THE BELL-RINGER OF 1776.
Reading edition
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.