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
Struggled through each pallid day.
Stubbornly the loyal blue
Fought the weary conflict through.
High above the central square
Towered the old clock, white and fair.
Steadily its iron tongue
Over strife and silence rung.
Till the sullen foemen swore
“They shall keep that clock no more.”
All day long with bated breath
Life looked steadily at death.
Little ones forgot to play,
Christians ne’er forgot to pray.
Fair through all the siege it stood,
That old clock in sober mood,
As though now and then ’twould frown
On the sadness of the town.
Whistling balls around it flew,
Black against the sky’s deep blue.
All untouched, it told the time
With a regnant cheery chime,
Till the hour when victory
Broke the spell—the place set free.
In the city’s open square
Swarthy faces sobbed in prayer,
“Bless the Lord! the work is done;
Bless the Lord! our freedom’s won.
By that clock in yonder street,
True as steel our sad hearts beat.
In our homes or by the way,
When it struck, we paused to pray.
At its noon-hour day by day
Every bondsman stopped to pray.”
Was it strange that old clock stood
Safe amid the storm of blood?
Why, of course it could not fall,
Guarded by the Lord of all,
Who through choiring songs of heaven
Hears the cry of earth’s forgiven.
And till now its honest face
Is a witness of His grace.