GUION
Is it so hard to die in the glory and fury of fight?
Sweet is the death for the flag—splendid the death when Fame
Snatches the sinking torch, and lifts it alive, alight!—
Let us remember his name who drank of a cup of flame
Silently pledging Duty, and would not shirk
Death in the plain day’s work.
Guion was running the lift
There at the doomed hotel
When the grim chance befell.
Twenty years, day out, day in,
Still the same had the day’s work been:
Up and down, steady and swift,
At the thrill of the calling bell.
Boy and man, and still the same;
Then—the wild moment came.
Fire and fear, and the rush, and the gush of the choking smoke;
Cries, and the hoarse command, and the engine’s clanging stroke;
Still, at the well-known call, in the wonted way,
Up and down, steady and swift,
Guion kept running the lift;
Many and many a life is his gift
That had else gone out that day.
How it billowed, the surge of black
On the delicate springtime sky!
The firemen knew they were come to the end of it all,—
They were beaten, the roof must fall.
Hands laid hold upon Guion: “You can’t go back!”
But he answered, “I’ll stand by!”
And again through the tumult—hark!
Shrill, oh pitiful-shrill,
The throb of the bell that summoned, the agony-thrill,
Calling,—it fell on his soul like the sting of a spark.
“One more trip!” said Guion; and steady and swift
Mounted the man and the lift.
—Save in the dust of ruin, that baffles ken,
None saw Guion again.
Year after year, when the great March sunsets flame,
Let us remember his name.