But see! he has stepped 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, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered 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 his hand-- The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand. But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze? And what means the stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled 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 me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a _man_?” He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the Mayor called 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 the door, a man. MARY ANNA PHINNEY STANSBURY. (By special permission of the author.) 59 THE RIDE OF COLLIN GRAVES No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight of Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nation’s throe at a nation’s birth; But the song of a brave man free from fear As Sheridan’s self or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked,--free from strife And its promise of glorious pay,--his life. The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, And the answering echoes of life are heard; The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. What was it passed like an ominous breath? Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on the top of the hill; It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,-- But a pain, like a pang in the short suspense That wraps the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of eternity.