BY MARY A. P. STANSBURY.
Up from the gateway of the dawn
The great sun lifted slow,
And touched with fire the State-house spire,
To eyes that watched with strong desire,
A hundred years ago.
The ringer's foot was on the stair—
A gray-haired man was he,
But firm of step and strong of arm,
With heart that, warm through night and storm,
Beat time to liberty.
"I'll climb the tower," he said. "My son,
Stay thou to bring me word,
And ere the glorious page be dry,
My bell and I, 'twixt earth and sky,
Shall bid the news be heard."
The boy's face from his father's eyes
Reflected radiance wore:
Hour after hour, the annals tell,
Young sentinel, he guarded well
The Senate-chamber door.
Hour after hour the shadow crept
Along the State-house wall:
The old man from his lofty seat
Saw in the street the people meet,
And looked upon them all—
Looked down upon the waiting throng,
And up with burning eye
To where the great bell silent hung,
And from the tongue a spider swung
Her slender thread on high.
He read the legend graven there—
His trembling lips were pale—
"Freedom through all the land proclaim."
"God keep its name and spotless fame,
Or rend it with His gale!"
The gray-haired ringer called aloud,
And backward thrilled again
A low vibration on the air,
As if, aware of that wild prayer,
The bell had cried, "Amen!"
Still crept the lengthening shadows on:
Hope from his sinking heart
Had well-nigh fled. He shook his head;
"Alas! they will not sign," he said;
His clasped hands fell apart.
But hark! a step that spurned the stair,
Glad hands that clapped for joy,
And upward still, and yet more near,
A young voice shouting full and clear—
"Ring, father!" cried the boy.
He sprang aloft; with both his hands
He grasped the iron tongue;
The strength of ten was in them then.
He swung it once—again—again,
And suddenly there rang
From every steeple round about
Such answering triumph-note,
It seemed that all the world must hear,
And cheer on cheer, afar and near,
Went up from every throat.
Was never such a glorious peal!
As when a cloud somewhere
Has burst around o'er all the ground,
So little rills of mellow sound
Went trickling here and there.
And still the people shouted loud;
No soul had room for fears;
Even she whose son at Lexington
The patriot-martyr's crown had won
Smiled through her falling tears.
The ringer's hand has turned to dust,
His hoary head lies low,
But still the Independence Bell
Is left to tell who rang so well
A hundred years ago.
[Begun in No. 80 of Harper's Young People, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
Author of "The Moral Pirates," etc.
Chapter IX.
The Great South Bay, the eastern half of which is often called Moriches Bay, is separated from Quantuck Bay by a neck of land less than a mile wide. Through this neck a narrow channel was cut many years ago, and the ebb and flow of the tides have scoured it out, until it is now ten or twelve feet deep in many places. The Ghost, after passing Sunday at anchor, sailed gayly up the channel on Monday morning, until she was unexpectedly stopped by a bridge, and her crew found themselves again compelled to take the mast out. She was brought close to the side of the bridge, and made fast, for the tide was running rapidly, and the boys went ashore to devise means for unstepping the mast.