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 PIBLISHKJ) 1\ AID OF THE FIRE .SIKKKKKKS. 
 
c^. 
 
 THE 
 
 Ull of iShicaqo, 
 
 Authoress of "The Whited Sepulchre," Etc. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 CHICAGO, OCTOBER, 
 1871. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871. hy 
 
 Mrs. SOPHIA B. OLSEN, 
 In the Olfice of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 
 ^<^^ 
 
THE FALL OF CHIGAGO. 
 
 A voice is ringing in the air, 
 A tale is trembling on the wire, 
 The people shout in wild despair: 
 "Chicago is on fire ! " 
 
 From North to South, from East to West, 
 That cry is borne by rushing crowds — 
 Behold our beauteous city di^essed 
 In smoke and fiery shrouds ! 
 
 Our noble firemen flee from homes 
 To battle the contending foe, 
 'Mid wreaths of smoke and tottering domes 
 And faces blank with woe. 
 
 With straining arm and dauntless eye 
 To quench those fierce and raging fires 
 With more than mortal energy ; 
 While back the crowd retires. 
 
 'Tis vain ! these efforts all are lost; 
 For now the water sources fail, 
 While the mad flames, in fury tdssed 
 By the terrific gale, 
 
 Proclaim: " Now, I am king ! Submit! 
 'Tis folly to resist my sway; 
 I tread your glories 'neath my feet; 
 I triumph here to-day !" 
 
 Ah ! then and there the people flee 
 In furious haste their lives to save. 
 Yet hundreds find eternity 
 
 In one vast, swelt'ring gi-ave. 
 
The frantic mother's tearless eye 
 Seeketh in vain her children dear. 
 And fathers, pale with' agony, 
 Shiver with mortal fear. 
 
 And friends and lovers linger 'round, 
 
 But vainly there with stifled breath, 
 
 Hoping some dear one may be found 
 
 Near that sad field of death. 
 
 The surging crowds by thousands press 
 On, onward towards that sea of fire, 
 Shrieking in tones of wild distress, 
 Then hence again retire. 
 
 The world of flames in fury rise, 
 Mounting, by fierce tornadoes driven, 
 Still higher, reaching to the skies, 
 And hide the stars of heaven. 
 
 The withered earth is scorched and dry; 
 The heavens are brass; in burning pain 
 Men upward cast the straining eye 
 
 And pray for Rain ! Rain ! ! Rain ! ! ! 
 
 Chicago lives but on a cloud 
 Suspended between earth and heaven; 
 All, rich asid poor, humble and proud, 
 With agony are riven. 
 
 Has God in vengeance veiled his face, 
 And left us as our fatal doom — 
 Because we have abused his grace — 
 This fearful, fiery tomb? 
 
 See how the fire "fiend rushes on 
 All heedless of a people's woe, 
 \Mio moum their cherished treasures gone 
 In smould'ring ashes low. 
 
Listen ! what means that fearful sound ? 
 "The Court House is on fire !" Its bell 
 Has rung out its last chime around 
 The awful tale to tell. 
 
 The prisoner in his gloomy cell 
 Of shame and sorrow, guilt and woe, 
 Leanis in this awful hour too well 
 The fruits of crime to know. 
 
 A hundred voices from the cell 
 Yell from their Iron-grated door: 
 "We perish in these flames of hell ! 
 Save, save us, we implore ! ' ' 
 
 And some are freed, some die in fire. 
 And find their graves and coffins there; 
 Amid those burning embers dire, 
 
 They gasp out life's last prayer. 
 
 Hark.! yet another thrilling sound 
 Shrieks madly thyough the fevered air. 
 The cupola has fallen ! The ground 
 Echoes the wild despair. 
 
 The votaries mad of Fashion now. 
 Who dared to waste life's precious hours 
 In guilty idleness, must bow 
 
 To these all-conquering powers. 
 
 The house of her whose gate is hell. 
 Like others, in blank ruin lies. 
 Where once tolled Virtue's funeral knell, 
 Now scorching flames arise. 
 
 Her luring voice is hushed in death, 
 Forever closed her wanton eyes. 
 She's breathed out her last poison breath. 
 And spoken her last lies. 
 
The wine cup sparkles here no more; 
 Its rivers to that sea of fire 
 Have added their own flaming store 
 To send it blazing higher. 
 
 And the poor drunkard hence must call 
 On other aids to quench his thii-st ; 
 With baser liquor sellers, all 
 Together doubly cursed. 
 
 The marble palace, splendid hall. 
 Hotel, bank, store, and princely dome. 
 In undistinguished ruin fall, 
 
 And find one common home. 
 
 The gathered stores of art refined, 
 Transported o'er the ocean wave. 
 The treasured wealth of cultured mind 
 Mingle in one sad grave. 
 
 Vast libraries and pictures here, 
 Paintings and statuary, all, 
 Ancient and new, soon disappear 
 'Neath one vast funeral pall. 
 
 Our Press — that wondrous power of yore- 
 Proclaims: " My errands here are done; 
 I battle for the right no more. 
 
 Nor wrong; My race is run." 
 
 Its leaden types are melted how. 
 Amid those fierce, contending tides. 
 Pale Desolation on its brow 
 Silent and sad presides. 
 
 Not one remains to tell the tale; 
 To spread the gloomy tidings 'round; 
 And bear with sad and solemn wail, 
 The melancholy sound. 
 
O! weep, thou city of the dead ! 
 O! wail, thou city of the past ! 
 The crown is fallen from thy head 
 And thou art doomed at last. 
 
 Our city, once "Pride of the West," 
 And wonder of the nations far, 
 The richest, brightest, loveliest, l^est. 
 Now, like a fallen star. 
 
 Lies low, in ashes doomed to weep. 
 Around its fierce and fieiy bed 
 A thousand hearts their vigils keep 
 O'er the retumless dead. 
 
 The splendors of our golden age. 
 In unforgotten beauty dressed. 
 Vanish ere Autumn's ling'ring page, 
 The "Rainbow of the West." 
 
 One mom the man of thousands gave 
 His last look o'er his hoarded pelf; 
 The next, his meanest, poorest slave 
 Rose richer than himself. 
 
 The wings of riches swiftly flew, 
 
 In fiery gulfs to end their flight; 
 
 And many a mad ambition, too. 
 
 Sank in eternal night. 
 
 But yesterday the millionaire 
 Could scorn to feel a brother's sorrow; 
 To-day he wears a brow of care, 
 And wails a sadder morrow. 
 
 With tearful eye each passer by 
 Reads MENE written on thy brow; 
 And in that bright and lurid sky 
 Beholds thy ruins now. 
 
What need have we of preaching now ? 
 Look on that pile and there behold ! 
 Lessons stare from its ashen brow 
 Pulpits have never told. 
 
 The fallacy of selfish aims, 
 The madness of a wasted life, 
 The guilt of idleness, the claims 
 Of misery in the strife. 
 
 But shall we sit and idly rave, 
 Cry: "Woe is me, I am undone ?" 
 Shall aspiration find its grave ? 
 Nay ! let us rouse, each one. 
 
 These lessons urge us on to move. 
 To battle still the ills of life. 
 Our perseverance yet may prove 
 Us victors in the strife. 
 
 We'll gird our armour on anew. 
 Life still hath plenty, hope, and joy 
 For all who to each duty true, 
 
 Bravely life's powers employ. 
 
 Let Industry our watchword be, 
 And Honesty our polar star, 
 And God our guide, and then .shall we 
 Find riches from afar. 
 
 And higher treasures still above. 
 Which fire and flames cannot destroy, 
 Treasures of peace, of home, of love. 
 Of pure, immortal joy. 
 
 In future time there will be read. 
 
 From some celestial post of view: 
 
 "Chicago's burst her ashy bed; 
 
 Chicago's born anew." 
 
PS