He with sad bow'd head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew1 must not ring to-night."

"Sexton,"

-Bessie's white lips falter'd, pointing to the

prison old,

With its walls so dark and gloomy, walls so dark and damp and cold, ——

"I've a lover in that prison, doom'd this very night to

die

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

1 Curfew (French couvre-feu, cover-fire): a bell formerly rung in England in the evening as a signal to the inhabitants to rake the ashes over their fires and retire to rest. The curfew is still rung in some parts of England, but no longer for its original purpose.

Cromwell1 will not come till sunset"; and her face grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, — every word pierced her young heart

Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poison'd dart,

"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadow'd tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight

hour;

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn

VOW:

She had listen'd while the judges read, without a tear

or sigh,

"At the ringing of the Curfew Basil Underwood must

die."

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright,

One low murmur, scarcely spoken, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

1 Cromwell: Oliver Cromwell, 66 Protector," a ruler of England 1654 to 1658. He was one of the great leaders in the English Civil War.