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diff --git a/old/68671-0.txt b/old/68671-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 86dc2cd..0000000 --- a/old/68671-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4394 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sir Copp, by Thomas Clarke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Sir Copp - A poem for the times, in six cantos - -Author: Thomas Clarke - -Release Date: August 2, 2022 [eBook #68671] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Sonya Schermann and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR COPP *** - - - - - - - SIR COPP. - - A POEM FOR THE TIMES, - In Six Cantos. - - BY THOMAS CLARKE, - AUTHOR OF “A DAY IN MAY,” “DONNA ROSA,” “THE SILENT VILLAGE,” - “LIFE IN THE WEST,” &C. - - “Truth—the highest poetry and the bitterest satire.”—THE - AUTHOR. - - “Thus have they masked Hypocrisy, - And dubbed her ‘Young Democracy.’”—SIR COPP., _Canto VI._ - - _SIXTH THOUSAND._ - - CHICAGO: - GEO. W. CLARKE, PUBLISHER - 1867. - - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, - BY THOS. CLARKE & CO., - In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United - States, for the Northern District of Illinois. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -The object of this Poem is two-fold; first, to photograph a phase of -human depravity incredible, had we not witnessed it; and to hand down -its subjects to eternal infamy: and, secondly, to paint the beauty and -power of goodness and loyalty in the sacred cause of God and of Country. -“Sir Copp” represents the element of mean servility exhibited in those -whom duty called in vain to the support of their invaded liberties; the -most venomous “copperheads” being those who, under a loyal mask, betrayed -their trust, starved our soldiers, robbed their widows and orphans, and, -like Benedict Arnold, sold themselves to the enemy. Contrasted with this -dark side of the picture the patriotism of our loyal citizens stands out -in bold relief. Our army, like a torrent, sweeps away the strongholds -of the rebels and restores peace and happiness to the nation. But this -glimpse of light is clouded by the murder of Mr. Lincoln, and, in “Abel -Misraim,” the people bewail the irreparable loss of their martyred chief. -A digression on certain British poets, and a severe criticism on “Enoch -Arden,” are followed by a discussion demonstrating the impossibility of -sustaining liberty, unless founded on the basis of popular virtue and -intelligence; and that no man, whatever be his color, is entitled to the -privileges, unless he be prepared to discharge the duties of a citizen. -The abuse of this principle caused all our troubles in the past, and, -unless a speedy and a radical reform shall be effected, we can expect -nothing better for the future. - -“Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe physical and moral dissection, is -finally introduced into hell, whence Satan, unwilling to entertain him, -sends him back to earth to be punished there according to his deserts. - -This is the first of a series of works, chiefly on the war, by the -same author, which will be issued in due course, if “home production” -shall receive here, at the West, a sufficient patronage to justify the -undertaking. - -It is proposed, also, to republish here, from the London editions, the -most popular of the author’s published works, to which the opinions of -the best English critics will be appended, according to him a high rank -amongst the first poets of our day. - -Perhaps it may not be deemed out of place to give here a few brief -extracts from those criticisms: - -The London Athenæum says: “Mr. Clarke is highly successful in his -management of blank verse, and the following passage from his “Day in -May,” is worthy of praise for the happy arrangement of its cadences, and -the pure and natural feelings contained in it.” [Here follows a quotation -of over 40 lines.] - -The London Spectator speaks of the same poem in the highest terms; so do -the Court Journal, Indian Review, Morning Post, &c. - -Blackwood says of “Donna Rosa,” that “it cannot be surpassed for -elegance of style and correctness of metre.” Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine -coincides, and Bell’s Messenger says: “This is the best and most musical -poem which the present season has produced.” - -Much more might be quoted, had we space. The above must suffice for the -present. - -With regard to this new poem, “Sir Copp,” the author relies entirely -on the good sense and judgment of the people of the Great West, for -an impartial decision of its claims to public favor; and he will -rest satisfied with that decision, whatever it may be; for he cannot -but believe, that those who have been able to appreciate the best -political, military and legal talent in the country, will also be able to -discriminate, and reward, literary merit, when it is fairly and candidly -presented for their consideration. - - CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. - - - - -DEDICATION TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES. - - - Great Sov’reign, mightier far than king, - Accept this off’ring which I bring. - Thy humble servant would propose - A novel theme in rhyming prose; - Or, since my Muse flanks the sublime, - Then be it named prosaic rhyme. - No matter, if the thing shall please, - Concerning names I feel at ease. - - - - -INVOCATION TO THE MUSE. - - - Muse, if you ever condescend - To aid, in time of need, a friend, - If ever I have sung a lay - That charmed you on a happier day; - If, with the fat of spitted priests, - I have enriched your genial feasts; - Or politician’s sav’riest part, - Has warmed the “cockles” of your heart: - Oh, grant me, now, this precious boon, - (Again I may not ask you soon,) - May I before the lieges spread - The merits of the Copperhead! - - It is, indeed, a boon you ask, - And mine will be an arduous task: - The reptile’s name is legion; - He every color can put on; - He is a blackleg all complete, - The people to delude and cheat; - Pretends to be their faithful hack, - Yet claps a saddle on their back - And rides them roughshod through the mire, - Not suffering them to lag or tire, - But whips and spurs the patient jade, - Which never can his yoke evade, - Until, from high official chair - He sees the gaping creatures stare - Upon the riches he has fobbed - From those he so adroitly robbed; - Or in the Senate or the House, - He sits with those who there carouse - At your expense, and laughs to scorn - The slaves who for his use were born. - But though the task is hard, yet still, - I owe you much for your good will; - Then come, together let us wing - Our upward flight, and boldly sing - The strains which from my lips shall flow, - I love to pay whate’er I owe. - - - - -SIR COPP. - - - - -CANTO I. - - “To hell how easy the descent! - But to retrace your steps and to regain - The light of Heaven, alas, how difficult!”—VIRGIL. - - - Some orator hath lately said, - (And mark the speech each Copperhead,) - “Who martyrs out of rebels make, - Themselves are worthy of the stake, - And they shall have their full deserts, - When Justice all her rights asserts.” - I grant, the government was wrong, - In giving color to a throng - Of traitors so sublimely small,— - (The merest insects after all,) - Of raising martyrs from their ranks; - For this it scarce deserves our thanks, - Whilst bigger flies are left at large; - The only answer to this charge - That I can urge in its excuse, - It turned the barnacles all loose, - That bored the timbers of the ship, - And caused them drop their murderous grip; - And, like Ithuriel’s spear of yore, - It touched the toadies to the core, - And goaded them unmasked to spring, - At once to light and show their sting. - Soon may it send each tory sham - Hence hell-ward with Vallandigham! - All this was well: for now we see - Much that was veiled in mystery: - We now behold the secret springs - That worked the puppets with their strings, - And are prepared to circumscribe - The “Golden Circle’s” venal tribe, - The trappers in their net to mesh, - And try their flavor, fish or flesh; - Or whether they be bird or beast: - No neutral bat adorns our feast. - Come forth from that same magic ring, - And let us view that precious thing - You call a neutral, we, a drone, - Or rebel traitor—both in one. - If any “neuter” should be here, - Now is his time, let him appear. - (A nondescript Copperhead comes - forward, whom Scalpel addresses thus:) - Behold this scalpel and this probe, - To prove your heart beneath that robe; - And lo! this stethoscope to test - The inmost secrets of your breast, - Shrink not! for if your heart be sound, - Nor rottenness therein be found, - And you be loyal, as you say, - No cause have you for such dismay: - If conscience tells you, you are right, - Why shun the test of truth and light? - - SIR COPP— - - I dread the dungeon! - - SCALPEL— - - Be you true, - The dungeon was not made for you. - - SIR COPP— - - The “habeas corpus” is suspended, - And with it liberty is ended. - - SCALPEL— - - Suspended! yes, for those alone - Who’ve made the rebel cause their own, - Who ought to be suspended too, - If every dog should get his due. - You shake your head and still demur. - - SIR COPP— - - But, then, “the proclamation,” sir, - Can you excuse or palliate - An act so dreadful, so ingrate; - To rob three hundred thousand braves, - Of their best Samson locks, their slaves? - Oh, Lincoln false! we know thee now, - A perfect Delilah art thou, - To lull thy Samson, till the bands - Of Philistines tie down his hands: - Nor would it strike us with surprise, - If next you robbed him of his eyes; - And then!— - - SCALPEL— - - What then? - - SIR COPP— - - Why, then, look out, - The temple falls your ears about - And sweeps!— - - SCALPEL— - - How frightful, all at once, - Are those disasters you announce! - Like miracles exempt from laws, - They mark effects without a cause. - The “proclamation!” Why, ’twas fun - For you and yours, short time agone; - A mastiff’s bay against the moon, - The dish that scampered with the spoon, - With spoony grandam mounted on it, - Or the Pope’s bull against the comet; - A “brutum fulmen” which, at best, - Was meant to scare, and not divest; - And now, it has become at once - A stumbling block of great offense! - To dwell on this is poor pretext: - What grievance will you lug up next? - What, none! ’Tis well, then, bare your breast, - And yield to this unerring test. - - SIR COPP— - - Nay, stop one moment, let me ask - This question, then perform your task: - What right had Lincoln to suspend - The “habeas corpus,” or to lend - His sanction to the violation - Of that great bulwark of the nation, - The constitution of the land, - Beneath whose aegis all should stand - On equal footing in the sight - Of God and law, their manhood’s right? - - SCALPEL— - - What! Lincoln make a revolution, - And violate the constitution; - The “habeas corpus” set aside, - That he might rule with regal pride! - What monstrous calumnies I hear! - What misconceptions strike mine ear! - How, if in ignorance you stand, - A stranger in this glorious land, - Nor yet have learnt the scope and worth - Of Freedom, hear, I set them forth. - But, if corruption clouds your soul, - Which your own conscience should control, - Of which the truth shall soon appear, - Then tremble for your fate, but hear; - - So firmly have our fathers built - Fair Freedom’s temple, that, save guilt, - No power the fabric can tear down; - And then what falls strikes those alone - Who draw its terrors on their head, - And none need suffer in their stead: - This truth is often dearly bought - By those who set its laws at nought, - And chiefly in the traitor’s case, - For whom the temple keeps no place, - Save that whose dungeon walls secure - The good from him they cannot cure; - Or whence the gallows gives release, - That those behind may dwell in peace. - The “habeas corpus” gives no hope, - The constitution gives a rope, - To these and such as these. Yet, “why” - You ask, “should such in dungeons lie; - Why sink the power of men beneath, - Or suffer ignominious death?” - Because their own deliberate course - Draws on themselves the cross and curse; - Be theirs the blame, and not on those - Who for our safety interpose - Betwixt the murderer and our life, - To save us from the fire or knife. - Then why should parricides go free, - The murderers of Liberty? - Who with felonious hand would burn - The temple, and the sacred urn - Of him who to us did bequeath - The noblest gift the stars beneath? - Who Liberty and Washington - Betray, suspend all acts in one. - Nor needs there that, to suit such case, - A single stone should change its place; - Since self-protection still dictates, - That thieves should be debarred its gates; - And he who watcheth on the tower - Must never sleep in danger’s hour; - He would be recreant to his trust, - Did he admit the brood accurst. - What rights have such within the pale - Where Freedom and her sons prevail? - One only right, and that is flat, - The right to wear a hemp cravat! - Now, are you answered? Don’t you know - We all are masters here below; - And chiefly in this land, to be - Just what we will, or slave or free? - One truth is clear, the path of right - Will lead to joy, to peace, to light; - The wrong as surely lead astray, - As gloomy night succeeds to day. - No Lincoln for a single hour, - To blast our happiness has power, - Had he the will to do us wrong; - The law protects both weak and strong; - (Such is its object and its use, - When freed from partizan abuse;) - But who transgresses law invokes - On his own head its righteous strokes, - And for his suffering, sin and shame, - Has no one but himself to blame. - I laugh at those whose purblind eyes - See all things in a strange disguise; - Who tell us, that the President, - With his due powers not half content, - The constitution must suspend - That constitution to defend; - As if a man who is attacked, - Must first be all to pieces hacked, - And have his breath suspended too, - Before he anything can do, - To strike for life in self-defense; - Or dare to use what common sense - Dictates, and every man concedes, - “Necessity all law exceeds;” - And thus where danger is extreme, - Becomes itself the law supreme. - I ask, what kind of constitution - Were that, which fearing dissolution, - Assumes grotesque, protean shapes; - Or, like a garter-snake, escapes, - By breaking into numerous links, - While each to its own dungeon slinks, - Until, the danger overpast, - Their fragments reunite at last? - Such were a mockery, a sham, - The hope of freeborn souls to damn; - A demon sent from hell’s profound, - To taunt us with fair Freedom’s sound. - Shall we not wield the rightful power - To crush our foe in danger’s hour; - To teach our enemies to feel - The virtue of our polished steel; - Give to the dungeon, ball or knife, - All traitors who assail our life; - While e’en the worm and snail inert - Great nature’s privilege assert? - Lincoln, be steadfast, undismayed; - Make use of cannon, slave or blade, - Nay all the means within your reach, - To man the wall—defend the breach; - And scourge the fierce, rebellious band, - With every weapon at command: - Make no distinction; smite alike - False friends and open foes who strike; - Nor pause amidst the iron shower, - Your right is measured by your power;[a] - But, copperhead, why do you writhe, - And gnaw, in vain, the mower’s scythe? - You hum and haw, at every pause, - And prate of violated laws, - Of broken vows, “emancipation,” - And all the sufferings of the nation; - Thus Satan writhes, while preachers lash him, - And for his doings soundly thrash him; - While he, the injured innocent, - Indignant apes the holy saint! - Enough! my speech has been in vain, - Now bare that breast of yours again; - I will dissect it spite of fate, - Your prayers and groans are all too late; - My friends, take hold: he squirms and twists - And with such energy resists, - That I—’Tis well, you’ve got him fast, - And I have got my way at last! - But, ere I venture to dissect him, - My friends, I ask you to inspect him. - Behold his strange, abnormal shape, - Something between a snake and ape; - And mark his lank, distorted body - Clad in a garb of clouts and shoddy! - How like a legal malefactor, - Or loyal shoddyite contractor! - No difference can you detect, - Unless you narrowly inspect; - And then it is but nominal; - With both self-interest is all. - His phiz, you see, is almost human, - Save that his look is of a demon; - His face is ever earthward bent, - As if on treasures there intent; - His glance thence never turns astray - Towards sunny sky or milky way; - His usual gait is on all fours, - Although his hands will open doors; - You see they’re hooked like vulture’s claws, - To clutch the gold through chinks and flaws; - No lock of treasury can bar - His entrance or his purpose mar; - Whatever meets his greedy eyes, - He seizes as his lawful prize; - Filches the gold from out its bed, - And “greenbacks” shuffles in its stead; - (For he with caution still would steer, - And honest ever would appear;) - And, with the gold thus basely gotten, - Sends arms to rebels for their cotton; - And thus his honors cheaply wins, - His loyal cloak hides all his sins! - - Friends, while small flies still feel our laws, - Shall big ones burst through rents and flaws, - And fall like Jove with golden shower, - To rob the iron-bolted tower; - Shall we from whom the gold was taken, - Remain, like Israel’s sons, unshaken - In our allegiance to the Devil, - Well knowing that his deeds are evil? - Like them, but not so wise by half; - Theirs was a real golden-calf; - Whilst we, oh shame and sad disgrace! - Must of the calf assume the place; - Not to be worshipped and caressed, - (That were too good for such a beast;) - No, but to give our gold away, - And worship calves of brass and clay; - Who still, the more that we adore, - Our gold and worship claim the more; - And look more brazen than before! - - Friends, while poor nameless wretches pine - In dungeon, or in dungeon-mine, - Whom cold and hunger led astray, - To filch a loaf upon their way; - Friends, freemen, tell me, is it right, - That those foul fiends who love the night; - Whose grov’ling souls for mammon made - Incessant ply them thieving trade, - And on a large scale rob the State, - Whose misplaced faith had made them great! - Base hirelings whose ingratitude - Repays with evil every good; - Who, if they had their just deserts, - Would pine at tail of penal carts, - And feel distained with felon’s gore - The lash their sires had borne before; - Say, should such wretches go scot-free, - Enjoy Heaven’s light and liberty; - In mockery of earth and skies, - Blazon their shame before our eyes; - Nay, be caressed as something great, - And models for youth to imitate? - Oh God! if this be liberty, - From such be our loved country free; - And may a race less prone to serve - The demon, Plutus, rise with nerve, - And drive the grov’ling trash to hell, - A place most fit for such to dwell! - Thus only can our land become - Of brave and free the honored home![c] - Our land! oh may its boundless space - Be homes for men of Abraham’s race; - Men who are “Israelites indeed!” - God purge our troubled land with speed; - Strike every grov’ling traitor dead, - And clear it of the copperhead![d] - And you, ye watchdogs of the press, - Ye “friends of virtue in distress” - Who preach a homily each day - To wretches who have missed their way; - And with your saws and cutting jokes - Direct at paupers all your strokes; - Where are your homilies for those - Who every good on earth oppose? - For those big sinners who oppress - The poor and widow in distress! - Who fleece their laborers on Monday, - That they may saints appear next Sunday, - When they are liberal with the gold - For which they have their country sold; - How comes it that you pass these by, - Or squint with retroverted eye - At their misdeeds, while still with hate - The poor and weak you well berate? - How comes it? Answer, potent sirs! - Because you are but venal curs; - The purchased tools that despots use, - To gloze their crimes or them excuse; - The creatures doomed to echo still - The dictates of your master’s will; - Prompt to obey the prompter’s nod, - And worship Mammon as your god. - Oh Press, great pillar of the State, - How deeply art thou fallen of late! - To what a gulf of degradation, - From such a height of power and station! - Your friends scarce recognize your face, - Whose traits betray your foul disgrace: - Should Franklin rise from out his grave, - He’d grieve to see thee such a slave; - Should Faust or Gutenberg arise, - How painful were their deep surprise, - To find their giant hopes decline - To pigmy bantlings such as thine! - How grieved the Areopagite,[e] - Could he behold the sickening sight! - But why pursue this mournful tale? - Repinings now of what avail! - Halt, muse! If thus we rattle on, - When will our serious work be done? - We’ve thrown away much indignation; - Return we to our “demonstration.” - His hinder parts from hot affray - Are made to bear him swift away; - Or, if the hounds of law pursue, - He bounds like buck or kangaroo; - Till, safe beyond the Atlantic wave - His carcass and his dross he save; - He revels there like millionaire - Or nabob, for the vulgar stare, - Till, spurned by all good men with scorn, - He wishes he had ne’er been born, - And homeward turns in his vexation, - To find midst Copps some toleration. - A loyal tongue he sometimes wags, - But see those fangs and poison bags - That he concealed beneath its root; - Touch not or death will be the fruit. - But he our words will laugh to scorn, - Till from his face the mask is torn. - (Dissecting him,) - I rip him open! lo, his heart - Is foul and black in every part! - A cancerous ulcer gnaweth there, - Defying the healer’s skill and care; - Now with this probe its depths I sound; - Ha! what is this that I have found? - A yielding something not quite rotten; - What can it be? (Drawing it out on the point of his probe,) - A ball of cotton! - “Zounds!” you exclaim’ “’Tis very odd!” - Not so, for cotton was his god; - His heart was in it. Do you start? - It formed the nucleus of his heart; - And from the fire if he could save it, - Fame, party, Heaven itself, he’d brave it! - His scull is soft—his head is sore;— - His brain is tainted to the core; - And on his brain-case you may trace - A bump—the monarch of its race,— - Cobb-ativeness, so named from Cobb, - A bump that prompts to steal and rob; - Another near to it allied - Takes name and function both from Floyd; - Two more hardby may strike your fancy, - One named from Slidell, one from Yancey; - And one there is—the Davis bump, - In function strange as huge in lump; - It fills its owner’s heart with fright, - And stamps him an Hermaphrodite! - And there are others quite congenial - Which serve to mark the serf and menial. - But, Fowler, I owe you an apology, - I tramp on your coat tail, Phrenology. - His nerves are dead in every sense, - His breath is rank and gives offense, - His flesh—I touch it with my blade; - Of such the flunkey tribe is made, - The patient tribe who ready stand - To execute their lord’s command, - Instant, or in or out of season, - Nor e’en presume to ask a reason; - But do whate’er their masters say, - As Pitt was served by Castlereagh; - Or as that king, named George the Third, - Was flunkeyed by his Tory herd, - Who Washington and Freedom spurned, - And well the name of Tory earned, - Which to them and their race shall cling, - While streams shall flow or grass shall spring. - Now, Copperheads, in you I trace - These marks of that accursed race; - The name of liberty you scorn, - Because you natural slaves are born: - Your love for despots you preserve, - Because you’re made express to serve: - You worship pomp, and glare, and kings, - Because you are not men—but things; - And wish for things in turn to do - The like, and eat the dirt for you! - Not merely on your brain and heart - Is branded slave; on every part, - On every muscle, joint and bone, - In every gesture, look and tone, - The flunkey we can hear and see, - Prepared to crook the supple knee - To Jeff, for whom it is your pride - To turn a traitor, parricide; - Your country, duty, all forgot; - And pray for this what have you got? - That just reward which you deserve, - As do all those that willing serve, - Who might command, the despot’s scorn, - Who loathes you as base flunkeys born, - Whom having served his turn and pride, - With tools as base he flings aside! - Degenerate wretches! by what claim - Dare you assert the freeman’s name? - You are no freemen! no, not you; - But bantlings of that motley crew, - The blight of Europe and its dross, - Once borne the Atlantic tide across, - By hostile winds and angry waves, - Vile scum, to shame true freemen’s graves. - Whate’er the scourge or rope had spared, - What vice engendered, folly reared; - Whatever monsters spring to life, - Where foul disease and filth are rife; - Where men of wild, disordered brain - Beget such nondescripts as Train; - Or where some patriarch, dotard grown, - Gives name to children not his own, - As Cobb, Floyd, Yancey or Wigfall, - Or Hammond, biggest snob of all; - (Who ever knew such names to grace - The chivalry of any race?) - All such, by terror long repressed, - How raise aloft their murderous crest, - Their venom concentrate in you, - To blight and scourge the world anew. - When o’er the land such seed is spread, - To plague the living—shame the dead, - What wonder miseries should prevail, - And every evil life assail? - While hell’s black jaws yawn wide beneath, - And belch on high its sulphurous breath, - What wonder Freedom’s glorious dawn - Is clouded by the infernal spawn? - The taint of crime will long remain - Deep in the blood, though outward stain - Be lost to view or whitewashed o’er, - Each generation more and more; - Till some occasion shall arise - For throwing off the slim disguise; - Then instinct will assert its right, - As sure as evil loves the night! - Search through the records of all time, - This is the history of crime; - Trace back the Slidells, Floyds and Cobbs, - And every wretch who steals or robs, - And all who kiss you to betray, - From Judas to the present day; - You’ll find them very much the same, - The taint’s transmitted with the name: - Else, while the eagle bares his breast, - Some thieving daw pollutes his nest! - For this let traitors bear the shame, - But Liberty is not to blame, - Nor those who, in her happier day, - Were kindled by her orient ray; - These did their duty, be it ours, - To strew their graves with living flowers, - And consecrate their deeds, while we - Maintain this bulwark of the free, - The legacy they handed down; - So we shall win a glorious crown, - Like theirs, and through each coming age, - Our names shall glow on Freedom’s page. - - - - -CANTO II. - - “Hail, holy light!”—MILTON. - - “Paulo majora canamus.”—VIRGIL. - - - As, when some lone, half-foundered bark, - Pent up in Northern regions dark - ’Twixt icebergs and the rocky shore, - Where wintry billows wildly roar; - Where howling winds around her rave - And ocean yawns with many a grave; - The awe-struck crew are dumb with fear, - And shudder at the danger near; - But when, their toils and dangers past, - They reach their long lost homes at last, - Their hearts rejoice in every breast, - And all enjoy the unwonted rest:— - As when some antiquarian sage, - Intent to read dame Nature’s page, - Through gloomy caverns threads his way, - Unmindful of the light of day, - And, only midst vile toads and snakes, - At length to sense of danger wakes; - Then hastens forth to cheer his sight - Once more, with God’s all-beauteous light; - So I, till lately doomed to mourn - Midst scenes of horror, joyful turn - To others of more pleasing hue, - Where worth and valor meet the view, - And in the patriot’s soul combine - To light it with a ray divine. - I bless the man whose soul disdains - To live by others’ toils and pains; - The bread procured by slavery’s groans - From tortured flesh and aching bones, - To him were bitter as the fruit - Whose tree in hell sends deep its root; - The usurer’s ill-got gains he spurns; - No widow through his grasping mourns; - For him no serfs turn up the soil, - No minions delve, no drudges toil; - But his own hands his wants supply, - God’s fount allays his thirst when dry; - His wife and children are arrayed - In garments their own hands have made; - No guilty jewels deck their brow, - Procured by means—no matter how. - His loyalty is pure and strong, - He loves his country, “right or wrong;”[g] - If foes assail, he will not pause - To cavil or discuss the cause; - Or load the noble with abuse, - And skulk with this or that excuse. - No, no, he scorns ignoble rest, - And as a patriot bares his breast, - The first in council, first in fight, - For God, his country, and the right. - For freedom he desires to live, - Which he to all would freely give; - And when at length he comes to die, - No frightful phantoms meet his eye; - Resigned to Heaven he yields his breath, - His kindred dust to dust beneath. - In such, through God’s most gracious plan, - Behold the Christian gentleman; - The true republican behold. - As in our Washington of old. - Yes, yes, in him we recognise - An “Israelite without disguise:” - And, Lincoln, thanks to heaven, we see - A second Washington in thee; - Raised up to save the ship of State, - And pilot it through danger’s gate; - And many a noble spirit born - To usher in a happier morn, - To light and cheer us on our way, - Through this dark night of wild dismay, - Roused by thy patriotic voice, - To serve their country, now rejoice. - A cloud was gathering o’er the sky, - And some perceived the danger nigh; - While others thought ’twould pass away, - Like mists before the approaching day. - But when the mighty storm, at length, - Burst forth in all its fearful strength; - Few were prepared to realize - The truth that seemed to paralyze - All hearts, and fill them with dismay, - At foul rebellion’s dread array, - In this our day, in this our land; - And scarcely could men understand, - That Freedom’s children could combine - Her sacred fane to undermine; - To stigmatize her name and birth, - And blot her record from the earth. - ’Twas, as they thought, some frightful dream - Which dawn would scatter with its beam: - But when that wished-for dawn arose, - And shook them from disturbed repose; - When Sumter’s guns boomed on the ear, - Reality took place of fear: - And then a storm of grief and rage - Swept o’er the land, swept o’er the age: - The Nation shuddered to its core, - The shock was felt the wide world o’er; - Men roused themselves throughout the land, - To catch the word—the stern command. - - And soon it flashed the wires along, - (Thy voice, Abe Lincoln, clear and strong;) - Which, quick as lightning’s rapid wing, - Was heard throughout the land to ring: - - “Rise, children, rise, your country calls - To arms! or Freedom helpless falls; - Your Mother is assailed by foes, - Haste, haste, and ward from her the blows: - The assassin’s hand is on the knife, - And parricides assail her life!” - - Thus called the watchman from the tower, - And millions answered in that hour; - - “Lo! Father Abraham, we come, - Leave wife and children, house and home, - Leave social joys and friends refined, - Rend all the ties the soul can bind; - Our workshops and our farms we yield, - Our plowshares in the half-plowed field; - Our horses at the fence we tie, - And gird the sword upon the thigh, - And haste to meet the foe in strife, - And battle for the Nation’s life.” - - Thus loyal men, on every side, - Sprang forth all o’er our nation wide, - And offered up their lives, their all, - As incense at their country’s call. - The fair sex felt the patriot flame - And to their country’s succor came; - And, careless of their own repose, - The part of the wise virgins chose. - The maiden bids her love, “good by,” - While the big tear drop dims her eye, - Which, yet, with haste she chides away, - Lest she some weakness might betray: - And, like the Spartan dame of yore, - When to her son the shield she bore, - Bade him return upon the same - A corpse, or else come back with fame, - The tender mother bids farewell, - To that sweet boy she loves so well; - And binding round his waist the sword, - Thus cheers his heart by deed and word: - - “My only son, my darling boy, - ’Twill fill your mother’s heart with joy, - To know this blade you nobly wield - For freedom, in the tented field; - Let honor guide you in the strife, - And yield it only with your life.” - And, as the fearful conflict neared, - Such scenes as follow oft appeared: - - -THE EVE BEFORE THE BATTLE. - - ’Twas the eve before the battle, - And the men had taken leave - Of their lovely wives and sweethearts - Who were left behind to grieve - And think upon the morrow, - What disasters might befall; - Hope flickered in each loving heart, - But fear prevailed with all, - Save one, a noble matron, who - The mournful silence broke, - And rising with heroic mien, - Thus to her sisters spoke: - “Seven brave sons I’ve borne with pain, - And nurtured at my breast; - I’ve loved them well—but better still - My country sore oppressed; - And when the sound of strife was heard - Preparing through the land, - To each of my brave boys I gave - A gun with mine own hand. - Oh joyful mother that I am, - They will not brook a slave! - For happy homes and altars free - They’re fighting with the brave; - They’re gone to join the patriot host - Encamped on yonder hill; - How proud I feel—the Pilgrims’ blood - Flows through my heroes still! - And, as we parted then as now, - My heart was free from pain; - “Come back free men to me,” I cried; - “Or never come again!” - Ye Mothers of America, - Come now, with me unite; - And should we find a recreant son - Returning from the fight, - Unbidden, without wound or scar, - Or wanting glory’s crown, - Let’s stone the craven wretch to death, - Or piecemeal hew him down.” - - And, how the sires have stemmed the flood - That fills our land with grief and blood; - How well they bear the brunt of woe, - We learn from scenes like this below: - Not tales of fiction to appal, - But truths. Let one suffice for all! - - There lives near Elgin, Illinois, - A man whose wealth, five noble boys, - Was all he had to cheer his age, - And soothe life’s closing pilgrimage; - The call was heard; and, one by one, - He sent them forth with sword and gun; - At Lexington his youngest fell, - And one at Shiloh by a shell: - A third at Pea Ridge lost his life, - With honor in that fearful strife; - At Fredericksburgh’s terrific fray, - A fourth was swept from light of day; - His wife, borne down by sorrow’s wave, - Found consolation—in the grave. - Of all his treasures one remained, - Which still the father’s hopes sustained: - Would Heaven this loved one soon restore, - To bless his aged eyes once more? - Alas! he too was doomed to sleep - In death, and leave his sire to weep. - At Murfreesboro he was shot; - His father mourned, for he was not! - But when the first rude pangs had passed, - And the cold grave received his last, - He thanked his Father in Heaven that he - Had thus been privileged to be - The sire of Martyrs for the Right, - Who fell in Freedom’s sacred fight. - His heavy loss he nobly bore, - And wished that God had given him more, - To offer at his country’s feet, - To make the sacrifice complete! - And hark that wild, yet glorious strain! - ’Tis from the spirits of the slain; - Whose privilege it was to fall, - First victims, at their country’s call: - - -SONG OF THE SPIRITS. - - Our Mother, oh, our Country dear! - We heard thy cry for aid, - And, rending every other tie, - Thy voice we have obeyed! - - We left our plowshares in the field, - Our horses at the fence; - And, seizing weapons as we could, - We rushed to thy defense; - - Unflinching or in limb or rank, - And fighting hand to hand, - We’ve found our death-blow on the spot - On which we took our stand. - - Here gently rest we on the sod, - Fixed on high Heaven our glance; - Pierced, each, with honorable wounds, - And grasping gun or lance. - - Our Mother, oh our country dear! - Our spirits now rejoice, - That we have found this gory bed, - Obedient to thy voice. - - Oh, ’tis a glorious privilege - Thy chosen sons to be, - To pour our life-blood in the cause - Of Freedom and of thee! - - That blood shall be the fruitful seed, - In fertile furrows cast, - Of deeds heroic to thy sons, - While Heaven and earth shall last; - - And, like the seed by Cadmus sown, - In ages long gone by, - ’Twill raise a host of armed men, - Whose glory will not die! - - Oh, Brothers! would you honor us, - As to us seemeth right; - To us erect no monument, - No fulsome praise indite; - - But, fight like men, as we have fought; - Meet death with fearless eye; - And thus our blood shall serve to tinge - The dawn of Liberty! - - But, when the final hour had come, - Our braves should bid adieu to home; - Ah! there were partings which might wake - The soul to woe, and blanch the cheek; - For never more in converse sweet - Might kindred souls and glances meet: - Then, many a tender wife confessed - The anxious feelings of her breast; - And, as the fount of grief she woke, - Thus to her husband, sobbing spoke: - - -PARTING FOR THE BATTLE. - - WIFE. - - My husband, must we part? the battle rages; - With fell intent the rebel host engages, - And thou wilt fall untimely in the strife: - Think, think upon thy orphans wildly weeping - No hand to guard their waking hours or sleeping; - And oh, what pangs await thy widowed wife! - - SOLDIER. - - Dear wife, it grieves my soul to leave thee lonely; - Thee have I loved, Heaven witness, and thee only, - And these sweet treasures which our union bless; - But hark! our country on her brave sons calleth, - And if in her defense thy husband falleth, - Let this great glory soothe thy deep distress. - - For, when once more our glorious flag is flying - O’er all the land, its envious foes defying, - Transcending e’en its ancient splendor’s pride; - Then, as the people cheer the emblem loudly, - Amongst the matrons thou canst stand up proudly - And say, “for this my noble husband died.” - - And when to youth and womanhood upspringing - Our little ones shall hear the echoes ringing - With deeds embalmed in fame’s immortal story; - Then shall their bosoms with proud feelings swelling - Find consolation for their loss by telling; - “Our honored father shares this fame and glory.” - - WIFE. - - But thou, meantime, bereft of sense and feeling, - Shalt sleep, death’s cold embrace thy limbs congealing; - Thy home, thy love, thy country, all forgot; - Unknown to thee the glory of the nation— - Unseen its splendor, its regeneration; - All these will be to thee as they were not! - - SOLDIER. - - ’Tis true death drowns man’s sense in Lethe’s slumber; - And ages pass without or note or number, - Yet love of home and country cannot die; - My spirit from yon beautiful Elysian - Rapt in the glory of ecstatic vision, - The loved of earth shall ever hover nigh. - - The brightest Angels round the throne eternal, - Gaze on no vision purer, more supernal, - Than Liberty by human virtue won: - The highest throne on God’s right hand in Heaven - To him who for his country falls is given; - The Hero’s death is endless life begun! - - But soon the last “adieus” were said, - The kiss exchanged, the tear-drop shed, - And then our heroes, girt for fight, - Marched forth to battle in their might: - Like a broad river on the plain - That sweeps majestic to the main, - Now swelled by many a creek and rill - From mountain side or verdant hill, - To which all barriers in its course, - But add fresh fury to its force; - So, fierce, resistless, sweeps along - Our Army’s torrent vast and strong, - Collecting strength and power each day - By obstacles thrown in its way, - Till all surmounted, land and sea - Shall bail the flag of Liberty. - Of all that patriotic host - Say, which should he extolled the most? - Since all with equal zeal awoke, - To save us from the despot’s yoke. - From Maine to California’s shore, - We hear the wild, tumultuous roar: - From the great river of the North, - To where Ohio sallies forth - To join the Mississippi’s tide, - On which our commerce free must ride; - From Mississippi to the plains, - Where miners delve for golden grains, - All o’er this Northern continent, - So lately smiling in content, - We hear the drums and bugles sound, - The tramp of squadrons o’er the ground, - All ready for the glorious fight, - For God, for Liberty and Right! - And as they swiftly march along, - They wake the echoes with this song; - - -“DELENDA EST CARTHAGO.” - - When Rome’s great rival in the past, - The mighty Carthage, reared her head, - And o’er the earth her poison spread, - Man’s brightest hopes to blast; - The Patriot raised this earnest cry, - Pleading for right and Liberty, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - When Hannibal the Alpine height - O’erleapt, and swept the Italian plain, - And gained the field of Thrasymene, - And Cannæ’s dreadful fight; - Undaunted midst the wild uproar, - That voice rose louder than before, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - This was the watchword of our sires, - When Britain, modern Carthage, tried - To drown them in a crimson tide, - Midst tribulation’s fires: - Threats, tortures, blood, were all in vain, - For still they cried unmoved by pain, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - At Lexington and Bunker Hill, - Quebec, Long Island, Valley Forge, - They bravely bore the brunt and scourge, - Nor shrank beneath the ill; - Firm in the path of right they trod, - Nor vainly vowed to Freedom’s God, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - For this our chieftains drew the sword, - Our glorious heroes bled and died, - For this men’s souls were sorely tried; - The Nation pledged its word, - That wheresoe’er our flag unfurled - The hope of freedom to the world, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - What though one foe was prostrate laid, - Another lifts its snaky head - Which slept but was not dead; - Sheer weakness its assault delayed, - Till warmed by the breath of Liberty - It coils to strike—Its sentence be - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - Yes! “Carthage must be swept away,” - That stronghold of the tyrant race, - And Freedom must resume her place - We, modern Romans, say; - Let echo waft this cry afar, - Whate’er the price in peace or war, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - The fiat has gone forth—the storm - Evokes the millions with its sound, - Who yon dear Union flag surround, - And point to slavery’s form; - Then, drowning the deep thunder’s roar, - They swell the cry from shore to shore, - “Delenda est Carthago.” - - What strongholds ’neath their torrent fell, - Let Donelson and Henry tell; - In Roanoake, Orleans, Newberne, - The rebels may a lesson learn; - Where Butler, Farragut, Burnside, - Cut short Secessia’s regal pride: - And they must gnash their teeth and wail, - When Shiloh, Corinth, tell their tale. - Their hordes to meet our few how weak - At Pea Ridge, and at Wilson’s Creek; - Where Curtis and brave Siegel taught - A lesson with much wisdom fraught. - But Springfield gave us cause to weep; - There Lyon laid him down to sleep. - The rebels how unfit to cope, - At Island Number Ten, with Pope! - Their “chivalry” how much at fault, - When Foote joined in the fierce assault! - Nor can the treachery and shame - Of others tarnish Pope’s fair name; - Since he was left almost alone, - To cope with Lee at famed Bull Run, - Where “Mac” and Porter checked his speed, - Withheld their aid in time of need, - And dashed the victory from his lips, - To save their rushlight from eclipse. - At Champion Hill we thinned their host, - When we had won Arkansas Post; - Where brave McClernand dealt the foe - Their great rebuff—most fatal blow; - To whom the Country should accord - Fair play at least,—a cheap reward,— - Discard ingratitude, mistrust, - Be noble, generous, and just. - At Antietam “brave little Mac” - The rebels swept; but, being slack - To follow up the hot pursuit, - The foe had leisure to recruit. - “Mac” might have cut them off with ease; - But “that was not his game,” quoth Keys.[h] - Let Hudson Port and Vicksburg heights - Be, henceforth, safety’s beacon lights, - To warn the prudent off the rocks, - Where rebel craft have met such shocks: - And, most tremendous of them all, - Let Gettysburg their souls appal; - Where rebel hordes, misled by Lee, - Were forced by Meade to turn and flee; - And where by right their routed mass - Should have received their “coup de grace.” - But this great glory was in store - For those who triumphed oft before. - From Winchester and Fisher’s Hill - Brave Sheridan (our glorious Phil.) - The Shenandoah swept like fate, - Where Early found himself too late; - And whence his successor, Longstreet, - Was forced to beat a long retreat, - Sans guns, sans baggage, and sans breath, - Glad to escape pursuing Death! - Then, at Five Forks, he dealt the blow - That laid the rebel squadrons low; - Bearded the lion in his den, - Defeating Lee and all his men; - Whose skill and courage could not save - His cause from its predestined grave; - Who fought till, overpowered at length, - He yielded to superior strength. - And at Atlanta, Sherman’s steel - The rebels swept and made them reel; - Annihilated boastful Hood, - And drowned his hordes in seas of blood. - He swept Savannah on his way, - Till Charleston became his prey, - (That den of rattlesnakes and Copps,) - Nor even there the torrent stops! - It rolls along the Southern plain, - Till all resistance is in vain; - Holds Johnston’s barbarous hordes at bay, - Till Grant, at Richmond, wins the day; - Which ’neath his strokes is forced to yield, - And Lee and Davis quit the field: - Then Johnston too capitulates, - And bows to justice and the fates; - Rebellion’s suns thus set in night - Extinguish every lesser light! - Grant, Sheridan, and Sherman pause - Then only when the Union cause - Is crowned with victory’s success: - Grant promised and would give no less, - Should he be forced, in reason’s spite, - “All summer on this line to fight.” - All honor to the glorious three - Who conquered Johnston, Hood, and Lee, - And to that brave,—that patriot band, - Which quelled rebellion in our land! - Hail to the chief whose master-mind - The moves strategic so combined - That every check was big with fate, - Foreshadowing the grand checkmate! - And hark! the fearful struggle o’er, - Their praise resounds from shore to shore; - The bells ring out a merry peal, - All hearts the inspiration feel; - The drums and cymbals joyful sound, - Flags wave, and banners stream around; - The fair their pathway strew with flowers, - And bouquets rain in fragrant showers; - Where’er they go the bonfires blaze, - And cannon thunder in their praise: - A grateful people everywhere - Extol their deeds, their worth declare; - And bless them for this sweet release - From war, and for a glimpse of peace. - And chief our noble Illinois - Is frantic with delight and joy; - She hails her son, a welcome guest, - Returning to his own dear West; - And, with his glorious patriot band, - Thus bids him welcome to her strand: - - -ILLINOIS TO GEN. GRANT AND HIS COMRADES. - -(In the Great Hall of the Sanitary Fair, Chicago.) - - Illustrious heroes! welcome all! - Thrice welcome to this princely hall! - With bounding pulse and hearts elate, - We hail your presence in our State,— - The prairie State, whose sons admire - The leader’s worth, the soldiers’ fire; - Whose daughters with unwearied zeal - Our wounded heroes nurse and heal; - Whose gifted bards can celebrate - Those deeds which make her proud and great: - In her behalf, with hearty cheer, - The Garden City greets you here. - And, Grant, fit representative - Of all that Liberty can give; - Her guardian in the tented field, - The people’s strength, the country’s shield, - Thrice welcome to thy Western home! - Our hearts are glad that thou art come. - In thee we take a noble pride; - Fain would we have thee here abide, - Until the people call thee hence, - To be their bulwark and defense - In peaceful cares, as thou hast been - In many a well-fought battle scene. - Thus coupled with thy conquering name - May our great country shine in fame; - May every grov’ling passion fly - With violence and tyranny; - Thus may the glorious reign commence - Of virtue and intelligence; - Thus may our land at length become - Of brave and free the undoubted home: - Then would thy brightness shed a ray - To cheer the wanderer on his way; - Then would thy cheering smile illume - The lettered delver’s deep’ning gloom, - And give to learning, genius, art, - The sunshine of one patriot heart; - The soldier’s generous influence lend, - And be henceforth the poet’s friend! - So may green bays adorn thy brow, - As thy fresh laurels grace thee now; - So may all men, both East and West, - Rise up and hail thee “wisest, best;” - So may the North and South unite, - To crown thee first in peace and right, - As all mankind, both near and far, - E’en now, proclaim thee first in war! - And next, ye generous hearts who shared - Your chieftain’s toils, and nobly dared; - Brave Sherman, Sheridan, and all - Whom we true patriots can call; - All you who volunteered your aid - When danger every heart dismayed; - Who noble deeds have dared to write - In lasting colors, “black and white,” - On march, in battlefield, or camp, - By sea or river-margin damp, - Or where our mailed “web-feet” could wade - To point a gun or wield a blade; - To you, our well-tried Union friends, - Our hospitable State extends - A standing invitation meet, - Such welcome as such men should greet; - To you she shall be doubly bound, - If oft her guests ye shall be found. - - And, when your warlike duties cease, - Resume the nobler arms of peace; - Assist your chief to stem the tide - Of envy, hatred, malice, pride; - And as before with common mind - You all against the foe combined; - So now, against home foes unite, - Nor pause ’till you have won the fight. - The rubbish cleared, the rock made bare, - Build up the enduring temple there; - On which the thunder, hail, and rain, - And wind shall howl and beat in vain; - Then every shock it will withstand, - Because ’twill not be built on sand! - - And now we pray, may Heaven preserve - Your lives, your country long to serve - With patriotic hands and hearts, - In social life and peaceful arts! - So that when death shall come at last, - You each may look upon the past - With satisfaction, and exclaim; - “My country will preserve my fame:” - And men shall say your deeds who scan; - “Each died, as he had lived,—a man.” - - Thus universal joy and light - Pervade our land late sunk in night; - The clouds of grief have passed away; - The dawn gives promise of the day; - And hope, the polar star of life, - Succeeds to discord, gloom and strife. - The people count on happy years, - To compensate for blood and tears. - But ah! how brief is human joy; - What bliss is free from base alloy! - Some note with its discordant jar - The purest harmony will mar. - The “wires” convey a rumor dread, - That Lincoln, our great chief, is dead! - Yes, murdered by the assassin’s hand, - While joy pervaded all the land; - When victory had crowned our arms, - And freed us from war’s dread alarms; - And men would Sumter’s flag restore, - As it had been in days of yore; - And cause its folds once more to wave - Where vile Secession found its grave; - When Lincoln, freed from carking care, - Some leisure hours might hope to share; - To realise fair freedom’s cause, - And taste its fruits—a just applause;— - It cannot be!—’tis but a dream, - To cloud bright hope’s translucent beam! - An effort vain to turn aside - Attention from fair pleasure’s tide!— - Let joy abound! we cannot stay - The car triumphal on its way. - But hark, once more, that dreadful knell - That haunts us like a weird spell! - A dismal sound like stifled sigh, - That rises to a wail or cry! - Dread rumor spreading as she springs, - Sheds poison from her baleful wings, - Infecting mortals as she goes, - And stirring up their fount of woes. - Alas! our Lincoln is no more; - His loss the nation must deplore! - And lo! she robes herself in weeds, - While her great heart within her bleeds; - And hark the people’s doleful strain - For their great Chief untimely slain! - - -ABEL MISRAIM. - - A mighty man is fallen in Israel: - In Israel a mighty Chief is fallen! - Ye daughters of Jerusalem, lament, - Ye sons of Israel, bewail your loss! - He fell, but not like Jacob, ripe in years - And dim of sight, his work accomplished, - Surrounded by his sons and his sons’ sons - To the fifth generation, blessing all - And bidding them farewell; but like to Moses, - Catching a glimpse of the fair promised land - From Pisgah’s top, forbid to enter it, - And there enjoy the fruit of all his toil. - With eye not dimmed, and with his natural force - Still unabated, he has fallen asleep: - Yet not by God’s behest. Like Absalom - He fell by violence: a nation mourns, - And will not be consoled, as David mourned - For Absalom, his son. As Rachel wept - Her children, for they were not, so America - Weeps for thy fate, our father and our friend; - And cries: “My father, Lincoln, would that I - Could die for thee, my father, Abraham! - Abraham, my father, would that I could die - Instead of thee, my father, oh, my father!” - - And she has draped her graceful limbs in weeds, - In drapery of mourning all too weak - To give expression to her speechless woe! - Behold her drooping o’er her honored dead, - Her grief too deep for tears: and there she stands - Gazing intently on his ghastly wounds - Whence blood and brain are oozing, and she cries: - “Behold the work of treason! lo, the deed - Of parricides who lifted up their hands, - Their murderous hands, against their father’s life, - Against their benefactor and their friend! - Whose soul was ever gentleness and love, - Who would have gathered ’neath our glorious flag, - E’en as a hen doth gather her young brood - Beneath her wings, his own rebellious sons, - But they would not! Behold him stark and stiff, - The innocent one, the guileless and the just, - Who for our sins has drunk this bitter cup! - Oh, had it passed away and he been spared! - As Jesus suffered for the human race, - So Lincoln suffered for a nation’s crime, - On that same day on which the Saviour died!” - - Unveil his face, and note that saintly head - Disfigured by those gashes whose red mouths - Cry, not for vengeance, but for mercy still - E’en towards his murderers! Shall Justice sleep, - Because his gentle spirit wills it so? - Shall God’s right hand be stayed from smiting all - Who in this deed of hell have taken part? - Who sanction it by word or act? Not so! - If men keep dumb, then shall the stones speak out, - And raise a loud, a shrill heaven-piercing cry, - And call upon the thunderbolts to strike - The guilty monsters who have done this deed! - Or should these linger, may a blight from God - Fall on their fields, their houses and their flocks! - As outcasts may they wander o’er this earth, - The mark of Cain upon their foreheads set! - May every heart of matron, man and maid - Be steeled against them, and no pity soothe - Their hours of dark despair, until that life - Which cowardice would screen from justice now - Become a burden, and they call on death, - But call in vain, to end their wretchedness! - - They have embalmed our chief, even as of old - The patriarch in Egypt was embalmed; - For whom they mourned full three score days and ten. - But for our patriarch, three score years and ten, - Nay, time itself will scarce suffice to mourn; - And not alone his native land, but all - The lands and races of the earth shall mourn! - Where’er the name of Liberty is known, - Or where the faintest whispers of it reach; - For in his life she too has been assailed. - From Cape de Verde to Guardefui’s rock, - From Table Mountain to Calabria’s shore, - From Calpe to the Ural hills, and thence - To dusky Ind and Siam, and the coasts - Of yellow China and far off Japan; - From the Antarctic to the howling caves, - Where ocean thunders ’neath the Northern Bear; - Through all the Atlantic and Pacific isles, - The mournful echoes, catching up the wail, - Shall swell the diapason of our woe, - And men shall shudder when they hear the strain. - And as the heavens were darkened, and the sun - Was veiled in sorrow, and the earth was rent, - On that sad day when Christ, the Saviour, died, - Even so a gloom and horror shall brood o’er - Men’s moral sense—so shall their hearts be rent - With grief and horror, when they hear this cry, - Until the very tyrants on their thrones - Who gloat o’er this huge crime—whose lavish gold - And words of cheer have served perhaps to nerve - The assassin’s hand to do this frightful deed— - Shall tremble for their work and topple down, - Even as the idols in their temples fell - Before the glory of the Ark of God. - - And as the patriarch, Jacob, was inurned - In Canaan, in the cave of Machpelah, - Which Abraham bought of Ephron, and in which - He and his loved Sarah slept in peace; - Where Isaac and Rebecca took their rest, - And Jacob buried Leah: so our Chief - Will soon be gathered to his kin, and laid - Beneath the turf of his own Illinois, - To whose fair name his own immortal fame - Shall add fresh luster, while this earth endures. - And SPRINGFIELD, proud to guard the patriot’s dust - Shall be henceforth a MECCA to the sons - Of freedom, temperance and Christian love, - To make their pilgrimages to that spot, - And bend in reverence at the good man’s shrine, - The second Washington, as men have bowed, - And ever will do honor, to the first! - - And as the Canaanites, when they observed - The grief of Israel’s children round his grave, - And heard their lamentations loud and long, - Said, “This is a grievous mourning to the Egyptians,” - And Abel Misraim named that sacred place; - So all the nations scattered o’er our globe, - Noting our grief, and listening to the cry - Of our great sorrow, shall exclaim, “Behold! - This is a grievous mourning to the Free! - Their wail of woe goes up from all the land - For Abraham Lincoln, their dear martyred Saint!” - And these will join us in our sorrowing, - And tears shall flow in streams from every eye, - And sobs from every heart, till all mankind - Shall mourn in unison, and the whole earth - One mighty ABEL MISRAIM shall be named! - - - - -CANTO III. - - “Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, - Mingling wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy; - His jest while each blithe comrade ’round him flings, - And moves to death with military glee; - Boast, Erin, boast them, tameless, frank and free, - In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known; - Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she; - And he—yon chieftain—strike the proudest tone - Of thy bold harp, green isle, the hero is thine own.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT. - - “Thy songs were made for the pure and free; - They shall never sound in slavery.”—MOORE. - - “Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not - Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?”—BYRON. - - - Though slavery in its dying throe - Has done its worst,—has struck the blow - That robbed us of our noblest son, - And deemed a triumph it had won; - Yet all its efforts have been vain; - With Lincoln “Mercy hath been slain!” - - Thus blinded by their foolish rage - A desperate war the despots wage; - One martyred patriot falls, ’tis true; - But millions more spring up to view, - Who maddened by this dastard stroke - The vengeful furies fierce invoke; - Like bloodhounds, with terrific yell - Pursue the demons to their hell; - Till, fastening in their flesh their fangs, - They gloat in their tremendous pangs. - - The place by Lincoln vacant left - Is of his tenderness bereft; - And filled by one of purpose stern - Who can ’twixt right and wrong discern; - Who gives to justice its due course, - And puts his country’s laws in force. - Yes! Johnson bravely steels his heart - Against seduction’s wily art; - Its blandishments and snares ignores, - While high o’er passion’s waves he soars, - Resolved to save the Ship of State, - In spite of rebels, hell and fate. - - Thus retributive justice woke - Swift vengeance with unerring stroke, - On each assassin’s guilty head; - And now behold them stark and dead! - Booth, like a wild beast, by a ball - Which freed him from life’s torturing thrall: - That female fiend, Surratt, strung up - With Payne has drunk death’s bitter cup; - A warning to the desperate band - Of vixens who infest our land. - Harold and Atzeroth must share - The feast of death and “dance on air!” - And Davis trembling for his fate - His turn to swing is forced to wait; - His soul by conscious guilt consumed - Feels all the pangs that gnaw the doomed: - Like Cyclops gloating o’er his feast, - The gallows gapes to gulp him last; - While the vile scum who helped the plot - Are left in dungeons damp to rot; - Like toads, to poison with their breath - Whate’er they touch,—their touch is death. - - What though our arms once met rebuff - At Richmond, Bull Run and Ball’s Bluff; - Where imbeciles or traitors led - Our hosts to murder’s gory bed; - Where thousands perished in the fight, - And thousands more were put to flight; - Where noble Baker fought so well, - And with his comrades fighting fell:— - Such obstacles but swelled the tide - That swept the rebels’ strength and pride; - And merely served to whet the scythe - That lately made their columns writhe; - And but postponed the reck’ning day - When they the bill and costs should pay. - - For all our well-fought fields attest, - That Right alone by Heaven is blessed; - And that the wrong cannot prevail, - Though hell our Union cause assail. - All efforts us to thwart, subdue, - Recoil upon the rebel crew, - To whom of every hope bereft - That last, sad ditch alone is left! - - That last, sad ditch?—think, friends, just think, - The “chivalry” shiver on its brink, - And fear to plunge! And see, oh fie! - Like common hacks, they bolt and shy; - Seek safety—some in swamps and boats, - And some in hoods and petticoats! - But still, ye mudsills ’grimed with dirt, - “Take care, some of you may get hurt!”[i] - - Then let us raise to Heaven our voice - In grateful chorus, and rejoice, - That never, since the world began, - More glorious shone the freeborn man; - And in no nation old or young - Has love of country proved more strong: - Not Greece in her most palmy days - More nobly earned the meed of praise, - When her ten thousand heroes won - Immortal fame at Marathon; - Or when at Salamis she hurled - Those bolts which fired and saved the world; - Or at Platæa swept the plain, - Where Persia’s hordes opposed in vain; - Or, at Thermopylæ’s dread pass, - The band led by Leonidas - Laid down their lives, a holocaust, - To stay the foe’s invading host: - Not Rome when fierce, barbaric bands - O’erran her city, towns and lands; - Or at Cannæ or Thrasymene, - Where thousands of her sons were slain; - Not Winkleried or William Tell - Who fighting for their country fell; - Not Kosciusko ’midst the storm - That prostrate laid his manly form;— - Displayed more dignity of soul, - More sacrificing self-control, - Than in our country’s cause appeared, - When danger for her life was feared: - For still we cried, though suffering sore; - “We come six hundred thousand more; - No shrinking and no compromise - With God’s and nature’s enemies; - And, while a man or dime remains, - We’ll march, fight, rend the tyrants’ chains!” - Then all, save copperheads alone, - Stood for the sacred Union—“one, - Eternal, indivisible, - Where Freedom must and shall prevail!” - Well might the despots of the earth - Who envy us our freemen’s birth, - Well might they pause in their career, - Ere they with us should interfere;— - And shrink in terror from the look - Of men who will no despots brook;— - Who, taught to wield the gun and sword, - Hurl fierce defiance at their horde! - - And let our gratitude extend - To every soul who proved a friend - When danger rendered friendship sweet; - Let generous acclamations greet - Each noble nationality - Which then stood by our Liberty: - Henceforth let one dear common name - Of “brother” share one common fame. - - Conspicuous ’midst that glorious throng - Our Irish heroes march along; - The good, the gallant and the free, - And chant the hymn of Liberty! - Above them Freedom’s banners wave, - Beneath them yawns—the Southern grave! - They march with laughter, song and cheer, - And mock at danger, jest at fear! - Ye wives and sweethearts, weep and mourn, - For few will ever home return![j] - - The Irish heart, impelled by Right, - Is prompt to meet the foe in fight: - Enough! the flag which it adored - Is sullied by the rebel horde; - Enough to rouse its holiest flame, - “Your country is exposed to shame, - Rise, patriots, rise!” They hear the call, - And lo! they stand like solid wall - Of fire, prepared to stem the tide, - And of rebellion check the pride! - Woe to the foe that waits to feel - The desperate onset of their steel! - The wild tornado’s furious force - Were less tremendous in its course. - - Ye heroes famed at Fontenoy, - Look down from Heaven with pride and joy - Upon your sons for freedom made, - Here marshalled in a new “brigade,” - Whose fame on many a well-fought field - To yours in glory shall not yield; - But both shall be transmitted down, - Equal in honor and renown, - Through every age and every clime, - Till angels sound the knell of time. - - In every field for freedom won, - Since Mercer, friend of Washington, - Thy sons, green Erin, foremost stood, - And free as water poured their blood. - Bear witness, ye immortal plains, - Where Jackson fought at New Orleans, - Where Albion’s lion shook his mane, - And furious lashed his sides in vain, - And, with a terror-stricken roar, - Slunk off to reappear no more. - Bear witness too, ye glorious fields - Of Mexico, where, led by Shields - Their valor turned the tide of war, - And victory chained to freedom’s car! - And now with joy we see once more, - That noble spirit proudly soar, - On eagle pinions to sustain - Their country on th’ ensanguined plain. - What host presents a nobler front - To hostile rage, or bears its brunt - With more heroic soul than they; - Or who more dreadful in the fray? - At first Bull Run with Corcoran, - At Lexington with Mulligan, - They bore the storm almost alone, - Nor yielded till all hope was gone; - And had their efforts been sustained - By valor such as they maintained, - Those sad disasters, judges say, - Had surely rolled the other way. - At Winchester with Shields again - Our heroes swept of foes the plain; - Achieved the glory, in that fight, - Of putting “Stonewall’s” hordes to flight! - Throughout those seven disastrous days, - Near Richmond, too, they won fresh bays, - When little Mac “triumphant” made - That “brilliant” movement retrograde. - Wherever danger threatened most, - Wherever pressed the rebel host, - There Meagher and his men were found - To battle for each inch of ground; - Their ready steel the foe beat back, - And glory gained from each attack; - Until, all toil and danger past, - They rested on their arms at last. - - Antietam’s field can also tell, - How well they fought, how nobly fell; - Till Fredericksburgh’s twice fatal fray - Had almost swept their ranks away: - For each true-hearted Irishman - Will glory court in danger’s van, - And, last to quit the blood-stained field, - Will die before he basely yield! - - Heroic sons of injured sires, - Whose bosoms burn with patriot fires; - Whose souls abhor the tyrant lord, - In freedom’s cause still wield the sword, - Nor sheath it while a rebel foe - Assails the land to which you owe - All gratitude for blessings given; - Then “register” a vow in Heaven, - That you shall neither pause nor rest, - Nor pleasure culture in your breast, - Till you’ve expelled the monsters vile - Who trample on your own green Isle; - The traitors who enslave her sons, - Her daughters and their little ones! - The copperheads who wield their power - Her limbs to torture and devour; - Who with base despots here conspire - To light our fratricidal fire, - That freedom in the flame may fall, - And one black ruin sweep us all! - - Rest not, until your Isle become - “Plurium una,”—“of many one!” - Where union sweet and love divine - Two kindred flags in one combine; - The green of earth with heaven’s soft blue, - The stars, stripes, harp and shamrock too; - And, o’er your isle, sublime and free - These emblems float of Liberty! - Then shall Columbia’s children sing - Hosannas to the eternal King, - And join with Erin’s sons to praise - The Lord of nations and of grace, - Their anthem, “Hail, Columbia,” - “Green Erin hail,—slan lat go bragh!” - - It seems invidious to extol - A few on the great muster roll, - Since all who for the right contend, - And all who freedom’s cause befriend, - Are noble, and have justly won - Fame bright and lasting as the sun. - I these record to put to shame - The drabs who claim the Irish name, - But lack that generous Irish heart - Which ever with the free takes part,— - Detests the traitor and the knave, - And loathes and spurns the willing slave: - Nor would I recognise the base - As appertaining to the race, - Did I not know they were abused - By demagogues, and thus misused; - And, therefore, not so much to blame - As those who glory in their shame. - - These once were serfs of Europe’s soil, - For some great lord condemned to toil, - With little else save roots to eat, - At intervals a scrap of meat; - Deprived of intellectual light, - And doomed to endless toil and night; - Hard lot! but hope’s benignant ray - Still pointed to a happier day, - In scenes beyond the Atlantic wave, - That owned no despot, serf nor slave, - But where the humblest son of toil - Was free in freedom’s chosen soil! - - Perhaps some friend had gone before - And paved your way to that fair shore; - Or you had never reached that land, - Whose very streams roll golden sand; - But you arrive and burst your chain, - Free amongst freemen,—so remain, - And hand to generations down - That boon more precious than a crown: - But do not change your freeman’s heart - To that of tyrant! Ha, you start! - Do you forget, in days of yore, - Your sufferings on your native shore, - Which ought, but did not, give a home, - And how you longed for one to come? - Do you remember how your soul - Rebelled against th’ unjust control - Of those who used you worse than brute, - Whose scourge you bore and yet kept mute? - Don’t you your children’s cries recall, - Which might the stoutest heart appall, - Their hunger and their deep distress, - Their shiverings and their nakedness; - And how you taught their infant tongues - To curse the cause of all your wrongs? - And shall you turn a tyrant now, - And wear the despot on your brow? - Shall you whose scanty fare was roots, - But richer now by blacking boots, - Rise like O’Bulger and such hacks, - And fling your brogues at heads of blacks, - And trample the poor wretches down - To gulfs as deep as were your own? - Your country cries; “My sons, for shame, - Shall you too fan the tyrant’s flame?” - ’Tis thus with “Jack” who feels his oats, - Before his eyes a phantom floats; - He makes oblivion serve his need, - When he would act the noble steed; - He kicks, he plunges, and no sneers - Can point him to his monstrous ears; - The swift he banters to the race, - And, for a time, keeps up his pace; - But wind and metal soon give out; - “Why, Jack, what brings this change about?” - Quoth Jack, “My boasted sire, alas, - Was after all an humble ass!” - - O Heavipaugh, why did you dare - Yourself with Nimblefoot compare? - Ambition’s draught why did you quaff, - And thus provoke the wild horse-laugh? - Had you forgot that hunting raid, - When you the lion’s skin displayed, - Until detected by your ears, - Your real character appears? - How will you this new shame abide? - - JACK— - - Shame penetrate a donkey’s hide? - - SCALPEL— - - So far, I grant, you are secure; - ’Tis yours to plod, to serve, endure; - Within the bounds that nature gave, - Rest satisfied, nor wider crave. - - The class of Irish thus misled - Are sound of heart, though weak of head, - Weak,—not from lack of mental force, - Of this they are the fruitful source; - And from that matchless source have sprung - The gifted both in brain and tongue, - The patriot, soldier, statesman, bard;— - Their weakness is the slave’s reward; - Hemmed in with triple walls of brass, - Through which no ray of light could pass, - Cribbed, cabined, hampered and confined, - What were the strongest human mind? - The miracle in this consists, - That any virtue still exists - In souls, from childhood crushed and taught - To curb each rising, freeborn thought - Which might disturb the tranquil flow - Of that mysterious stream, below - Whose placid surface monsters glide, - And despots base defile the tide. - What matter? there “the ignoble mass” - Must let all crimes unchallenged pass, - Nor dare by gesture, look or tone, - Transgress this law, “let us alone!” - Jeff. Davis saw its power for evil, - And cribbed this wrinkle from the Devil, - And hence with wild and frenzied tone, - All Dixie screams; “Let us alone!” - Thus “nigger-whippers” steeped in lust - Cry, “Sirs, in us put all your trust; - Nor question what we do or say, - Pursue whatever course we may: - ’Tis true—we scourge—the niggers groan— - What matter? are they not our own? - We from the husband tear the wife, - Yet don’t we lead a decent life?— - The child snatch from its mother’s breast,— - Our flesh and blood sell with the rest;— - But, sir, are not they too our own? - Take warning, then, let us alone! - Our institution!—’Tis divine, - Its influence is most benign; - Its power for good you must not blast, - The world without it were a waste: - It is our temple’s corner stone, - And every one will doubtless own - ’Tis laid on this undying truth - Which we have first unmasked, in sooth, - And spread before the world at large, - (How can the world this debt discharge?) - That negroes are beneath the whites, - And, therefore, they can have no rights - Which white men need respect; their race - Are doomed as slaves, sans end, sans grace: - Outsiders must not interfere, - We are the only judges here; - Though millions in our chains should groan, - Hands off, let slavery alone!” - As certain teachers tell their dupes, - (The bigot’s zeal nor flags nor droops;) - That no salvation for the soul - Exists, save that which they control; - And all who will not bend the knee - To them must howl in misery, - So Jeff. declares there’s no salvation - For those who love the “proclamation;” - And that a heresy so bold - Must keep its vot’ries in the cold. - Let Massachusetts cry in vain - Upon her own apostle, Train, - To whom the key of Afric’s Heaven - Has been by Jeff. and Stevens given, - No entrance to that paradise - Can ever glad her recreant eyes, - Until repentant and heart-sick, - She cease to be a heretic, - And turn her face to Mecca’s shrine, - And swear, that slavery is divine! - If doctrines such as these impart - Their sting to many an honest heart, - What wonder if the poison spread - Contagion to the weaker head? - What wonder, that of all mankind - The most corrupt in heart and mind, - The refuse of the scourge and rope, - Of whose reform we have no hope; - What wonder, if such men assail - The simple heart, they should prevail? - But can this tyranny endure, - Or can their triumph be secure? - No! for the honest still are strong - To choose the right, eschew the wrong; - Their virtues to themselves they owe, - Their faults from other sources flow; - When led aright they nobly stand, - The bulwarks of fair freedom’s land; - But, if by traitors led astray, - Their wrath may slumber for a day, - Till, roused at length to furious rage, - It sweep the monsters off the stage. - - - - -CANTO IV. - - “Still her old empire to restore she tries, - For born a goddess Dullness never dies.”—POPE. - - - The builder or the architect, - Who would a nobler work erect, - Must needs discard the beam or spar - That would its strength or beauty mar: - So who would build the Commonweal, - Must labor with unwearied zeal, - To cull materials sound and tried, - And useless lumber fling aside; - And guard our franchises with care, - Since their abuse hangs on a hair. - - ’Tis terrible to contemplate, - That all the glory of the State, - Nay, its existence, as doth seem, - Rests on a baseless, airy, dream; - A phantom which we try to clasp, - But which forever mocks our grasp, - The ghost which thousands have pursued, - The whim of the great multitude! - - Experience teaches, through all time, - In every age and every clime, - That virtuous wisdom in each realm - Should man the ship, direct the helm. - What merchant sends his bark afloat, - Manned by a loose, promiscuous vote - Of those who know nor rope nor chart, - Nor Charles’ Wain from farmer’s cart? - And yet, the nobler Ship of State - We leave to more ignoble fate; - The shuttle-cock of partisans, - Whose breath or mans it or unmans; - And, through base demagogues, inflates - Its sails to flout destruction’s gates.[l] - - You say, “the Fathers so ordained, - And their decree must be sustained.” - - Not so! The Fathers, wise and just, - Scorned to betray their country’s trust; - They framed a government the best - That this low world has ever blessed; - Based on this great and noble plan, - Th’ inherent dignity of man, - His virtue, wisdom and his worth; - And these, they hoped, would soon shine forth, - From out the ruin and the waste, - Wherein his soul had been debased. - They hoped, the day star soon would rise, - To purify our moral skies; - That, as the shades were swept away, - Grim night should yield to endless day; - That men, once freed from slavery’s chain, - Would not relapse, but free remain! - That taught by suffering they would prove - For suffering slaves a christian love: - That, as material wealth should flow, - Mind with it should progress below; - As Heaven abundant means should pour, - Schools should increase the land all o’er, - That learning, science, glorious art, - Should be diffused through every part; - That palaces should rise sublime, - Filled with the wealth that mocks at time! - Where invalids should be made whole - By balm that heals the broken soul; - And that the good, the learned and wise, - Should nobly wear the well-earned prize; - And every worker, statesman, bard, - Should there receive his just reward; - And not, as now, degraded stand, - To humbly bow, with hat in hand, - To proud officials raised to power, - By some base impulse of the hour. - Must genius grovel for its pay, - Like useless lumber stowed away, - In some official desk or camp, - To mix and mell with every scamp, - A serf,—a bureaucratic slave, - Court jester, beef-eater or knave; - And not amongst the noblest shine, - In its own right and light divine? - - My soul revolts when it surveys - The injustice of former days! - And grieves to find our own as vile - As those which dimmed the olden style; - The days when Israelites selfwilled - The prophets stoned, the poets killed, - The days when slavish English churls - Their rhymers starved and worshiped earls; - Who Shakspeare’s record left to fade, - Because he had not begged their aid; - Who suffered Milton, blind and poor, - To starve, or beg from door to door, - As old, blind Homer did before. - Who scoffed at Dryden ’reft of hope - And for his wealth who envied Pope; - Who gorged their sybarites with sweets, - And doled the poorest skink to Keats; - Who Savage left, oh, how unwilling, - To praise his last,—his “Splendid Shilling;” - Who mocked at Johnson’s feet unshod, - While Chesterfield they deemed a god; - Who drove poor Burns to blank despair, - O’erwhelmed with toil, with debt and care; - They wronged him, as themselves allow, - And thus they wrong poor Wingate now. - Yes! Wingate sweetest strains has sung, - His nerves to tenderest feeling strung - Still vibrate to the slightest touch - Of love or pain, alas, too much! - Yet he is left to strive or pine - For bread, deep in the dark, damp mine; - There doomed to crawl on hands and knees; - Or if he seek a moment’s ease, - He twists for rest upon his back, - His upturned face with coal dust black, - And forces from th’ unwilling earth - Those diamonds which make bright their hearth. - Though known to all is his appeal, - ’Tis met by all with hearts of steel; - Although a trifling aid would raise - The bard to his appropriate place. - Men read his works and shake their head, - Because he is a collier bred; - They meet the man and pass him by, - While Tennyson they deify! - Because, true flunkeys as they are, - They prize not worth but tinsel glare, - And spurn the diamond, rough, unhewn, - For one that glitters near a throne. - But let stern justice hold the scales, - And see with which true worth prevails; - The collier, not the Laureate, bard - Will claim the palm by her award.[m] - The Laureate bard! again my soul - Can scarce maintain its self-control! - Oh Tennyson! how can you bend - Your bardic spirit to such end? - Your wages twenty pounds a year, - With butt of wine and keg of beer! - Your credit on the royal books - Is scarce one third a third rate cook’s; - Yet you must sing and daub with praise - All those who bask in fortune’s rays; - You must uphold the Church and State, - Those pillars that make Britain “Great,” - Which proudly claims “to rule the waves,” - For “Britons never can be slaves!” - You gild this cunning, artful, lie - With tinsel and with sophistry! - This is your business, this your trade; - For this your office has been made! - Nor dare you hint, that men have rights - As well as duties; that the lights - Of knowledge which your masters hoard - Should free as sunlight shine abroad! - And that the people’s wealth enjoyed - By drones might better be employed, - In raising up from moral graves, - Your worse than dead, your worse than slaves! - That public schools should be maintained, - In which the masses might be trained - To rise to self-respect and power, - Nor slumber out life’s listless hour, - In apathy, bereft of hope, - Still doomed with poverty to cope; - To stagnate in its festering pool, - The scorn and butt of every fool; - Till every trace of manhood fade, - And rust the heart and soul invade; - Through which disease and swift decay, - Like vultures, on their vitals prey! - - Nor dare you hint, that as I write, - While some three hundred wield the might, - The millions of the British race - Still bear the slave-mark on their face! - That, save a few of Norman blood, - The mass are swallowed by a flood - Of tyranny and priestcraft still, - As gross as in the days of “Will,” - The first of Normans, now so famed, - Who well the conqueror has been named. - - Of thirty millions whom I quote, - Scarce half a million have a vote; - And, worst of mockeries, and shame! - Nine tenths of these have but the name, - These are the serfs, by force or law, - Of those who bribe or overawe; - So that of all Britannia’s crew, - How many truly free, say you? - - You “dare not reckon!” - Dare you guess? - About three hundred, more or less; - Yet still “Britannia rules the waves,” - And “Britons never shall be slaves!” - - Such freedom is an iron chain - Which binds the people to the plain; - Lest they, like earth-born giants, rise - And pile up mountains to the skies, - Whence kings and their proud hosts be hurled - Down headlong to this nether world; - Their kingcraft and their tinsel-glare - Exposed to the rude vulgar stare; - And all their strength long based on fear - Should, in a twinkling, disappear! - - Such freedom is a monstrous cheat, - A whited sepulchre complete! - An empty phantom robed in pride, - All beautiful to those outside; - A baseless fabric built on air, - At distance seeming bright and fair;— - But touch it, and it crumbles down, - A heap of rubbish with a crown! - A den of crime, of vice and sin, - All worms and rottenness within! - A flickering, phosphorescent, ray, - That springs from bodies in decay,[n] - To warn the Nations to keep clear, - And straight through right to Freedom steer! - - Good Heavens! it almost drives me mad, - To hear each simpering, yard-stick lad, - And every pettifogging ass, - With brain of lead and brow of brass, - Hiss thus; “We want a one-man rule, - Self-government’s an arrant fool! - Look to Great Britain, how she shines, - While every blessing she combines! - An aristocracy and king - For us were good, were just the thing!” - - In such event, apes, where were you? - Too mean to black the servant’s shoe, - Or sweep the mud from off his track, - Too mean the “nigger’s” boots to black; - What place to suit you could be found, - Save yon foul nightman’s stifling round? - - But, Tennyson, what chain should bind - The bard, the eagle of the mind, - And hold him down from mounting high, - And soaring through his native sky; - Whence he could see and point to men - The truth and clear it to their ken? - You think your golden chain too light - To quench your flame, impede your flight! - Alas! you feel, it holds you down; - And can you barter fair renown - For such vile dross? and can you sell - Your soul for this sporad of hell? - Renounce your birthright for a mess - Of pottage which no tongue can bless? - Take warning from those gone before! - Remember Southey, Wordsworth, Moore,[o] - And others warped by gold accurst, - But none so basely as the first: - For Southey, in young manhood’s glee, - Sang of Watt Tyler, bold and free; - Until the owls who love the night, - Beheld and curbed his upward flight. - Unfriended, poor, unsteady, young, - He yielded to temptation strong; - Like you, he snatched the golden bait, - And lost all view of Heaven’s gate; - Blew every spring a clarion note - By which he seemed to clear his throat, - Which dwindled down to bathos weak, - Nor brought a blush upon his cheek: - Thus all his talents ran to waste, - “Watt Tyler” was his first and last![p] - - So, Tennyson, ’twill be with you, - Should you the beaten track pursue: - Your “gen’rous” patrons leave you free - To chant all themes, save Liberty, - To waste your time, from year to year, - On royal “Idylls,” wine and beer; - Or catch from Burns the brooklet’s play, - Or sing a baby’s lullaby. - - But hark! he coos like cushat dove, - Of “Enoch Arden’s” puling love. - This ‘masterpiece’ becomes the rage - Of idlers in an earnest age; - Is puffed and lauded to the skies, - (How true, that “dullness never dies!”) - As if its author’s powers might cope - With those of Milton, Dryden, Pope; - And e’en the great Republic chimes - With this opprobrium of the times! - - Oh praise absurd! since not one ray - Of genius sparkles in that ‘lay’ - No sympathy for human woe, - No noble purpose,—patriot glow;— - No moral lesson to impart - Its solace to the suffering heart; - Not e’en the landscape’s vivid scene, - Or pointed barb of satire keen! - Where find in it one flash of wit, - One well aimed jest, one happy hit? - One master stroke on which to dwell, - One salient point its tale to tell? - Our critics stammer, as they stare; - “Wher—where?”—and Echo sobs, “wher—where?” - - Now this reminds me of a story, - Which I will try to lay before you: - ’Tis of a painting lately made - By Brown, who plies the artist’s trade. - - Brown got an order to prepare - His canvass for a picture rare. - What might the weighty subject be? - ’Twas “Israel crossing the Red Sea, - With Pharaoh’s host in hot pursuit;” - The artist boldly cried; “I’ll do it!” - - And soon the work before him grew, - Like thought his pencil o’er it flew; - The landscape ’neath that pencil glowed, - Dark mountains frowned and waters flowed: - Already trumpet tongues proclaim - The prelude of Brown’s coming fame. - - At last the work is done—brought home; - The patron, with amazement dumb, - Finds words at length, and thus exclaims; - “I see still water, rocks and streams; - But where is Pharaoh and his host?” - - BROWN— - - “Oh! they in ocean’s depths are lost.” - - PATRON— - - “But where is Moses and his train? - I search and search for them in vain.” - - BROWN— - - “What! reproduce a scene so gross? - Why they, of course, are safe across!” - - “Zounds!” cries his patron, with a frown, - “You’ve ‘done’ the job, and ‘done’ me,—Brown!” - - This praise to Tennyson we give; - His ‘poem’s’ a splendid—negative. - No doubt it has much latent worth, - Else he would not have put it forth; - But this fine vein cannot be seen, - Except by eyes surpassing keen. - Some things are better understood - As seen by the great multitude. - The ken of Argus, (who denies?) - Was sharper for his hundred eyes. - Some for their whistle pay too dear, - If purchased where a throne is near; - Whilst Wingate, like the nightingale, - To darkness pours his mournful tale! - America, fair freedom’s home, - Shall you the despot’s foil become, - And holding Albion’s apron strings, - The bard chain down or clip his wings? - Shall you, while waxing fat and strong, - Become conservative of wrong, - Forgetful of the bygone time - When slavery you deemed a crime? - To Egypt’s fleshpots now look back, - Regardless of fair freedom’s track; - And turning from her glorious light - In vain seek comfort in dark night? - Shall you God’s chosen persecute, - Or bid his messengers be mute; - Because they point with sorrow keen - To that which never should have been; - And pray you blot from freedom’s page - The blackest record of the age? - - And why so sensitive of pain, - Concerning what should make you vain; - Should be your glory and your pride, - Throughout the whole creation wide? - To hint the name of “radical” - Appears your feelings to appall; - And why? since he would sweep away - The roots of all that brings decay, - And drive from earth the baleful dross - Of which you seem to mourn the loss? - And since your temple’s corner stone - Rests on the radical alone! - - You hate the name of abolition - Almost as much as of perdition, - Though abolition must precede, - If vice must fall and hope succeed; - The ground of weeds must be well cleared, - Ere healthy plants be set and reared; - Corruption and its horde must yield, - If Freedom is to keep the field. - You know that this is strictly true, - Yet hesitate what you should do! - - Your innate worth and noble pride - Can scarce your trepidation hide, - And dread of censors placed to watch - Your every motion, and to catch - Your slightest tripping in that pet - Of fools and knaves called etiquette! - - The wretched tricks, the feigned distress - Of those who live on State finesse, - Of scramblers in the sordid race - That leads to station, power and place; - Of pettifoggers who pollute - The tree of justice at its root; - These all by you should be ignored, - As relics of a barbarous horde! - Perhaps, e’en now, (ah! can it be?) - You feel the influence of the tree - Of royalty, whose upas-breath - Is foe to life and friend of death! - Some chain invisible still binds - Your leading, not your noblest, minds, - Who seem to take the timid ground, - That simple truth must be unsound, - And will not bear the deadly weight - Themselves inflict upon the State: - Who deem that sophistry and lies - Are for the people good supplies,— - By which the people must be fed, - That by the nose they may be led. - These worthies beat about the bush, - In search of moonshine, crying; “Hush! - Our babes, the people, might awake - And catch us in some grand mistake! - Or they might haply catch a gleam - Of light from our refulgent beam; - Like us become too ‘smart’ and wise, - And drive us from our paradise, - The chance of each log-rolling brother - For office, chosen by each other!”[q] - They call all men out-spoken, rash, - Who think pure truth the best of cash, - And that its gold should current pass, - In place of counterfeits of brass! - - These seem disheartened and afraid - To call the honest to your aid; - Perhaps, because that name, of late, - Is out of fashion, out of date; - Perhaps, because each British scribe - With slender wit, but ready jibe,[r] - Scoffs at all honest worth as low, - If not decked out for royal show; - Or tricked in livery’s golden sheen, - Through which its face may not be seen; - And you too much inclined to yield - Your better judgment in this field, - Are, quite unconsciously, perhaps, - Entangled in these gilded traps, - And your true dignity disguise - In this unworthy compromise! - - For shame, America, for shame! - Why not your mission grand proclaim, - And spread abroad God’s favorite plan, - To elevate his creature, man! - To you He grants the noblest place, - The hegemony of the race! - Without a blush accept your role, - And act your part with all your soul, - Nor through base fear of flunkey scorn, - Veil your fair face that rivals morn; - Its beauty let the world behold; - Sublimely grand, serenely bold; - Thus shall you still immortal shine, - In justice, truth, and love divine; - - Though Britain tortuous paths pursue, - That can be no excuse for you; - She left her Chatterton to woe; - What have you done with Edgar Poe? - O pause, reflect, be wise in time; - Neglect of genius is a crime! - ’Tis Heaven’s best gift, exceeding rare, - Then guard the plant with tenderest care; - Encourage it to spread abroad, - Its fruit is health and flows from God. - - And still ’midst danger’s gloom you’ll find - Your greatest strength in men of mind, - Where genius, culture, worth, combine - To flood the soul with light divine. - - Whilst monsters dull, depraved, ingrate, - Disgrace the land, distract the State; - Base slaves of Mammon’s sordid pelf, - Strive, each, to aggrandize himself; - Whilst vile contractors, like the leech, - Suck all the blood within their reach, - Their country drain at every pore - And fatten on her heroes’ gore; - Whilst every quack propounds his plan, - And no place has its proper man; - Where are the men whose mental gaze - Can penetrate the thickest haze, - And see, through instinct, dawning bright - The sun that scatters gloom and night; - Who, through rebellion’s stormy sea, - Can steer our bark to Liberty, - And, like the good and great of old, - Prize worth and virtue more than gold? - Are Whittier, Saxe, Bryant, unfit - For counsel, for that they have wit? - And Longfellow, the prince of all, - Why leave in Hiawatha’s hall, - Nor call him to the council board, - And profit by his precious hoard? - You “find no precedent,” you say; - Ha! then “red tape” is in the way! - No precedent! dear, honored, dame, - Your memory is here to blame; - For surely you have read the past, - When Pericles led ton and taste; - When Liberty prevailed in Greece, - And bore the palm in war and peace: - Then men of genius, honored, prized, - The noblest functions exercised; - And afterwards, in ancient Rome, - True genius found a welcome home, - When Virgil was Mæcenas’ friend, - And proud Augustus deigned to lend - His ear to Horace, and to drain - The noblest lessons from his brain. - - The bard, in every clime and age, - Has figured on the world’s great stage: - Commissioned by the King of kings, - He soars on bright celestial wings; - Through mighty realms he speeds his way, - Like God’s own messenger of day, - Diffusing light and hope abroad, - And pointing out the ways of God - To presidents and kings and men, - With hallowed lips or burning pen; - So that no people can afford - To disregard his sacred word. - And whether at Paris or Weimar, - With Charles Augustus or the Czar, - With Lincoln or the British Queen, - There shines a Goethe or Martine; - Or there his influence prevails, - Or else the worldly project fails. - Then let your heart this truth record, - “The pen is mightier than the sword;” - With this to boot; of sword and pen - The bard is lord,—is king of men![t] - - - - -CANTO V. - - “What constitutes a State? - Men, high-minded men.”—JONES. - - Ehret die Frauen! sie flechten und weben - Himmlische Rosen in’s irdische Leben.—Schiller. - - - Dame Nature has to all mankind - Been purely just and wisely kind; - For labor all her children made, - Each in his calling, art, or trade; - And each is blest as he pursues - The course which for him she doth choose. - Who would be useful and alone - In this, in that is but a drone; - And none in any can succeed, - To which not nature points, but need; - And every honest work well done, - Where mind and muscle join in one, - Will give the worker wealth and fame, - While that neglected leads to shame. - But these by men have been so jumbled, - That few on their own work have stumbled.[u] - - But lo! while wafted off my course, - I’ve lost the thread of my discourse! - It seems to me, I’m off the track, - And wonder how I shall get back; - Where did I stop? what was my theme? - ’Twas haply but an idle dream. - - Just here I, making full confession, - Plead guilty of a long digression; - But claim your pardon, on the plea - Of absolute necessity. - Could I, no prophet, undertake - To tell what course my snake would take? - What tortuous windings he’d pursue, - In trying to elude my view? - But now, unless his tail should writhe, - (The only part still left alive,) - I promise to keep straight along - The theme and burden of my song. - - “The Fathers,” yes! I sang of them, - (And let the copperhead condemn!) - How simply grand, sublimely great, - They labored for the growing State! - The history of the past they read, - And o’er it modern science shed. - The golden age of Greece and Rome - Should be eclipsed by that to come; - When sovereign man should walk abroad, - And own no king but God, the Lord.[v] - - The freeman’s right to vote his choice, - Though vindicated by their voice, - Was yet so guarded by their care, - That no unworthy wretch should dare - To desecrate that gift of Heaven, - If he had hopes to be forgiven; - And wisely, therefore, they ordained - That youth should be severely trained - In principles of right and truth, - And every art that graces youth, - And patiently await the hour - When they could wisely wield that power. - - They deemed that one and twenty years, - With careful study, prayers and tears, - Might with our virtuous youth suffice, - To make them worthy that great prize. - And that these ends might be attained, - Free schools were founded and maintained; - And no one’s child, or rich or poor, - Was spurned ignobly from the door; - And colleges were spread abroad, - And temples consecrate to God, - Whence learning and religion spread - O’er all the land, their radiance shed; - So that who chose might feel and see - The glorious sun of Liberty![w] - - Thus for the children of the land; - For strangers from a foreign strand - A long probation they prepare, - Ere they the freeman’s honors share; - They must renounce the despot’s chain, - And Liberty henceforth maintain; - Their minds of prejudice divest, - Our customs and our laws digest, - Our principles of freedom scan, - And learn the dignity of man. - And thus when five long years had flown, - And they had made our aims their own, - The Fathers thought, the time had come, - To take the faithful strangers home, - Adopt them in the family, - Henceforth true loyal sons to be, - Admitted freely and at once, - To share this great inheritance! - Thus with the native-born and those - Who from the tyrant sought repose - Beneath our glorious flag, the aim - Of our great Fathers was the same, - By all true freedom unalloyed - Might be, without reserve, enjoyed, - On one condition, that they prove - Sons worthy of a parent’s love, - That each should cherish in his soul - Fair Freedom’s essence, self-control, - A conscience void of all offense, - Religion based on common sense, - Which gives to all th’ inherent right - To worship God in reason’s light, - Nor leaves to bigots to dictate - A marriage of the Church and State, - And forces none—the meanest, least, - To pay another’s bloated priest.[x] - That each remember, from one blood - All men are sprung—one brotherhood, - Equal before th’ Almighty’s throne, - Flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone; - With rights prescriptive, boundless, free - To happiness, life, liberty! - That none, save those inspired by hell, - Their brother, man, can bind or sell. - - On such conditions equal, fair, - All can the freeman’s honors share, - And who the compact sets aside, - Through ignorance, ambition, pride, - The sheepfold enters o’er the wall, - And is no citizen at all; - But an intruder, vile and base, - The scorn and refuse of the race; - A wolf in clothing of the sheep, - Who enters while the shepherds sleep; - Who gloats on blood throughout the night; - But when the morning’s rosy light - Appears, the dogs and men pursue - The blood-stained thief in open view, - When, gorged with blood, his flesh and paws - Appease the hounds’ more hungry maws. - Torn thus may traitors find such room, - When light dispels our Country’s gloom. - - Have we the Fathers’ precepts kept? - Alas! too soundly we have slept, - And let the precious moments fly, - Regardless how! no watchful eye - To note the wanderers from the fold, - To guide the young and guard the old; - To point the way of truth and right, - And flood them with celestial light! - - The home is freedom’s nursing place, - Its subjects are the infant race;[y] - For as we bend his tender mind, - So is the full-grown man inclined. - Our discipline too lax and mild - Still spares the rod and spoils the child; - And, as is natural, the rule - Ascends from nursery to school, - Where “moral suasion” must preside, - And “no coercion” is the guide; - What wonder, that the infant mind, - By appetite and passion blind, - Ere yet to reason it attain, - Or conscience can assume the rein; - Should show its grit in look and tone, - And cry or act “Let me alone!” - - Your son like mine has but one road - To freedom’s temple,—through the rod. - One only sense will bear appeal, - To make him heed, first make him feel; - No good by man was ever gained, - Save that through toil and pain attained. - You lose your labor if you plead - To empty benches in the head, - Or to the still more vacant heart: - At this all Mann’s disciples start; - My friends, the golden age is o’er, - Mann and his Mann-ers are no more! - What wonder, youth grow on our hands - Habitual breakers of commands; - Depraved in habits, morals, taste, - With every talent run to waste? - Since wholesome discipline withdrawn - Makes room for crimes of every spawn; - And leaves the wanderer free to roam, - Sans chart or compass far from home? - Instead of duties fixed by rule, - We give full scope to every fool, - As fancy or caprice dictate, - And find our error when too late! - We find the flowery path of lust - Leads but to error and disgust; - And then this other truth succeeds, - “No royal road to virtue leads.” - Sum up the sad result, you’ll find - A pampered body, vacant mind, - Whose helpless imbecility - Becomes of every quack the prey, - A weather-cock that’s whirled about - By every gust of creed or doubt; - The slave of lawyer, leech and priest, - Who use him worse than grov’ling beast, - And make him swallow lies or pills, - Just as the mocking demon wills! - Yet, thick as insects on the wing - Must Solons from such seedlings spring! - - Or, should we spend some thought and care, - Our sons for uses to prepare; - What lesson do we teach them first? - The love of mammon, the accurst! - What lesson do we teach them last? - “Get gold, my son, and hold it fast; - Be grov’ling, never lift the eye - Towards orb of day or starry sky: - All learning, science, treat with scorn, - To grub and scrape you have been born; - And, right or wrong, accumulate, - Gold be your god—and wealth your fate!” - - These seeds we’ve sown in genial soil, - And reap rebellion for our toil; - And wonder still, that o’er the ground - The reptile copperheads abound; - Some, satisfied to vegetate, - Like tares, ignobly in the State; - While some, whose venom waxen strong - Distorts the right, inflicts the wrong, - Crawl forth on missions in the cause - Of slave-lords and their brutal laws; - And care not for their country’s loss, - If they can only clutch the “dross!” - - Whilst these disgrace the freeman’s name, - And bring the land to scorn and shame, - By singing pæans to the god - Who wields the despot’s chain and rod, - Th’ awakened youth of Europe sing - Hosannas to great freedom’s king, - And weary him with earnest prayer, - That she at length find refuge there! - - Thus, while those “to the manor born,” - Whose infancy and rosy morn - Were fed and shaded by that tree - So grateful to the brave and free, - As copperheads assail it now, - And register a monstrous vow, - Upon its beauty still to frown, - And ply the axe to cut it down; - The children of a foreign land - In its defense most nobly stand, - Protect it from the murderous horde, - By word and deed, by gun and sword; - With wondrous unanimity - Cry, “wretches, monsters, spare that tree! - Touch not a bough! it nurtured you - With kindly fruit,—refreshed with dew, - Protected by its grateful shade, - And dare you now its life invade?” - - Amongst this brave, devoted band, - Thy sons, Germania, proudly stand; - To none inferior in the fight, - In love of freedom and the right: - And while this earth endures, bright fame - Shall gild thy Siegel’s honored name; - And those who for the right have stood, - Or born of thee, or of thy blood, - From him who nameless wields the lance, - To Heintzleman and Rosecrans. - Yes! many a field and many a flood - Has reddened with Germania’s blood; - Her heroes’ hearts have never quailed, - Though oft by thrice their force assailed! - Let Pea Ridge, Carthage, Wilson’s Creek - And other scenes their praises speak; - Let Murfreesboro with the rest - Their splendid leadership attest; - Where Bragg and all his rebel mass, - Through it received their “coup de grace!” - - -THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO. - - Cheered on by noble Rosecrans, - Behold our Union troops advance - To seek the foe in fight! - The center fearless Thomas leads; - The left with Crittenden proceeds; - McCook commands the right. - - Opposed is Bragg, who of the band - Of rebels holds the chief command; - Beneath whose banner ranged, - Are Breckinridge, Claiborne, Hardee, - And Cheatham’s Southern chivalry, - In hate and crime unchanged. - - ’Twas the last day of “sixty-two” - When these two hosts appeared in view, - Both eager for the fray; - They scorned the sun’s more tardy plan, - And fierce their murderous work began, - Ere he could dart a ray! - - The rebels, as their wont has been, - With wondrous skill and foresight keen, - Their forces concentrate, - To break our columns, wing by wing; - And soon their cheers, the echoes ring, - Triumphant and elate! - - Within the cedars’ gloomy shade, - Where many a heart fleshed many a blade, - And many a hero fell: - What deeds were done are lost in night; - Who shrank from, who maintained, the fight, - No mortal tongue can tell. - - Well might the fierce and wild uproar - That swelled each moment more and more - Cause iron nerves to start; - Well might the cannon thundering far, - The hubbub of chaotic war, - Appall the stoutest heart! - - And, as the torrent onward rolled, - The patriot’s faith might well grow cold, - And tremble for the end; - And doubt our power to turn the tide, - Since hostile troops tramp down and ride - O’er prostrate foe and friend! - - But Rosecrans, through cloud and din, - To bide their time his men curbed in, - Nor for an instant faltered; - There by his confidence inspired, - And with heroic courage fired, - They stood unmoved, unaltered! - - His massed reserves stood calm, erect, - Nor could the keenest eye detect - A sign of flinching there; - And when the rebel host came on, - Elate as if from victory won, - “The Union” rent the air. - - Then came the fearful tug of strife, - Then Greek met Greek—then life for life— - None pity asked or gave; - ’Tis well the smoke conceals the fray— - Too frightful for the eye of day; - What seeks the foe?—a grave! - - It seemed as the sirocco’s breath - Had swept them off, its frown beneath, - And lo!—they soundly sleep,— - Their cheers in death’s deep silence hushed, - Like those in the Sahara crushed, - The winds their requiem weep. - - Thus perish all our Country’s foes, - All despots, tyrants, and all those - Who trample on mankind! - Thus triumph Freedom and the Right, - And quickly come God’s kingdom bright - Of Virtue, Truth and Mind! - - And we have losses to deplore, - Brave men as ever banner bore, - As Shafer, Roberts, Sill, - Allsop and others whose fair name - Shall live on freedom’s scroll of fame, - And hearts with rapture fill. - - For who can cease to love the brave - Who died their Country’s life to save? - We envy them—not mourn; - Long as the sun shall gild the sky, - Beloved shall be their memory - By millions yet unborn! - - E’en while I write, a voice divine, - Floats sweetly from the banks of Rhine, - Where fair Bavaria’s lovely maids - And virtuous dames, in vine-clad glades, - Prepare with their own hands the lint - And linen without let or stint; - And say: “Let us the honor share, - This balm for patriots to prepare, - Who nobly fight and willing fall, - At Freedom’s and their Country’s call.” - - The priceless packages they send - Thus marked; “For heroes who defend - The cause of God and all mankind, - Their wounds to soothe, their bruises bind, - These bales of lint and linen fine - Go from Bavaria on the Rhine, - To the far off United States - Now nobly struggling with the fates: - May Heaven defend her in the strife - And re-establish health and life!” - - And lo! Columbia with a tear - Of gratitude is pleased to hear - And see this tribute of true love - From lands which oceans far remove: - It gives her courage to renew - The fight, and rebels to pursue. - For sympathy in deep distress - From distant friends is sure to bless; - Though forced her suffering sons to mourn, - She greets Germania thus in turn: - - “Land of the Danube and the Rhine, - Where freedom shed her light divine - Long ere Hyrcania’s wood explored - Had heard the howl of despot lord; - Which Rome would penetrate in vain, - And bind in her all grasping chain; - Land of the Anglo-Saxon race, - And of the Frank, ere yet a trace - Of slavery had chained their sons, - Through Normans, Guelphs, Napoleons; - Fair land of Gutenberg and Faust, - Restorer of an art long lost; - Land of brave Luther who restored - Man’s right to read the Eternal Word; - Land of the sacred Muses nine, - Where Klopstock, Goethe, Schiller, shine; - Where Bach, Mozart and Mendelssohn - Were rivalled by thy sons alone, - Beethoven, Meyerbeer and Liszt; - No land beneath the sun exists, - Where genius, learning, science, art, - So brightly shine, so charm the heart: - Land of the rose and of the vine; - Land of Bavaria and the Rhine, - Accept Columbia’s grateful thanks; - Thy sons adorn her martial ranks, - Thy noble daughters far away - The purest worth and love display - For her and all who love the Right, - And in the cause of Freedom fight; - Our wounded heroes, while they bleed, - Pray Heaven to bless you for this deed: - And, as with grateful hearts they feel - Your love in these sweet gifts that heal, - Their souls expand with love divine - Towards all who dwell upon the Rhine, - And praise the matrons and fair maids - Who bask beneath its vine-clad glades. - - And if a time should ever come, - When you shall seek a Western home, - Come on with courage and good cheer, - You’ll find a glorious welcome here! - Or if occasion should arise - To aid you ’gainst your enemies, - Columbia’s sons combined with thine - Will sweep the tyrants off the Rhine, - Where our united flags shall wave, - In triumph o’er the Despots’ grave!” - - - - -CANTO VI. - - “To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside - In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.”—SHAKSPEARE. - - - As Lucifer, the angel, fell - From bliss of Heaven to pain of hell; - And there, as devil, would put on - The mask in which he once had shone: - So copperheads, with fiendish guile, - The name of freedom would defile, - While they her mask and robe display, - The better to deceive—betray - The wandering, friendless, emigrant, - Confiding, poor and ignorant, - Who deems “Democracy” a name - Of something real, not a sham! - In reference to these, our course - Has been unwise—from bad to worse; - All too indulgent and remiss, - Till now we hear their hydra-hiss! - - Some emigrants our shores who seek - Digest our laws as they do Greek! - And when probation time is gone, - They find their work already done; - The years, we know, have quickly sped - Without impressing heart or head, - With sense of duties to be done,— - What course to steer, what rocks to shun; - Yet without question, we admit - Th’ untutored Vandal as a cit; - And thus the prudence of our sires - Is melted in base party fires; - And Freedom drops her vital claims - In legal forms and empty names.[z] - - How can we Freedom’s reign restore; - And make her glorious as before? - - By clearing her, as best we may, - Of snarls contracted on the way: - And Slavery’s terrific coil - Will claim our whole united toil; - With one gigantic effort first, - Let’s hurl to hell the thing accurst! - Till slavery in the land shall cease, - Where is the hope for rest or peace? - Thereafter we shall be too wise - To make with hell a compromise: - Let us dissolve this bond with Death - And freedom to our sons bequeath; - Then shall rebellion in our land - Forever hide its bloody hand; - Then shall our righteous rule be laid - Upon a rock both sure and staid; - And then our stainless flag unfurled - Shall float, the glory of the world![1] - - Another grievance, I opine, - Is this, Jack’s vote’s as good as mine, - Or yours, or any noble steed, - Though Jack is dull and slow of speed, - Degraded, brutal, ignorant, - Depraved in every wish and want, - A wretch, a thief, an arrant knave, - A copperhead—a willing slave! - - To those who from the Fathers quote - And say that such were meant to vote, - I put these queries now, at once: - Which of the fathers was a dunce? - Pray name the man,—say, who was he - Who thus could poison freedom’s tree, - By introducing, at its birth, - The borer that should work its death? - Since all were missionaries known - Of these great truths, that Right alone, - Worth and intelligence can save - A free Republic from its grave! - - But grant the fathers dolts and fools, - Should we be guided by their rules; - Be chained by trammels of the past - And let our reason run to waste? - These queries then, I put, per force, - How many donkeys make one horse? - How much of ignorance condense - To make one mind of common sense? - How much of tyranny and wrong - Will make it right, in justice strong? - How many years of power and lust - Can crush man’s God-given rights in dust?[2] - What length of lawless usurpation - Gives right to rule in any nation? - How many criminals co-blent - Suffice to make a single saint? - How many Arnolds joined in one, - Suffice to form a Washington? - How many spouters of our day - Would make one Webster, Burke, or Clay? - - I might go on ad infinitum, - Propounding item after item. - But still the copperhead is near, - And thunders fiercely in mine ear; - - “Dare you our liberties assail, - Must not majorities prevail?” - - I answer: “as a general rule,[3] - The “major” is the greater fool;” - The horse that bears me on with ease, - May be of any hue you please; - Nor to the binding do we look, - To find the worth of any book; - Nor judge we wisdom by its size, - Its weight, not bulk, we justly prize. - - “But wisdom lies,” the book avers, - “In multitude of counsellors!” - - I grant the maxim sound and true, - And just the thing we want most, too; - We’ve multitudes of quacks, I grant, - And lawyers more than Heaven can want, - But as for counsellors, alack, - Scarce one that’s fit to counsel Jack! - - What brought this state of things about? - - These same majorities, no doubt, - Composed of moral lepers, apes, - Who of true men assume the shapes; - The sole reliance of the base, - To whom we all our woes can trace; - To please this lowest rabble rout, - We trot our meanest hobblers out, - Trimmed up to suit their grov’ling taste, - Their characters smeared o’er with paste; - Their record from some distant State - Comes back upon us when too late; - But now their face with whisky blooms, - Whose odor all the air perfumes; - Tobacco juice streams all around; - The halls with revelry resound, - Where rum and brandy freely flow, - And all is joy and bliss below. - What better bait could mortal proffer - To some who have got votes to offer? - They take immensely, oh, how good! - “Par fratrum,” noble brotherhood! - And thus the ball incessant flies - Down, down the steep, no more to rise, - And thus ’twill be, so long as we - Indulge this game of infamy! - - What would you have? set forth your plan, - Provided ’tis republican. - - Republican! What else should please, - Or bring stability and ease? - Yet what are names? what do we care - For empty sound or tinsel glare? - Give us the substance, fly vain shade, - For empty heads and stomachs made! - As said Erasmus to the Pope, - “I’m orthodox in heart and hope, - But, in my stomach, Protestant, - At least against all present want!” - So say I now;—I Freedom love - All other earthly things above; - In name I love it, but, much better, - In spirit, substance, and in letter. - - What mean you, then, by “Freedom,” sir? - Explain yourself, without demur; - Have we not got it here already? - Where else can man enjoy it steady? - - Your queries, as an honest man - I’ll fairly answer, if I can, - And first this question I propound; - What is true freedom, and where found? - Where strength and violence prevail? - Where widows weep and orphans wail? - Where christian men enslave the weak, - Because the sun has tinged their cheek? - Or, where the humblest son of toil, - Who works the mine, or tills the soil, - Can raise to Heaven his grateful eyes, - And thank the Ruler of the skies, - That, though all other goods are flown, - His limbs, his soul, are still his own; - And that no despot’s hand can blight - His home or rob him of his right; - That no majorities can wrest - His babe from its dear mother’s breast, - That by no fathers, bribed with gold, - Can their own blood for slaves be sold, - That by no wretch for murder born - Can husband from his wife be torn! - - This is the freedom guaranteed - To men of every color, creed, - When first our Nation saw the light, - By this great charter of the right: - “All men are brothers, equal, free. - For happiness, life, liberty!” - This gem was won through toils and throes, - Through tribulations, pains and woes, - By our great sires, and handed down, - The noblest gift,—most precious boon! - Shall we, through fear or impotence, - Renounce this bright inheritance? - Or can we from our hearts unfix - The memories of “Seventy six”? - Forbid it Heaven! while we retain - One note of Freedom’s glorious strain. - - -THE BIRTH OF FREEDOM, JULY 4, 1776. - -(An Ode.) - - The die is cast, - Whether for good or ill, - Let no regrets our anxious bosom fill; - The Rubicon is passed, - Nailed are our colors to the mast, - A truce to doubting or unmanly fear; - For home for country now - Are pledged the solemn vow, - Our fortunes, honor, life, and all that we hold dear! - Thus to his loved one did each hero say, - When home returned at eve of this immortal day. - - And she replied: - Well, since it must be so, - With you we sympathize in weal or woe, - Assert your country’s cause with noble pride; - Arm, arm, advance and boldly meet the foe! - Your country calls! you must obey her voice! - A recreant he who shrinks from such a call; - Since she enshrines our homes, our loves, our all; - Next after God, our country is our choice; - And Heaven forbid, it ever should be said, - That we, Columbia’s matrons, felt dismayed! - - And let not love - Of wife or children you from duty keep; - What, though your absence lonely here we weep; - Th’ all-seeing eye will guard us from above; - And while the battle rages o’er the plain, - Our prayers for you shall not ascend in vain; - Or, should you fall untimely in the strife, - Heaven will befriend your orphans and your wife! - - Beloved, one dear embrace, - And then a long, perhaps a last, farewell, - Should Heaven so will, my heart shall not rebel, - But still, this day with pride I shall retrace; - My country born to freedom and to joy; - Oh! bliss supreme, - This were a theme, - The harps of mighty seraphs to employ! - The world shall hail this truth proclaimed by thee: - Man is by nature, and he shall be, free. - - Wake, wake the lyre, - Sound drum and trumpet, let the cannons roar - Proclaim the jubilee from shore to shore; - Go, join yon phalanx like a wall of fire - Impervious around young Freedom thrown, - And let each hero mark her for his own! - Thus spake each noble matron as she gazed, - Undaunted, where no mimic war-fires blazed. - - The aim of government and laws - Is to defend true freedom’s cause; - The strong man’s injustice detect - And punish, and the weak protect; - The innocent to vindicate - By every power within the State; - Of evil to arrest the flood, - And use their influence for good; - If in these noble aims they fail, - And by majorities assail - The life or liberty of man - ’Tis time to spurn the odious plan; - And any system to befriend, - Which may secure the wished-for end. - - On every hand this cry we hear - “We purchase justice far too dear,” - To all its sons th’ indulgent State - Should grant this arbiter of fate, - Free as the air that we inhale; - Fresh as from ocean springs the gale; - Prompt as the light of summer’s dawn, - Sweet as the hay-swath on the lawn; - Not tainted with corruption’s breath, - Breathed from the charnel house of death; - And, as the people wield the power, - Why not reform this very hour? - - So long as magistrates can fleece, - Crime and its causes must increase; - So long as jurors hands shall itch, - And gold stick to them fast as pitch; - So long as officers are paid - Just as they ply their venal trade; - So long as vile contractors fill - Their coffers from the public till, - And go unhanged, while soldiers starve - Or sink exhausted to the grave; - So long as venal lawyers plead - Not led by right, but urged by need, - And be, like cattle, bought and sold, - And barter Heaven itself for gold; - So long as judges shall be found - Who on the strength of party ground - Their judgments, and the cause decide - To suit self-interest or pride;— - So long, by mind’s unerring laws, - Effects will flow as bids the cause; - And when the bantling is adult, - A monstrous evil must result - Which soon will swallow freedom down; - Vice brooks no rival near its throne, - But proudly wields its scepter dread, - And rules supreme, a copperhead! - - What use is freedom’s written scroll, - Unless ’tis graven on the soul? - Why vainly celebrate its birth, - If it has fled to Heaven from earth, - To aggravate our pain and cross, - By pointing out its grievous loss? - Astræa nought to me avails, - If but her phantom hold the scales; - Who, with her finger in my fob, - Like saint bedeckt, like strumpet rob, - And smiling say: “Peace, friend, be still, - This is the law—the people’s will.” - - If slavery’s shadow in the North - Hath such results as these brought forth; - Then what must be the moral state, - Of those who feel its full grown weight? - Or of a land whose priests profane - God’s word and his most holy fane; - By preaching slavery until - The mass believe it is no ill; - And four of every six incline - To hail the monster half divine? - Ask each of these, and he replies: - “In slavery true freedom lies:” - Ask where is freedom’s proper sphere? - He points to Dixie; “Lo, tis there!” - Thus have they masked hypocrisy, - And dubbed her “young Democracy!” - - Democracy’s vile sham and stain, - You don fair Freedom’s mask in vain! - You cannot pass in that disguise, - Nor thus elude our Argus-eyes. - Your boasted Christian brotherhood - Is one of violence and blood; - Your star of freedom pales its rays, - Becomes a farthing rush-light’s blaze, - And shows your “chivalry” as shams - Peddling their bogus nuts and hams; - And the vile rag you have unfurled, - The jest and scorn of all the world! - - Nor is your mission one to bless - The weak and humble, but oppress; - Uphold the robber, thief, and knave, - And make the innocent your slave. - Nor do you foster hope and light, - But shroud your evil deeds in night; - Proscribe all learning, genius, taste, - And make your realm a howling waste: - And on this rock your church is built, - A corner-stone of vice and guilt; - And this you purpose to defend - Against all comers, foe or friend: - Entrenched behind this monstrous wrong, - You swear to rule, since you are strong, - You boast your dupes God’s chosen host - To scourge a world in “darkness lost,” - “Fanatics” who refuse to see - The glory of your “liberty!” - Thus you the God of hosts blaspheme, - As aider of your monstrous scheme; - Implore him to blot out his sun, - By victories through treason won; - This land with anarchy to flood, - And drown all kindred ties in blood; - Nay this great Union to destroy, - That you your bauble may enjoy! - Like some poor maniac raging wild, - Or some indulged and petted child, - Who for a rattle or a straw, - Some gilded trifle or gewgaw, - Screams madly with his ebbing breath, - You grasp your idols,—strong in death! - Enough! your purpose we perceive, - And spurn your doctrines! while we grieve - For our dear land’s supreme disgrace, - Defiled and tortured by your race; - Though brief and turbid be your day, - Your odious name will bring dismay, - Forever, to each generous heart - That with humanity takes part: - Henceforth, vile monster, live or dead! - We dub you viper, COPPERHEAD. - The copperhead! Has he a soul? - And does it seek yon starry pole, - When death relieves it from the clay, - And wing on high its airy way? - I question if a thing so vile - Can live beyond the present style, - Or if it should, where could it go, - To find its full repast of woe? - What think you, then, of transmigration, - Or interchange of place and station? - Perhaps the nigger-whippers pass - To shades still darker than of brass, - And copperheads, as seemeth proper, - Put on more sombre hues than copper; - And find new quarters made to fit, - In negro tenements, to-wit; - And thus become, in very fact, - The things that they so much have cracked; - And hear their master, late their slave, - With furious tone and gesture rave; - And feel the lash he plies so well, - And howl in this congenial hell! - - Transcendant life! immortal part! - I long to know what thing thou art; - Whether a phantom light as air, - Or form symmetrical and fair; - An essence which can never die; - Or something passing as a sigh, - Which, when this frame dissolves in dust, - Returns to nothing, as at first; - Or whether thou hast always been - The same, through every changing scene, - And why to some thou art so sweet; - To others with such woes replete? - - It cannot be this conscious being - Is all absorbed in feeling, seeing; - That those desires we cannot sate - Are doomed to end in this low state, - Unsatisfied; and that the powers - We feel within us and as ours, - Should, at our death, be swept away - Like shadows by the morning’s ray; - Nor can it be, that sin and crime - Can go unwhipt, if not in time. - No, we shall bask for evermore - In light, and light’s great source adore, - With those who love the right shall shine, - In union, peace and love divine; - Whilst copperheads and all their host - In hell’s tempestuous surge are tossed, - And wail forever “Lost, lost, lost!” - - Oh! for a moment on hell’s brink, - To view the tortured reptiles sink, - Ten million fathoms in th’ abyss, - And thence rebound with bubbling hiss; - Their throats with sulph’rous vapor choked, - Their slimy length begrimed and smoked; - Each hideous skin as if ’twould burst, - By belching out the draught accurst; - All tortured and convulsed with rage, - To whom each moment seems an age— - Who vainly call “emancipation,” - To free them from that deep damnation, - Or else for swift annihilation! - Then might we realize the sting - That wrongs to men on spirits bring; - Then would we fully comprehend, - That God is justice and its friend! - - Oh miracle! scarce had my prayer - Been breathed upon the vacant air, - When lo! a vision, or a dream, - As clear as pebbles in a stream, - Appeared before my wondering eyes - And filled my soul with deep surprise; - I’ll paint the scene the best I can, - ’Twas thus the strange illusion ran: - - -A DREAM OF EREBUS. - - Night’s shadows closed round me, I lay on my bed, - And visions of beauty encompassed my head; - The sweetest of melodies floated around, - The Muses and Graces kept time to the sound: - The scene was enchanting; but brief was its stay, - In mists and in clouds it soon melted away: - Then darkness succeeded, the horrors of death! - I struggled as one who was fighting for breath! - Till, in fancy, I passed through the last mortal throe, - And my spirit sought rest in the regions below. - - My passport delayed me a while, but, at last, - Through the wide-yawning portals of Pluto I passed; - Then, warned by a goblin I met on the way, - My respects to the grim king of Hades I pay: - I advance to his throne, and, without falling prostrate, - I pay my devoirs to the great arch-apostate. - He rose up and told me to follow his wake, - And a walk through his kingdom, for pleasure, we’d take. - “I’ll show you,” said he, “how my quarters are crammed, - In their various regions, with ghosts of the damned.” - “I præ, sequar,” said I, “go ahead and I’ll follow;” - So he led me along, through a mighty big hollow; - On my right hand I saw what appeared to my sight - An iron-walled palace of towering height: - I scanned it with wonder, but as I drew nigher - I perceived that it was a huge furnace of fire: - Its apartments above, and its basement below - Were crowded with beings the image of woe; - “What is this?” was my query; the Devil replied, - “’Tis the place where my slave-holding children are fried; - As they said when on earth, that a white man must be - Above the vile nigger, it is so as you see: - The whites are above, and the niggers below, - The brimstone to stir and the bellows to blow; - But let us go on—you will see as you pass, - The punishment dire of a much meaner class; - That pit on the left is the dismal abode - Of a tribe who by thousands descend the broad road; - These are base hireling watchmen, who strove to increase - The size of the flock for the sake of the fleece, - No care had above for the souls of their charge, - But slept like dumb dogs while the wolf prowled at large. - There are priests of all classes, all creeds and all names - Condemned to be scorched in the sulphurous flames. - But the meanest by far of these groveling creatures - Are those factors of hell, the pro-slavery preachers, - Who insist that the Lord made the nigger’s skin black, - That the white man to Heaven might ride on his back; - They quote still from Scripture, and make it so plain, - To deny it were taking the Lord’s name in vain; - Disputing the fact were mere breath thrown away, - For is it not written, “Ye servants, obey?” - They drawl a long prayer, and a sermon comes next, - And “Cursed be Canaan,” they take for their text; - But here a new light on their vision has burst, - And they feel that themselves, not poor Canaan, are cursed. - Just a few steps ahead I will show you their station, - Close packed with those wretches who’d ruin your Nation.” - - And soon, as we stood o’er a precipice dire, - I saw far beneath me the great Lake of Fire; - Like the sea in a tempest its surface was tossed, - While it swarmed with the pale, burning ghosts of the lost. - Rock-bounded on all sides, the deep, hollow roar - Of its surges resounded while lashing the shore, - The blackness of darkness—a sulphurous cloud, - Hung over the scene like a funeral shroud. - Yet plain by the glare of the red waves at play, - As they lashed the grim crags that flung back the hot spray, - Each wave in succession displayed on its crest - Some thousand pale ghosts who were riding abreast; - Till striking the crag they sank down from my sight, - And others rushed in, like to men in a fight; - Oh! wild were the shrieks and the wails that arose - From those as they sank, and from these as they rose; - So piercing and heart-rending was the sad strain, - That it thrilled me with horror—transfixed me with pain! - These words they ground out midst their dire suffocation: - “Oh God! from this hell grant us—emancipation, - Or else, in thy mercy, give annihilation!” - But hell bellowed back, “everlasting damnation!” - - But, most frightful of all!—tiger-like and inhuman, - I hear the fierce howls of three men and one woman, - Whose necks, hung in halters right over the flood, - Are stretched by a wretch all bedabbled with blood! - All five call on “Lincoln” for mercy; when lo! - They are plunged, in a twinkling, to regions below; - Where long in the torrent they struggling remain, - Till the wave spews them up to its surface again; - There howling and writhing, unable to die, - Each visage distorted and bloodshot each eye, - For mercy in vain the assassins still cry! - Ah, Mercy they’ve slain!—Hope for them has no room, - Hell’s no longer a myth,—’tis the parricide’s doom! - - The Devil here chuckled with joy and delight, - And seemed to be charmed with this horrible sight: - “This,” said he, “is the place where I demagogues throw - When they come here and ask for their lodgings below, - Since they never loved aught but loud brawling and strife, - And were true to no party or friend during life; - Ever turning and twisting, and dodging around, - No place more befitting for them could be found; - For here they’ll be tossing and dodging forever - Like drift-wood afloat on a rock-tortured river. - - Here, too, let me point to you those wretched men - Who devote all their powers, both of tongue and of pen, - To prop the slave-holders, their code propagate, - Turn earth into hell through disunion and hate, - And to fan the fierce flames of your war have combined, - And, therefore, most justly have they been consigned - With the meanest of devils who dared to rebel, - To be scorched in the flames of the nethermost hell. - Here are lying reporters and editors, speakers, - And the old Union-savers and compromise shriekers, - With blood-sucking leeches and shoddy contractors, - Beneath loyal masks, much the worst malefactors, - Who smile, while your soldiers they starve and they rob, - More guilty, by far, than Buchanan or Cobb. - - But a new class of sinners came not long ago, - And what to do with them I swear I don’t know; - I saw them, quite recently, stemming the Styx, - Sent here, I suppose, for their dastardly tricks: - (For of all who arrive here by night or by day, - There are none but the meanest who come by that way,) - Each floated down stream, at his ease, toward the lake, - A species of monster, half man and half snake; - Their heads crowned with copper, their bodies with scales, - Like scorpions they carried their stings in their tails; - And scarce had their feet touched the marl of our soil, - When hell, by their tricks, was thrown into a broil: - And now I am puzzled to know what to do - With this low-lived, this white-livered, COPPERHEAD crew. - It is true I would see the whole world come to hell, - I am fond of mean men, but these please me too well: - In their zeal for my cause and the good of this place, - They have brought my whole kingdom and cause to disgrace. - Though loyal to me and vile slaves to my throne, - While accepting their service, the tools I disown. - Since they serve without pay or a hope of reward, - I am bound by no bargain to show them regard: - I think I’ll just take them outside of the town, - Where the drainage, the filth and the offal are thrown, - And toss the whole pack of them into the ditch, - Then cover them over with sulphur and pitch; - Set fire to the mixture and leave them to cook, - To writhe in the flames, or to strangle with smoke; - And then I will drive them to earth back again, - To shiver in ice, howl in wind, hail and rain. - - When Jefferson Davis and his rebel host - Shall arrive, by and by, at the gates of the lost, - I’ll meet, and assign them a place near my throne, - And Davis and Floyd shall be stars in my crown; - But this wretched crew to the ditch I’ll consign, - For, though true to my cause, I cannot call them mine.” - - Just then came a messenger hastily down, - And called out, “Your Majesty’s wanted up town; - For another large batch of the peace-shrieking crew - Have come sneaking down here and are asking for you.” - - His Majesty then grew quite black in the face; - “I’ll go and, by hell, kick them out of the place: - Their stench I detest, I cannot bear them near, - And I’ll soon let them know that they mustn’t stay here; - ’Tis too much e’en for us, with our devilish natures, - To bear with such fallen, such cowardly, creatures.” - - So saying, and wearing a terrible frown, - He seized a huge trident and hurried up town; - Then quickly I heard mingled whining and shrieking, - And, in thunder and wrath, old Beelzebub speaking: - “Get out of my court, you vile, dastardly crew, - You’re too mean to stay here where the common damned do.” - And then, like a man of his reason bereft, - He wielded his club and pitched in right and left. - - They yelled, and shrieked “Peace, oh, pray, Satan, hold on, - We are loyal to you!”—cried Satan, “Begone!” - While the blows he dealt out made the peace-sneaks to scream;— - With their yells in my ears, I awoke from my dream! - - My task is done, my work is ended; - Behold the Copperhead suspended - ’Twixt Heaven and earth, in open air, - His whole anatomy laid bare; - Normal and morbid all made known, - In soul and body, nerve and bone! - Since Satan would not let him stay - In realms which shun the light of day; - (Where he in torture would abide, - If he his deep disgrace could hide,) - Here pilloried in sight of men, - Impaled on my steel-pointed pen, - Like Tantalus tormented ever, - Let vultures prey upon his liver, - Which, by some retributive power, - Still grows as fast as they devour, - Till passers-by shall point with scorn, - And cry, “’Twere better not be born, - Than thus to writhe in infamy, - As long as sun and stars shall be!” - - And when, in some far future age, - The student of creation’s page - Shall dig his fossils from the ground, - And stand amazed, in doubt profound, - As to what species and what race - The monstrous reptile he can trace, - And wonder, with suspended breath, - His use or purpose on the earth; - These records all his doubts shall clear, - When he beholds him pictured here, - So fully, that who runs will read, - Then shudder, and increase his speed! - - Thus much for science having won, - I take my leave, my task is done. - - -THE END. - - - - -[a] [c] [d] [e] [g] [h] [i] [j] [l] [m] [n] [o] [p] [q] [r] [t] [u] [v] -[w] [x] [y] [z] [1] [2] [3] Transcriber’s Note: It is not known what -these letters/numbers were intended to represent. There are no footnotes -in this or multiple other copies of the book. - - - - -“SIR COPP:” - -A Book for the Times, in Six Cantos. By THOMAS CLARKE, Author of -“A Day in May,” “Donna Rosa,” “The Silent Village,” “Life in the West,” -&c., &c. - - -OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. - -_From the Chicago Tribune_ - -In this work we welcome another home production. It is written in -Hudibrastic verse; but the genius of the author is by no means confined -to this form of composition. The object of the author is praise-worthy, -and he exhibits much talent for versification. We must, injustice, -commend the work for many striking and some admirable passages. “Sir -Copp,” is of course, Sir Copperhead; and the venomous creature is -dissected by an artist who has a true scientific enthusiasm for so fine -a specimen of morbid anatomy. The invocation to the muse is especially -striking, (here it is quoted in full.) Mr. Clarke is not an untried poet. -He has, in fact, produced a number of poems, for which the best English -critics have accorded to him a high rank amongst the first poets of our -day. - -_From the Chicago Evening Journal_ - -Under the title of “SIR COPP,” is depicted the character of a -copperhead, whose career closes at the gates of hell. The story is a -contrast of patriotism with disloyalty; the theme growing out of the late -rebellion. The poetry is lively in measure. The author’s former works -drew down the encomiums of several good authorities in literary matters. -The volume is highly creditable to the publishers. - -_From the Chicago Republican._ - -Mr. Clarke is favorably known to the reading public as the author of -several poems published in England, which have received warm praise from -the leading English reviews. The purpose of this effort of his muse -is to contrast a dark phase of human depravity, as exhibited by the -copperhead rebels of the northern states, with the beauty and power of -loyalty to God and country. Incidentally, he satirises Tennyson, mourns -over the grave of Lincoln, and celebrates the heroes of Murfreesboro, -and many another bloody field. He writes with a sharp pen, and shows -no mercy to the traitors. “Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe moral -and physical dissection, is introduced by the author into hell, whence -Satan, unwilling to entertain him, sends him back to earth to be punished -according to his deserts. - -_From the Staats Zeitung (German.)_ - -Mr. Thomas Clarke, a celebrated British Poet, who lives here in the West, -has produced a poem under the title of “Sir Copp,” in which he shows -forth the copperheads and their actions during the war. He is amongst the -warmest friends of America, extols liberty and patriotism, and does ample -justice to our German American citizens. - - * * * * * - -New Work, by the Author of “Sir Copp,” - -(_WILL BE READY IN THE SPRING, ’67_,) - - ENTITLED - THE TWO ANGELS - _Or, LOVE-LED_. - - A POEM, IN SIX CANTOS. - -The story is of Heaven and earth, and is one of the deepest interest. It -is a book of great merit, and no doubt will be extensively read. - -The volume will contain upwards of two hundred pages small octavo, -printed with clear, readable type, on fine paper, and will be neatly -bound. - - GEO. W. CLARKE, Publisher, - _215 ILLINOIS ST., CHICAGO_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIR COPP *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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