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How Jane Conquest rang the Bell. (A Christmas Story)

	The original poem by James Milne of Newcastle:
	'T was about the time of Christmas, a many years ago, When the sky was black with wrath and rack, and the earth was white with snow, When loudly rang the tumult of winds and waves at strife, In her home by the sea, with her babe on her knee, sat Harry Conquest's wife. And he was on the waters, she knew not, knew not where, For never a lip could tell of the ship, to lighten her heart's despair. And her babe was dying, dying, the pulse in the tiny wrist Was all but still, and the brow was chill, and pale as the white sea mist. Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless, she could only weep and pray That the Shepherd mild would take the child painlessly away. The night grew deep and deeper, and the storm had a stronger will, And buried in deep and dreamless sleep lay the hamlet under the hill. And the fire was dead on the hearthstone within Jane Conquest's room, And still sat she, with her babe on her knee, at prayer amid the gloom. When, borne above the tempest, a sound fell on her ear, Thrilling her through, for well she knew 'twas the voice of mortal fear. And a light leaped in at the lattice sudden and swift and red; Crimsoning all the whited wall, and the floor, and the roof o'erhead." It shone with a radiant glory on the face of the dying child, Like a fair first ray of the shadowless day of the land of the undefiled; And it lit up the mother's features with a glow so strange and new, That the white despair that had gathered there seemed changed to hope's own hue. For one brief moment, heedless of the babe upon her knee, With the frenzied startof a frightened heart, up to her feet rose she. And thro' the quaint old casement she looked upon the sea -- Thank God, that the sight she saw that night so rare a site should be ! Hemmed in by hungry billows, whose madness foam'd at lip, Half a mile from the shore, or hardly more, she saw a gallant ship. Aflame from deck to topmast, aflame from stem to stern; For there seemed no speck on all the wreck where the fierce fire did not burn. And the night was like a sunset, and the sea like a sea of blood, And the rocks and shore were bathed all o'er as by some gory flood. She looked and looked, till the terror' crept cold thro' every limb, And her breath came quick, and her heart grew sick, and her sight grew dizzy and dim. And her lips had lost their utterance though she strove, she could not speak; But her feeling found no channel of sound in prayer, or sob, or shriek. Silent she stood and rigid, with her child to her bossom prest, Like a woman of stone with stiff arms thrown round a stony babe at breast. Till once more that cry of anguish thrill'd thro' the tempest's strife, And it stirr'd again in her heart and brain, the active thinking life; And the light of an inspiration leaped to her brightened eye, And on lip and brow was written now a purpose pure and high. Swiftly she turn'd, and softly she crossed the chamber floor, And faltering not, in his tiny cot, she laid the babe she bore. And then with a holy impulse, she sank to her knees and made A lowly prayer, in the silence there, and this was the prayer she prayed: "Christ, who didst bear the scourging, but now dost wear the crown, I at Thy feet, o true and sweet, would lay my burden down. Thou badest me love and cherish the babe Thou gavest me, And I have kept Thy word, nor stept aside from following Thee. And lo! the boy is dying; and vain is all my care; And my burden's weight is very great! Yea, greater than I can bear. And, Lord, Thou know'st what peril doth threat these poor men's lives, I, a lone woman, most weak and human, plead for their waiting wives. Thou canst not let them perish; up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save. From the scorching breath of this terrible death on this cruel winter wave. Take Thou my babe and watch it; no care is like to Thine; And let Thy power in this perilous hour supply what lack is mine." And so her prayer she ended, and rising to her feet, Turned one look to the cradle nook where the child's faint pulses beat; And then with softest footsteps retrod the chamber floor, And noiselessly groped for the latch, and oped, and crossed the cottage door. The snow lay deep and drifted as far as sight could reach, Save where alone the dank weed strewn did mark the sloping beach. But whether 'twas land or ocean, or rock, or sand, or snow, Or sky o'erhead, on all was shed the same fierce fatal glow. And thro' the tempest bravely Jane Conquest fought her way, By snowy deep and slippery steep to where her goal lay. And she gained it, pale and breathless, and weary and sore and faint, But with soul possess'd with the strength, and zest, and ardor of a saint. Silent and weird, and lonely amid its countless graves, Stood the old gray church on its tall rock perch, secure from the flood's great waves. And beneath its sacred shadow lay the hamlet safe and still; For however the sea and the wind may be, t'was quiet under the hill. Jane Conquest reached the churchyard, and stood by the old church door, But the oak was tough and had bolts enough,and her strength was frail and poor; So she crept through a narrow window, and climbed the belfry stair, And grasp'd the rope, sole cord of hope, for the mariners in despair. And the wild wind help'd her bravely, and she wrought with an earnest will, And the clamorous bell spoke out right well to the hamlet under the hill. And it roused the slumb'ring fishers, nor its warning task gave o'er Till a hundred fleet and eager feet were hurrying to the shore. And then it ceased its ringing, for the woman's work was done, And many a boat that was now afloat showed man's work was begun. But the ringer in the belfry lay motionless and cold, With the cord of hope, the church-bell rope, still in her frozen hold. How long she lay it boots not, but she woke from her swoon at last In her own bright room, to find the gloom, and the grief of the peril past, With a sense of joy within her, and the Christ's sweet presence near, And friends around, and the cooing sound of her babe's voice in her ear. And they told her all the story, how a brave and gallant few O'ercame each check, and reached the wreck, and saved the hapless crew. And how the curious sexton had climbed the belfry stair, And of his fright when, cold and white, he found her lying there; And how, when they had borne her back to her home again, The child she left with a heart bereft of hope and wrung with pain. Was found within its cradle in a quiet slumber laid; With a peaceful smile on its lips the while, and the wasting sickness stay'd, And she said "twas the Christ that watched it, and brought it safely through"; And she praised His truth and His tender ruth, who had saved her darling too. And than there came a letter across the surging foam, And last the breeze that over the seas bore Harry Conquest home. And they told him all the story that still their children tell, Of the fearful sight on that winter night, and the ringing of the bell.

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