And the people — ah, the people –
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,

They are neither man nor woman
They are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls :

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls

A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells -
Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells

-

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells
Bells, bells, bells,

--

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S.

MARY A. P. STANSBURY.

So you beg for a story, my darling, my brown-eyed Leopold, And you, Alice, with face like morning, and curling locks

of gold;

Then come, if you will, and listen

knee

stand close beside my

To a tale of the Southern city, proud Charleston by the sea.

It was long ago, my children, 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 jeweled 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.

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 up-driven, 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'-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?

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 fail? 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 meaneth that 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, my children, 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 its door, a man.

CLARENCE'S DREAM.

SHAKSPEARE.

Clarence. Oh, I have passed a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time!
Methought that I had broken from the tower,
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy,