It was long ago it happened, ere ever the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts’ desire. On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael’s, rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, The last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other’s faces through mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous stroke on stroke! By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread, While the fire-king’s wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. From the death that raged behind them and the crash of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, 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 updriven 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 baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o’-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. “Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!” So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word. Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned 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?