William Gilmore Simms
The enemy, from his camp on Morris Island, has, in frequent letters in
the Northern papers, avowed the object at which they aim their shells in
Charleston to be the spire of St. Michael’s Church. Their _practice_
shows that these avowals are true. Thus far, they have not succeeded in
their aim. Angels of the Churches, is a phrase applied by St. John in
reference to the Seven Churches of Asia. The Hebrews recognized an Angel
of the Church, in their language, “Sheliack-Zibbor,” whose office may be
described as that of a watcher or guardian of the church. Daniel says,
iv. 13, “Behold, a watcher and a Holy one came down from Heaven.” The
practice of naming churches after tutelary saints, originated, no doubt,
in the conviction that, where the church was pure, and the faith true, and
the congregation pious, these guardian angels, so chosen, would accept the
office assigned them. They were generally chosen from the Seraphim and
Cherubim–those who, according to St. Paul (1 Colossians xvi.),
represented thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers. According to
the Hebrew traditions, St. Michael was the head of the first order;
Gabriel, of the second; Uriel, of the third; and Raphael, of the fourth.
St. Michael is the warrior angel who led the hosts of the sky against the
powers of the princes of the air; who overthrew the dragon, and trampled
him under foot. The destruction of the Anaconda, in his hands, would be a
smaller undertaking. Assuming for our people a hope not less rational than
that of the people of Nineveh, we may reasonably build upon the
guardianship and protection of God, through his angels, “a great city of
sixty thousand souls,” which has been for so long a season the subject of
his care. These notes will supply the adequate illustrations for the ode
which follows.
I.
Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim
The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.
II.
That spire, for full a hundred years,[1]
Hath been a people’s point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
With strains well worthy Salem’s height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells,
Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.
III.
Along the shores for many a mile,
Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught arid kept the Day-God’s smile,
The guide for every wandering bark;[2]
Averting from our homes the scaith
Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
It pointed every prayer to Heaven!
IV.
Well may ye, felons of the time,
Still loathing all that’s pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime
‘Gainst peace and sweet humanity:
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turn your murderous aim
Against Jehovah’s ancient domes.
V.
Yet, though the grand old temple falls,
And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
And soars above the storm and fire.
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
Believing in the avenging God!
VI.
Think not, though long his anger stays,
His justice sleeps–His wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
With seraph shield avert the ball!
VII.
For still we deem, as taught of old,
That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
Whose sleepless watch the temple shields,
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS;
Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword
And golden shield, still champions ours!
VIII.
And he who smote the dragon down,
And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa’s frown,
Though loathsome in his spite and slime.
He, from the topmost height, surveys
And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
May well believe his power to save!
IX.
Yet, if it be that for our sin
Our angel’s term of watch is o’er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
The guardian watcher back once more I
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer–
In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
Our temple, though our people bleed!
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is built around a single act of war and turns it into something much larger. The shelling of Charleston and the deliberate targeting of St. Michael’s Church spire is treated not just as military aggression, but as a moral and spiritual violation. The long explanatory note that precedes the poem matters here. It tells the reader exactly how to understand what follows. This is not simply a church being struck by artillery; it is an attack on a guardian symbol, watched over by angels, rooted in biblical tradition, and tied to the identity of the city itself. The poem never allows the reader to forget that framing.
From the opening stanza, the tone is accusatory and confrontational. The speaker invites the enemy to strike the church, but the invitation is heavy with condemnation. Words like “sacrilegious,” “demoniac,” and “doom” immediately remove the act from the realm of ordinary warfare. The shells are not just weapons; they are described as iron bolts hurled with rage against God himself. This language is deliberate. By framing the attack as a violation of sacred space, the poem denies the enemy any claim to moral legitimacy. War here is not a clash of armies but a crime against faith.
The second and third stanzas slow the pace and shift into memory. The spire becomes a shared point of reference, something seen every day, something that shaped how people understood their city. Bells, music, prayer, and navigation all gather around this single structure. The spire is not only religious; it is practical, emotional, and communal. It guides ships, comforts worshippers, and anchors memory. By layering these roles, the poem argues that destroying the spire would mean trying to erase the city’s past and its sense of continuity. The emphasis on sound, light, and distance gives these sections a quieter strength compared to the fury of the opening.
When the poem turns back toward the enemy in the fourth stanza, the language hardens again. The attackers are called felons and accused of crimes against peace, humanity, homes, and shrines. There is no attempt to understand motive or strategy. The enemy exists only as a force of destruction. This fits the poem’s purpose. It is not trying to document events neutrally. It is meant to draw clear moral lines, especially for readers already invested in the cause. The church becomes proof that the enemy has crossed every boundary worth respecting.
The middle of the poem makes one of its central claims: buildings can fall, but faith cannot. Even if the spire collapses, belief remains intact and even strengthened. This idea appears often in wartime religious poetry, but here it is stated bluntly. The speaker insists that no shell can shake the faith of people who see themselves as free and justified. Fighting and dying are presented as natural extensions of belief. God is not distant; God is avenging. That word matters. Justice is not abstract or delayed forever. It is coming.
The following stanzas build on that expectation of judgment. Divine patience is described as temporary, and punishment is framed as inevitable and severe. Every hand that lights a torch will wither. Angels are not symbolic figures here; they are active defenders who physically turn aside cannon fire. The poem fully embraces a worldview where supernatural forces are directly involved in the outcome of battles. This is not metaphorical comfort. It is literal belief, and the poem treats it seriously.
The focus on St. Michael intensifies this idea. Michael is not just a saint’s name attached to a building. He is the warrior angel, the one who defeats dragons and chains evil. The comparison between the biblical dragon and the “boa” or anaconda is pointed and political. The enemy is reduced to a creeping, hateful creature, while Michael stands above, armed and vigilant. This imagery reinforces the sense that the conflict is cosmic, not just national. Charleston is portrayed as a city under divine surveillance and protection.
Near the end, the poem briefly allows for doubt. There is an admission that sin might cause the angel’s protection to lapse. This moment matters because it places responsibility back on the people themselves. Faith and prayer are not automatic shields. They must be renewed, even through suffering. Blood and sackcloth are mentioned without hesitation. Suffering is not denied; it is expected and accepted as part of the bargain. The final claim is not that the people will be spared pain, but that the church and spire will endure in spirit, even if the people bleed.
Overall, the poem functions as both defiance and reassurance. It is meant to stiffen resolve, justify endurance, and frame loss as meaningful rather than pointless. It does not question the war or its cost. Instead, it explains those costs through religion and sacred duty. The heavy use of biblical language, angelology, and moral certainty reflects a moment when faith was used to make sense of violence and to claim righteousness in the face of destruction. The poem’s power lies less in subtlety than in conviction. It tells its audience exactly what to believe, who to blame, and why they must endure.