What perfect trust! It is easier to accept the theory of the old colored preacher than to explain why it was that the army, with a cordon of guns pointing toward that clock, did not reach the clock, or stop the regular swing of its pendulum, or the merry chimes of its bell.
Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster and myself met at the house of a mutual friend on the banks of the Hudson River one beautiful cloudless day, and I told her this story of the clock at Vicksburg, and she immediately wrote the following poem:—
THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG.
Margaret E. Sangster.
Month by month the shot and shell
’Round the ’leaguered city fell.
Through its fiery tropic air
Throbbed the anguish of despair.
Stubbornly the fated gray