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!”
Cookies on Poetry Cove