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diff --git a/old/9580.txt b/old/9580.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5efe70 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9580.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13127 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Whittier, Volume III (of VII), by +John Greenleaf Whittier + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: The Works of Whittier, Volume III (of VII) + Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform + +Author: John Greenleaf Whittier + +Release Date: December 2005 [EBook #9580] +Posting Date: July 9, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF WHITTIER *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE WORKS OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, + +Volume II. (of VII} + +ANTI-SLAVERY POEMS and SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM + + +By John Greenleaf Whittier + + + CONTENTS: + + + ANTI-SLAVERY POEMS: + + TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON + TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE + THE SLAVE-SHIPS + EXPOSTULATION + HYMN: "THOU, WHOSE PRESENCE WENT BEFORE" + THE YANKEE GIRL + THE HUNTERS OF MEN + STANZAS FOR THE TIMES + CLERICAL OPPRESSORS + A SUMMONS + TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS + THE MORAL WARFARE + RITNER + THE PASTORAL LETTER + HYMN: "O HOLY FATHER! JUST AND TRUE" + THE FAREWELL OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER + PENNSYLVANIA HALL + THE NEW YEAR + THE RELIC + THE WORLD'S CONVENTION + MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA + THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE + THE SENTENCE OF JOHN L. BROWN + TEXAS + VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND + TO FANEUIL HALL + TO MASSACHUSETTS + NEW HAMPSHIRE + THE PINE-TREE + TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN + AT WASHINGTON + THE BRANDED HAND + THE FREED ISLANDS + A LETTER + LINES FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND + DANIEL NEALL + SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT + To DELAWARE + YORKTOWN + RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE + THE LOST STATESMAN + THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE + THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS + PAEAN + THE CRISIS + LINES ON THE PORTRAIT OF A CELEBRATED PUBLISHER + DERNE + A SABBATH SCENE + IN THE EVIL DAY + MOLOCH IN STATE STREET + OFFICIAL PIETY + THE RENDITION + ARISEN AT LAST + THE HASCHISH + FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS' SAKE + THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS + LETTER FROM A MISSIONARY OF THE METHODIST + EPISCOPAL CHURCH SOUTH, IN KANSAS, TO A + DISTINGUISHED POLITICIAN + BURIAL OF BARBER + TO PENNSYLVANIA + LE MARAIS DU CYGNE. + THE PASS OF THE SIERRA + A SONG FOR THE TIME + WHAT OF THE DAY? + A SONG, INSCRIBED TO THE FREMONT CLUBS + THE PANORAMA + ON A PRAYER-BOOK + THE SUMMONS + TO WILLIAM H. SEWARD + IN WAR TIME. + TO SAMUEL E. SEWALL AND HARRIET W. SEWALL + THY WILL BE DONE + A WORD FOR THE HOUR + "EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT" + TO JOHN C. FREMONT + THE WATCHERS + TO ENGLISHMEN + MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS + AT PORT ROYAL + ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL + THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862 + OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. + THE PROCLAMATION + ANNIVERSARY POEM + BARBARA FRIETCHIE + HAT THE BIRDS SAID + THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATRA + LADS DEO! + HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPATION + AT NEWBURYPORT + + AFTER THE WAR. + THE PEACE AUTUMN + TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS + THE HIVE AT GETTYSBURG + HOWARD AT ATLANTA + THE EMANCIPATION GROUP + THE JUBILEE SINGERS + GARRISON + + + + SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM: + + THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME + DEMOCRACY + THE GALLOWS + SEED-TIME AND HARVEST + TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND + THE HUMAN SACRIFICE + SONGS OF LABOR + DEDICATION + THE SHOEMAKERS + THE FISHERMEN + THE LUMBERMEN + THE SHIP-BUILDERS + THE DROVERS + THE HUSKERS + THE REFORMER + THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS + THE PRISONER FOR DEBT + THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS + THE MEN OF OLD + TO PIUS IX. + CALEF IN BOSTON + OUR STATE + THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES + THE PEACE OF EUROPE + ASTRAEA + THE DISENTHRALLED + THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY + THE DREAM OF PIO NONO + THE VOICES + THE NEW EXODUS + THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND + THE EVE OF ELECTION + FROM PERUGIA + ITALY + FREEDOM IN BRAZIL + AFTER ELECTION + DISARMAMENT + THE PROBLEM + OUR COUNTRY + ON THE BIG HORN + + NOTES + + + + +ANTI-SLAVERY POEMS + + + + +TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON + + CHAMPION of those who groan beneath + Oppression's iron hand + In view of penury, hate, and death, + I see thee fearless stand. + Still bearing up thy lofty brow, + In the steadfast strength of truth, + In manhood sealing well the vow + And promise of thy youth. + + Go on, for thou hast chosen well; + On in the strength of God! + Long as one human heart shall swell + Beneath the tyrant's rod. + Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, + As thou hast ever spoken, + Until the dead in sin shall hear, + The fetter's link be broken! + + I love thee with a brother's love, + I feel my pulses thrill, + To mark thy spirit soar above + The cloud of human ill. + My heart hath leaped to answer thine, + And echo back thy words, + As leaps the warrior's at the shine + And flash of kindred swords! + + They tell me thou art rash and vain, + A searcher after fame; + That thou art striving but to gain + A long-enduring name; + That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand + And steeled the Afric's heart, + To shake aloft his vengeful brand, + And rend his chain apart. + + Have I not known thee well, and read + Thy mighty purpose long? + And watched the trials which have made + Thy human spirit strong? + And shall the slanderer's demon breath + Avail with one like me, + To dim the sunshine of my faith + And earnest trust in thee? + + Go on, the dagger's point may glare + Amid thy pathway's gloom; + The fate which sternly threatens there + Is glorious martyrdom + Then onward with a martyr's zeal; + And wait thy sure reward + When man to man no more shall kneel, + And God alone be Lord! + + 1832. + + + + +TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. + +Toussaint L'Ouverture, the black chieftain of Hayti, was a slave on the +plantation "de Libertas," belonging to M. Bayou. When the rising of the +negroes took place, in 1791, Toussaint refused to join them until he had +aided M. Bayou and his family to escape to Baltimore. The white man had +discovered in Toussaint many noble qualities, and had instructed him in +some of the first branches of education; and the preservation of his +life was owing to the negro's gratitude for this kindness. In 1797, +Toussaint L'Ouverture was appointed, by the French government, +General-in-Chief of the armies of St. Domingo, and, as such, signed the +Convention with General Maitland for the evacuation of the island by the +British. From this period, until 1801, the island, under the government +of Toussaint, was happy, tranquil, and prosperous. The miserable +attempt of Napoleon to re-establish slavery in St. Domingo, although it +failed of its intended object, proved fatal to the negro chieftain. +Treacherously seized by Leclerc, he was hurried on board a vessel by +night, and conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold +subterranean dungeon, at Besancon, where, in April, 1803, he died. The +treatment of Toussaint finds a parallel only in the murder of the Duke +D'Enghien. It was the remark of Godwin, in his Lectures, that the West +India Islands, since their first discovery by Columbus, could not boast +of a single name which deserves comparison with that of Toussaint +L'Ouverture. + + 'T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile + With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down + Its beauty on the Indian isle,-- + On broad green field and white-walled town; + And inland waste of rock and wood, + In searching sunshine, wild and rude, + Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam, + Soft as the landscape of a dream. + All motionless and dewy wet, + Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met + The myrtle with its snowy bloom, + Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom,-- + The white cecropia's silver rind + Relieved by deeper green behind, + The orange with its fruit of gold, + The lithe paullinia's verdant fold, + The passion-flower, with symbol holy, + Twining its tendrils long and lowly, + The rhexias dark, and cassia tall, + And proudly rising over all, + The kingly palm's imperial stem, + Crowned with its leafy diadem, + Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade, + The fiery-winged cucullo played! + + How lovely was thine aspect, then, + Fair island of the Western Sea + Lavish of beauty, even when + Thy brutes were happier than thy men, + For they, at least, were free! + Regardless of thy glorious clime, + Unmindful of thy soil of flowers, + The toiling negro sighed, that Time + No faster sped his hours. + For, by the dewy moonlight still, + He fed the weary-turning mill, + Or bent him in the chill morass, + To pluck the long and tangled grass, + And hear above his scar-worn back + The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack + While in his heart one evil thought + In solitary madness wrought, + One baleful fire surviving still + The quenching of the immortal mind, + One sterner passion of his kind, + Which even fetters could not kill, + The savage hope, to deal, erelong, + A vengeance bitterer than his wrong! + + Hark to that cry! long, loud, and shrill, + From field and forest, rock and hill, + Thrilling and horrible it rang, + Around, beneath, above; + The wild beast from his cavern sprang, + The wild bird from her grove! + Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony + Were mingled in that midnight cry; + But like the lion's growl of wrath, + When falls that hunter in his path + Whose barbed arrow, deeply set, + Is rankling in his bosom yet, + It told of hate, full, deep, and strong, + Of vengeance kindling out of wrong; + It was as if the crimes of years-- + The unrequited toil, the tears, + The shame and hate, which liken well + Earth's garden to the nether hell-- + Had found in nature's self a tongue, + On which the gathered horror hung; + As if from cliff, and stream, and glen + Burst on the' startled ears of men + That voice which rises unto God, + Solemn and stern,--the cry of blood! + It ceased, and all was still once more, + Save ocean chafing on his shore, + The sighing of the wind between + The broad banana's leaves of green, + Or bough by restless plumage shook, + Or murmuring voice of mountain brook. + Brief was the silence. Once again + Pealed to the skies that frantic yell, + Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain, + And flashes rose and fell; + And painted on the blood-red sky, + Dark, naked arms were tossed on high; + And, round the white man's lordly hall, + Trod, fierce and free, the brute he made; + And those who crept along the wall, + And answered to his lightest call + With more than spaniel dread, + The creatures of his lawless beck, + Were trampling on his very neck + And on the night-air, wild and clear, + Rose woman's shriek of more than fear; + For bloodied arms were round her thrown, + And dark cheeks pressed against her own! + Where then was he whose fiery zeal + Had taught the trampled heart to feel, + Until despair itself grew strong, + And vengeance fed its torch from wrong? + Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding; + Now, when oppression's heart is bleeding; + Now, when the latent curse of Time + Is raining down in fire and blood, + That curse which, through long years of crime, + Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood,-- + Why strikes he not, the foremost one, + Where murder's sternest deeds are done? + + He stood the aged palms beneath, + That shadowed o'er his humble door, + Listening, with half-suspended breath, + To the wild sounds of fear and death, + Toussaint L'Ouverture! + What marvel that his heart beat high! + The blow for freedom had been given, + And blood had answered to the cry + Which Earth sent up to Heaven! + What marvel that a fierce delight + Smiled grimly o'er his brow of night, + As groan and shout and bursting flame + Told where the midnight tempest came, + With blood and fire along its van, + And death behind! he was a Man! + + Yes, dark-souled chieftain! if the light + Of mild Religion's heavenly ray + Unveiled not to thy mental sight + The lowlier and the purer way, + In which the Holy Sufferer trod, + Meekly amidst the sons of crime; + That calm reliance upon God + For justice in His own good time; + That gentleness to which belongs + Forgiveness for its many wrongs, + Even as the primal martyr, kneeling + For mercy on the evil-dealing; + Let not the favored white man name + Thy stern appeal, with words of blame. + Then, injured Afric! for the shame + Of thy own daughters, vengeance came + Full on the scornful hearts of those, + Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes, + And to thy hapless children gave + One choice,--pollution or the grave! + + Has he not, with the light of heaven + Broadly around him, made the same? + Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven, + And gloried in his ghastly shame? + Kneeling amidst his brother's blood, + To offer mockery unto God, + As if the High and Holy One + Could smile on deeds of murder done! + As if a human sacrifice + Were purer in His holy eyes, + Though offered up by Christian hands, + Than the foul rites of Pagan lands! + + . . . . . . . . . . . + + Sternly, amidst his household band, + His carbine grasped within his hand, + The white man stood, prepared and still, + Waiting the shock of maddened men, + Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when + The horn winds through their caverned hill. + And one was weeping in his sight, + The sweetest flower of all the isle, + The bride who seemed but yesternight + Love's fair embodied smile. + And, clinging to her trembling knee, + Looked up the form of infancy, + With tearful glance in either face + The secret of its fear to trace. + + "Ha! stand or die!" The white man's eye + His steady musket gleamed along, + As a tall Negro hastened nigh, + With fearless step and strong. + "What, ho, Toussaint!" A moment more, + His shadow crossed the lighted floor. + "Away!" he shouted; "fly with me, + The white man's bark is on the sea; + Her sails must catch the seaward wind, + For sudden vengeance sweeps behind. + Our brethren from their graves have spoken, + The yoke is spurned, the chain is broken; + On all the bills our fires are glowing, + Through all the vales red blood is flowing + No more the mocking White shall rest + His foot upon the Negro's breast; + No more, at morn or eve, shall drip + The warm blood from the driver's whip + Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn + For all the wrongs his race have borne, + Though for each drop of Negro blood + The white man's veins shall pour a flood; + Not all alone the sense of ill + Around his heart is lingering still, + Nor deeper can the white man feel + The generous warmth of grateful zeal. + Friends of the Negro! fly with me, + The path is open to the sea: + Away, for life!" He spoke, and pressed + The young child to his manly breast, + As, headlong, through the cracking cane, + Down swept the dark insurgent train, + Drunken and grim, with shout and yell + Howled through the dark, like sounds from hell. + + Far out, in peace, the white man's sail + Swayed free before the sunrise gale. + Cloud-like that island hung afar, + Along the bright horizon's verge, + O'er which the curse of servile war + Rolled its red torrent, surge on surge; + And he, the Negro champion, where + In the fierce tumult struggled he? + Go trace him by the fiery glare + Of dwellings in the midnight air, + The yells of triumph and despair, + The streams that crimson to the sea! + + Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb, + Beneath Besancon's alien sky, + Dark Haytien! for the time shall come, + Yea, even now is nigh, + When, everywhere, thy name shall be + Redeemed from color's infamy; + And men shall learn to speak of thee + As one of earth's great spirits, born + In servitude, and nursed in scorn, + Casting aside the weary weight + And fetters of its low estate, + In that strong majesty of soul + Which knows no color, tongue, or clime, + Which still hath spurned the base control + Of tyrants through all time! + Far other hands than mine may wreathe + The laurel round thy brow of death, + And speak thy praise, as one whose word + A thousand fiery spirits stirred, + Who crushed his foeman as a worm, + Whose step on human hearts fell firm: + + Be mine the better task to find + A tribute for thy lofty mind, + Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone + Some milder virtues all thine own, + Some gleams of feeling pure and warm, + Like sunshine on a sky of storm, + Proofs that the Negro's heart retains + Some nobleness amid its chains,-- + That kindness to the wronged is never + Without its excellent reward, + Holy to human-kind and ever + Acceptable to God. + + 1833. + + + + +THE SLAVE-SHIPS. + + "That fatal, that perfidious bark, + Built I' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." + MILTON'S Lycidas. + +"The French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two men, and with one +hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from Bonny, in Africa, April, +1819. On approaching the line, a terrible malady broke out,--an +obstinate disease of the eyes,--contagious, and altogether beyond the +resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among +the slaves (only half a wine-glass per day being allowed to an +individual), and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they +breathed. By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck +occasionally; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves in each +other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so universally +prevails among them, of being swiftly transported to their own homes in +Africa. To check this, the captain ordered several who were stopped in +the attempt to be shot, or hanged, before their companions. The disease +extended to the crew; and one after another were smitten with it, until +only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not +preclude calculation: to save the expense of supporting slaves rendered +unsalable, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, +thirty-six of the negroes, having become blind, were thrown into the sea +and drowned!" Speech of M. Benjamin Constant, in the French Chamber of +Deputies, June 17, 1820. + +In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary individual, whose +sight remained unaffected, should also be seized with the malady, a sail +was discovered. It was the Spanish slaver, Leon. The same disease had +been there; and, horrible to tell, all the crew had become blind! Unable +to assist each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never +since been heard of. The Rodeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21st of June; +the only man who had escaped the disease, and had thus been enabled to +steer the slaver into port, caught it in three days after its arrival.-- +Bibliotheque Ophthalmologique for November, 1819. + + "ALL ready?" cried the captain; + "Ay, ay!" the seamen said; + "Heave up the worthless lubbers,-- + The dying and the dead." + Up from the slave-ship's prison + Fierce, bearded heads were thrust: + "Now let the sharks look to it,-- + Toss up the dead ones first!" + + Corpse after corpse came up, + Death had been busy there; + Where every blow is mercy, + Why should the spoiler spare? + Corpse after corpse they cast + Sullenly from the ship, + Yet bloody with the traces + Of fetter-link and whip. + + Gloomily stood the captain, + With his arms upon his breast, + With his cold brow sternly knotted, + And his iron lip compressed. + + "Are all the dead dogs over?" + Growled through that matted lip; + "The blind ones are no better, + Let's lighten the good ship." + + Hark! from the ship's dark bosom, + The very sounds of hell! + The ringing clank of iron, + The maniac's short, sharp yell! + The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled; + The starving infant's moan, + The horror of a breaking heart + Poured through a mother's groan. + + Up from that loathsome prison + The stricken blind ones cane + Below, had all been darkness, + Above, was still the same. + Yet the holy breath of heaven + Was sweetly breathing there, + And the heated brow of fever + Cooled in the soft sea air. + + "Overboard with them, shipmates!" + Cutlass and dirk were plied; + Fettered and blind, one after one, + Plunged down the vessel's side. + The sabre smote above, + Beneath, the lean shark lay, + Waiting with wide and bloody jaw + His quick and human prey. + + God of the earth! what cries + Rang upward unto thee? + Voices of agony and blood, + From ship-deck and from sea. + The last dull plunge was heard, + The last wave caught its stain, + And the unsated shark looked up + For human hearts in vain. + + . . . . . . . . . . . . + + Red glowed the western waters, + The setting sun was there, + Scattering alike on wave and cloud + His fiery mesh of hair. + Amidst a group in blindness, + A solitary eye + Gazed, from the burdened slaver's deck, + Into that burning sky. + + "A storm," spoke out the gazer, + "Is gathering and at hand; + Curse on 't, I'd give my other eye + For one firm rood of land." + And then he laughed, but only + His echoed laugh replied, + For the blinded and the suffering + Alone were at his side. + + Night settled on the waters, + And on a stormy heaven, + While fiercely on that lone ship's track + The thunder-gust was driven. + "A sail!--thank God, a sail!" + And as the helmsman spoke, + Up through the stormy murmur + A shout of gladness broke. + + + Down came the stranger vessel, + Unheeding on her way, + So near that on the slaver's deck + Fell off her driven spray. + "Ho! for the love of mercy, + We're perishing and blind!" + A wail of utter agony + Came back upon the wind. + + "Help us! for we are stricken + With blindness every one; + Ten days we've floated fearfully, + Unnoting star or sun. + Our ship 's the slaver Leon,-- + We've but a score on board; + Our slaves are all gone over,-- + Help, for the love of God!" + + On livid brows of agony + The broad red lightning shone; + But the roar of wind and thunder + Stifled the answering groan; + Wailed from the broken waters + A last despairing cry, + As, kindling in the stormy' light, + The stranger ship went by. + + . . . . . . . . . + + In the sunny Guadaloupe + A dark-hulled vessel lay, + With a crew who noted never + The nightfall or the day. + The blossom of the orange + Was white by every stream, + And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird + Were in the warns sunbeam. + + And the sky was bright as ever, + And the moonlight slept as well, + On the palm-trees by the hillside, + And the streamlet of the dell: + And the glances of the Creole + Were still as archly deep, + And her smiles as full as ever + Of passion and of sleep. + + But vain were bird and blossom, + The green earth and the sky, + And the smile of human faces, + To the slaver's darkened eye; + At the breaking of the morning, + At the star-lit evening time, + O'er a world of light and beauty + Fell the blackness of his crime. + + 1834. + + + + +EXPOSTULATION. + +Dr. Charles Follen, a German patriot, who had come to America for the +freedom which was denied him in his native land, allied himself with the +abolitionists, and at a convention of delegates from all the anti- +slavery organizations in New England, held at Boston in May, 1834, was +chairman of a committee to prepare an address to the people of New +England. Toward the close of the address occurred the passage which +suggested these lines. "The despotism which our fathers could not bear +in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her +reformed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the +United States--the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of +a king--cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic +be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our +manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?" +--Dr. Follen's Address. + +"Genius of America!--Spirit of our free institutions!--where art thou? +How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! son of the morning,--how art thou fallen +from Heaven! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy +coming! The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha! Art thou +become like unto us?"--Speech of Samuel J. May. + + OUR fellow-countrymen in chains! + Slaves, in a land of light and law! + Slaves, crouching on the very plains + Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war! + A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, + A. wail where Camden's martyrs fell, + By every shrine of patriot blood, + From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well! + + By storied hill and hallowed grot, + By mossy wood and marshy glen, + Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, + And hurrying shout of Marion's men! + The groan of breaking hearts is there, + The falling lash, the fetter's clank! + Slaves, slaves are breathing in that air + Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank! + + What, ho! our countrymen in chains! + The whip on woman's shrinking flesh! + Our soil yet reddening with the stains + Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh! + What! mothers from their children riven! + What! God's own image bought and sold! + Americans to market driven, + And bartered as the brute for gold! + + Speak! shall their agony of prayer + Come thrilling to our hearts in vain? + To us whose fathers scorned to bear + The paltry menace of a chain; + To us, whose boast is loud and long + Of holy Liberty and Light; + Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong + Plead vainly for their plundered Right? + + What! shall we send, with lavish breath, + Our sympathies across the wave, + Where Manhood, on the field of death, + Strikes for his freedom or a grave? + Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung + For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, + And millions hail with pen and tongue + Our light on all her altars burning? + + Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, + By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, + And Poland, gasping on her lance, + The impulse of our cheering call? + And shall the slave, beneath our eye, + Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? + And toss his fettered arms on high, + And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain? + + Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be + A refuge for the stricken slave? + And shall the Russian serf go free + By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave? + And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane + Relax the iron hand of pride, + And bid his bondmen cast the chain + From fettered soul and limb aside? + + Shall every flap of England's flag + Proclaim that all around are free, + From farthest Ind to each blue crag + That beetles o'er the Western Sea? + And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, + When Freedom's fire is dim with us, + And round our country's altar clings + The damning shade of Slavery's curse? + + Go, let us ask of Constantine + To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; + And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line + To spare the struggling Suliote; + Will not the scorching answer come + From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ + "Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, + Then turn, and ask the like of us!" + + Just God! and shall we calmly rest, + The Christian's scorn, the heathen's mirth, + Content to live the lingering jest + And by-word of a mocking Earth? + Shall our own glorious land retain + That curse which Europe scorns to bear? + Shall our own brethren drag the chain + Which not even Russia's menials wear? + + Up, then, in Freedom's manly part, + From graybeard eld to fiery youth, + And on the nation's naked heart + Scatter the living coals of Truth! + Up! while ye slumber, deeper yet + The shadow of our fame is growing! + Up! while ye pause, our sun may set + In blood, around our altars flowing! + + Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth, + The gathered wrath of God and man, + Like that which wasted Egypt's earth, + When hail and fire above it ran. + Hear ye no warnings in the air? + Feel ye no earthquake underneath? + Up, up! why will ye slumber where + The sleeper only wakes in death? + + Rise now for Freedom! not in strife + Like that your sterner fathers saw, + The awful waste of human life, + The glory and the guilt of war:' + But break the chain, the yoke remove, + And smite to earth Oppression's rod, + With those mild arms of Truth and Love, + Made mighty through the living God! + + Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, + And leave no traces where it stood; + Nor longer let its idol drink + His daily cup of human blood; + But rear another altar there, + To Truth and Love and Mercy given, + And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer, + Shall call an answer down from Heaven! + + 1834 + + + + +HYMN. + +Written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chatham Street +Chapel, New York, held on the 4th of the seventh month, 1834. + + + O THOU, whose presence went before + Our fathers in their weary way, + As with Thy chosen moved of yore + The fire by night, the cloud by day! + + When from each temple of the free, + A nation's song ascends to Heaven, + Most Holy Father! unto Thee + May not our humble prayer be given? + + Thy children all, though hue and form + Are varied in Thine own good will, + With Thy own holy breathings warm, + And fashioned in Thine image still. + + We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain + Around us wave their fruits once more, + And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, + Are bending round each cottage door. + + And peace is here; and hope and love + Are round us as a mantle thrown, + And unto Thee, supreme above, + The knee of prayer is bowed alone. + + But oh, for those this day can bring, + As unto us, no joyful thrill; + For those who, under Freedom's wing, + Are bound in Slavery's fetters still: + + For those to whom Thy written word + Of light and love is never given; + For those whose ears have never heard + The promise and the hope of heaven! + + For broken heart, and clouded mind, + Whereon no human mercies fall; + Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined, + Who, as a Father, pitiest all! + + And grant, O Father! that the time + Of Earth's deliverance may be near, + When every land and tongue and clime + The message of Thy love shall hear; + + When, smitten as with fire from heaven, + The captive's chain shall sink in dust, + And to his fettered soul be given + The glorious freedom of the just, + + + + +THE YANKEE GIRL. + + SHE sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door, + Which the long evening shadow is stretching before, + With a music as sweet as the music which seems + Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams! + + How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, + Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! + And lightly and freely her dark tresses play + O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they! + + Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door, + The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? + 'T is the great Southern planter, the master who waves + His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. + + "Nay, Ellen, for shame! Let those Yankee fools spin, + Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin; + Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, + Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel! + + "But thou art too lovely and precious a gem + To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them; + For shame, Ellen, shame, cast thy bondage aside, + And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. + + "Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, + But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, + Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, + And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom! + + "Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all + Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call; + They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe, + And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." + + "Oh, could ye have seen her--that pride of our girls-- + Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, + With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, + And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel! + + "Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold + Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou halt sold; + Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear + The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear! + + "And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours, + And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy' flowers; + But dearer the blast round our mountains which raves, + Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves! + + "Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, + With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel; + Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be + In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!" + + 1835. + + + + +THE HUNTERS OF MEN. + +These lines were written when the orators of the American Colonization +Society were demanding that the free blacks should be sent to Africa, +and opposing Emancipation unless expatriation followed. See the report +of the proceedings of the society at its annual meeting in 1834. + + + HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen, + Through cane-brake and forest,--the hunting of men? + The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, + As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; + Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip, + And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! + All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match, + Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch. + So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, + Through cane-brake and forest,--the hunting of men! + + Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ride + In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride! + The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, + Just screening the politic statesman behind; + The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer, + The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. + And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid, + For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid + Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein, + How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! + + Oh, goodly and grand is our hunting to see, + In this "land of the brave and this home of the free." + Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, + All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein; + Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin + Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! + Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay + Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey? + Will their hearts fail within them? their nerves tremble, when + All roughly they ride to the hunting of men? + + Ho! alms for our hunters! all weary and faint, + Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. + The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still, + Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. + Haste, alms for our hunters! the hunted once more + Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore + What right have they here in the home of the white, + Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right? + Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again + Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men! + + Alms, alms for our hunters! why will ye delay, + When their pride and their glory are melting away? + The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own, + Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone? + The politic statesman looks back with a sigh, + There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his eye. + Oh, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, + And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. + Oh, haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, + For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men? + + 1835. + + + + +STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. + +The "Times" referred to were those evil times of the pro-slavery meeting +in Faneuil Hall, August 21, 1835, in which a demand was made for the +suppression of free speech, lest it should endanger the foundation of +commercial society. + + Is this the land our fathers loved, + The freedom which they toiled to win? + Is this the soil whereon they moved? + Are these the graves they slumber in? + Are we the sons by whom are borne + The mantles which the dead have worn? + + And shall we crouch above these graves, + With craven soul and fettered lip? + Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, + And tremble at the driver's whip? + Bend to the earth our pliant knees, + And speak but as our masters please. + + Shall outraged Nature cease to feel? + Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow? + Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel, + The dungeon's gloom, the assassin's blow, + Turn back the spirit roused to save + The Truth, our Country, and the Slave? + + Of human skulls that shrine was made, + Round which the priests of Mexico + Before their loathsome idol prayed; + Is Freedom's altar fashioned so? + And must we yield to Freedom's God, + As offering meet, the negro's blood? + + Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought + Which well might shame extremest hell? + Shall freemen lock the indignant thought? + Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell? + Shall Honor bleed?--shall Truth succumb? + Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb? + + No; by each spot of haunted ground, + Where Freedom weeps her children's fall; + By Plymouth's rock, and Bunker's mound; + By Griswold's stained and shattered wall; + By Warren's ghost, by Langdon's shade; + By all the memories of our dead. + + By their enlarging souls, which burst + The bands and fetters round them set; + By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed + Within our inmost bosoms, yet, + By all above, around, below, + Be ours the indignant answer,--No! + + No; guided by our country's laws, + For truth, and right, and suffering man, + Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause, + As Christians may, as freemen can! + Still pouring on unwilling ears + That truth oppression only fears. + + What! shall we guard our neighbor still, + While woman shrieks beneath his rod, + And while he tramples down at will + The image of a common God? + Shall watch and ward be round him set, + Of Northern nerve and bayonet? + + And shall we know and share with him + The danger and the growing shame? + And see our Freedom's light grow dim, + Which should have filled the world with flame? + And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn, + A world's reproach around us burn? + + Is 't not enough that this is borne? + And asks our haughty neighbor more? + Must fetters which his slaves have worn + Clank round the Yankee farmer's door? + Must he be told, beside his plough, + What he must speak, and when, and how? + + Must he be told his freedom stands + On Slavery's dark foundations strong; + On breaking hearts and fettered hands, + On robbery, and crime, and wrong? + That all his fathers taught is vain,-- + That Freedom's emblem is the chain? + + Its life, its soul, from slavery drawn! + False, foul, profane! Go, teach as well + Of holy Truth from Falsehood born! + Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell! + Of Virtue in the arms of Vice! + Of Demons planting Paradise! + + Rail on, then, brethren of the South, + Ye shall not hear the truth the less; + No seal is on the Yankee's mouth, + No fetter on the Yankee's press! + From our Green Mountains to the sea, + One voice shall thunder, We are free! + + + + +CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. + +In the report of the celebrated pro-slavery meeting in Charleston, S.C., +on the 4th of the ninth month, 1835, published in the Courier of that +city, it is stated: "The clergy of all denominations attended in a body, +lending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding by their presence +to the impressive character of the scene!" + + + JUST God! and these are they + Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! + Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay + On Israel's Ark of light! + + What! preach, and kidnap men? + Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor? + Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then + Bolt hard the captive's door? + + What! servants of thy own + Merciful Son, who came to seek and save + The homeless and the outcast, fettering down + The tasked and plundered slave! + + Pilate and Herod, friends! + Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine! + Just God and holy! is that church, which lends + Strength to the spoiler, thine? + + Paid hypocrites, who turn + Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book + Of those high words of truth which search and burn + In warning and rebuke; + + Feed fat, ye locusts, feed! + And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord + That, from the toiling bondman's utter need, + Ye pile your own full board. + + How long, O Lord! how long + Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, + And in Thy name, for robbery and wrong + At Thy own altars pray? + + Is not Thy hand stretched forth + Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite? + Shall not the living God of all the earth, + And heaven above, do right? + + Woe, then, to all who grind + Their brethren of a common Father down! + To all who plunder from the immortal mind + Its bright and glorious crown! + + Woe to the priesthood! woe + To those whose hire is with the price of blood; + Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, + The searching truths of God! + + Their glory and their might + Shall perish; and their very names shall be + Vile before all the people, in the light + Of a world's liberty. + + Oh, speed the moment on + When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love + And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known + As in their home above. + + 1836. + + + + +A SUMMONS + +Written on the adoption of Pinckney's Resolutions in the House of +Representatives, and the passage of Calhoun's "Bill for excluding Papers +written or printed, touching the subject of Slavery, from the U. S. +Post-office," in the Senate of the United States. Mr. Pinckney's +resolutions were in brief that Congress had no authority to interfere in +any way with slavery in the States; that it ought not to interfere with +it in the District of Columbia, and that all resolutions to that end +should be laid on the table without printing. Mr. Calhoun's bill made it +a penal offence for post-masters in any State, District, or Territory +"knowingly to deliver, to any person whatever, any pamphlet, newspaper, +handbill, or other printed paper or pictorial representation, touching +the subject of slavery, where, by the laws of the said State, District, +or Territory, their circulation was prohibited." + + MEN of the North-land! where's the manly spirit + Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone? + Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit + Their names alone? + + Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched within us, + Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low, + That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us + To silence now? + + Now, when our land to ruin's brink is verging, + In God's name, let us speak while there is time! + Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging, + Silence is crime! + + What! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors + Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter, + For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us, + God and our charter? + + Here shall the statesman forge his human fetters, + Here the false jurist human rights deny, + And in the church, their proud and skilled abettors + Make truth a lie? + + Torture the pages of the hallowed Bible, + To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood? + And, in Oppression's hateful service, libel + Both man and God? + + Shall our New England stand erect no longer, + But stoop in chains upon her downward way, + Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger + Day after day? + + Oh no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains; + From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie; + From her blue rivers and her welling fountains, + And clear, cold sky; + + From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean + Gnaws with his surges; from the fisher's skiff, + With white sail swaying to the billows' motion + Round rock and cliff; + + From the free fireside of her untought farmer; + From her free laborer at his loom and wheel; + From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer, + Rings the red steel; + + From each and all, if God hath not forsaken + Our land, and left us to an evil choice, + Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken + A People's voice. + + Startling and stern! the Northern winds shall bear it + Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave; + And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it + Within her grave. + + Oh, let that voice go forth! The bondman sighing + By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane, + Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying, + Revive again. + + Let it go forth! The millions who are gazing + Sadly upon us from afar shall smile, + And unto God devout thanksgiving raising + Bless us the while. + + Oh for your ancient freedom, pure and holy, + For the deliverance of a groaning earth, + For the wronged captive, bleeding, crushed, and lowly, + Let it go forth! + + Sons of the best of fathers! will ye falter + With all they left ye perilled and at stake? + Ho! once again on Freedom's holy altar + The fire awake. + + Prayer-strenthened for the trial, come together, + Put on the harness for the moral fight, + And, with the blessing of your Heavenly Father, + Maintain the right + + 1836. + + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. + +Thomas Shipley of Philadelphia was a lifelong Christian philanthropist, +and advocate of emancipation. At his funeral thousands of colored people +came to take their last look at their friend and protector. He died +September 17, 1836. + + GONE to thy Heavenly Father's rest! + The flowers of Eden round thee blowing, + And on thine ear the murmurs blest + Of Siloa's waters softly flowing! + + Beneath that Tree of Life which gives + To all the earth its healing leaves + In the white robe of angels clad, + And wandering by that sacred river, + Whose streams of holiness make glad + The city of our God forever! + + Gentlest of spirits! not for thee + Our tears are shed, our sighs are given; + Why mourn to know thou art a free + Partaker of the joys of heaven? + Finished thy work, and kept thy faith + In Christian firmness unto death; + And beautiful as sky and earth, + When autumn's sun is downward going, + The blessed memory of thy worth + Around thy place of slumber glowing! + + But woe for us! who linger still + With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, + And minds less steadfast to the will + Of Him whose every work is holy. + For not like thine, is crucified + The spirit of our human pride + And at the bondman's tale of woe, + And for the outcast and forsaken, + Not warm like thine, but cold and slow, + Our weaker sympathies awaken. + + Darkly upon our struggling way + The storm of human hate is sweeping; + Hunted and branded, and a prey, + Our watch amidst the darkness keeping, + Oh, for that hidden strength which can + Nerve unto death the inner man + Oh, for thy spirit, tried and true, + And constant in the hour of trial, + Prepared to suffer, or to do, + In meekness and in self-denial. + + Oh, for that spirit, meek and mild, + Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining; + By man deserted and reviled, + Yet faithful to its trust remaining. + Still prompt and resolute to save + From scourge and chain the hunted slave; + Unwavering in the Truth's defence, + Even where the fires of Hate were burning, + The unquailing eye of innocence + Alone upon the oppressor turning! + + O loved of thousands! to thy grave, + Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee. + The poor man and the rescued slave + Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee; + And grateful tears, like summer rain, + Quickened its dying grass again! + And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine, + Shall cone the outcast and the lowly, + Of gentle deeds and words of thine + Recalling memories sweet and holy! + + Oh, for the death the righteous die! + An end, like autumn's day declining, + On human hearts, as on the sky, + With holier, tenderer beauty shining; + As to the parting soul were given + The radiance of an opening heaven! + As if that pure and blessed light, + From off the Eternal altar flowing, + Were bathing, in its upward flight, + The spirit to its worship going! + + 1836. + + + + +THE MORAL WARFARE. + + WHEN Freedom, on her natal day, + Within her war-rocked cradle lay, + An iron race around her stood, + Baptized her infant brow in blood; + And, through the storm which round her swept, + Their constant ward and watching kept. + + Then, where our quiet herds repose, + The roar of baleful battle rose, + And brethren of a common tongue + To mortal strife as tigers sprung, + And every gift on Freedom's shrine + Was man for beast, and blood for wine! + + Our fathers to their graves have gone; + Their strife is past, their triumph won; + But sterner trials wait the race + Which rises in their honored place; + A moral warfare with the crime + And folly of an evil time. + + So let it be. In God's own might + We gird us for the coming fight, + And, strong in Him whose cause is ours + In conflict with unholy powers, + We grasp the weapons He has given,-- + The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven. + + 1836. + + + + +RITNER. + +Written on reading the Message of Governor Ritner, of Pennsylvania, +1836. The fact redounds to the credit and serves to perpetuate the +memory of the independent farmer and high-souled statesman, that he +alone of all the Governors of the Union in 1836 met the insulting +demands and menaces of the South in a manner becoming a freeman and +hater of Slavery, in his message to the Legislature of Pennsylvania. + + THANK God for the token! one lip is still free, + One spirit untrammelled, unbending one knee! + Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm, + Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm; + When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God, + Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood; + When the recreant North has forgotten her trust, + And the lip of her honor is low in the dust,-- + Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has broken! + Thank God, that one man as a freeman has spoken! + + O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown! + Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone! + To the land of the South, of the charter and chain, + Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain; + Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips + Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips! + Where "chivalric" honor means really no more + Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor! + Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high, + And the words which he utters, are--Worship, or die! + + Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood + Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God; + Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining; + Wherever the lash of the driver is twining; + Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart, + Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart; + Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind, + In silence and darkness, the God-given mind; + There, God speed it onward! its truth will be felt, + The bonds shall be loosened, the iron shall melt. + + And oh, will the land where the free soul of Penn + Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen; + Will the land where a Benezet's spirit went forth + To the peeled and the meted, and outcast of Earth; + Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first + From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst; + Where first for the wronged and the weak of their kind, + The Christian and statesman their efforts combined; + Will that land of the free and the good wear a chain? + Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain? + + No, Ritner! her "Friends" at thy warning shall stand + Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band; + Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, + Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime; + Turning back front the cavil of creeds, to unite + Once again for the poor in defence of the Right; + Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, + Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along; + Unappalled by the danger, the shame, and the pain, + And counting each trial for Truth as their gain! + + And that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and true, + Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due; + Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine, + On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine,-- + The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave + The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave; + Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the South + One brow for the brand, for the padlock one mouth? + They cater to tyrants? They rivet the chain, + Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again? + + No, never! one voice, like the sound in the cloud, + When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more loud, + Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed + From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the West, + On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow + Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! + The voice of a people, uprisen, awake, + Pennsylvania's watchword, with Freedom at stake, + Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each height, + "Our Country and Liberty! God for the Right!" + + + + +THE PASTORAL LETTER + +The General Association of Congregational ministers in Massachusetts met +at Brookfield, June 27, 1837, and issued a Pastoral Letter to the +churches under its care. The immediate occasion of it was the profound +sensation produced by the recent public lecture in Massachusetts by +Angelina and Sarah Grimke, two noble women from South Carolina, who bore +their testimony against slavery. The Letter demanded that "the perplexed +and agitating subjects which are now common amongst us... should not be +forced upon any church as matters for debate, at the hazard of +alienation and division," and called attention to the dangers now +seeming "to threaten the female character with widespread and permanent +injury." + + So, this is all,--the utmost reach + Of priestly power the mind to fetter! + When laymen think, when women preach, + A war of words, a "Pastoral Letter!" + Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! + Was it thus with those, your predecessors, + Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes + Their loving-kindness to transgressors? + + A "Pastoral Letter," grave and dull; + Alas! in hoof and horns and features, + How different is your Brookfield bull + From him who bellows from St. Peter's + Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, + Think ye, can words alone preserve them? + Your wiser fathers taught the arm + And sword of temporal power to serve them. + + Oh, glorious days, when Church and State + Were wedded by your spiritual fathers! + And on submissive shoulders sat + Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. + No vile "itinerant" then could mar + The beauty of your tranquil Zion, + But at his peril of the scar + Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. + + Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church + Of heretic and mischief-maker, + And priest and bailiff joined in search, + By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker + The stocks were at each church's door, + The gallows stood on Boston Common, + A Papist's ears the pillory bore,-- + The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman! + + Your fathers dealt not as ye deal + With "non-professing" frantic teachers; + They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, + And flayed the backs of "female preachers." + Old Hampton, had her fields a tongue, + And Salem's streets could tell their story, + Of fainting woman dragged along, + Gashed by the whip accursed and gory! + + And will ye ask me, why this taunt + Of memories sacred from the scorner? + And why with reckless hand I plant + A nettle on the graves ye honor? + Not to reproach New England's dead + This record from the past I summon, + Of manhood to the scaffold led, + And suffering and heroic woman. + + No, for yourselves alone, I turn + The pages of intolerance over, + That, in their spirit, dark and stern, + Ye haply may your own discover! + For, if ye claim the "pastoral right" + To silence Freedom's voice of warning, + And from your precincts shut the light + Of Freedom's day around ye dawning; + + If when an earthquake voice of power + And signs in earth and heaven are showing + That forth, in its appointed hour, + The Spirit of the Lord is going + And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light + On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, + Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, + In glory and in strength are waking! + + When for the sighing of the poor, + And for the needy, God bath risen, + And chains are breaking, and a door + Is opening for the souls in prison! + If then ye would, with puny hands, + Arrest the very work of Heaven, + And bind anew the evil bands + Which God's right arm of power hath riven; + + What marvel that, in many a mind, + Those darker deeds of bigot madness + Are closely with your own combined, + Yet "less in anger than in sadness"? + What marvel, if the people learn + To claim the right of free opinion? + What marvel, if at times they spurn + The ancient yoke of your dominion? + + A glorious remnant linger yet, + Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, + The coming of whose welcome feet + Is beautiful upon our mountains! + Men, who the gospel tidings bring + Of Liberty and Love forever, + Whose joy is an abiding spring, + Whose peace is as a gentle river! + + But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale + Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, + Which echoes here the mournful wail + Of sorrow from Edisto's waters, + Close while ye may the public ear, + With malice vex, with slander wound them, + The pure and good shall throng to hear, + And tried and manly hearts surround them. + + Oh, ever may the power which led + Their way to such a fiery trial, + And strengthened womanhood to tread + The wine-press of such self-denial, + Be round them in an evil land, + With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, + With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand, + And Deborah's song, for triumph given! + + And what are ye who strive with God + Against the ark of His salvation, + Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, + With blessings for a dying nation? + What, but the stubble and the hay + To perish, even as flax consuming, + With all that bars His glorious way, + Before the brightness of His coming? + + And thou, sad Angel, who so long + Hast waited for the glorious token, + That Earth from all her bonds of wrong + To liberty and light has broken,-- + + Angel of Freedom! soon to thee + The sounding trumpet shall be given, + And over Earth's full jubilee + Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven! + + 1837. + + + + +HYMN + + As children of Thy gracious care, + We veil the eye, we bend the knee, + With broken words of praise and prayer, + Father and God, we come to Thee. + + For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, + The sighing of the island slave; + And stretched for him the arm of might, + Not shortened that it could not save. + The laborer sits beneath his vine, + The shackled soul and hand are free; + Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine! + Praise! for the blessing is of Thee! + + And oh, we feel Thy presence here, + Thy awful arm in judgment bare! + Thine eye bath seen the bondman's tear; + Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer. + Praise! for the pride of man is low, + The counsels of the wise are naught, + The fountains of repentance flow; + What hath our God in mercy wrought? + + + + +HYMN + +Written for the celebration of the third anniversary of British +emancipation at the Broadway Tabernacle, New York, first of August, +1837. + + + O HOLY FATHER! just and true + Are all Thy works and words and ways, + And unto Thee alone are due + Thanksgiving and eternal praise! + + As children of Thy gracious care, + We veil the eye, we bend the knee, + With broken words of praise and prayer, + Father and God, we come to Thee. + + For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, + The sighing of the island slave; + And stretched for him the arm of might, + Not shortened that it could not save. + The laborer sits beneath his vine, + The shackled soul and hand are free; + Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine! + Praise! for the blessing is of Thee! + + And oh, we feel Thy presence here, + Thy awful arm in judgment bare! + Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear; + Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer. + Praise! for the pride of man is low, + The counsels of the wise are naught, + The fountains of repentance flow; + What hath our God in mercy wrought? + + Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts + And when the bondman's chain is riven, + And swells from all our guilty coasts + The anthem of the free to Heaven, + Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led, + As with Thy cloud and fire before, + But unto Thee, in fear and dread, + Be praise and glory evermore. + + + + +THE FAREWELL OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD + +INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE. + + GONE, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone. + Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, + Where the noisome insect stings, + Where the fever demon strews + Poison with the falling dews, + Where the sickly sunbeams glare + Through the hot and misty air; + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone. + There no mother's eye is near them, + There no mother's ear can hear them; + Never, when the torturing lash + Seams their back with many a gash, + Shall a mother's kindness bless them, + Or a mother's arms caress them. + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone. + Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, + From the fields at night they go, + Faint with toil, and racked with pain, + To their cheerless homes again, + There no brother's voice shall greet them; + There no father's welcome meet them. + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone. + From the tree whose shadow lay + On their childhood's place of play; + From the cool spring where they drank; + Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; + From the solemn house of prayer, + And the holy counsels there; + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone; + Toiling through the weary day, + And at night the spoiler's prey. + Oh, that they had earlier died, + Sleeping calmly, side by side, + Where the tyrant's power is o'er, + And the fetter galls no more + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone. + By the holy love He beareth; + By the bruised reed He spareth; + Oh, may He, to whom alone + All their cruel wrongs are known, + Still their hope and refuge prove, + With a more than mother's love. + Gone, gone,--sold and gone, + To the rice-swamp dank and lone, + From Virginia's hills and waters; + Woe is me, my stolen daughters! + + 1838. + + + + +PENNSYLVANIA HALL. + +Read at the dedication of Pennsylvania Hall, Philadelphia, May 15, 1838. +The building was erected by an association of gentlemen, irrespective of +sect or party, "that the citizens of Philadelphia should possess a room +wherein the principles of Liberty, and Equality of Civil Rights, could +be freely discussed, and the evils of slavery fearlessly portrayed." On +the evening of the 17th it was burned by a mob, destroying the office of +the Pennsylvania Freeman, of which I was editor, and with it my books +and papers. + + + NOT with the splendors of the days of old, + The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold; + No weapons wrested from the fields of blood, + Where dark and stern the unyielding Roman stood, + And the proud eagles of his cohorts saw + A world, war-wasted, crouching to his law; + + Nor blazoned car, nor banners floating gay, + Like those which swept along the Appian Way, + When, to the welcome of imperial Rome, + The victor warrior came in triumph home, + And trumpet peal, and shoutings wild and high, + Stirred the blue quiet of the Italian sky; + But calm and grateful, prayerful and sincere, + As Christian freemen only, gathering here, + We dedicate our fair and lofty Hall, + Pillar and arch, entablature and wall, + As Virtue's shrine, as Liberty's abode, + Sacred to Freedom, and to Freedom's God + Far statelier Halls, 'neath brighter skies than these, + Stood darkly mirrored in the AEgean seas, + Pillar and shrine, and life-like statues seen, + Graceful and pure, the marble shafts between; + Where glorious Athens from her rocky hill + Saw Art and Beauty subject to her will; + And the chaste temple, and the classic grove, + The hall of sages, and the bowers of love, + Arch, fane, and column, graced the shores, and gave + Their shadows to the blue Saronic wave; + And statelier rose, on Tiber's winding side, + The Pantheon's dome, the Coliseum's pride, + The Capitol, whose arches backward flung + The deep, clear cadence of the Roman tongue, + Whence stern decrees, like words of fate, went forth + To the awed nations of a conquered earth, + Where the proud Caesars in their glory came, + And Brutus lightened from his lips of flame! + Yet in the porches of Athena's halls, + And in the shadow of her stately walls, + Lurked the sad bondman, and his tears of woe + Wet the cold marble with unheeded flow; + And fetters clanked beneath the silver dome + Of the proud Pantheon of imperious Rome. + Oh, not for hint, the chained and stricken slave, + By Tiber's shore, or blue AEgina's wave, + In the thronged forum, or the sages' seat, + The bold lip pleaded, and the warm heart beat; + No soul of sorrow melted at his pain, + No tear of pity rusted on his chain! + + But this fair Hall to Truth and Freedom given, + Pledged to the Right before all Earth and Heaven, + A free arena for the strife of mind, + To caste, or sect, or color unconfined, + Shall thrill with echoes such as ne'er of old + From Roman hall or Grecian temple rolled; + Thoughts shall find utterance such as never yet + The Propylea or the Forum met. + Beneath its roof no gladiator's strife + Shall win applauses with the waste of life; + No lordly lictor urge the barbarous game, + No wanton Lais glory in her shame. + But here the tear of sympathy shall flow, + As the ear listens to the tale of woe; + Here in stern judgment of the oppressor's wrong + Shall strong rebukings thrill on Freedom's tongue, + No partial justice hold th' unequal scale, + No pride of caste a brother's rights assail, + No tyrant's mandates echo from this wall, + Holy to Freedom and the Rights of All! + But a fair field, where mind may close with mind, + Free as the sunshine and the chainless wind; + Where the high trust is fixed on Truth alone, + And bonds and fetters from the soul are thrown; + Where wealth, and rank, and worldly pomp, and might, + Yield to the presence of the True and Right. + + And fitting is it that this Hall should stand + Where Pennsylvania's Founder led his band, + From thy blue waters, Delaware!--to press + The virgin verdure of the wilderness. + Here, where all Europe with amazement saw + The soul's high freedom trammelled by no law; + Here, where the fierce and warlike forest-men + Gathered, in peace, around the home of Penn, + Awed by the weapons Love alone had given + Drawn from the holy armory of Heaven; + Where Nature's voice against the bondman's wrong + First found an earnest and indignant tongue; + Where Lay's bold message to the proud was borne; + And Keith's rebuke, and Franklin's manly scorn! + Fitting it is that here, where Freedom first + From her fair feet shook off the Old World's dust, + Spread her white pinions to our Western blast, + And her free tresses to our sunshine cast, + One Hall should rise redeemed from Slavery's ban, + One Temple sacred to the Rights of Man! + + Oh! if the spirits of the parted come, + Visiting angels, to their olden home + If the dead fathers of the land look forth + From their fair dwellings, to the things of earth, + Is it a dream, that with their eyes of love, + They gaze now on us from the bowers above? + Lay's ardent soul, and Benezet the mild, + Steadfast in faith, yet gentle as a child, + Meek-hearted Woolman, and that brother-band, + The sorrowing exiles from their "Father land," + Leaving their homes in Krieshiem's bowers of vine, + And the blue beauty of their glorious Rhine, + To seek amidst our solemn depths of wood + Freedom from man, and holy peace with God; + Who first of all their testimonial gave + Against the oppressor, for the outcast slave, + Is it a dream that such as these look down, + And with their blessing our rejoicings crown? + Let us rejoice, that while the pulpit's door + Is barred against the pleaders for the poor; + While the Church, wrangling upon points of faith, + Forgets her bondmen suffering unto death; + While crafty Traffic and the lust of Gain + Unite to forge Oppression's triple chain, + One door is open, and one Temple free, + As a resting-place for hunted Liberty! + Where men may speak, unshackled and unawed, + High words of Truth, for Freedom and for God. + And when that truth its perfect work hath done, + And rich with blessings o'er our land hath gone; + When not a slave beneath his yoke shall pine, + From broad Potomac to the far Sabine + When unto angel lips at last is given + The silver trump of Jubilee in Heaven; + And from Virginia's plains, Kentucky's shades, + And through the dim Floridian everglades, + Rises, to meet that angel-trumpet's sound, + The voice of millions from their chains unbound; + Then, though this Hall be crumbling in decay, + Its strong walls blending with the common clay, + Yet, round the ruins of its strength shall stand + The best and noblest of a ransomed land-- + Pilgrims, like these who throng around the shrine + Of Mecca, or of holy Palestine! + A prouder glory shall that ruin own + Than that which lingers round the Parthenon. + Here shall the child of after years be taught + The works of Freedom which his fathers wrought; + Told of the trials of the present hour, + Our weary strife with prejudice and power; + How the high errand quickened woman's soul, + And touched her lip as with a living coal; + How Freedom's martyrs kept their lofty faith + True and unwavering, unto bonds and death; + The pencil's art shall sketch the ruined Hall, + The Muses' garland crown its aged wall, + And History's pen for after times record + Its consecration unto Freedom's God! + + + + +THE NEW YEAR. + +Addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman. + + THE wave is breaking on the shore, + The echo fading from the chime + Again the shadow moveth o'er + The dial-plate of time! + + O seer-seen Angel! waiting now + With weary feet on sea and shore, + Impatient for the last dread vow + That time shall be no more! + + Once more across thy sleepless eye + The semblance of a smile has passed: + The year departing leaves more nigh + Time's fearfullest and last. + + Oh, in that dying year hath been + The sum of all since time began; + The birth and death, the joy and pain, + Of Nature and of Man. + + Spring, with her change of sun and shower, + And streams released from Winter's chain, + And bursting bud, and opening flower, + And greenly growing grain; + + And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm, + And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, + And voices in her rising storm; + God speaking from His cloud! + + And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves, + And soft, warm days of golden light, + The glory of her forest leaves, + And harvest-moon at night; + + And Winter with her leafless grove, + And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, + The brilliance of her heaven above + And of her earth below; + + And man, in whom an angel's mind + With earth's low instincts finds abode, + The highest of the links which bind + Brute nature to her God; + + His infant eye bath seen the light, + His childhood's merriest laughter rung, + And active sports to manlier might + The nerves of boyhood strung! + + And quiet love, and passion's fires, + Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast, + And lofty aims and low desires + By turns disturbed his rest. + + The wailing of the newly-born + Has mingled with the funeral knell; + And o'er the dying's ear has gone + The merry marriage-bell. + + And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, + While Want, in many a humble shed, + Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, + The live-long night for bread. + + And worse than all, the human slave, + The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn! + Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, + His regal manhood gone! + + Oh, still, my country! o'er thy plains, + Blackened with slavery's blight and ban, + That human chattel drags his chains, + An uncreated man! + + And still, where'er to sun and breeze, + My country, is thy flag unrolled, + With scorn, the gazing stranger sees + A stain on every fold. + + Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down! + It gathers scorn from every eye, + And despots smile and good men frown + Whene'er it passes by. + + Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow + Above the slaver's loathsome jail; + Its folds are ruffling even now + His crimson flag of sale. + + Still round our country's proudest hall + The trade in human flesh is driven, + And at each careless hammer-fall + A human heart is riven. + + And this, too, sanctioned by the men + Vested with power to shield the right, + And throw each vile and robber den + Wide open to the light. + + Yet, shame upon them! there they sit, + Men of the North, subdued and still; + Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit + To work a master's will. + + Sold, bargained off for Southern votes, + A passive herd of Northern mules, + Just braying through their purchased throats + Whate'er their owner rules. + + And he, (2) the basest of the base, + The vilest of the vile, whose name, + Embalmed in infinite disgrace, + Is deathless in its shame! + + A tool, to bolt the people's door + Against the people clamoring there, + An ass, to trample on their floor + A people's right of prayer! + + Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, + Self-pilloried to the public view, + A mark for every passing blast + Of scorn to whistle through; + + There let him hang, and hear the boast + Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool,-- + A new Stylites on his post, + "Sacred to ridicule!" + + Look we at home! our noble hall, + To Freedom's holy purpose given, + Now rears its black and ruined wall, + Beneath the wintry heaven, + + Telling the story of its doom, + The fiendish mob, the prostrate law, + The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, + Our gazing thousands saw. + + Look to our State! the poor man's right + Torn from him: and the sons of those + Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight + Sprinkled the Jersey snows, + + Outlawed within the land of Penn, + That Slavery's guilty fears might cease, + And those whom God created men + Toil on as brutes in peace. + + Yet o'er the blackness of the storm + A bow of promise bends on high, + And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm, + Break through our clouded sky. + + East, West, and North, the shout is heard, + Of freemen rising for the right + Each valley hath its rallying word, + Each hill its signal light. + + O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray, + The strengthening light of freedom shines, + Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay, + And Vermont's snow-hung pines! + + From Hudson's frowning palisades + To Alleghany's laurelled crest, + O'er lakes and prairies, streams and glades, + It shines upon the West. + + Speed on the light to those who dwell + In Slavery's land of woe and sin, + And through the blackness of that bell, + Let Heaven's own light break in. + + So shall the Southern conscience quake + Before that light poured full and strong, + So shall the Southern heart awake + To all the bondman's wrong. + + And from that rich and sunny land + The song of grateful millions rise, + Like that of Israel's ransomed band + Beneath Arabia's skies: + + And all who now are bound beneath + Our banner's shade, our eagle's wing, + From Slavery's night of moral death + To light and life shall spring. + + Broken the bondman's chain, and gone + The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, + And unto both alike shall dawn + A New and Happy Year. + + 1839. + + + + +THE RELIC. + +Written on receiving a cane wrought from a fragment of the wood-work +of Pennsylvania Hall which the fire had spared. + + TOKEN of friendship true and tried, + From one whose fiery heart of youth + With mine has beaten, side by side, + For Liberty and Truth; + With honest pride the gift I take, + And prize it for the giver's sake. + + But not alone because it tells + Of generous hand and heart sincere; + Around that gift of friendship dwells + A memory doubly dear; + Earth's noblest aim, man's holiest thought, + With that memorial frail in wrought! + + Pure thoughts and sweet like flowers unfold, + And precious memories round it cling, + Even as the Prophet's rod of old + In beauty blossoming: + And buds of feeling, pure and good, + Spring from its cold unconscious wood. + + Relic of Freedom's shrine! a brand + Plucked from its burning! let it be + Dear as a jewel from the hand + Of a lost friend to me! + Flower of a perished garland left, + Of life and beauty unbereft! + + Oh, if the young enthusiast bears, + O'er weary waste and sea, the stone + Which crumbled from the Forum's stairs, + Or round the Parthenon; + Or olive-bough from some wild tree + Hung over old Thermopylae: + + If leaflets from some hero's tomb, + Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary; + Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom + On fields renowned in story; + Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest, + Or the gray rock by Druids blessed; + + Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing + Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, + Or Scotia's "rough bur thistle" blowing + On Bruce's Bannockburn; + Or Runnymede's wild English rose, + Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows! + + If it be true that things like these + To heart and eye bright visions bring, + Shall not far holier memories + To this memorial cling + Which needs no mellowing mist of time + To hide the crimson stains of crime! + + Wreck of a temple, unprofaned; + Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, + Lifting on high, with hands unstained, + Thanksgiving unto God; + Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading + For human hearts in bondage bleeding; + + Where, midst the sound of rushing feet + And curses on the night-air flung, + That pleading voice rose calm and sweet + From woman's earnest tongue; + And Riot turned his scowling glance, + Awed, from her tranquil countenance! + + That temple now in ruin lies! + The fire-stain on its shattered wall, + And open to the changing skies + Its black and roofless hall, + It stands before a nation's sight, + A gravestone over buried Right! + + But from that ruin, as of old, + The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying, + And from their ashes white and cold + Its timbers are replying! + A voice which slavery cannot kill + Speaks from the crumbling arches still! + + And even this relic from thy shrine, + O holy Freedom! Hath to me + A potent power, a voice and sign + To testify of thee; + And, grasping it, methinks I feel + A deeper faith, a stronger zeal. + + And not unlike that mystic rod, + Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave, + Which opened, in the strength of God, + A pathway for the slave, + It yet may point the bondman's way, + And turn the spoiler from his prey. + + 1839. + + + + +THE WORLD'S CONVENTION OF THE FRIENDS OF EMANCIPATION, + +HELD IN LONDON IN 1840. + +Joseph Sturge, the founder of the British and Foreign Anti-Slavery +Society, proposed the calling of a world's anti-slavery convention, and +the proposal was promptly seconded by the American Anti-Slavery Society. +The call was addressed to "friends of the slave of every nation and of +every clime." + + YES, let them gather! Summon forth + The pledged philanthropy of Earth. + From every land, whose hills have heard + The bugle blast of Freedom waking; + Or shrieking of her symbol-bird + From out his cloudy eyrie breaking + Where Justice hath one worshipper, + Or truth one altar built to her; + + Where'er a human eye is weeping + O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know; + Where'er a single heart is keeping + Its prayerful watch with human woe + Thence let them come, and greet each other, + And know in each a friend and brother! + + Yes, let them come! from each green vale + Where England's old baronial halls + Still bear upon their storied walls + The grim crusader's rusted mail, + Battered by Paynim spear and brand + On Malta's rock or Syria's sand! + And mouldering pennon-staves once set + Within the soil of Palestine, + By Jordan and Gennesaret; + Or, borne with England's battle line, + O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping, + Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, + With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, + A holier summons now is given + Than that gray hermit's voice of old, + Which unto all the winds of heaven + The banners of the Cross unrolled! + Not for the long-deserted shrine; + Not for the dull unconscious sod, + Which tells not by one lingering sign + That there the hope of Israel trod; + But for that truth, for which alone + In pilgrim eyes are sanctified + The garden moss, the mountain stone, + Whereon His holy sandals pressed,-- + The fountain which His lip hath blessed,-- + + Whate'er hath touched His garment's hem + At Bethany or Bethlehem, + Or Jordan's river-side. + For Freedom in the name of Him + Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor, + To break the chain from every limb, + The bolt from every prison door! + For these, o'er all the earth hath passed + An ever-deepening trumpet blast, + As if an angel's breath had lent + Its vigor to the instrument. + + And Wales, from Snowden's mountain wall, + Shall startle at that thrilling call, + As if she heard her bards again; + And Erin's "harp on Tara's wall" + Give out its ancient strain, + Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal,-- + The melody which Erin loves, + When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness + And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, + The hand of her O'Connell moves! + Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, + And mountain hold, and heathery bill, + Shall catch and echo back the note, + As if she heard upon the air + Once more her Cameronian's prayer + And song of Freedom float. + And cheering echoes shall reply + From each remote dependency, + Where Britain's mighty sway is known, + In tropic sea or frozen zone; + Where'er her sunset flag is furling, + Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling; + From Indian Bengal's groves of palm + And rosy fields and gales of balm, + Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled + Through regal Ava's gates of gold; + And from the lakes and ancient woods + And dim Canadian solitudes, + Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, + Queen of the North, Quebec looks down; + And from those bright and ransomed Isles + Where all unwonted Freedom smiles, + And the dark laborer still retains + The scar of slavery's broken chains! + + From the hoar Alps, which sentinel + The gateways of the land of Tell, + Where morning's keen and earliest glance + On Jura's rocky wall is thrown, + And from the olive bowers of France + And vine groves garlanding the Rhone,-- + "Friends of the Blacks," as true and tried + As those who stood by Oge's side, + And heard the Haytien's tale of wrong, + Shall gather at that summons strong; + Broglie, Passy, and he whose song + Breathed over Syria's holy sod, + And, in the paths which Jesus trod, + And murmured midst the hills which hem + Crownless and sad Jerusalem, + Hath echoes whereso'er the tone + Of Israel's prophet-lyre is known. + + Still let them come; from Quito's walls, + And from the Orinoco's tide, + From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, + From Santa Fe and Yucatan,-- + Men who by swart Guerrero's side + Proclaimed the deathless rights of man, + Broke every bond and fetter off, + And hailed in every sable serf + A free and brother Mexican! + Chiefs who across the Andes' chain + Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon, + And seen on Junin's fearful plain, + Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain + The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon! + And Hayti, from her mountain land, + Shall send the sons of those who hurled + Defiance from her blazing strand, + The war-gage from her Petion's hand, + Alone against a hostile world. + + Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, + Land of the dark and mystic Nile! + Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame + All tyrants of a Christian name, + When in the shade of Gizeh's pile, + Or, where, from Abyssinian hills + El Gerek's upper fountain fills, + Or where from Mountains of the Moon + El Abiad bears his watery boon, + Where'er thy lotus blossoms swim + Within their ancient hallowed waters; + Where'er is beard the Coptic hymn, + Or song of Nubia's sable daughters; + The curse of slavery and the crime, + Thy bequest from remotest time, + At thy dark Mehemet's decree + Forevermore shall pass from thee; + And chains forsake each captive's limb + Of all those tribes, whose hills around + Have echoed back the cymbal sound + And victor horn of Ibrahim. + + And thou whose glory and whose crime + To earth's remotest bound and clime, + In mingled tones of awe and scorn, + The echoes of a world have borne, + My country! glorious at thy birth, + A day-star flashing brightly forth, + The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn! + Oh, who could dream that saw thee then, + And watched thy rising from afar, + That vapors from oppression's fen + Would cloud the upward tending star? + Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard, + Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, + Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, + To mock thee with their welcoming, + Like Hades when her thrones were stirred + To greet the down-cast Star of Morning! + "Aha! and art thou fallen thus? + Art thou become as one of us?" + + Land of my fathers! there will stand, + Amidst that world-assembled band, + Those owning thy maternal claim + Unweakened by thy, crime and shame; + The sad reprovers of thy wrong; + The children thou hast spurned so long. + + Still with affection's fondest yearning + To their unnatural mother turning. + No traitors they! but tried and leal, + Whose own is but thy general weal, + Still blending with the patriot's zeal + The Christian's love for human kind, + To caste and climate unconfined. + + A holy gathering! peaceful all + No threat of war, no savage call + For vengeance on an erring brother! + But in their stead the godlike plan + To teach the brotherhood of man + To love and reverence one another, + As sharers of a common blood, + The children of a common God + Yet, even at its lightest word, + Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred: + Spain, watching from her Moro's keep + Her slave-ships traversing the deep, + And Rio, in her strength and pride, + Lifting, along her mountain-side, + Her snowy battlements and towers, + Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers, + With bitter hate and sullen fear + Its freedom-giving voice shall hear; + And where my country's flag is flowing, + On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing, + Above the Nation's council halls, + Where Freedom's praise is loud and long, + While close beneath the outward walls + The driver plies his reeking thong; + The hammer of the man-thief falls, + O'er hypocritic cheek and brow + The crimson flush of shame shall glow + And all who for their native land + Are pledging life and heart and hand, + Worn watchers o'er her changing weal, + Who fog her tarnished honor feel, + Through cottage door and council-hall + Shall thunder an awakening call. + The pen along its page shall burn + With all intolerable scorn; + An eloquent rebuke shall go + On all the winds that Southward blow; + From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb, + Warning and dread appeal shall come, + Like those which Israel heard from him, + The Prophet of the Cherubim; + Or those which sad Esaias hurled + Against a sin-accursed world! + Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling + Unceasing from its iron wing, + With characters inscribed thereon, + As fearful in the despot's ball + As to the pomp of Babylon + The fire-sign on the palace wall! + + And, from her dark iniquities, + Methinks I see my country rise + Not challenging the nations round + To note her tardy justice done; + Her captives from their chains unbound; + Her prisons opening to the sun + But tearfully her arms extending + Over the poor and unoffending; + Her regal emblem now no longer + + A bird of prey, with talons reeking, + Above the dying captive shrieking, + But, spreading out her ample wing, + A broad, impartial covering, + The weaker sheltered by the stronger + Oh, then to Faith's anointed eyes + The promised token shall be given; + And on a nation's sacrifice, + Atoning for the sin of years, + And wet with penitential tears, + The fire shall fall from Heaven! + + 1839. + + + + +MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. + +Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of +Norfolk, Va., in reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive +slave, who was seized in Boston without warrant at the request of James +B. Grey, of Norfolk, claiming to be his master. The case caused great +excitement North and South, and led to the presentation of a petition to +Congress, signed by more than fifty thousand citizens of Massachusetts, +calling for such laws and proposed amendments to the Constitution as +should relieve the Commonwealth from all further participation in the +crime of oppression. George Latimer himself was finally given free +papers for the sum of four hundred dollars. + + THE blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way, + Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay. + No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal, + Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel. + + No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go; + Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow; + And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far, + A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for war. + + We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high, + Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky; + Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor here, + No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear. + + Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank; + Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank; + Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout + are the hearts which man + The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of Cape Ann. + + The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms, + Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the storms; + Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they roam, + They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home. + + What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot the day + When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array? + How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts men + Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis, then? + + Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call + Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall? + When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on each breath + Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of "Liberty or Death!" + + What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved + False to their fathers' memory, false to the faith they loved; + If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter spurn, + Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty turn? + + We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell; + Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell; + We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' graves, + From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves! + + Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow; + The spirit of her early time is with her even now; + Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow and calm and cool, + She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool! + + All that a sister State should do, all that a free State may, + Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day; + But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone, + And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown! + + Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's free air + With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild despair; + Cling closer to the "cleaving curse" that writes upon your plains + The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains. + + Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old, + By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold; + Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market value, when + The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den! + + Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginia name; + Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of shame; + Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe; + We wash our hands forever of your sin and shame and curse. + + A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been, + Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men: + The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still + In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. + + And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey + Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray, + How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning spoke; + How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke! + + A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on high, + A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud reply; + Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling summons rang, + And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics sprang! + + The voice of free, broad Middlesex, of thousands as of one, + The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexington; + From Norfolk's ancient villages, from Plymouth's rocky bound + To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round; + + From rich and rural Worcester, where through the calm repose + Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua flows, + To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir, + Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of "God save Latimer!" + + And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray; + And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay + Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the thrill, + And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from Holyoke Hill. + + The voice of Massachusetts! Of her free sons and daughters, + Deep calling unto deep aloud, the sound of many waters! + Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power shall stand? + No fetters in the Bay State! No slave upon her land! + + Look to it well, Virginians! In calmness we have borne, + In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn; + You've spurned our kindest counsels; you've hunted for our lives; + And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves! + + We wage no war, we lift no arm, we fling no torch within + The fire-clamps of the quaking mine beneath your soil of sin; + We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while ye can, + With the strong upward tendencies and godlike soul of man! + + But for us and for our children, the vow which we have given + For freedom and humanity is registered in heaven; + No slave-hunt in our borders,--no pirate on our strand! + No fetters in the Bay State,--no slave upon our land! + + 1843. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. + +In a publication of L. F. Tasistro--Random Shots and Southern Breezes-- +is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the +auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as "A GOOD CHRISTIAN!" It +was not uncommon to see advertisements of slaves for sale, in which they +were described as pious or as members of the church. In one +advertisement a slave was noted as "a Baptist preacher." + + + A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! + Who bids for God's own image? for his grace, + Which that poor victim of the market-place + Hath in her suffering won? + + My God! can such things be? + Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done + Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one + Is even done to Thee? + + In that sad victim, then, + Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand; + Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, + Bound, sold, and scourged again! + + A Christian up for sale! + Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame, + Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, + Her patience shall not fail! + + A heathen hand might deal + Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years: + But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears, + Ye neither heed nor feel. + + Con well thy lesson o'er, + Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave + No dangerous tale of Him who came to save + The outcast and the poor. + + But wisely shut the ray + Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart, + And to her darkened mind alone impart + One stern command, Obey! (3) + + So shalt thou deftly raise + The market price of human flesh; and while + On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile, + Thy church shall praise. + + Grave, reverend men shall tell + From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest, + While in that vile South Sodom first and best, + Thy poor disciples sell. + + Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall, + Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, + While turning to the sacred Kebla feels + His fetters break and fall. + + Cheers for the turbaned Bey + Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn + The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne + Their inmates into day: + + But our poor slave in vain + Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes; + Its rites will only swell his market price, + And rivet on his chain. + + God of all right! how long + Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand, + Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand + And haughty brow of wrong? + + 1843 + + + + +THE SENTENCE OF JOHN L. BROWN + + Oh, from the fields of cane, + From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell; + From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell, + And coffle's weary chain; + Hoarse, horrible, and strong, + Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, + Filling the arches of the hollow sky, + How long, O God, how long? + + + + +THE SENTENCE OF JOHN L. BROWN. + +John L. Brown, a young white man of South Carolina, was in 1844 +sentenced to death for aiding a young slave woman, whom he loved and had +married, to escape from slavery. In pronouncing the sentence Judge +O'Neale addressed to the prisoner these words of appalling blasphemy: + +You are to die! To die an ignominious death--the death on the gallows! +This announcement is, to you, I know, most appalling. Little did you +dream of it when you stepped into the bar with an air as if you thought +it was a fine frolic. But the consequences of crime are just such as you +are realizing. Punishment often comes when it is least expected. Let me +entreat you to take the present opportunity to commence the work of +reformation. Time will be furnished you to prepare for the great change +just before you. Of your past life I know nothing, except what your +trial furnished. That told me that the crime for which you are to suffer +was the consequence of a want of attention on your part to the duties of +life. The strange woman snared you. She flattered you with her word; +and you became her victim. The consequence was, that, led on by a desire +to serve her, you committed the offence of aid in a slave to run away +and depart from her master's service; and now, for it you are to die! +You are a young man, and I fear you have been dissolute; and if so, +these kindred vices have contributed a full measure to your ruin. +Reflect on your past life, and make the only useful devotion of the +remnant of your days in preparing for death. Remember now thy Creator in +the days of thy youth is the language of inspired wisdom. This comes +home appropriately to you in this trying moment. You are young; quite +too young to be where you are. If you had remembered your Creator in +your past days, you would not now be in a felon's place, to receive a +felon's judgment. Still, it is not too late to remember your Creator. He +calls early, and He calls late. He stretches out the arms of a Father's +love to you--to the vilest sinner--and says: "Come unto me and be +saved." You can perhaps read. If so, read the Scriptures; read them +without note, and without comment; and pray to God for His assistance; +and you will be able to say when you pass from prison to execution, as a +poor slave said under similar circumstances: "I am glad my Friday has +come." If you cannot read the Scriptures, the ministers of our holy +religion will be ready to aid you. They will read and explain to you +until you will be able to understand; and understanding, to call upon +the only One who can help you and save you--Jesus Christ, the Lamb of +God, who taketh away the sin of the world. To Him I commend you. And +through Him may you have that opening of the Day-Spring of mercy from +on high, which shall bless you here, and crown you as a saint in an +everlasting world, forever and ever. The sentence of the law is that you +be taken hence to the place from whence you came last; thence to the +jail of Fairfield District; and that there you be closely and securely +confined until Friday, the 26th day of April next; on which day, between +the hours of ten in the forenoon and two in the afternoon, you will be +taken to the place of public execution, and there be hanged by the neck +till your body be dead. And may God have mercy on your soul! + +No event in the history of the anti-slavery struggle so stirred the two +hemispheres as did this dreadful sentence. A cry of horror was heard +from Europe. In the British House of Lords, Brougham and Denman spoke of +it with mingled pathos and indignation. Thirteen hundred clergymen and +church officers in Great Britain addressed a memorial to the churches of +South Carolina against the atrocity. Indeed, so strong was the pressure +of the sentiment of abhorrence and disgust that South Carolina yielded +to it, and the sentence was commuted to scourging and banishment. + + Ho! thou who seekest late and long + A License from the Holy Book + For brutal lust and fiendish wrong, + Man of the Pulpit, look! + Lift up those cold and atheist eyes, + This ripe fruit of thy teaching see; + And tell us how to heaven will rise + The incense of this sacrifice-- + This blossom of the gallows tree! + + Search out for slavery's hour of need + Some fitting text of sacred writ; + Give heaven the credit of a deed + Which shames the nether pit. + Kneel, smooth blasphemer, unto Him + Whose truth is on thy lips a lie; + Ask that His bright winged cherubim + May bend around that scaffold grim + To guard and bless and sanctify. + + O champion of the people's cause + Suspend thy loud and vain rebuke + Of foreign wrong and Old World's laws, + Man of the Senate, look! + Was this the promise of the free, + The great hope of our early time, + That slavery's poison vine should be + Upborne by Freedom's prayer-nursed tree + O'erclustered with such fruits of crime? + + Send out the summons East and West, + And South and North, let all be there + Where he who pitied the oppressed + Swings out in sun and air. + Let not a Democratic hand + The grisly hangman's task refuse; + There let each loyal patriot stand, + Awaiting slavery's command, + To twist the rope and draw the noose! + + But vain is irony--unmeet + Its cold rebuke for deeds which start + In fiery and indignant beat + The pulses of the heart. + Leave studied wit and guarded phrase + For those who think but do not feel; + Let men speak out in words which raise + Where'er they fall, an answering blaze + Like flints which strike the fire from steel. + + Still let a mousing priesthood ply + Their garbled text and gloss of sin, + And make the lettered scroll deny + Its living soul within: + Still let the place-fed, titled knave + Plead robbery's right with purchased lips, + And tell us that our fathers gave + For Freedom's pedestal, a slave, + The frieze and moulding, chains and whips! + + But ye who own that Higher Law + Whose tablets in the heart are set, + Speak out in words of power and awe + That God is living yet! + Breathe forth once more those tones sublime + Which thrilled the burdened prophet's lyre, + And in a dark and evil time + Smote down on Israel's fast of crime + And gift of blood, a rain of fire! + + Oh, not for us the graceful lay + To whose soft measures lightly move + The footsteps of the faun and fay, + O'er-locked by mirth and love! + But such a stern and startling strain + As Britain's hunted bards flung down + From Snowden to the conquered plain, + Where harshly clanked the Saxon chain, + On trampled field and smoking town. + + By Liberty's dishonored name, + By man's lost hope and failing trust, + By words and deeds which bow with shame + Our foreheads to the dust, + By the exulting strangers' sneer, + Borne to us from the Old World's thrones, + And by their victims' grief who hear, + In sunless mines and dungeons drear, + How Freedom's land her faith disowns! + + Speak out in acts. The time for words + Has passed, and deeds suffice alone; + In vain against the clang of swords + The wailing pipe is blown! + Act, act in God's name, while ye may! + Smite from the church her leprous limb! + Throw open to the light of day + The bondman's cell, and break away + The chains the state has bound on him! + + Ho! every true and living soul, + To Freedom's perilled altar bear + The Freeman's and the Christian's whole + Tongue, pen, and vote, and prayer! + One last, great battle for the right-- + One short, sharp struggle to be free! + To do is to succeed--our fight + Is waged in Heaven's approving sight; + The smile of God is Victory. + + 1844. + + + + +TEXAS + +VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. + +The five poems immediately following indicate the intense feeling of the +friends of freedom in view of the annexation of Texas, with its vast +territory sufficient, as was boasted, for six new slave States. + + Up the hillside, down the glen, + Rouse the sleeping citizen; + Summon out the might of men! + + Like a lion growling low, + Like a night-storm rising slow, + Like the tread of unseen foe; + + It is coming, it is nigh! + Stand your homes and altars by; + On your own free thresholds die. + + Clang the bells in all your spires; + On the gray hills of your sires + Fling to heaven your signal-fires. + + From Wachuset, lone and bleak, + Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, + Let the flame-tongued heralds speak. + + Oh, for God and duty stand, + Heart to heart and hand to hand, + Round the old graves of the land. + + Whoso shrinks or falters now, + Whoso to the yoke would bow, + Brand the craven on his brow! + + Freedom's soil hath only place + For a free and fearless race, + None for traitors false and base. + + Perish party, perish clan; + Strike together while ye can, + Like the arm of one strong man. + + Like that angel's voice sublime, + Heard above a world of crime, + Crying of the end of time; + + With one heart and with one mouth, + Let the North unto the South + Speak the word befitting both. + + "What though Issachar be strong + Ye may load his back with wrong + Overmuch and over long: + + "Patience with her cup o'errun, + With her weary thread outspun, + Murmurs that her work is done. + + "Make our Union-bond a chain, + Weak as tow in Freedom's strain + Link by link shall snap in twain. + + "Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope + Bind the starry cluster up, + Shattered over heaven's blue cope! + + "Give us bright though broken rays, + Rather than eternal haze, + Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze. + + "Take your land of sun and bloom; + Only leave to Freedom room + For her plough, and forge, and loom; + + "Take your slavery-blackened vales; + Leave us but our own free gales, + Blowing on our thousand sails. + + "Boldly, or with treacherous art, + Strike the blood-wrought chain apart; + Break the Union's mighty heart; + + "Work the ruin, if ye will; + Pluck upon your heads an ill + Which shall grow and deepen still. + + "With your bondman's right arm bare, + With his heart of black despair, + Stand alone, if stand ye dare! + + "Onward with your fell design; + Dig the gulf and draw the line + Fire beneath your feet the mine! + + "Deeply, when the wide abyss + Yawns between your land and this, + Shall ye feel your helplessness. + + "By the hearth, and in the bed, + Shaken by a look or tread, + Ye shall own a guilty dread. + + "And the curse of unpaid toil, + Downward through your generous soil + Like a fire shall burn and spoil. + + "Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, + Vines our rocks shall overgrow, + Plenty in our valleys flow;-- + + "And when vengeance clouds your skies, + Hither shall ye turn your eyes, + As the lost on Paradise! + + "We but ask our rocky strand, + Freedom's true and brother band, + Freedom's strong and honest hand; + + "Valleys by the slave untrod, + And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, + Blessed of our fathers' God!" + + 1844. + + + + +TO FANEUIL HALL. + +Written in 1844, on reading a call by "a Massachusetts Freeman" for a +meeting in Faneuil Hall of the citizens of Massachusetts, without +distinction of party, opposed to the annexation of Texas, and the +aggressions of South Carolina, and in favor of decisive action against +slavery. + + MEN! if manhood still ye claim, + If the Northern pulse can thrill, + Roused by wrong or stung by shame, + Freely, strongly still; + Let the sounds of traffic die + Shut the mill-gate, leave the stall, + Fling the axe and hammer by; + Throng to Faneuil Hall! + + Wrongs which freemen never brooked, + Dangers grim and fierce as they, + Which, like couching lions, looked + On your fathers' way; + These your instant zeal demand, + Shaking with their earthquake-call + Every rood of Pilgrim land, + Ho, to Faneuil Hall! + + From your capes and sandy bars, + From your mountain-ridges cold, + Through whose pines the westering stars + Stoop their crowns of gold; + Come, and with your footsteps wake + Echoes from that holy wall; + Once again, for Freedom's sake, + Rock your fathers' hall! + + Up, and tread beneath your feet + Every cord by party spun: + Let your hearts together beat + As the heart of one. + Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade, + Let them rise or let them fall: + Freedom asks your common aid,-- + Up, to Faneuil Hall! + + Up, and let each voice that speaks + Ring from thence to Southern plains, + Sharply as the blow which breaks + Prison-bolts and chains! + Speak as well becomes the free + Dreaded more than steel or ball, + Shall your calmest utterance be, + Heard from Faneuil Hall! + + Have they wronged us? Let us then + Render back nor threats nor prayers; + Have they chained our free-born men? + Let us unchain theirs! + Up, your banner leads the van, + Blazoned, "Liberty for all!" + + Finish what your sires began! + Up, to Faneuil Hall! + + + + +TO MASSACHUSETTS. + + WHAT though around thee blazes + No fiery rallying sign? + From all thy own high places, + Give heaven the light of thine! + What though unthrilled, unmoving, + The statesman stand apart, + And comes no warm approving + From Mammon's crowded mart? + + Still, let the land be shaken + By a summons of thine own! + By all save truth forsaken, + Stand fast with that alone! + Shrink not from strife unequal! + With the best is always hope; + And ever in the sequel + God holds the right side up! + + But when, with thine uniting, + Come voices long and loud, + And far-off hills are writing + Thy fire-words on the cloud; + When from Penobscot's fountains + A deep response is heard, + And across the Western mountains + Rolls back thy rallying word; + + Shall thy line of battle falter, + With its allies just in view? + Oh, by hearth and holy altar, + My fatherland, be true! + Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom + Speed them onward far and fast + Over hill and valley speed them, + Like the sibyl's on the blast! + + Lo! the Empire State is shaking + The shackles from her hand; + With the rugged North is waking + The level sunset land! + On they come, the free battalions + East and West and North they come, + And the heart-beat of the millions + Is the beat of Freedom's drum. + + "To the tyrant's plot no favor + No heed to place-fed knaves! + Bar and bolt the door forever + Against the land of slaves!" + Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it, + The heavens above us spread! + The land is roused,--its spirit + Was sleeping, but not dead! + + 1844. + + + + +NEW HAMPSHIRE. + + GOD bless New Hampshire! from her granite peaks + Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks. + The long-bound vassal of the exulting South + For very shame her self-forged chain has broken; + Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth, + And in the clear tones of her old time spoken! + Oh, all undreamed-of, all unhoped-for changes + The tyrant's ally proves his sternest foe; + To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, + New Hampshire thunders an indignant No! + Who is it now despairs? Oh, faint of heart, + Look upward to those Northern mountains cold, + Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag unrolled, + And gather strength to bear a manlier part + All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing + Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight; + Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing, + Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right + Courage, then, Northern hearts! Be firm, be true: + What one brave State hath done, can ye not also do? + + 1845. + + + + +THE PINE-TREE. + +Written on hearing that the Anti-Slavery Resolves of Stephen C. Phillips +had been rejected by the Whig Convention in Faneuil Hall, in 1846. + + LIFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State's + rusted shield, + Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's + tattered field. + Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles + round the board, + Answering England's royal missive with a firm, + "Thus saith the Lord!" + Rise again for home and freedom! set the battle + in array! + What the fathers did of old time we their sons + must do to-day. + + Tell us not of banks and tariffs, cease your paltry + pedler cries; + Shall the good State sink her honor that your + gambling stocks may rise? + Would ye barter man for cotton? That your + gains may sum up higher, + Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children + through the fire? + Is the dollar only real? God and truth and right + a dream? + Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood + kick the beam? + + O my God! for that free spirit, which of old in + Boston town + Smote the Province House with terror, struck the + crest of Andros down! + For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's + streets to cry, + "Up for God and Massachusetts! Set your feet + on Mammon's lie! + Perish banks and perish traffic, spin your cotton's + latest pound, + But in Heaven's name keep your honor, keep the + heart o' the Bay State sound!" + Where's the man for Massachusetts! Where's + the voice to speak her free? + Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her + mountains to the sea? + Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer? Sits she dumb + in her despair? + Has she none to break the silence? Has she none + to do and dare? + O my God! for one right worthy to lift up her + rusted shield, + And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's + tattered field + + 1840. + + + + +TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. + +John C. Calhoun, who had strongly urged the extension of slave territory +by the annexation of Texas, even if it should involve a war with +England, was unwilling to promote the acquisition of Oregon, which would +enlarge the Northern domain of freedom, and pleaded as an excuse the +peril of foreign complications which he had defied when the interests +of slavery were involved. + + Is this thy voice whose treble notes of fear + Wail in the wind? And dost thou shake to hear, + Actieon-like, the bay of thine own hounds, + Spurning the leash, and leaping o'er their bounds? + Sore-baffled statesman! when thy eager hand, + With game afoot, unslipped the hungry pack, + To hunt down Freedom in her chosen land, + Hadst thou no fear, that, erelong, doubling back, + These dogs of thine might snuff on Slavery's track? + Where's now the boast, which even thy guarded tongue, + Cold, calm, and proud, in the teeth o' the Senate flung, + + O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan, + Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man? + How stood'st thou then, thy feet on Freedom planting, + And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, + Whence all could see, through the south windows slanting, + Crimson as blood, the beams of that Lone Star! + The Fates are just; they give us but our own; + Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown. + There is an Eastern story, not unknown, + Doubtless, to thee, of one whose magic skill + Called demons up his water-jars to fill; + Deftly and silently, they did his will, + But, when the task was done, kept pouring still. + In vain with spell and charm the wizard wrought, + Faster and faster were the buckets brought, + Higher and higher rose the flood around, + Till the fiends clapped their hands above their master drowned + So, Carolinian, it may prove with thee, + For God still overrules man's schemes, and takes + Craftiness in its self-set snare, and makes + The wrath of man to praise Him. It may be, + That the roused spirits of Democracy + May leave to freer States the same wide door + Through which thy slave-cursed Texas entered in, + From out the blood and fire, the wrong and sin, + Of the stormed-city and the ghastly plain, + Beat by hot hail, and wet with bloody rain, + The myriad-handed pioneer may pour, + And the wild West with the roused North combine + And heave the engineer of evil with his mine. + + 1846. + + + + +AT WASHINGTON. + +Suggested by a visit to the city of Washington, in the 12th month of +1845. + + WITH a cold and wintry noon-light + On its roofs and steeples shed, + Shadows weaving with the sunlight + From the gray sky overhead, + Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built + town outspread. + + Through this broad street, restless ever, + Ebbs and flows a human tide, + Wave on wave a living river; + Wealth and fashion side by side; + Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick + current glide. + + Underneath yon dome, whose coping + Springs above them, vast and tall, + Grave men in the dust are groping + For the largess, base and small, + Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs + which from its table fall. + + Base of heart! They vilely barter + Honor's wealth for party's place; + Step by step on Freedom's charter + Leaving footprints of disgrace; + For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great + hope of their race. + + Yet, where festal lamps are throwing + Glory round the dancer's hair, + Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing + Backward on the sunset air; + And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure + sweet and rare. + + There to-night shall woman's glances, + Star-like, welcome give to them; + Fawning fools with shy advances + Seek to touch their garments' hem, + With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which + God and Truth condemn. + + From this glittering lie my vision + Takes a broader, sadder range, + Full before me have arisen + Other pictures dark and strange; + From the parlor to the prison must the scene and + witness change. + + Hark! the heavy gate is swinging + On its hinges, harsh and slow; + One pale prison lamp is flinging + On a fearful group below + Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does + not show. + + Pitying God! Is that a woman + On whose wrist the shackles clash? + Is that shriek she utters human, + Underneath the stinging lash? + Are they men whose eyes of madness from that sad + procession flash? + + Still the dance goes gayly onward + What is it to Wealth and Pride + That without the stars are looking + On a scene which earth should hide? + That the slave-ship lies in waiting, rocking + on Potomac's tide! + + Vainly to that mean Ambition + Which, upon a rival's fall, + Winds above its old condition, + With a reptile's slimy crawl, + Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave + in anguish call. + + Vainly to the child of Fashion, + Giving to ideal woe + Graceful luxury of compassion, + Shall the stricken mourner go; + Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the + hollow show! + + Nay, my words are all too sweeping: + In this crowded human mart, + Feeling is not dead, but sleeping; + Man's strong will and woman's heart, + In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear + their generous part. + + And from yonder sunny valleys, + Southward in the distance lost, + Freedom yet shall summon allies + Worthier than the North can boast, + With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at + severer cost. + + Now, the soul alone is willing + Faint the heart and weak the knee; + And as yet no lip is thrilling + With the mighty words, "Be Free!" + Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his + advent is to be! + + Meanwhile, turning from the revel + To the prison-cell my sight, + For intenser hate of evil, + For a keener sense of right, + Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the + Slaves, to-night! + + "To thy duty now and ever! + Dream no more of rest or stay + Give to Freedom's great endeavor + All thou art and hast to-day:" + Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or + seems to say. + + Ye with heart and vision gifted + To discern and love the right, + + Whose worn faces have been lifted + To the slowly-growing light, + Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly + back the murk of night + + Ye who through long years of trial + Still have held your purpose fast, + While a lengthening shade the dial + from the westering sunshine cast, + And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of + the last! + + O my brothers! O my sisters + Would to God that ye were near, + Gazing with me down the vistas + Of a sorrow strange and drear; + Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice + I seem to hear! + + With the storm above us driving, + With the false earth mined below, + Who shall marvel if thus striving + We have counted friend as foe; + Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for + blow. + + Well it may be that our natures + Have grown sterner and more hard, + And the freshness of their features + Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, + And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and + rudely jarred. + + Be it so. It should not swerve us + From a purpose true and brave; + Dearer Freedom's rugged service + Than the pastime of the slave; + Better is the storm above it than the quiet of + the grave. + + Let us then, uniting, bury + All our idle feuds in dust, + And to future conflicts carry + Mutual faith and common trust; + Always he who most forgiveth in his brother is + most just. + + From the eternal shadow rounding + All our sun and starlight here, + Voices of our lost ones sounding + Bid us be of heart and cheer, + Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on + the inward ear. + + Know we not our dead are looking + Downward with a sad surprise, + All our strife of words rebuking + With their mild and loving eyes? + Shall we grieve the holy angels? Shall we cloud + their blessed skies? + + Let us draw their mantles o'er us + Which have fallen in our way; + Let us do the work before us, + Cheerly, bravely, while we may, + Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is + not day! + + + + +THE BRANDED HAND. + +Captain Jonathan Walker, of Harwich, Mass., was solicited by several +fugitive slaves at Pensacola, Florida, to carry them in his vessel to +the British West Indies. Although well aware of the great hazard of the +enterprise he attempted to comply with the request, but was seized at +sea by an American vessel, consigned to the authorities at Key West, and +thence sent back to Pensacola, where, after a long and rigorous +confinement in prison, he was tried and sentenced to be branded on his +right hand with the letters "S.S." (slave-stealer) and amerced in a +heavy fine. + + WELCOME home again, brave seaman! with thy + thoughtful brow and gray, + And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day; + With that front of calm endurance, on whose + steady nerve in vain + Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery + shafts of pain. + + Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal + cravens aim + To make God's truth thy falsehood, His holiest + work thy shame? + When, all blood-quenched, from the torture the + iron was withdrawn, + How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to + scorn! + + They change to wrong the duty which God hath + written out + On the great heart of humanity, too legible for + doubt! + They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from + footsole up to crown, + Give to shame what God hath given unto honor + and renown! + + Why, that brand is highest honor! than its traces + never yet + Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon + set; + And thy unborn generations, as they tread our + rocky strand, + Shall tell with pride the story of their father's + branded hand! + + As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back- + from Syrian wars + The scars of Arab lances and of Paynim scimitars, + The pallor of the prison, and the shackle's crimson span, + So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of + God and man. + + He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave, + Thou for His living presence in the bound and + bleeding slave; + He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, + Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of God. + + For, while the jurist, sitting with the slave-whip + o'er him swung, + From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of + slavery wrung, + And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God- + deserted shrine, + Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the + bondman's blood for wine; + + While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour + knelt, + And spurned, the while, the temple where a present + Saviour dwelt; + Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison + shadows dim, + And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto Him! + + In thy lone and long night-watches, sky above and + wave below, + Thou didst learn a higher wisdom than the babbling + schoolmen know; + God's stars and silence taught thee, as His angels + only can, + That the one sole sacred thing beneath the cope of + heaven is Man! + + That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law + and creed, + In the depth of God's great goodness may find + mercy in his need; + But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain + and rod, + And herds with lower natures the awful form of God! + + Then lift that manly right-hand, bold ploughman + of the wave! + Its branded palm shall prophesy, "Salvation to + the Slave!" + Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso + reads may feel + His heart swell strong within him, his sinews + change to steel. + + Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our + Northern air; + Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God, + look there! + Take it henceforth for your standard, like the + Bruce's heart of yore, + In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand + be seen before! + + And the masters of the slave-land shall tremble at + that sign, + When it points its finger Southward along the + Puritan line + Can the craft of State avail them? Can a Christless + church withstand, + In the van of Freedom's onset, the coming of that + band? + + 1846. + + + + +THE FREED ISLANDS. + +Written for the anniversary celebration of the first of August, +at Milton, 7846. + + A FEW brief years have passed away + Since Britain drove her million slaves + Beneath the tropic's fiery ray + God willed their freedom; and to-day + Life blooms above those island graves! + + He spoke! across the Carib Sea, + We heard the clash of breaking chains, + And felt the heart-throb of the free, + The first, strong pulse of liberty + Which thrilled along the bondman's veins. + + Though long delayed, and far, and slow, + The Briton's triumph shall be ours + Wears slavery here a prouder brow + Than that which twelve short years ago + Scowled darkly from her island bowers? + + Mighty alike for good or ill + With mother-land, we fully share + The Saxon strength, the nerve of steel, + The tireless energy of will, + The power to do, the pride to dare. + + What she has done can we not do? + Our hour and men are both at hand; + The blast which Freedom's angel blew + O'er her green islands, echoes through + Each valley of our forest land. + + Hear it, old Europe! we have sworn + The death of slavery. When it falls, + Look to your vassals in their turn, + Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, + Your prisons and your palace walls! + + O kingly mockers! scoffing show + What deeds in Freedom's name we do; + Yet know that every taunt ye throw + Across the waters, goads our slow + Progression towards the right and true. + + Not always shall your outraged poor, + Appalled by democratic crime, + Grind as their fathers ground before; + The hour which sees our prison door + Swing wide shall be their triumph time. + + On then, my brothers! every blow + Ye deal is felt the wide earth through; + Whatever here uplifts the low + Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe, + Blesses the Old World through the New. + + Take heart! The promised hour draws near; + I hear the downward beat of wings, + And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear + "Joy to the people! woe and fear + To new-world tyrants, old-world kings!" + + + + +A LETTER. + +Supposed to be written by the chairman of the "Central Clique" at +Concord, N. H., to the Hon. M. N., Jr., at Washington, giving the result +of the election. The following verses were published in the Boston +Chronotype in 1846. They refer to the contest in New Hampshire, which +resulted in the defeat of the pro-slavery Democracy, and in the election +of John P. Hale to the United States Senate. Although their authorship +was not acknowledged, it was strongly suspected. They furnish a specimen +of the way, on the whole rather good-natured, in which the +liberty-lovers of half a century ago answered the social and political +outlawry and mob violence to which they were subjected. + + 'T is over, Moses! All is lost + I hear the bells a-ringing; + Of Pharaoh and his Red Sea host + I hear the Free-Wills singing (4) + We're routed, Moses, horse and foot, + If there be truth in figures, + With Federal Whigs in hot pursuit, + And Hale, and all the "niggers." + + Alack! alas! this month or more + We've felt a sad foreboding; + Our very dreams the burden bore + Of central cliques exploding; + Before our eyes a furnace shone, + Where heads of dough were roasting, + And one we took to be your own + The traitor Hale was toasting! + + Our Belknap brother (5) heard with awe + The Congo minstrels playing; + At Pittsfield Reuben Leavitt (6) saw + The ghost of Storrs a-praying; + And Calroll's woods were sad to see, + With black-winged crows a-darting; + And Black Snout looked on Ossipee, + New-glossed with Day and Martin. + + We thought the "Old Man of the Notch" + His face seemed changing wholly-- + His lips seemed thick; his nose seemed flat; + His misty hair looked woolly; + And Coos teamsters, shrieking, fled + From the metamorphosed figure. + "Look there!" they said, "the Old Stone Head + Himself is turning nigger!" + + The schoolhouse, out of Canaan hauled + Seemed turning on its track again, + And like a great swamp-turtle crawled + To Canaan village back again, + Shook off the mud and settled flat + Upon its underpinning; + A nigger on its ridge-pole sat, + From ear to ear a-grinning. + + Gray H----d heard o' nights the sound + Of rail-cars onward faring; + Right over Democratic ground + The iron horse came tearing. + A flag waved o'er that spectral train, + As high as Pittsfield steeple; + Its emblem was a broken chain; + Its motto: "To the people!" + + I dreamed that Charley took his bed, + With Hale for his physician; + His daily dose an old "unread + And unreferred" petition. (8) + There Hayes and Tuck as nurses sat, + As near as near could be, man; + They leeched him with the "Democrat;" + They blistered with the "Freeman." + + Ah! grisly portents! What avail + Your terrors of forewarning? + We wake to find the nightmare Hale + Astride our breasts at morning! + From Portsmouth lights to Indian stream + Our foes their throats are trying; + The very factory-spindles seem + To mock us while they're flying. + + The hills have bonfires; in our streets + Flags flout us in our faces; + The newsboys, peddling off their sheets, + Are hoarse with our disgraces. + In vain we turn, for gibing wit + And shoutings follow after, + As if old Kearsarge had split + His granite sides with laughter. + + What boots it that we pelted out + The anti-slavery women, (9) + And bravely strewed their hall about + With tattered lace and trimming? + Was it for such a sad reverse + Our mobs became peacemakers, + And kept their tar and wooden horse + For Englishmen and Quakers? + + For this did shifty Atherton + Make gag rules for the Great House? + Wiped we for this our feet upon + Petitions in our State House? + Plied we for this our axe of doom, + No stubborn traitor sparing, + Who scoffed at our opinion loom, + And took to homespun wearing? + + Ah, Moses! hard it is to scan + These crooked providences, + Deducing from the wisest plan + The saddest consequences! + Strange that, in trampling as was meet + The nigger-men's petition, + We sprang a mine beneath our feet + Which opened up perdition. + + How goodly, Moses, was the game + In which we've long been actors, + Supplying freedom with the name + And slavery with the practice + Our smooth words fed the people's mouth, + Their ears our party rattle; + We kept them headed to the South, + As drovers do their cattle. + + But now our game of politics + The world at large is learning; + And men grown gray in all our tricks + State's evidence are turning. + Votes and preambles subtly spun + They cram with meanings louder, + And load the Democratic gun + With abolition powder. + + The ides of June! Woe worth the day + When, turning all things over, + The traitor Hale shall make his hay + From Democratic clover! + Who then shall take him in the law, + Who punish crime so flagrant? + Whose hand shall serve, whose pen shall draw, + A writ against that "vagrant"? + + Alas! no hope is left us here, + And one can only pine for + The envied place of overseer + Of slaves in Carolina! + Pray, Moses, give Calhoun the wink, + And see what pay he's giving! + We've practised long enough, we think, + To know the art of driving. + + And for the faithful rank and file, + Who know their proper stations, + Perhaps it may be worth their while + To try the rice plantations. + Let Hale exult, let Wilson scoff, + To see us southward scamper; + The slaves, we know, are "better off + Than laborers in New Hampshire!" + + + + +LINES FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND. + + A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire, + A faith which doubt can never dim, + A heart of love, a lip of fire, + O Freedom's God! be Thou to him! + + Speak through him words of power and fear, + As through Thy prophet bards of old, + And let a scornful people hear + Once more Thy Sinai-thunders rolled. + + For lying lips Thy blessing seek, + And hands of blood are raised to Thee, + And On Thy children, crushed and weak, + The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. + + Let then, O God! Thy servant dare + Thy truth in all its power to tell, + Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear + The Bible from the grasp of hell! + + From hollow rite and narrow span + Of law and sect by Thee released, + Oh, teach him that the Christian man + Is holier than the Jewish priest. + + Chase back the shadows, gray and old, + Of the dead ages, from his way, + And let his hopeful eyes behold + The dawn of Thy millennial day; + + That day when fettered limb and mind + Shall know the truth which maketh free, + And he alone who loves his kind + Shall, childlike, claim the love of Thee! + + + + +DANIEL NEALL. + +Dr. Neall, a worthy disciple of that venerated philanthropist, Warner +Mifflin, whom the Girondist statesman, Jean Pierre Brissot, pronounced +"an angel of mercy, the best man he ever knew," was one of the noble +band of Pennsylvania abolitionists, whose bravery was equalled only by +their gentleness and tenderness. He presided at the great anti-slavery +meeting in Pennsylvania Hall, May 17, 1838, when the Hall was surrounded +by a furious mob. I was standing near him while the glass of the windows +broken by missiles showered over him, and a deputation from the rioters +forced its way to the platform, and demanded that the meeting should be +closed at once. Dr. Neall drew up his tall form to its utmost height. "I +am here," he said, "the president of this meeting, and I will be torn in +pieces before I leave my place at your dictation. Go back to those who +sent you. I shall do my duty." Some years after, while visiting his +relatives in his native State of Delaware, he was dragged from the house +of his friends by a mob of slave-holders and brutally maltreated. He +bore it like a martyr of the old times; and when released, told his +persecutors that he forgave them, for it was not they but Slavery which +had done the wrong. If they should ever be in Philadelphia and needed +hospitality or aid, let them call on him. + + I. + FRIEND of the Slave, and yet the friend of all; + Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when + The need of battling Freedom called for men + To plant the banner on the outer wall; + Gentle and kindly, ever at distress + Melted to more than woman's tenderness, + Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post + Fronting the violence of a maddened host, + Like some gray rock from which the waves are + tossed! + Knowing his deeds of love, men questioned not + The faith of one whose walk and word were + right; + Who tranquilly in Life's great task-field wrought, + And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught + A stain upon his pilgrim garb of white + Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own + Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone. + + II. + Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan, + A true and brave and downright honest man + He blew no trumpet in the market-place, + Nor in the church with hypocritic face + Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace; + Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will + What others talked of while their hands were still; + And, while "Lord, Lord!" the pious tyrants cried, + Who, in the poor, their Master crucified, + His daily prayer, far better understood + In acts than words, was simply doing good. + So calm, so constant was his rectitude, + That by his loss alone we know its worth, + And feel how true a man has walked with us on earth. + + 6th, 6th month, 1846. + + + + +SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT. + +"Sebah, Oasis of Fezzan, 10th March, 1846.--This evening the female +slaves were unusually excited in singing, and I had the curiosity to ask +my negro servant, Said, what they were singing about. As many of them +were natives of his own country, he had no difficulty in translating the +Mandara or Bornou language. I had often asked the Moors to translate +their songs for me, but got no satisfactory account from them. Said at +first said, 'Oh, they sing of Rubee' (God). 'What do you mean?' I +replied, impatiently. 'Oh, don't you know?' he continued, 'they asked +God to give them their Atka?' (certificate of freedom). I inquired, 'Is +that all?' Said: 'No; they say, "Where are we going? The world is large. +O God! Where are we going? O God!"' I inquired, 'What else?' Said: 'They +remember their country, Bornou, and say, "Bornou was a pleasant country, +full of all good things; but this is a bad country, and we are +miserable!"' 'Do they say anything else?' Said: 'No; they repeat these +words over and over again, and add, "O God! give us our Atka, and let us +return again to our dear home."' + +"I am not surprised I got little satisfaction when I asked the Moors +about the songs of their slaves. Who will say that the above words are +not a very appropriate song? What could have been more congenially +adapted to their then woful condition? It is not to be wondered at that +these poor bondwomen cheer up their hearts, in their long, lonely, and +painful wanderings over the desert, with words and sentiments like +these; but I have often observed that their fatigue and sufferings were +too great for them to strike up this melancholy dirge, and many days +their plaintive strains never broke over the silence of the desert."-- +Richardson's Journal in Africa. + + WHERE are we going? where are we going, + Where are we going, Rubee? + Lord of peoples, lord of lands, + Look across these shining sands, + Through the furnace of the noon, + Through the white light of the moon. + Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing, + Strange and large the world is growing! + Speak and tell us where we are going, + Where are we going, Rubee? + + Bornou land was rich and good, + Wells of water, fields of food, + Dourra fields, and bloom of bean, + And the palm-tree cool and green + Bornou land we see no longer, + Here we thirst and here we hunger, + Here the Moor-man smites in anger + Where are we going, Rubee? + + When we went from Bornou land, + We were like the leaves and sand, + We were many, we are few; + Life has one, and death has two + Whitened bones our path are showing, + Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing + Hear us, tell us, where are we going, + Where are we going, Rubee? + + Moons of marches from our eyes + Bornou land behind us lies; + Stranger round us day by day + Bends the desert circle gray; + Wild the waves of sand are flowing, + Hot the winds above them blowing,-- + Lord of all things! where are we going? + Where are we going, Rubee? + + We are weak, but Thou art strong; + Short our lives, but Thine is long; + We are blind, but Thou hast eyes; + We are fools, but Thou art wise! + Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing + Through the strange world round us growing, + Hear us, tell us where are we going, + Where are we going, Rubee? + + 1847. + + + + +TO DELAWARE. + +Written during the discussion in the Legislature of that State, in the +winter of 1846-47, of a bill for the abolition of slavery. + + THRICE welcome to thy sisters of the East, + To the strong tillers of a rugged home, + With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, + And hardy feet o'erswept by ocean's foam; + And to the young nymphs of the golden West, + Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom, + Trail in the sunset,--O redeemed and blest, + To the warm welcome of thy sisters come! + Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay + Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains, + And the great lakes, where echo, free alway, + Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains, + Shall weave new sun-bows in their tossing spray, + And all their waves keep grateful holiday. + And, smiling on thee through her mountain rains, + Vermont shall bless thee; and the granite peaks, + And vast Katahdin o'er his woods, shall wear + Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold, keen air; + And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks + O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, + When, at thy bidding, the electric wire + Shall tremble northward with its words of fire; + Glory and praise to God! another State is free! + + 1847. + + + + +YORKTOWN. + +Dr. Thacher, surgeon in Scammel's regiment, in his description of the +siege of Yorktown, says: "The labor on the Virginia plantations is +performed altogether by a species of the human race cruelly wrested from +their native country, and doomed to perpetual bondage, while their +masters are manfully contending for freedom and the natural rights of +man. Such is the inconsistency of human nature." Eighteen hundred slaves +were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, and restored to their +masters. Well was it said by Dr. Barnes, in his late work on Slavery: +"No slave was any nearer his freedom after the surrender of Yorktown +than when Patrick Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among +the hills and vales of Virginia." + + FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still, + Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill + Who curbs his steed at head of one? + Hark! the low murmur: Washington! + Who bends his keen, approving glance, + Where down the gorgeous line of France + Shine knightly star and plume of snow? + Thou too art victor, Rochambeau! + The earth which bears this calm array + Shook with the war-charge yesterday, + + Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, + Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel; + October's clear and noonday sun + Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, + And down night's double blackness fell, + Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. + + Now all is hushed: the gleaming lines + Stand moveless as the neighboring pines; + While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, + The conquered hosts of England go + O'Hara's brow belies his dress, + Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless: + Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, + Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes! + + Nor thou alone; with one glad voice + Let all thy sister States rejoice; + Let Freedom, in whatever clime + She waits with sleepless eye her time, + Shouting from cave and mountain wood + Make glad her desert solitude, + While they who hunt her quail with fear; + The New World's chain lies broken here! + + But who are they, who, cowering, wait + Within the shattered fortress gate? + Dark tillers of Virginia's soil, + Classed with the battle's common spoil, + With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, + With Indian weed and planters' wine, + With stolen beeves, and foraged corn,-- + Are they not men, Virginian born? + + Oh, veil your faces, young and brave! + Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave + Sons of the Northland, ye who set + Stout hearts against the bayonet, + And pressed with steady footfall near + The moated battery's blazing tier, + Turn your scarred faces from the sight, + Let shame do homage to the right! + + Lo! fourscore years have passed; and where + The Gallic bugles stirred the air, + And, through breached batteries, side by side, + To victory stormed the hosts allied, + And brave foes grounded, pale with pain, + The arms they might not lift again, + As abject as in that old day + The slave still toils his life away. + + Oh, fields still green and fresh in story, + Old days of pride, old names of glory, + Old marvels of the tongue and pen, + Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, + Ye spared the wrong; and over all + Behold the avenging shadow fall! + Your world-wide honor stained with shame,-- + Your freedom's self a hollow name! + + Where's now the flag of that old war? + Where flows its stripe? Where burns its star? + Bear witness, Palo Alto's day, + Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey, + Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak, + Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak; + Symbol of terror and despair, + Of chains and slaves, go seek it there! + + Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks + Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks! + Brave sport to see the fledgling born + Of Freedom by its parent torn! + Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell, + Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell + With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled, + What of the New World fears the Old? + + 1847. + + + + +RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. + + O MOTHER EARTH! upon thy lap + Thy weary ones receiving, + And o'er them, silent as a dream, + Thy grassy mantle weaving, + Fold softly in thy long embrace + That heart so worn and broken, + And cool its pulse of fire beneath + Thy shadows old and oaken. + + Shut out from him the bitter word + And serpent hiss of scorning; + Nor let the storms of yesterday + Disturb his quiet morning. + Breathe over him forgetfulness + Of all save deeds of kindness, + And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, + Press down his lids in blindness. + + There, where with living ear and eye + He heard Potomac's flowing, + And, through his tall ancestral trees, + Saw autumn's sunset glowing, + He sleeps, still looking to the west, + Beneath the dark wood shadow, + As if he still would see the sun + Sink down on wave and meadow. + + Bard, Sage, and Tribune! in himself + All moods of mind contrasting,-- + The tenderest wail of human woe, + The scorn like lightning blasting; + The pathos which from rival eyes + Unwilling tears could summon, + The stinging taunt, the fiery burst + Of hatred scarcely human! + + Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, + From lips of life-long sadness; + Clear picturings of majestic thought + Upon a ground of madness; + And over all Romance and Song + A classic beauty throwing, + And laurelled Clio at his side + Her storied pages showing. + + All parties feared him: each in turn + Beheld its schemes disjointed, + As right or left his fatal glance + And spectral finger pointed. + Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down + With trenchant wit unsparing, + And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand + The robe Pretence was wearing. + + Too honest or too proud to feign + A love he never cherished, + Beyond Virginia's border line + His patriotism perished. + While others hailed in distant skies + Our eagle's dusky pinion, + He only saw the mountain bird + Stoop o'er his Old Dominion! + + Still through each change of fortune strange, + Racked nerve, and brain all burning, + His loving faith in Mother-land + Knew never shade of turning; + By Britain's lakes, by Neva's tide, + Whatever sky was o'er him, + He heard her rivers' rushing sound, + Her blue peaks rose before him. + + He held his slaves, yet made withal + No false and vain pretences, + Nor paid a lying priest to seek + For Scriptural defences. + His harshest words of proud rebuke, + His bitterest taunt and scorning, + Fell fire-like on the Northern brow + That bent to him in fawning. + + He held his slaves; yet kept the while + His reverence for the Human; + In the dark vassals of his will + He saw but Man and Woman! + No hunter of God's outraged poor + His Roanoke valley entered; + No trader in the souls of men + Across his threshold ventured. + + And when the old and wearied man + Lay down for his last sleeping, + And at his side, a slave no more, + His brother-man stood weeping, + His latest thought, his latest breath, + To Freedom's duty giving, + With failing tengue and trembling hand + The dying blest the living. + + Oh, never bore his ancient State + A truer son or braver + None trampling with a calmer scorn + On foreign hate or favor. + He knew her faults, yet never stooped + His proud and manly feeling + To poor excuses of the wrong + Or meanness of concealing. + + But none beheld with clearer eye + The plague-spot o'er her spreading, + None heard more sure the steps of Doom + Along her future treading. + For her as for himself he spake, + When, his gaunt frame upbracing, + He traced with dying hand "Remorse!" + And perished in the tracing. + + As from the grave where Henry sleeps, + From Vernon's weeping willow, + And from the grassy pall which hides + The Sage of Monticello, + So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone + Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, + Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves + A warning voice is swelling! + + And hark! from thy deserted fields + Are sadder warnings spoken, + From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons + Their household gods have broken. + The curse is on thee,--wolves for men, + And briers for corn-sheaves giving + Oh, more than all thy dead renown + Were now one hero living + + 1847. + + + + +THE LOST STATESMAN. + +Written on hearing of the death of Silas Wright of New York. + + + As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, + While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, + Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, + So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, + In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light + Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon, + While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight, + And, day by day, within thy spirit grew + A holier hope than young Ambition knew, + As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, + Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, + Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon + Portents at which the bravest stand aghast,-- + The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, + Alarm the land; yet thou, so wise and strong, + Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, + Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, + Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. + Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host? + Who wear the mantle of the leader lost? + Who stay the march of slavery? He whose voice + Hath called thee from thy task-field shall not lack + Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back + The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him: + Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, + And wave them high across the abysmal black, + Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice. + + 10th mo., 1847. + + + + +THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. + +Suggested by a daguerreotype taken from a small French engraving of two +negro figures, sent to the writer by Oliver Johnson. + + BEAMS of noon, like burning lances, through the + tree-tops flash and glisten, + As she stands before her lover, with raised face to + look and listen. + + Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient + Jewish song + Scarcely has the toil of task-fields done her graceful + beauty wrong. + + He, the strong one and the manly, with the vassal's + garb and hue, + Holding still his spirit's birthright, to his higher + nature true; + + Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman + in his heart, + As the gregree holds his Fetich from the white + man's gaze apart. + + Ever foremost of his comrades, when the driver's + morning horn + Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the fields of + cane and corn. + + Fall the keen and burning lashes never on his back + or limb; + Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the + driver unto him. + + Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is + hard and stern; + Slavery's last and humblest lesson he has never + deigned to learn. + + And, at evening, when his comrades dance before + their master's door, + Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he + silent evermore. + + God be praised for every instinct which rebels + against a lot + Where the brute survives the human, and man's + upright form is not! + + As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold + on fold + Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in + his hold; + + Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the + fell embrace, + Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in + its place; + + So a base and bestial nature round the vassal's + manhood twines, + And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba + choked with vines. + + God is Love, saith the Evangel; and our world of + woe and sin + Is made light and happy only when a Love is + shining in. + + Ye whose lives are free as sunshine, finding, where- + soe'er ye roam, + Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all + the world like home; + + In the veins of whose affections kindred blood is + but a part., + Of one kindly current throbbing from the universal + heart; + + Can ye know the deeper meaning of a love in Slavery + nursed, + Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil + accursed? + + Love of Home, and Love of Woman!--dear to all, + but doubly dear + To the heart whose pulses elsewhere measure only + hate and fear. + + All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen + sky, + Only one green spot remaining where the dew is + never dry! + + From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere + of hell, + Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks + his bell. + + 'T is the fervid tropic noontime; faint and low the + sea-waves beat; + Hazy rise the inland mountains through the glimmer + of the heat,-- + + Where, through mingled leaves and blossoms, + arrowy sunbeams flash and glisten, + Speaks her lover to the slave-girl, and she lifts her + head to listen:-- + + "We shall live as slaves no longer! Freedom's + hour is close at hand! + Rocks her bark upon the waters, rests the boat + upon the strand! + + "I have seen the Haytien Captain; I have seen + his swarthy crew, + Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color + true. + + "They have sworn to wait our coming till the night + has passed its noon, + And the gray and darkening waters roll above the + sunken moon!" + + Oh, the blessed hope of freedom! how with joy + and glad surprise, + For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant + beam her eyes! + + But she looks across the valley, where her mother's + hut is seen, + Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon- + leaves so green. + + And she answers, sad and earnest: "It were wrong + for thee to stay; + God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his + finger points the way. + + "Well I know with what endurance, for the sake + of me and mine, + Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant + for souls like thine. + + "Go; and at the hour of midnight, when our last + farewell is o'er, + Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee + from the shore. + + "But for me, my mother, lying on her sick-bed + all the day, + Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through + the twilight gray. + + "Should I leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, + shared with thee, + Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and + stripes to me. + + "For my heart would die within me, and my brain + would soon be wild; + I should hear my mother calling through the twilight + for her child!" + + Blazing upward from the ocean, shines the sun of + morning-time, + Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green + hedges of the lime. + + Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover + and the maid; + Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, leaning forward + on his spade? + + Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he: 't is the Haytien's + sail he sees, + Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven seaward + by the breeze. + + But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a + low voice call + Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier + than all. + + 1848. + + + + +THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS. + +The rights and liberties affirmed by Magna Charta were deemed of such +importance, in the thirteenth century, that the Bishops, twice a year, +with tapers burning, and in their pontifical robes, pronounced, in the +presence of the king and the representatives of the estates of England, +the greater excommunication against the infringer of that instrument. +The imposing ceremony took place in the great Hall of Westminster. A +copy of the curse, as pronounced in 1253, declares that, "by the +authority of Almighty God, and the blessed Apostles and Martyrs, and all +the saints in heaven, all those who violate the English liberties, and +secretly or openly, by deed, word, or counsel, do make statutes, or +observe then being made, against said liberties, are accursed and +sequestered from the company of heaven and the sacraments of the Holy +Church." + +William Penn, in his admirable political pamphlet, England's +Present Interest Considered, alluding to the curse of the Charter- +breakers, says: "I am no Roman Catholic, and little value their +other curses; yet I declare I would not for the world incur this +curse, as every man deservedly doth, who offers violence to the +fundamental freedom thereby repeated and confirmed." + + IN Westminster's royal halls, + Robed in their pontificals, + England's ancient prelates stood + For the people's right and good. + Closed around the waiting crowd, + Dark and still, like winter's cloud; + King and council, lord and knight, + Squire and yeoman, stood in sight; + Stood to hear the priest rehearse, + In God's name, the Church's curse, + By the tapers round them lit, + Slowly, sternly uttering it. + + "Right of voice in framing laws, + Right of peers to try each cause; + Peasant homestead, mean and small, + Sacred as the monarch's hall,-- + + "Whoso lays his hand on these, + England's ancient liberties; + Whoso breaks, by word or deed, + England's vow at Runnymede; + + "Be he Prince or belted knight, + Whatsoe'er his rank or might, + If the highest, then the worst, + Let him live and die accursed. + + "Thou, who to Thy Church hast given + Keys alike, of hell and heaven, + Make our word and witness sure, + Let the curse we speak endure!" + + Silent, while that curse was said, + Every bare and listening head + Bowed in reverent awe, and then + All the people said, Amen! + + Seven times the bells have tolled, + For the centuries gray and old, + Since that stoled and mitred band + Cursed the tyrants of their land. + + Since the priesthood, like a tower, + Stood between the poor and power; + And the wronged and trodden down + Blessed the abbot's shaven crown. + + Gone, thank God, their wizard spell, + Lost, their keys of heaven and hell; + Yet I sigh for men as bold + As those bearded priests of old. + + Now, too oft the priesthood wait + At the threshold of the state; + Waiting for the beck and nod + Of its power as law and God. + + Fraud exults, while solemn words + Sanctify his stolen hoards; + Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips + Bless his manacles and whips. + + Not on them the poor rely, + Not to them looks liberty, + Who with fawning falsehood cower + To the wrong, when clothed with power. + + Oh, to see them meanly cling, + Round the master, round the king, + Sported with, and sold and bought,-- + Pitifuller sight is not! + + Tell me not that this must be + God's true priest is always free; + Free, the needed truth to speak, + Right the wronged, and raise the weak. + + Not to fawn on wealth and state, + Leaving Lazarus at the gate; + Not to peddle creeds like wares; + Not to mutter hireling prayers; + + Nor to paint the new life's bliss + On the sable ground of this; + Golden streets for idle knave, + Sabbath rest for weary slave! + + Not for words and works like these, + Priest of God, thy mission is; + But to make earth's desert glad, + In its Eden greenness clad; + + And to level manhood bring + Lord and peasant, serf and king; + And the Christ of God to find + In the humblest of thy kind! + + Thine to work as well as pray, + Clearing thorny wrongs away; + Plucking up the weeds of sin, + Letting heaven's warm sunshine in; + + Watching on the hills of Faith; + Listening what the spirit saith, + Of the dim-seen light afar, + Growing like a nearing star. + + God's interpreter art thou, + To the waiting ones below; + 'Twixt them and its light midway + Heralding the better day; + + Catching gleams of temple spires, + Hearing notes of angel choirs, + Where, as yet unseen of them, + Comes the New Jerusalem! + + Like the seer of Patmos gazing, + On the glory downward blazing; + Till upon Earth's grateful sod + Rests the City of our God! + + 1848. + + + + +PAEAN. + +This poem indicates the exultation of the anti-slavery party in view of +the revolt of the friends of Martin Van Buren in New York, from the +Democratic Presidential nomination in 1848. + + + Now, joy and thanks forevermore! + The dreary night has wellnigh passed, + The slumbers of the North are o'er, + The Giant stands erect at last! + + More than we hoped in that dark time + When, faint with watching, few and worn, + We saw no welcome day-star climb + The cold gray pathway of the morn! + + O weary hours! O night of years! + What storms our darkling pathway swept, + Where, beating back our thronging fears, + By Faith alone our march we kept. + + How jeered the scoffing crowd behind, + How mocked before the tyrant train, + As, one by one, the true and kind + Fell fainting in our path of pain! + + They died, their brave hearts breaking slow, + But, self-forgetful to the last, + In words of cheer and bugle blow + Their breath upon the darkness passed. + + A mighty host, on either hand, + Stood waiting for the dawn of day + To crush like reeds our feeble band; + The morn has come, and where are they? + + Troop after troop their line forsakes; + With peace-white banners waving free, + And from our own the glad shout breaks, + Of Freedom and Fraternity! + + Like mist before the growing light, + The hostile cohorts melt away; + Our frowning foemen of the night + Are brothers at the dawn of day. + + As unto these repentant ones + We open wide our toil-worn ranks, + Along our line a murmur runs + Of song, and praise, and grateful thanks. + + Sound for the onset! Blast on blast! + Till Slavery's minions cower and quail; + One charge of fire shall drive them fast + Like chaff before our Northern gale! + + O prisoners in your house of pain, + Dumb, toiling millions, bound and sold, + Look! stretched o'er Southern vale and plain, + The Lord's delivering hand behold! + + Above the tyrant's pride of power, + His iron gates and guarded wall, + The bolts which shattered Shinar's tower + Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall. + + Awake! awake! my Fatherland! + It is thy Northern light that shines; + This stirring march of Freedom's band + The storm-song of thy mountain pines. + + Wake, dwellers where the day expires! + And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes + And fan your prairies' roaring fires, + The signal-call that Freedom makes! + + 1848. + + + + +THE CRISIS. + +Written on learning the terms of the treaty with Mexico. + + + ACROSS the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's + drouth and sand, + The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's + strand; + From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and + free, + Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea; + And from the mountains of the east, to Santa + Rosa's shore, + The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. + + O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children + weep; + Close watch about their holy fire let maids of + Pecos keep; + Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, + And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn + and vines; + For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes + of gain, + Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad + Salada's plain. + + Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the + winds bring down + Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold + Nevada's crown! + Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of + travel slack, + And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at + his back; + By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and + pine, + On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires + shine. + + O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and + plain, + Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with + grain; + Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, + cold, serene, + On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped + in softest green; + Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er + many a sunny vale, + Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty + trail! + + Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose + mystic shores + The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars; + Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds + that none have tamed, + Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the + Saxon never named; + Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's + chemic powers + Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye + say are ours! + + Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden + lies; + God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across + the skies. + Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised + and trembling scale? + Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail? + Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry + splendor waves, + Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread + of slaves? + + The day is breaking in the East of which the + prophets told, + And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian + Age of Gold; + Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to + clerkly pen, + Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs + stand up as men; + + The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations + born, + And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's + Golden Horn! + + Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow + The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds + of woe? + To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's + cast-off crime, + Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from + the tired lap of Time? + To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, + And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong + of man? + + Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this + the prayers and tears, + The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, + better years? + Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in + shadow turn, + A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer + darkness borne? + Where the far nations looked for light, a black- + ness in the air? + Where for words of hope they listened, the long + wail of despair? + + The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it + stands, + With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in + Egypt's sands! + This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we + spin; + This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or + sin; + Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy + crown, + We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing + down! + + By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and + shame; + By all the warning words of truth with which the + prophets came; + By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes + which cast + Their faint and trembling beams across the black- + ness of the Past; + And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's + freedom died, + O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the + righteous side. + + So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his + way; + To wed Penobseot's waters to San Francisco's bay; + To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the + vales with grain; + And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his + train + The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall + answer sea, + And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for + we are free + + 1845. + + + + +LINES ON THE PORTRAIT OF A CELEBRATED PUBLISHER. + + A pleasant print to peddle out + In lands of rice and cotton; + The model of that face in dough + Would make the artist's fortune. + For Fame to thee has come unsought, + While others vainly woo her, + In proof how mean a thing can make + A great man of its doer. + + + To whom shall men thyself compare, + Since common models fail 'em, + Save classic goose of ancient Rome, + Or sacred ass of Balaam? + The gabble of that wakeful goose + Saved Rome from sack of Brennus; + The braying of the prophet's ass + Betrayed the angel's menace! + + So when Guy Fawkes, in petticoats, + And azure-tinted hose oil, + Was twisting from thy love-lorn sheets + The slow-match of explosion-- + An earthquake blast that would have tossed + The Union as a feather, + Thy instinct saved a perilled land + And perilled purse together. + + Just think of Carolina's sage + Sent whirling like a Dervis, + Of Quattlebum in middle air + Performing strange drill-service! + Doomed like Assyria's lord of old, + Who fell before the Jewess, + Or sad Abimelech, to sigh, + "Alas! a woman slew us!" + + Thou saw'st beneath a fair disguise + The danger darkly lurking, + And maiden bodice dreaded more + Than warrior's steel-wrought jerkin. + How keen to scent the hidden plot! + How prompt wert thou to balk it, + With patriot zeal and pedler thrift, + For country and for pocket! + + Thy likeness here is doubtless well, + But higher honor's due it; + On auction-block and negro-jail + Admiring eyes should view it. + Or, hung aloft, it well might grace + The nation's senate-chamber-- + A greedy Northern bottle-fly + Preserved in Slavery's amber! + + 1850. + + + + +DERNE. + +The storming of the city of Derne, in 1805, by General Eaton, at the +head of nine Americans, forty Greeks, and a motley array of Turks and +Arabs, was one of those feats of hardihood and daring which have in all +ages attracted the admiration of the multitude. The higher and holier +heroism of Christian self-denial and sacrifice, in the humble walks of +private duty, is seldom so well appreciated. + + NIGHT on the city of the Moor! + On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore, + On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock + The narrow harbor-gates unlock, + On corsair's galley, carack tall, + And plundered Christian caraval! + The sounds of Moslem life are still; + No mule-bell tinkles down the hill; + Stretched in the broad court of the khan, + The dusty Bornou caravan + Lies heaped in slumber, beast and man; + The Sheik is dreaming in his tent, + His noisy Arab tongue o'erspent; + The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone, + The merchant with his wares withdrawn; + Rough pillowed on some pirate breast, + The dancing-girl has sunk to rest; + And, save where measured footsteps fall + Along the Bashaw's guarded wall, + Or where, like some bad dream, the Jew + Creeps stealthily his quarter through, + Or counts with fear his golden heaps, + The City of the Corsair sleeps. + + But where yon prison long and low + Stands black against the pale star-glow, + Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves, + There watch and pine the Christian slaves; + Rough-bearded men, whose far-off wives + Wear out with grief their lonely lives; + And youth, still flashing from his eyes + The clear blue of New England skies, + A treasured lock of whose soft hair + Now wakes some sorrowing mother's prayer; + Or, worn upon some maiden breast, + Stirs with the loving heart's unrest. + + A bitter cup each life must drain, + The groaning earth is cursed with pain, + And, like the scroll the angel bore + The shuddering Hebrew seer before, + O'erwrit alike, without, within, + With all the woes which follow sin; + But, bitterest of the ills beneath + Whose load man totters down to death, + Is that which plucks the regal crown + Of Freedom from his forehead down, + And snatches from his powerless hand + The sceptred sign of self-command, + Effacing with the chain and rod + The image and the seal of God; + Till from his nature, day by day, + The manly virtues fall away, + And leave him naked, blind and mute, + The godlike merging in the brute! + + Why mourn the quiet ones who die + Beneath affection's tender eye, + Unto their household and their kin + Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in? + O weeper, from that tranquil sod, + That holy harvest-home of God, + Turn to the quick and suffering, shed + Thy tears upon the living dead + Thank God above thy dear ones' graves, + They sleep with Him, they are not slaves. + + What dark mass, down the mountain-sides + Swift-pouring, like a stream divides? + A long, loose, straggling caravan, + Camel and horse and armed man. + The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er + Its grave of waters to the shore, + Lights tip that mountain cavalcade, + And gleams from gun and spear and blade + Near and more near! now o'er them falls + The shadow of the city walls. + Hark to the sentry's challenge, drowned + In the fierce trumpet's charging sound! + The rush of men, the musket's peal, + The short, sharp clang of meeting steel! + + Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured + So freely on thy foeman's sword! + Not to the swift nor to the strong + The battles of the right belong; + For he who strikes for Freedom wears + The armor of the captive's prayers, + And Nature proffers to his cause + The strength of her eternal laws; + While he whose arm essays to bind + And herd with common brutes his kind + Strives evermore at fearful odds + With Nature and the jealous gods, + And dares the dread recoil which late + Or soon their right shall vindicate. + + 'T is done, the horned crescent falls + The star-flag flouts the broken walls + Joy to the captive husband! joy + To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy! + In sullen wrath the conquered Moor + Wide open flings your dungeon-door, + And leaves ye free from cell and chain, + The owners of yourselves again. + Dark as his allies desert-born, + Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn + With the long marches of his band + Through hottest wastes of rock and sand, + Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath + Of the red desert's wind of death, + With welcome words and grasping hands, + The victor and deliverer stands! + + The tale is one of distant skies; + The dust of half a century lies + Upon it; yet its hero's name + Still lingers on the lips of Fame. + Men speak the praise of him who gave + Deliverance to the Moorman's slave, + Yet dare to brand with shame and crime + The heroes of our land and time,-- + The self-forgetful ones, who stake + Home, name, and life for Freedom's sake. + God mend his heart who cannot feel + The impulse of a holy zeal, + And sees not, with his sordid eyes, + The beauty of self-sacrifice + Though in the sacred place he stands, + Uplifting consecrated hands, + Unworthy are his lips to tell + Of Jesus' martyr-miracle, + Or name aright that dread embrace + Of suffering for a fallen race! + + 1850. + + + + +A SABBATH SCENE. + +This poem finds its justification in the readiness with which, even in +the North, clergymen urged the prompt execution of the Fugitive Slave +Law as a Christian duty, and defended the system of slavery as a Bible +institution. + + + SCARCE had the solemn Sabbath-bell + Ceased quivering in the steeple, + Scarce had the parson to his desk + Walked stately through his people, + When down the summer-shaded street + A wasted female figure, + With dusky brow and naked feet, + + Came rushing wild and eager. + She saw the white spire through the trees, + She heard the sweet hymn swelling + O pitying Christ! a refuge give + That poor one in Thy dwelling! + + Like a scared fawn before the hounds, + Right up the aisle she glided, + While close behind her, whip in hand, + A lank-haired hunter strided. + + She raised a keen and bitter cry, + To Heaven and Earth appealing; + Were manhood's generous pulses dead? + Had woman's heart no feeling? + + A score of stout hands rose between + The hunter and the flying: + Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes + Flashed tearful, yet defying. + + "Who dares profane this house and day?" + Cried out the angry pastor. + "Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave, + And I'm her lord and master! + + "I've law and gospel on my side, + And who shall dare refuse me?" + Down came the parson, bowing low, + "My good sir, pray excuse me! + + "Of course I know your right divine + To own and work and whip her; + Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott + Before the wench, and trip her!" + + Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er + Its sacred pages stumbling, + Bound hand and foot, a slave once more, + The hapless wretch lay trembling. + + I saw the parson tie the knots, + The while his flock addressing, + The Scriptural claims of slavery + With text on text impressing. + + "Although," said he, "on Sabbath day + All secular occupations + Are deadly sins, we must fulfil + Our moral obligations: + + "And this commends itself as one + To every conscience tender; + As Paul sent back Onesimus, + My Christian friends, we send her!" + + Shriek rose on shriek,--the Sabbath air + Her wild cries tore asunder; + I listened, with hushed breath, to hear + God answering with his thunder! + + All still! the very altar's cloth + Had smothered down her shrieking, + And, dumb, she turned from face to face, + For human pity seeking! + + I saw her dragged along the aisle, + Her shackles harshly clanking; + I heard the parson, over all, + The Lord devoutly thanking! + + My brain took fire: "Is this," I cried, + "The end of prayer and preaching? + Then down with pulpit, down with priest, + And give us Nature's teaching! + + "Foul shame and scorn be on ye all + Who turn the good to evil, + And steal the Bible, from the Lord, + To give it to the Devil! + + "Than garbled text or parchment law + I own a statute higher; + And God is true, though every book + And every man's a liar!" + + Just then I felt the deacon's hand + In wrath my coattail seize on; + I heard the priest cry, "Infidel!" + The lawyer mutter, "Treason!" + + I started up,--where now were church, + Slave, master, priest, and people? + I only heard the supper-bell, + Instead of clanging steeple. + + But, on the open window's sill, + O'er which the white blooms drifted, + The pages of a good old Book + The wind of summer lifted, + + And flower and vine, like angel wings + Around the Holy Mother, + Waved softly there, as if God's truth + And Mercy kissed each other. + + And freely from the cherry-bough + Above the casement swinging, + With golden bosom to the sun, + The oriole was singing. + + As bird and flower made plain of old + The lesson of the Teacher, + So now I heard the written Word + Interpreted by Nature. + + For to my ear methought the breeze + Bore Freedom's blessed word on; + Thus saith the Lord: Break every yoke, + Undo the heavy burden + + 1850. + + + + +IN THE EVIL DAYS. + +This and the four following poems have special reference to that darkest +hour in the aggression of slavery which preceded the dawn of a better +day, when the conscience of the people was roused to action. + + + THE evil days have come, the poor + Are made a prey; + Bar up the hospitable door, + Put out the fire-lights, point no more + The wanderer's way. + + For Pity now is crime; the chain + Which binds our States + Is melted at her hearth in twain, + Is rusted by her tears' soft rain + Close up her gates. + + Our Union, like a glacier stirred + By voice below, + Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, + A beggar's crust, a kindly word + May overthrow! + + Poor, whispering tremblers! yet we boast + Our blood and name; + Bursting its century-bolted frost, + Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast + Cries out for shame! + + Oh for the open firmament, + The prairie free, + The desert hillside, cavern-rent, + The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent, + The Bushman's tree! + + Than web of Persian loom most rare, + Or soft divan, + Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, + Or hollow tree, which man may share + With suffering man. + + I hear a voice: "Thus saith the Law, + Let Love be dumb; + Clasping her liberal hands in awe, + Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw + From hearth and home." + + I hear another voice: "The poor + Are thine to feed; + Turn not the outcast from thy door, + Nor give to bonds and wrong once more + Whom God hath freed." + + Dear Lord! between that law and Thee + No choice remains; + Yet not untrue to man's decree, + Though spurning its rewards, is he + Who bears its pains. + + Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast + And threatening word; + I read the lesson of the Past, + That firm endurance wins at last + More than the sword. + + O clear-eyed Faith, and Patience thou + So calm and strong! + Lend strength to weakness, teach us how + The sleepless eyes of God look through + This night of wrong. + + 1850. + + + + +MOLOCH IN STATE STREET. + +In a foot-note of the Report of the Senate of Massachusetts on the case +of the arrest and return to bondage of the fugitive slave Thomas Sims it +is stated that--"It would have been impossible for the U. S. marshal +thus successfully to have resisted the law of the State, without the +assistance of the municipal authorities of Boston, and the countenance +and support of a numerous, wealthy, and powerful body of citizens. It +was in evidence that 1500 of the most wealthy and respectable +citizens-merchants, bankers, and others--volunteered their services to +aid the marshal on this occasion. . . . No watch was kept upon the +doings of the marshal, and while the State officers slept, after the +moon had gone down, in the darkest hour before daybreak, the accused was +taken out of our jurisdiction by the armed police of the city of +Boston." + + THE moon has set: while yet the dawn + Breaks cold and gray, + Between the midnight and the morn + Bear off your prey! + + On, swift and still! the conscious street + Is panged and stirred; + Tread light! that fall of serried feet + The dead have heard! + + The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins + Gushed where ye tread; + Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains + Blush darkly red! + + Beneath the slowly waning stars + And whitening day, + What stern and awful presence bars + That sacred way? + + What faces frown upon ye, dark + With shame and pain? + Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark? + Is that young Vane? + + Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on + With mocking cheer? + Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, + And Gage are here! + + For ready mart or favoring blast + Through Moloch's fire, + Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed + The Tyrian sire. + + Ye make that ancient sacrifice + Of Mail to Gain, + Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, + Beneath the chain. + + Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn + And hate, is near; + How think ye freemen, mountain-born, + The tale will hear? + + Thank God! our mother State can yet + Her fame retrieve; + To you and to your children let + The scandal cleave. + + Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, + Make gods of gold; + Let honor, truth, and manliness + Like wares be sold. + + Your hoards are great, your walls are strong, + But God is just; + The gilded chambers built by wrong + Invite the rust. + + What! know ye not the gains of Crime + Are dust and dross; + Its ventures on the waves of time + Foredoomed to loss! + + And still the Pilgrim State remains + What she hath been; + Her inland hills, her seaward plains, + Still nurture men! + + Nor wholly lost the fallen mart; + Her olden blood + Through many a free and generous heart + Still pours its flood. + + That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, + Shall know no check, + Till a free people's foot is set + On Slavery's neck. + + Even now, the peal of bell and gun, + And hills aflame, + Tell of the first great triumph won + In Freedom's name. (10) + + The long night dies: the welcome gray + Of dawn we see; + Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, + God of the free! + + 1851. + + + + +OFFICIAL PIETY. + +Suggested by reading a state paper, wherein the higher law is invoked to +sustain the lower one. + + + A Pious magistrate! sound his praise throughout + The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt + That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh? + Sin in high places has become devout, + Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie + Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety! + The pirate, watching from his bloody deck + The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold + Of Acapulco, holding death in check + While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads are told; + The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross + On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread loss + From his own carbine, glancing still abroad + For some new victim, offering thanks to God! + Rome, listening at her altars to the cry + Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of hell + Scour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell + And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high, + Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky, + "Thanks to the Lord, who giveth victory!" + What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black + As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack? + Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays + His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural phrase + And saintly posture, gives to God the praise + And honor of the monstrous progeny. + What marvel, then, in our own time to see + His old devices, smoothly acted o'er,-- + Official piety, locking fast the door + Of Hope against three million soups of men,-- + Brothers, God's children, Christ's redeemed,--and then, + With uprolled eyeballs and on bended knee, + Whining a prayer for help to hide the key! + + 1853. + + + + +THE RENDITION. + +On the 2d of June, 1854, Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave from Virginia, +after being under arrest for ten days in the Boston Court House, was +remanded to slavery under the Fugitive Slave Act, and taken down State +Street to a steamer chartered by the United States Government, under +guard of United States troops and artillery, Massachusetts militia and +Boston police. Public excitement ran high, a futile attempt to rescue +Burns having been made during his confinement, and the streets were +crowded with tens of thousands of people, of whom many came from other +towns and cities of the State to witness the humiliating spectacle. + + + I HEARD the train's shrill whistle call, + I saw an earnest look beseech, + And rather by that look than speech + My neighbor told me all. + + And, as I thought of Liberty + Marched handcuffed down that sworded street, + The solid earth beneath my feet + Reeled fluid as the sea. + + I felt a sense of bitter loss,-- + Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath, + And loathing fear, as if my path + A serpent stretched across. + + All love of home, all pride of place, + All generous confidence and trust, + Sank smothering in that deep disgust + And anguish of disgrace. + + Down on my native hills of June, + And home's green quiet, hiding all, + Fell sudden darkness like the fall + Of midnight upon noon. + + And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, + Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, + Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God + The blasphemy of wrong. + + "O Mother, from thy memories proud, + Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, + Lend this dead air a breeze of health, + And smite with stars this cloud. + + "Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, + Rise awful in thy strength," I said; + Ah me! I spake but to the dead; + I stood upon her grave! + + 6th mo., 1854. + + + + +ARISEN AT LAST. + +On the passage of the bill to protect the rights and liberties of the +people of the State against the Fugitive Slave Act. + + + I SAID I stood upon thy grave, + My Mother State, when last the moon + Of blossoms clomb the skies of June. + + And, scattering ashes on my head, + I wore, undreaming of relief, + The sackcloth of thy shame and grief. + + Again that moon of blossoms shines + On leaf and flower and folded wing, + And thou hast risen with the spring! + + Once more thy strong maternal arms + Are round about thy children flung,-- + A lioness that guards her young! + + No threat is on thy closed lips, + But in thine eye a power to smite + The mad wolf backward from its light. + + Southward the baffled robber's track + Henceforth runs only; hereaway, + The fell lycanthrope finds no prey. + + Henceforth, within thy sacred gates, + His first low howl shall downward draw + The thunder of thy righteous law. + + Not mindless of thy trade and gain, + But, acting on the wiser plan, + Thou'rt grown conservative of man. + + So shalt thou clothe with life the hope, + Dream-painted on the sightless eyes + Of him who sang of Paradise,-- + + The vision of a Christian man, + In virtue, as in stature great + Embodied in a Christian State. + + And thou, amidst thy sisterhood + Forbearing long, yet standing fast, + Shalt win their grateful thanks at last; + + When North and South shall strive no more, + And all their feuds and fears be lost + In Freedom's holy Pentecost. + + 6th mo., 1855. + + + + +THE HASCHISH. + + OF all that Orient lands can vaunt + Of marvels with our own competing, + The strangest is the Haschish plant, + And what will follow on its eating. + + What pictures to the taster rise, + Of Dervish or of Almeh dances! + Of Eblis, or of Paradise, + Set all aglow with Houri glances! + + The poppy visions of Cathay, + The heavy beer-trance of the Suabian; + The wizard lights and demon play + Of nights Walpurgis and Arabian! + + The Mollah and the Christian dog + Change place in mad metempsychosis; + The Muezzin climbs the synagogue, + The Rabbi shakes his beard at Moses! + + The Arab by his desert well + Sits choosing from some Caliph's daughters, + And hears his single camel's bell + Sound welcome to his regal quarters. + + The Koran's reader makes complaint + Of Shitan dancing on and off it; + The robber offers alms, the saint + Drinks Tokay and blasphemes the Prophet. + + Such scenes that Eastern plant awakes; + But we have one ordained to beat it, + The Haschish of the West, which makes + Or fools or knaves of all who eat it. + + The preacher eats, and straight appears + His Bible in a new translation; + Its angels negro overseers, + And Heaven itself a snug plantation! + + The man of peace, about whose dreams + The sweet millennial angels cluster, + Tastes the mad weed, and plots and schemes, + A raving Cuban filibuster! + + The noisiest Democrat, with ease, + It turns to Slavery's parish beadle; + The shrewdest statesman eats and sees + Due southward point the polar needle. + + The Judge partakes, and sits erelong + Upon his bench a railing blackguard; + Decides off-hand that right is wrong, + And reads the ten commandments backward. + + O potent plant! so rare a taste + Has never Turk or Gentoo gotten; + The hempen Haschish of the East + Is powerless to our Western Cotton! + + 1854. + + + + +FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS' SAKE. + +Inscribed to friends under arrest for treason against the slave power. + + + THE age is dull and mean. Men creep, + Not walk; with blood too pale and tame + To pay the debt they owe to shame; + Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep + Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; + Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep + Six days to Mammon, one to Cant. + + In such a time, give thanks to God, + That somewhat of the holy rage + With which the prophets in their age + On all its decent seemings trod, + Has set your feet upon the lie, + That man and ox and soul and clod + Are market stock to sell and buy! + + The hot words from your lips, my own, + To caution trained, might not repeat; + But if some tares among the wheat + Of generous thought and deed were sown, + No common wrong provoked your zeal; + The silken gauntlet that is thrown + In such a quarrel rings like steel. + + The brave old strife the fathers saw + For Freedom calls for men again + Like those who battled not in vain + For England's Charter, Alfred's law; + And right of speech and trial just + Wage in your name their ancient war + With venal courts and perjured trust. + + God's ways seem dark, but, soon or late, + They touch the shining hills of day; + The evil cannot brook delay, + The good can well afford to wait. + Give ermined knaves their hour of crime; + Ye have the future grand and great, + The safe appeal of Truth to Time! + + 1855. + + + + +THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. + +This poem and the three following were called out by the popular +movement of Free State men to occupy the territory of Kansas, and by the +use of the great democratic weapon--an over-powering majority--to settle +the conflict on that ground between Freedom and Slavery. The opponents +of the movement used another kind of weapon. + + + WE cross the prairie as of old + The pilgrims crossed the sea, + To make the West, as they the East, + The homestead of the free! + + We go to rear a wall of men + On Freedom's southern line, + And plant beside the cotton-tree + The rugged Northern pine! + + We're flowing from our native hills + As our free rivers flow; + The blessing of our Mother-land + Is on us as we go. + + We go to plant her common schools, + On distant prairie swells, + And give the Sabbaths of the wild + The music of her bells. + + Upbearing, like the Ark of old, + The Bible in our van, + We go to test the truth of God + Against the fraud of man. + + No pause, nor rest, save where the streams + That feed the Kansas run, + Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon + Shall flout the setting sun. + + We'll tread the prairie as of old + Our fathers sailed the sea, + And make the West, as they the East, + The homestead of the free! + + 1854. + + + + +LETTER FROM A MISSIONARY OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH SOUTH, + +IN KANSAS, TO A DISTINGUISHED POLITICIAN. + +DOUGLAS MISSION, August, 1854, + + LAST week--the Lord be praised for all His mercies + To His unworthy servant!--I arrived + Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where + I tarried over night, to aid in forming + A Vigilance Committee, to send back, + In shirts of tar, and feather-doublets quilted + With forty stripes save one, all Yankee comers, + Uncircumcised and Gentile, aliens from + The Commonwealth of Israel, who despise + The prize of the high calling of the saints, + Who plant amidst this heathen wilderness + Pure gospel institutions, sanctified + By patriarchal use. The meeting opened + With prayer, as was most fitting. Half an hour, + Or thereaway, I groaned, and strove, and wrestled, + As Jacob did at Penuel, till the power + Fell on the people, and they cried 'Amen!' + "Glory to God!" and stamped and clapped their hands; + And the rough river boatmen wiped their eyes; + "Go it, old hoss!" they cried, and cursed the niggers-- + Fulfilling thus the word of prophecy, + "Cursed be Cannan." After prayer, the meeting + Chose a committee--good and pious men-- + A Presbyterian Elder, Baptist deacon, + A local preacher, three or four class-leaders, + Anxious inquirers, and renewed backsliders, + A score in all--to watch the river ferry, + (As they of old did watch the fords of Jordan,) + And cut off all whose Yankee tongues refuse + The Shibboleth of the Nebraska bill. + And then, in answer to repeated calls, + I gave a brief account of what I saw + In Washington; and truly many hearts + Rejoiced to know the President, and you + And all the Cabinet regularly hear + The gospel message of a Sunday morning, + Drinking with thirsty souls of the sincere + Milk of the Word. Glory! Amen, and Selah! + + Here, at the Mission, all things have gone well + The brother who, throughout my absence, acted + As overseer, assures me that the crops + Never were better. I have lost one negro, + A first-rate hand, but obstinate and sullen. + He ran away some time last spring, and hid + In the river timber. There my Indian converts + Found him, and treed and shot him. For the rest, + The heathens round about begin to feel + The influence of our pious ministrations + And works of love; and some of them already + Have purchased negroes, and are settling down + As sober Christians! Bless the Lord for this! + I know it will rejoice you. You, I hear, + Are on the eve of visiting Chicago, + To fight with the wild beasts of Ephesus, + Long John, and Dutch Free-Soilers. May your arm + Be clothed with strength, and on your tongue be found + The sweet oil of persuasion. So desires + Your brother and co-laborer. Amen! + + P.S. All's lost. Even while I write these lines, + The Yankee abolitionists are coming + Upon us like a flood--grim, stalwart men, + Each face set like a flint of Plymouth Rock + Against our institutions--staking out + Their farm lots on the wooded Wakarusa, + Or squatting by the mellow-bottomed Kansas; + The pioneers of mightier multitudes, + The small rain-patter, ere the thunder shower + Drowns the dry prairies. Hope from man is not. + Oh, for a quiet berth at Washington, + Snug naval chaplaincy, or clerkship, where + These rumors of free labor and free soil + Might never meet me more. Better to be + Door-keeper in the White House, than to dwell + Amidst these Yankee tents, that, whitening, show + On the green prairie like a fleet becalmed. + Methinks I hear a voice come up the river + From those far bayous, where the alligators + Mount guard around the camping filibusters + "Shake off the dust of Kansas. Turn to Cuba-- + (That golden orange just about to fall, + O'er-ripe, into the Democratic lap;) + Keep pace with Providence, or, as we say, + Manifest destiny. Go forth and follow + The message of our gospel, thither borne + Upon the point of Quitman's bowie-knife, + And the persuasive lips of Colt's revolvers. + There may'st thou, underneath thy vine and figtree, + Watch thy increase of sugar cane and negroes, + Calm as a patriarch in his eastern tent!" + Amen: So mote it be. So prays your friend. + + + + +BURIAL OF BARBER. + +Thomas Barber was shot December 6, 1855, near Lawrence, Kansas. + + + BEAR him, comrades, to his grave; + Never over one more brave + Shall the prairie grasses weep, + In the ages yet to come, + When the millions in our room, + What we sow in tears, shall reap. + + Bear him up the icy hill, + With the Kansas, frozen still + As his noble heart, below, + And the land he came to till + With a freeman's thews and will, + And his poor hut roofed with snow. + + One more look of that dead face, + Of his murder's ghastly trace! + One more kiss, O widowed one + Lay your left hands on his brow, + Lift your right hands up, and vow + That his work shall yet be done. + + Patience, friends! The eye of God + Every path by Murder trod + Watches, lidless, day and night; + And the dead man in his shroud, + And his widow weeping loud, + And our hearts, are in His sight. + + Every deadly threat that swells + With the roar of gambling hells, + Every brutal jest and jeer, + Every wicked thought and plan + Of the cruel heart of man, + Though but whispered, He can hear! + + We in suffering, they in crime, + Wait the just award of time, + Wait the vengeance that is due; + Not in vain a heart shall break, + Not a tear for Freedom's sake + Fall unheeded: God is true. + + While the flag with stars bedecked + Threatens where it should protect, + And the Law shakes Hands with Crime, + What is left us but to wait, + Match our patience to our fate, + And abide the better time? + + Patience, friends! The human heart + Everywhere shall take our part, + Everywhere for us shall pray; + On our side are nature's laws, + And God's life is in the cause + That we suffer for to-day. + + Well to suffer is divine; + Pass the watchword down the line, + Pass the countersign: "Endure." + Not to him who rashly dares, + But to him who nobly bears, + Is the victor's garland sure. + + Frozen earth to frozen breast, + Lay our slain one down to rest; + Lay him down in hope and faith, + And above the broken sod, + Once again, to Freedom's God, + Pledge ourselves for life or death, + + That the State whose walls we lay, + In our blood and tears, to-day, + Shall be free from bonds of shame, + And our goodly land untrod + By the feet of Slavery, shod + With cursing as with flame! + + Plant the Buckeye on his grave, + For the hunter of the slave + In its shadow cannot rest; I + And let martyr mound and tree + Be our pledge and guaranty + Of the freedom of the West! + + 1856. + + + + +TO PENNSYLVANIA. + + O STATE prayer-founded! never hung + Such choice upon a people's tongue, + Such power to bless or ban, + As that which makes thy whisper Fate, + For which on thee the centuries wait, + And destinies of man! + + Across thy Alleghanian chain, + With groanings from a land in pain, + The west-wind finds its way: + Wild-wailing from Missouri's flood + The crying of thy children's blood + Is in thy ears to-day! + + And unto thee in Freedom's hour + Of sorest need God gives the power + To ruin or to save; + To wound or heal, to blight or bless + With fertile field or wilderness, + A free home or a grave! + + Then let thy virtue match the crime, + Rise to a level with the time; + And, if a son of thine + Betray or tempt thee, Brutus-like + For Fatherland and Freedom strike + As Justice gives the sign. + + Wake, sleeper, from thy dream of ease, + The great occasion's forelock seize; + And let the north-wind strong, + And golden leaves of autumn, be + Thy coronal of Victory + And thy triumphal song. + + 10th me., 1856. + + + + +LE MARAIS DU CYGNE. + +The massacre of unarmed and unoffending men, in Southern Kansas, in May, +1858, took place near the Marais du Cygne of the French voyageurs. + + + A BLUSH as of roses + Where rose never grew! + Great drops on the bunch-grass, + But not of the dew! + A taint in the sweet air + For wild bees to shun! + A stain that shall never + Bleach out in the sun. + + Back, steed of the prairies + Sweet song-bird, fly back! + Wheel hither, bald vulture! + Gray wolf, call thy pack! + The foul human vultures + Have feasted and fled; + The wolves of the Border + Have crept from the dead. + + From the hearths of their cabins, + The fields of their corn, + Unwarned and unweaponed, + The victims were torn,-- + By the whirlwind of murder + Swooped up and swept on + To the low, reedy fen-lands, + The Marsh of the Swan. + + With a vain plea for mercy + No stout knee was crooked; + In the mouths of the rifles + Right manly they looked. + How paled the May sunshine, + O Marais du Cygne! + On death for the strong life, + On red grass for green! + + In the homes of their rearing, + Yet warm with their lives, + Ye wait the dead only, + Poor children and wives! + Put out the red forge-fire, + The smith shall not come; + Unyoke the brown oxen, + The ploughman lies dumb. + + Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh, + O dreary death-train, + With pressed lips as bloodless + As lips of the slain! + Kiss down the young eyelids, + Smooth down the gray hairs; + Let tears quench the curses + That burn through your prayers. + + Strong man of the prairies, + Mourn bitter and wild! + Wail, desolate woman! + Weep, fatherless child! + But the grain of God springs up + From ashes beneath, + And the crown of his harvest + Is life out of death. + + Not in vain on the dial + The shade moves along, + To point the great contrasts + Of right and of wrong: + Free homes and free altars, + Free prairie and flood,-- + The reeds of the Swan's Marsh, + Whose bloom is of blood! + + On the lintels of Kansas + That blood shall not dry; + Henceforth the Bad Angel + Shall harmless go by; + Henceforth to the sunset, + Unchecked on her way, + Shall Liberty follow + The march of the day. + + + + +THE PASS OF THE SIERRA. + + ALL night above their rocky bed + They saw the stars march slow; + The wild Sierra overhead, + The desert's death below. + + The Indian from his lodge of bark, + The gray bear from his den, + Beyond their camp-fire's wall of dark, + Glared on the mountain men. + + Still upward turned, with anxious strain, + Their leader's sleepless eye, + Where splinters of the mountain chain + Stood black against the sky. + + The night waned slow: at last, a glow, + A gleam of sudden fire, + Shot up behind the walls of snow, + And tipped each icy spire. + + "Up, men!" he cried, "yon rocky cone, + To-day, please God, we'll pass, + And look from Winter's frozen throne + On Summer's flowers and grass!" + + They set their faces to the blast, + They trod the eternal snow, + And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last + The promised land below. + + Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed + By many an icy horn; + Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed, + And green with vines and corn. + + They left the Winter at their backs + To flap his baffled wing, + And downward, with the cataracts, + Leaped to the lap of Spring. + + Strong leader of that mountain band, + Another task remains, + To break from Slavery's desert land + A path to Freedom's plains. + + The winds are wild, the way is drear, + Yet, flashing through the night, + Lo! icy ridge and rocky spear + Blaze out in morning light! + + Rise up, Fremont! and go before; + The hour must have its Man; + Put on the hunting-shirt once more, + And lead in Freedom's van! + 8th mo., 1856. + + + + +A SONG FOR THE TIME. + +Written in the summer of 1856, during the political campaign of the Free +Soil party under the candidacy of John C. Fremont. + + + Up, laggards of Freedom!--our free flag is cast + To the blaze of the sun and the wings of the blast; + Will ye turn from a struggle so bravely begun, + From a foe that is breaking, a field that's half won? + + Whoso loves not his kind, and who fears not the Lord, + Let him join that foe's service, accursed and abhorred + Let him do his base will, as the slave only can,-- + Let him put on the bloodhound, and put off the Man! + + Let him go where the cold blood that creeps in his veins + Shall stiffen the slave-whip, and rust on his chains; + Where the black slave shall laugh in his bonds, to behold + The White Slave beside him, self-fettered and sold! + + But ye, who still boast of hearts beating and warm, + Rise, from lake shore and ocean's, like waves in a storm, + Come, throng round our banner in Liberty's name, + Like winds from your mountains, like prairies aflame! + + Our foe, hidden long in his ambush of night, + Now, forced from his covert, stands black in the light. + Oh, the cruel to Man, and the hateful to God, + Smite him down to the earth, that is cursed where he trod! + + For deeper than thunder of summer's loud shower, + On the dome of the sky God is striking the hour! + Shall we falter before what we've prayed for so long, + When the Wrong is so weak, and the Right is so strong? + + Come forth all together! come old and come young, + Freedom's vote in each hand, and her song on each tongue; + Truth naked is stronger than Falsehood in mail; + The Wrong cannot prosper, the Right cannot fail. + + Like leaves of the summer once numbered the foe, + But the hoar-frost is falling, the northern winds blow; + Like leaves of November erelong shall they fall, + For earth wearies of them, and God's over all! + + + + +WHAT OF THE DAY? + +Written during the stirring weeks when the great political battle for +Freedom under Fremont's leadership was permitting strong hope of +success,--a hope overshadowed and solemnized by a sense of the magnitude +of the barbaric evil, and a forecast of the unscrupulous and desperate +use of all its powers in the last and decisive struggle. + + + A SOUND of tumult troubles all the air, + Like the low thunders of a sultry sky + Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare; + The hills blaze red with warnings; foes draw nigh, + Treading the dark with challenge and reply. + Behold the burden of the prophet's vision; + The gathering hosts,--the Valley of Decision, + Dusk with the wings of eagles wheeling o'er. + Day of the Lord, of darkness and not light! + It breaks in thunder and the whirlwind's roar + Even so, Father! Let Thy will be done; + Turn and o'erturn, end what Thou bast begun + In judgment or in mercy: as for me, + If but the least and frailest, let me be + Evermore numbered with the truly free + Who find Thy service perfect liberty! + I fain would thank Thee that my mortal life + Has reached the hour (albeit through care and pain) + When Good and Evil, as for final strife, + Close dim and vast on Armageddon's plain; + And Michael and his angels once again + Drive howling back the Spirits of the Night. + Oh for the faith to read the signs aright + And, from the angle of Thy perfect sight, + See Truth's white banner floating on before; + And the Good Cause, despite of venal friends, + And base expedients, move to noble ends; + See Peace with Freedom make to Time amends, + And, through its cloud of dust, the threshing-floor, + Flailed by the thunder, heaped with chaffless grain. + + 1856. + + + + +A SONG, INSCRIBED TO THE FREMONT CLUBS. + +Written after the election in 1586, which showed the immense gains of +the Free Soil party, and insured its success in 1860. + + BENEATH thy skies, November! + Thy skies of cloud and rain, + Around our blazing camp-fires + We close our ranks again. + Then sound again the bugles, + Call the muster-roll anew; + If months have well-nigh won the field, + What may not four years do? + + For God be praised! New England + Takes once more her ancient place; + Again the Pilgrim's banner + Leads the vanguard of the race. + Then sound again the bugles, etc. + + Along the lordly Hudson, + A shout of triumph breaks; + The Empire State is speaking, + From the ocean to the lakes. + Then sound again the bugles, etc. + + The Northern hills are blazing, + The Northern skies are bright; + And the fair young West is turning + Her forehead to the light! + Then sound again the bugles, etc. + + Push every outpost nearer, + Press hard the hostile towers! + Another Balaklava, + And the Malakoff is ours! + Then sound again the bugles, + Call the muster-roll anew; + If months have well-nigh won the field, + What may not four years do? + + + + +THE PANORAMA. + + "A! fredome is a nobill thing! + Fredome mayse man to haif liking. + Fredome all solace to man giffis; + He levys at ese that frely levys + A nobil hart may haif nane ese + Na ellvs nocht that may him plese + Gyff Fredome failythe." + ARCHDEACON BARBOUR. + + + THROUGH the long hall the shuttered windows shed + A dubious light on every upturned head; + On locks like those of Absalom the fair, + On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair, + On blank indifference and on curious stare; + On the pale Showman reading from his stage + The hieroglyphics of that facial page; + Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit + Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot, + And the shrill call, across the general din, + "Roll up your curtain! Let the show begin!" + + At length a murmur like the winds that break + Into green waves the prairie's grassy lake, + Deepened and swelled to music clear and loud, + And, as the west-wind lifts a summer cloud, + The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far + A green land stretching to the evening star, + Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees + And flowers hummed over by the desert bees, + Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness show + Fantastic outcrops of the rock below; + The slow result of patient Nature's pains, + And plastic fingering of her sun and rains; + Arch, tower, and gate, grotesquely windowed hall, + And long escarpment of half-crumbled wall, + Huger than those which, from steep hills of vine, + Stare through their loopholes on the travelled Rhine; + Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind + A fancy, idle as the prairie wind, + Of the land's dwellers in an age unguessed; + The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West. + + Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells surpass + The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass, + Vast as the sky against whose sunset shores + Wave after wave the billowy greenness pours; + And, onward still, like islands in that main + Loom the rough peaks of many a mountain chain, + Whence east and west a thousand waters run + From winter lingering under summer's sun. + And, still beyond, long lines of foam and sand + Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a-land, + From many a wide-lapped port and land-locked bay, + Opening with thunderous pomp the world's highway + To Indian isles of spice, and marts of far Cathay. + + "Such," said the Showman, as the curtain fell, + "Is the new Canaan of our Israel; + The land of promise to the swarming North, + Which, hive-like, sends its annual surplus forth, + To the poor Southron on his worn-out soil, + Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil; + To Europe's exiles seeking home and rest, + And the lank nomads of the wandering West, + Who, asking neither, in their love of change + And the free bison's amplitude of range, + Rear the log-hut, for present shelter meant, + Not future comfort, like an Arab's tent." + + Then spake a shrewd on-looker, "Sir," said he, + "I like your picture, but I fain would see + A sketch of what your promised land will be + When, with electric nerve, and fiery-brained, + With Nature's forces to its chariot chained, + The future grasping, by the past obeyed, + The twentieth century rounds a new decade." + + Then said the Showman, sadly: "He who grieves + Over the scattering of the sibyl's leaves + Unwisely mourns. Suffice it, that we know + What needs must ripen from the seed we sow; + That present time is but the mould wherein + We cast the shapes of holiness and sin. + A painful watcher of the passing hour, + Its lust of gold, its strife for place and power; + Its lack of manhood, honor, reverence, truth, + Wise-thoughted age, and generous-hearted youth; + Nor yet unmindful of each better sign, + The low, far lights, which on th' horizon shine, + Like those which sometimes tremble on the rim + Of clouded skies when day is closing dim, + Flashing athwart the purple spears of rain + The hope of sunshine on the hills again + I need no prophet's word, nor shapes that pass + Like clouding shadows o'er a magic glass; + For now, as ever, passionless and cold, + Doth the dread angel of the future hold + Evil and good before us, with no voice + Or warning look to guide us in our choice; + With spectral hands outreaching through the gloom + The shadowy contrasts of the coming doom. + Transferred from these, it now remains to give + The sun and shade of Fate's alternative." + + Then, with a burst of music, touching all + The keys of thrifty life,--the mill-stream's fall, + The engine's pant along its quivering rails, + The anvil's ring, the measured beat of flails, + The sweep of scythes, the reaper's whistled tune, + Answering the summons of the bells of noon, + The woodman's hail along the river shores, + The steamboat's signal, and the dip of oars + Slowly the curtain rose from off a land + Fair as God's garden. Broad on either hand + The golden wheat-fields glimmered in the sun, + And the tall maize its yellow tassels spun. + Smooth highways set with hedge-rows living green, + With steepled towns through shaded vistas seen, + The school-house murmuring with its hive-like swarm, + The brook-bank whitening in the grist-mill's storm, + The painted farm-house shining through the leaves + Of fruited orchards bending at its eaves, + Where live again, around the Western hearth, + The homely old-time virtues of the North; + Where the blithe housewife rises with the day, + And well-paid labor counts his task a play. + And, grateful tokens of a Bible free, + And the free Gospel of Humanity, + Of diverse-sects and differing names the shrines, + One in their faith, whate'er their outward signs, + Like varying strophes of the same sweet hymn + From many a prairie's swell and river's brim, + A thousand church-spires sanctify the air + Of the calm Sabbath, with their sign of prayer. + + Like sudden nightfall over bloom and green + The curtain dropped: and, momently, between + The clank of fetter and the crack of thong, + Half sob, half laughter, music swept along; + A strange refrain, whose idle words and low, + Like drunken mourners, kept the time of woe; + As if the revellers at a masquerade + Heard in the distance funeral marches played. + Such music, dashing all his smiles with tears, + The thoughtful voyager on Ponchartrain hears, + Where, through the noonday dusk of wooded shores + The negro boatman, singing to his oars, + With a wild pathos borrowed of his wrong + Redeems the jargon of his senseless song. + "Look," said the Showman, sternly, as he rolled + His curtain upward. "Fate's reverse behold!" + + A village straggling in loose disarray + Of vulgar newness, premature decay; + A tavern, crazy with its whiskey brawls, + With "Slaves at Auction!" garnishing its walls; + Without, surrounded by a motley crowd, + The shrewd-eyed salesman, garrulous and loud, + A squire or colonel in his pride of place, + Known at free fights, the caucus, and the race, + Prompt to proclaim his honor without blot, + And silence doubters with a ten-pace shot, + Mingling the negro-driving bully's rant + With pious phrase and democratic cant, + Yet never scrupling, with a filthy jest, + To sell the infant from its mother's breast, + Break through all ties of wedlock, home, and kin, + Yield shrinking girlhood up to graybeard sin; + Sell all the virtues with his human stock, + The Christian graces on his auction-block, + And coolly count on shrewdest bargains driven + In hearts regenerate, and in souls forgiven! + + Look once again! The moving canvas shows + A slave plantation's slovenly repose, + Where, in rude cabins rotting midst their weeds, + The human chattel eats, and sleeps, and breeds; + And, held a brute, in practice, as in law, + Becomes in fact the thing he's taken for. + There, early summoned to the hemp and corn, + The nursing mother leaves her child new-born; + There haggard sickness, weak and deathly faint, + Crawls to his task, and fears to make complaint; + And sad-eyed Rachels, childless in decay, + Weep for their lost ones sold and torn away! + Of ampler size the master's dwelling stands, + In shabby keeping with his half-tilled lands; + The gates unhinged, the yard with weeds unclean, + The cracked veranda with a tipsy lean. + Without, loose-scattered like a wreck adrift, + Signs of misrule and tokens of unthrift; + Within, profusion to discomfort joined, + The listless body and the vacant mind; + The fear, the hate, the theft and falsehood, born + In menial hearts of toil, and stripes, and scorn + There, all the vices, which, like birds obscene, + Batten on slavery loathsome and unclean, + From the foul kitchen to the parlor rise, + Pollute the nursery where the child-heir lies, + Taint infant lips beyond all after cure, + With the fell poison of a breast impure; + Touch boyhood's passions with the breath of flame, + From girlhood's instincts steal the blush of shame. + So swells, from low to high, from weak to strong, + The tragic chorus of the baleful wrong; + Guilty or guiltless, all within its range + Feel the blind justice of its sure revenge. + + Still scenes like these the moving chart reveals. + Up the long western steppes the blighting steals; + Down the Pacific slope the evil Fate + Glides like a shadow to the Golden Gate + From sea to sea the drear eclipse is thrown, + From sea to sea the Mauvaises Terres have grown, + A belt of curses on the New World's zone! + + The curtain fell. All drew a freer breath, + As men are wont to do when mournful death + Is covered from their sight. The Showman stood + With drooping brow in sorrow's attitude + One moment, then with sudden gesture shook + His loose hair back, and with the air and look + Of one who felt, beyond the narrow stage + And listening group, the presence of the age, + And heard the footsteps of the things to be, + Poured out his soul in earnest words and free. + + "O friends!" he said, "in this poor trick of paint + You see the semblance, incomplete and faint, + Of the two-fronted Future, which, to-day, + Stands dim and silent, waiting in your way. + To-day, your servant, subject to your will; + To-morrow, master, or for good or ill. + If the dark face of Slavery on you turns, + If the mad curse its paper barrier spurns, + If the world granary of the West is made + The last foul market of the slaver's trade, + Why rail at fate? The mischief is your own. + Why hate your neighbor? Blame yourselves + alone! + + "Men of the North! The South you charge with wrong + Is weak and poor, while you are rich and strong. + If questions,--idle and absurd as those + The old-time monks and Paduan doctors chose,-- + Mere ghosts of questions, tariffs, and dead banks, + And scarecrow pontiffs, never broke your ranks, + Your thews united could, at once, roll back + The jostled nation to its primal track. + Nay, were you simply steadfast, manly, just, + True to the faith your fathers left in trust, + If stainless honor outweighed in your scale + A codfish quintal or a factory bale, + Full many a noble heart, (and such remain + In all the South, like Lot in Siddim's plain, + Who watch and wait, and from the wrong's control + Keep white and pure their chastity of soul,) + Now sick to loathing of your weak complaints, + Your tricks as sinners, and your prayers as saints, + Would half-way meet the frankness of your tone, + And feel their pulses beating with your own. + + "The North! the South! no geographic line + Can fix the boundary or the point define, + Since each with each so closely interblends, + Where Slavery rises, and where Freedom ends. + Beneath your rocks the roots, far-reaching, hide + Of the fell Upas on the Southern side; + The tree whose branches in your northwinds wave + Dropped its young blossoms on Mount Vernon's grave; + The nursling growth of Monticello's crest + Is now the glory of the free Northwest; + To the wise maxims of her olden school + Virginia listened from thy lips, Rantoul; + Seward's words of power, and Sumner's fresh renown, + Flow from the pen that Jefferson laid down! + And when, at length, her years of madness o'er, + Like the crowned grazer on Euphrates' shore, + From her long lapse to savagery, her mouth + Bitter with baneful herbage, turns the South, + Resumes her old attire, and seeks to smooth + Her unkempt tresses at the glass of truth, + Her early faith shall find a tongue again, + New Wythes and Pinckneys swell that old refrain, + Her sons with yours renew the ancient pact, + The myth of Union prove at last a fact! + Then, if one murmur mars the wide content, + Some Northern lip will drawl the last dissent, + Some Union-saving patriot of your own + Lament to find his occupation gone. + + "Grant that the North 's insulted, scorned, betrayed, + O'erreached in bargains with her neighbor made, + When selfish thrift and party held the scales + For peddling dicker, not for honest sales,-- + Whom shall we strike? Who most deserves our blame? + The braggart Southron, open in his aim, + And bold as wicked, crashing straight through all + That bars his purpose, like a cannon-ball? + Or the mean traitor, breathing northern air, + With nasal speech and puritanic hair, + Whose cant the loss of principle survives, + As the mud-turtle e'en its head outlives; + Who, caught, chin-buried in some foul offence, + Puts on a look of injured innocence, + And consecrates his baseness to the cause + Of constitution, union, and the laws? + + "Praise to the place-man who can hold aloof + His still unpurchased manhood, office-proof; + Who on his round of duty walks erect, + And leaves it only rich in self-respect; + As More maintained his virtue's lofty port + In the Eighth Henry's base and bloody court. + But, if exceptions here and there are found, + Who tread thus safely on enchanted ground, + The normal type, the fitting symbol still + Of those who fatten at the public mill, + Is the chained dog beside his master's door, + Or Circe's victim, feeding on all four! + + "Give me the heroes who, at tuck of drum, + Salute thy staff, immortal Quattlebum! + Or they who, doubly armed with vote and gun, + Following thy lead, illustrious Atchison, + Their drunken franchise shift from scene to scene, + As tile-beard Jourdan did his guillotine! + Rather than him who, born beneath our skies, + To Slavery's hand its supplest tool supplies; + The party felon whose unblushing face + Looks from the pillory of his bribe of place, + And coolly makes a merit of disgrace, + Points to the footmarks of indignant scorn, + Shows the deep scars of satire's tossing horn; + And passes to his credit side the sum + Of all that makes a scoundrel's martyrdom! + + "Bane of the North, its canker and its moth! + These modern Esaus, bartering rights for broth! + Taxing our justice, with their double claim, + As fools for pity, and as knaves for blame; + Who, urged by party, sect, or trade, within + The fell embrace of Slavery's sphere of sin, + Part at the outset with their moral sense, + The watchful angel set for Truth's defence; + Confound all contrasts, good and ill; reverse + The poles of life, its blessing and its curse; + And lose thenceforth from their perverted sight + The eternal difference 'twixt the wrong and right; + To them the Law is but the iron span + That girds the ankles of imbruted man; + To them the Gospel has no higher aim + Than simple sanction of the master's claim, + Dragged in the slime of Slavery's loathsome trail, + Like Chalier's Bible at his ass's tail! + + "Such are the men who, with instinctive dread, + Whenever Freedom lifts her drooping head, + Make prophet-tripods of their office-stools, + And scare the nurseries and the village schools + With dire presage of ruin grim and great, + A broken Union and a foundered State! + Such are the patriots, self-bound to the stake + Of office, martyrs for their country's sake + Who fill themselves the hungry jaws of Fate; + And by their loss of manhood save the State. + In the wide gulf themselves like Cortius throw, + And test the virtues of cohesive dough; + As tropic monkeys, linking heads and tails, + Bridge o'er some torrent of Ecuador's vales! + + "Such are the men who in your churches rave + To swearing-point, at mention of the slave! + When some poor parson, haply unawares, + Stammers of freedom in his timid prayers; + Who, if some foot-sore negro through the town + Steals northward, volunteer to hunt him down. + Or, if some neighbor, flying from disease, + Courts the mild balsam of the Southern breeze, + With hue and cry pursue him on his track, + And write Free-soiler on the poor man's back. + Such are the men who leave the pedler's cart, + While faring South, to learn the driver's art, + Or, in white neckcloth, soothe with pious aim + The graceful sorrows of some languid dame, + Who, from the wreck of her bereavement, saves + The double charm of widowhood and slaves + Pliant and apt, they lose no chance to show + To what base depths apostasy can go; + Outdo the natives in their readiness + To roast a negro, or to mob a press; + Poise a tarred schoolmate on the lyncher's rail, + Or make a bonfire of their birthplace mail! + + "So some poor wretch, whose lips no longer bear + The sacred burden of his mother's prayer, + By fear impelled, or lust of gold enticed, + Turns to the Crescent from the Cross of Christ, + And, over-acting in superfluous zeal, + Crawls prostrate where the faithful only kneel, + Out-howls the Dervish, hugs his rags to court + The squalid Santon's sanctity of dirt; + And, when beneath the city gateway's span + Files slow and long the Meccan caravan, + And through its midst, pursued by Islam's prayers, + The prophet's Word some favored camel bears, + The marked apostate has his place assigned + The Koran-bearer's sacred rump behind, + With brush and pitcher following, grave and mute, + In meek attendance on the holy brute! + + "Men of the North! beneath your very eyes, + By hearth and home, your real danger lies. + Still day by day some hold of freedom falls + Through home-bred traitors fed within its walls. + Men whom yourselves with vote and purse sustain, + At posts of honor, influence, and gain; + The right of Slavery to your sons to teach, + And 'South-side' Gospels in your pulpits preach, + Transfix the Law to ancient freedom dear + On the sharp point of her subverted spear, + And imitate upon her cushion plump + The mad Missourian lynching from his stump; + Or, in your name, upon the Senate's floor + Yield up to Slavery all it asks, and more; + And, ere your dull eyes open to the cheat, + Sell your old homestead underneath your feet + While such as these your loftiest outlooks hold, + While truth and conscience with your wares are sold, + While grave-browed merchants band themselves to aid + An annual man-hunt for their Southern trade, + What moral power within your grasp remains + To stay the mischief on Nebraska's plains? + High as the tides of generous impulse flow, + As far rolls back the selfish undertow; + And all your brave resolves, though aimed as true + As the horse-pistol Balmawhapple drew, + To Slavery's bastions lend as slight a shock + As the poor trooper's shot to Stirling rock! + + "Yet, while the need of Freedom's cause demands + The earnest efforts of your hearts and hands, + Urged by all motives that can prompt the heart + To prayer and toil and manhood's manliest part; + Though to the soul's deep tocsin Nature joins + The warning whisper of her Orphic pines, + The north-wind's anger, and the south-wind's sigh, + The midnight sword-dance of the northern sky, + And, to the ear that bends above the sod + Of the green grave-mounds in the Fields of God, + In low, deep murmurs of rebuke or cheer, + The land's dead fathers speak their hope or fear, + Yet let not Passion wrest from Reason's hand + The guiding rein and symbol of command. + Blame not the caution proffering to your zeal + A well-meant drag upon its hurrying wheel; + Nor chide the man whose honest doubt extends + To the means only, not the righteous ends; + Nor fail to weigh the scruples and the fears + Of milder natures and serener years. + In the long strife with evil which began + With the first lapse of new-created man, + Wisely and well has Providence assigned + To each his part,--some forward, some behind; + And they, too, serve who temper and restrain + The o'erwarm heart that sets on fire the brain. + True to yourselves, feed Freedom's altar-flame + With what you have; let others do the same. + + "Spare timid doubters; set like flint your face + Against the self-sold knaves of gain and place + Pity the weak; but with unsparing hand + Cast out the traitors who infest the land; + From bar, press, pulpit, cast them everywhere, + By dint of fasting, if you fail by prayer. + And in their place bring men of antique mould, + Like the grave fathers of your Age of Gold; + Statesmen like those who sought the primal fount + Of righteous law, the Sermon on the Mount; + Lawyers who prize, like Quincy, (to our day + Still spared, Heaven bless him!) honor more than pay, + And Christian jurists, starry-pure, like Jay; + Preachers like Woolman, or like them who bore + The faith of Wesley to our Western shore, + And held no convert genuine till he broke + Alike his servants' and the Devil's yoke; + And priests like him who Newport's market trod, + And o'er its slave-ships shook the bolts of God! + So shall your power, with a wise prudence used, + Strong but forbearing, firm but not abused, + In kindly keeping with the good of all, + The nobler maxims of the past recall, + Her natural home-born right to Freedom give, + And leave her foe his robber-right,--to live. + Live, as the snake does in his noisome fen! + Live, as the wolf does in his bone-strewn den! + Live, clothed with cursing like a robe of flame, + The focal point of million-fingered shame! + Live, till the Southron, who, with all his faults, + Has manly instincts, in his pride revolts, + Dashes from off him, midst the glad world's cheers, + The hideous nightmare of his dream of years, + And lifts, self-prompted, with his own right hand, + The vile encumbrance from his glorious land! + + "So, wheresoe'er our destiny sends forth + Its widening circles to the South or North, + Where'er our banner flaunts beneath the stars + Its mimic splendors and its cloudlike bars, + There shall Free Labor's hardy children stand + The equal sovereigns of a slaveless land. + And when at last the hunted bison tires, + And dies o'ertaken by the squatter's fires; + And westward, wave on wave, the living flood + Breaks on the snow-line of majestic Hood; + And lonely Shasta listening hears the tread + Of Europe's fair-haired children, Hesper-led; + And, gazing downward through his boar-locks, sees + The tawny Asian climb his giant knees, + The Eastern sea shall hush his waves to hear + Pacific's surf-beat answer Freedom's cheer, + And one long rolling fire of triumph run + Between the sunrise and the sunset gun!" + + . . . . . . . . . . + + My task is done. The Showman and his show, + Themselves but shadows, into shadows go; + And, if no song of idlesse I have sung. + Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung; + If the harsh numbers grate on tender ears, + And the rough picture overwrought appears, + With deeper coloring, with a sterner blast, + Before my soul a voice and vision passed, + Such as might Milton's jarring trump require, + Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid fire. + Oh, not of choice, for themes of public wrong + I leave the green and pleasant paths of song, + The mild, sweet words which soften and adorn, + For sharp rebuke and bitter laugh of scorn. + More dear to me some song of private worth, + Some homely idyl of my native North, + Some summer pastoral of her inland vales, + Or, grim and weird, her winter fireside tales + Haunted by ghosts of unreturning sails, + Lost barks at parting hung from stem to helm + With prayers of love like dreams on Virgil's elm. + Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen; + I owe but kindness to my fellow-men; + And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer + Their woes and weakness to our Father bear, + Wherever fruits of Christian love are found + In holy lives, to me is holy ground. + But the time passes. It were vain to crave + A late indulgence. What I had I gave. + Forget the poet, but his warning heed, + And shame his poor word with your nobler deed. + + 1856. + + + + +ON A PRAYER-BOOK, + +WITH ITS FRONTISPIECE, ARY SCHEFFER'S "CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR," +AMERICANIZED BY THE OMISSION OF THE BLACK MAN. + +It is hardly to be credited, yet is true, that in the anxiety of the +Northern merchant to conciliate his Southern customer, a publisher was +found ready thus to mutilate Scheffer's picture. He intended his edition +for use in the Southern States undoubtedly, but copies fell into the +hands of those who believed literally in a gospel which was to preach +liberty to the captive. + + + O ARY SCHEFFER! when beneath thine eye, + Touched with the light that cometh from above, + Grew the sweet picture of the dear Lord's love, + No dream hadst thou that Christian hands would tear + Therefrom the token of His equal care, + And make thy symbol of His truth a lie + The poor, dumb slave whose shackles fall away + In His compassionate gaze, grubbed smoothly out, + To mar no more the exercise devout + Of sleek oppression kneeling down to pray + Where the great oriel stains the Sabbath day! + Let whoso can before such praying-books + Kneel on his velvet cushion; I, for one, + Would sooner bow, a Parsee, to the sun, + Or tend a prayer-wheel in Thibetar brooks, + Or beat a drum on Yedo's temple-floor. + No falser idol man has bowed before, + In Indian groves or islands of the sea, + Than that which through the quaint-carved Gothic door + Looks forth,--a Church without humanity! + Patron of pride, and prejudice, and wrong,-- + The rich man's charm and fetich of the strong, + The Eternal Fulness meted, clipped, and shorn, + The seamless robe of equal mercy torn, + The dear Christ hidden from His kindred flesh, + And, in His poor ones, crucified afresh! + Better the simple Lama scattering wide, + Where sweeps the storm Alechan's steppes along, + His paper horses for the lost to ride, + And wearying Buddha with his prayers to make + The figures living for the traveller's sake, + Than he who hopes with cheap praise to beguile + The ear of God, dishonoring man the while; + Who dreams the pearl gate's hinges, rusty grown, + Are moved by flattery's oil of tongue alone; + That in the scale Eternal Justice bears + The generous deed weighs less than selfish prayers, + And words intoned with graceful unction move + The Eternal Goodness more than lives of truth and love. + Alas, the Church! The reverend head of Jay, + Enhaloed with its saintly silvered hair, + Adorns no more the places of her prayer; + And brave young Tyng, too early called away, + Troubles the Haman of her courts no more + Like the just Hebrew at the Assyrian's door; + And her sweet ritual, beautiful but dead + As the dry husk from which the grain is shed, + And holy hymns from which the life devout + Of saints and martyrs has wellnigh gone out, + Like candles dying in exhausted air, + For Sabbath use in measured grists are ground; + And, ever while the spiritual mill goes round, + Between the upper and the nether stones, + Unseen, unheard, the wretched bondman groans, + And urges his vain plea, prayer-smothered, anthem-drowned! + + O heart of mine, keep patience! Looking forth, + As from the Mount of Vision, I behold, + Pure, just, and free, the Church of Christ on earth; + The martyr's dream, the golden age foretold! + And found, at last, the mystic Graal I see, + Brimmed with His blessing, pass from lip to lip + In sacred pledge of human fellowship; + And over all the songs of angels hear; + Songs of the love that casteth out all fear; + Songs of the Gospel of Humanity! + Lo! in the midst, with the same look He wore, + Healing and blessing on Genesaret's shore, + Folding together, with the all-tender might + Of His great love, the dark bands and the white, + Stands the Consoler, soothing every pain, + Making all burdens light, and breaking every chain. + + 1859. + + + + +THE SUMMONS. + + MY ear is full of summer sounds, + Of summer sights my languid eye; + Beyond the dusty village bounds + I loiter in my daily rounds, + And in the noon-time shadows lie. + + I hear the wild bee wind his horn, + The bird swings on the ripened wheat, + The long green lances of the corn + Are tilting in the winds of morn, + The locust shrills his song of heat. + + Another sound my spirit hears, + A deeper sound that drowns them all; + A voice of pleading choked with tears, + The call of human hopes and fears, + The Macedonian cry to Paul! + + The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows; + I know the word and countersign; + Wherever Freedom's vanguard goes, + Where stand or fall her friends or foes, + I know the place that should be mine. + + Shamed be the hands that idly fold, + And lips that woo the reed's accord, + When laggard Time the hour has tolled + For true with false and new with old + To fight the battles of the Lord! + + O brothers! blest by partial Fate + With power to match the will and deed, + To him your summons comes too late + Who sinks beneath his armor's weight, + And has no answer but God-speed! + 1860. + + + + +TO WILLIAM H. SEWARD. + +On the 12th of January, 1861, Mr. Seward delivered in the Senate chamber +a speech on The State of the Union, in which he urged the paramount duty +of preserving the Union, and went as far as it was possible to go, +without surrender of principles, in concessions to the Southern party, +concluding his argument with these words: "Having submitted my own +opinions on this great crisis, it remains only to say, that I shall +cheerfully lend to the government my best support in whatever prudent +yet energetic efforts it shall make to preserve the public peace, and to +maintain and preserve the Union; advising, only, that it practise, as +far as possible, the utmost moderation, forbearance, and conciliation. + +"This Union has not yet accomplished what good for mankind was manifestly +designed by Him who appoints the seasons and prescribes the duties of +states and empires. No; if it were cast down by faction to-day, it would +rise again and re-appear in all its majestic proportions to-morrow. It +is the only government that can stand here. Woe! woe! to the man that +madly lifts his hand against it. It shall continue and endure; and men, +in after times, shall declare that this generation, which saved the +Union from such sudden and unlooked-for dangers, surpassed in +magnanimity even that one which laid its foundations in the eternal +principles of liberty, justice, and humanity." + + + STATESMAN, I thank thee! and, if yet dissent + Mingles, reluctant, with my large content, + I cannot censure what was nobly meant. + But, while constrained to hold even Union less + Than Liberty and Truth and Righteousness, + I thank thee in the sweet and holy name + Of peace, for wise calm words that put to shame + Passion and party. Courage may be shown + Not in defiance of the wrong alone; + He may be bravest who, unweaponed, bears + The olive branch, and, strong in justice, spares + The rash wrong-doer, giving widest scope, + To Christian charity and generous hope. + If, without damage to the sacred cause + Of Freedom and the safeguard of its laws-- + If, without yielding that for which alone + We prize the Union, thou canst save it now + From a baptism of blood, upon thy brow + A wreath whose flowers no earthly soil have known; + Woven of the beatitudes, shall rest, + And the peacemaker be forever blest! + + 1861. + + + + + +IN WAR TIME. + +TO SAMUEL E. SEWALL AND HARRIET W. SEWAll, OF MELROSE. + +These lines to my old friends stood as dedication in the volume which +contained a collection of pieces under the general title of In War Time. +The group belonging distinctly under that title I have retained here; +the other pieces in the volume are distributed among the appropriate +divisions. + + OLOR ISCANUS queries: "Why should we + Vex at the land's ridiculous miserie?" + So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawn + Of England's civil strife, did careless Vaughan + Bemock his times. O friends of many years! + Though faith and trust are stronger than our fears, + And the signs promise peace with liberty, + Not thus we trifle with our country's tears + And sweat of agony. The future's gain + Is certain as God's truth; but, meanwhile, pain + Is bitter and tears are salt: our voices take + A sober tone; our very household songs + Are heavy with a nation's griefs and wrongs; + And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake + Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat, + The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning + feet! + + 1863 + + + + +THY WILL BE DONE. + + WE see not, know not; all our way + Is night,--with Thee alone is day + From out the torrent's troubled drift, + Above the storm our prayers we lift, + Thy will be done! + + The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, + But who are we to make complaint, + Or dare to plead, in times like these, + The weakness of our love of ease? + Thy will be done! + + We take with solemn thankfulness + Our burden up, nor ask it less, + And count it joy that even we + May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee, + Whose will be done! + + Though dim as yet in tint and line, + We trace Thy picture's wise design, + And thank Thee that our age supplies + Its dark relief of sacrifice. + Thy will be done! + + And if, in our unworthiness, + Thy sacrificial wine we press; + If from Thy ordeal's heated bars + Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, + Thy will be done! + + If, for the age to come, this hour + Of trial hath vicarious power, + And, blest by Thee, our present pain, + Be Liberty's eternal gain, + Thy will be done! + + Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, + The anthem of the destinies! + The minor of Thy loftier strain, + Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, + Thy will be done! + 1861. + + + + +A WORD FOR THE HOUR. + + THE firmament breaks up. In black eclipse + Light after light goes out. One evil star, + Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, + As in the dream of the Apocalypse, + Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep + Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keep + Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap + On one hand into fratricidal fight, + Or, on the other, yield eternal right, + Frame lies of law, and good and ill confound? + What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage-ground + Our feet are planted: let us there remain + In unrevengeful calm, no means untried + Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied, + The sad spectators of a suicide! + They break the links of Union: shall we light + The fires of hell to weld anew the chain + On that red anvil where each blow is pain? + Draw we not even now a freer breath, + As from our shoulders falls a load of death + Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore + When keen with life to a dead horror bound? + Why take we up the accursed thing again? + Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more + Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag + With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press + The golden cluster on our brave old flag + In closer union, and, if numbering less, + Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain. + + 16th First mo., 1861. + + + + +"EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT." + +LUTHER'S HYMN. + + WE wait beneath the furnace-blast + The pangs of transformation; + Not painlessly doth God recast + And mould anew the nation. + Hot burns the fire + Where wrongs expire; + Nor spares the hand + That from the land + Uproots the ancient evil. + + The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared + Its bloody rain is dropping; + The poison plant the fathers spared + All else is overtopping. + East, West, South, North, + It curses the earth; + All justice dies, + And fraud and lies + Live only in its shadow. + + What gives the wheat-field blades of steel? + What points the rebel cannon? + What sets the roaring rabble's heel + On the old star-spangled pennon? + What breaks the oath + Of the men o' the South? + What whets the knife + For the Union's life?-- + Hark to the answer: Slavery! + + Then waste no blows on lesser foes + In strife unworthy freemen. + God lifts to-day the veil, and shows + The features of the demon + O North and South, + Its victims both, + Can ye not cry, + "Let slavery die!" + And union find in freedom? + + What though the cast-out spirit tear + The nation in his going? + We who have shared the guilt must share + The pang of his o'erthrowing! + Whate'er the loss, + Whate'er the cross, + Shall they complain + Of present pain + Who trust in God's hereafter? + + For who that leans on His right arm + Was ever yet forsaken? + What righteous cause can suffer harm + If He its part has taken? + Though wild and loud, + And dark the cloud, + Behind its folds + His hand upholds + The calm sky of to-morrow! + + Above the maddening cry for blood, + Above the wild war-drumming, + Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good + The evil overcoming. + Give prayer and purse + To stay the Curse + Whose wrong we share, + Whose shame we bear, + Whose end shall gladden Heaven! + + In vain the bells of war shall ring + Of triumphs and revenges, + While still is spared the evil thing + That severs and estranges. + But blest the ear + That yet shall hear + The jubilant bell + That rings the knell + Of Slavery forever! + + Then let the selfish lip be dumb, + And hushed the breath of sighing; + Before the joy of peace must come + The pains of purifying. + God give us grace + Each in his place + To bear his lot, + And, murmuring not, + Endure and wait and labor! + + 1861. + + + + +TO JOHN C. FREMONT. + +On the 31st of August, 1861, General Fremont, then in charge of the +Western Department, issued a proclamation which contained a clause, +famous as the first announcement of emancipation: "The property," it +declared, "real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri, +who shall take up arms against the United States, or who shall be +directly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in the +field, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and their +slaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men." Mr. Lincoln +regarded the proclamation as premature and countermanded it, after +vainly endeavoring to persuade Fremont of his own motion to revoke it. + + + THY error, Fremont, simply was to act + A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, + And, taking counsel but of common sense, + To strike at cause as well as consequence. + Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn + At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown + Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, + Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn + It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, + To flatter treason, and avoid offence + To that Dark Power whose underlying crime + Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence. + But if thine be the fate of all who break + The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years + Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make + A lane for freedom through the level spears, + Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee, + Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! + The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear + Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. + Who would recall them now must first arrest + The winds that blow down from the free Northwest, + Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back + The Mississippi to its upper springs. + Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack + But the full time to harden into things. + + 1861. + + + + +THE WATCHERS. + + BESIDE a stricken field I stood; + On the torn turf, on grass and wood, + Hung heavily the dew of blood. + + Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, + But all the air was quick with pain + And gusty sighs and tearful rain. + + Two angels, each with drooping head + And folded wings and noiseless tread, + Watched by that valley of the dead. + + The one, with forehead saintly bland + And lips of blessing, not command, + Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. + + The other's brows were scarred and knit, + His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, + His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. + + "How long!"--I knew the voice of Peace,-- + "Is there no respite? no release? + When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? + + "O Lord, how long!! One human soul + Is more than any parchment scroll, + Or any flag thy winds unroll. + + "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? + How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, + Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? + + "O brother! if thine eye can see, + Tell how and when the end shall be, + What hope remains for thee and me." + + Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun + No strife nor pang beneath the sun, + When human rights are staked and won. + + "I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, + I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, + I walked with Sidney to the block. + + "The moor of Marston felt my tread, + Through Jersey snows the march I led, + My voice Magenta's charges sped. + + "But now, through weary day and night, + I watch a vague and aimless fight + For leave to strike one blow aright. + + "On either side my foe they own + One guards through love his ghastly throne, + And one through fear to reverence grown. + + "Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, + By open foes, or those afraid + To speed thy coming through my aid? + + "Why watch to see who win or fall? + I shake the dust against them all, + I leave them to their senseless brawl." + + "Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; + The doom is near, the stake is great + God knoweth if it be too late. + + "Still wait and watch; the way prepare + Where I with folded wings of prayer + May follow, weaponless and bare." + + "Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied, + "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed, + In low lament the answer died. + + A rustling as of wings in flight, + An upward gleam of lessening white, + So passed the vision, sound and sight. + + But round me, like a silver bell + Rung down the listening sky to tell + Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. + + "Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod + Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, + But all is possible with God!" + + 1862. + + + + +TO ENGLISHMEN. + +Written when, in the stress of our terrible war, the English ruling +class, with few exceptions, were either coldly indifferent or hostile to +the party of freedom. Their attitude was illustrated by caricatures of +America, among which was one of a slaveholder and cowhide, with the +motto, "Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger?" + + You flung your taunt across the wave + We bore it as became us, + Well knowing that the fettered slave + Left friendly lips no option save + To pity or to blame us. + + You scoffed our plea. "Mere lack of will, + Not lack of power," you told us + We showed our free-state records; still + You mocked, confounding good and ill, + Slave-haters and slaveholders. + + We struck at Slavery; to the verge + Of power and means we checked it; + Lo!--presto, change! its claims you urge, + Send greetings to it o'er the surge, + And comfort and protect it. + + But yesterday you scarce could shake, + In slave-abhorring rigor, + Our Northern palms for conscience' sake + To-day you clasp the hands that ache + With "walloping the nigger!" + + O Englishmen!--in hope and creed, + In blood and tongue our brothers! + We too are heirs of Runnymede; + And Shakespeare's fame and Cromwell's deed + Are not alone our mother's. + + "Thicker than water," in one rill + Through centuries of story + Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still + We share with you its good and ill, + The shadow and the glory. + + Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave + Nor length of years can part us + Your right is ours to shrine and grave, + The common freehold of the brave, + The gift of saints and martyrs. + + Our very sins and follies teach + Our kindred frail and human + We carp at faults with bitter speech, + The while, for one unshared by each, + We have a score in common. + + We bowed the heart, if not the knee, + To England's Queen, God bless her + We praised you when your slaves went free + We seek to unchain ours. Will ye + Join hands with the oppressor? + + And is it Christian England cheers + The bruiser, not the bruised? + And must she run, despite the tears + And prayers of eighteen hundred years, + Amuck in Slavery's crusade? + + Oh, black disgrace! Oh, shame and loss + Too deep for tongue to phrase on + Tear from your flag its holy cross, + And in your van of battle toss + The pirate's skull-bone blazon! + + 1862. + + + + +MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. + +It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithridates of +Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried away +captive to Colchis. Athenxus considers this a just punishment for their +wickedness in first introducing the slave-trade into Greece. From this +ancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, "The Chian hath bought +himself a master." + + + KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land + How, when the Chian's cup of guilt + Was full to overflow, there came + God's justice in the sword of flame + That, red with slaughter to its hilt, + Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand? + + The heavens are still and far; + But, not unheard of awful Jove, + The sighing of the island slave + Was answered, when the AEgean wave + The keels of Mithridates clove, + And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war. + + "Robbers of Chios! hark," + The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree! + Pluck your last cluster from the vine, + Drain your last cup of Chian wine; + Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, + In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark." + + Then rose the long lament + From the hoar sea-god's dusky caves + The priestess rent her hair and cried, + "Woe! woe! The gods are sleepless-eyed!" + And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, + The lords of Chios into exile went. + + "The gods at last pay well," + So Hellas sang her taunting song, + "The fisher in his net is caught, + The Chian hath his master bought;" + And isle from isle, with laughter long, + Took up and sped the mocking parable. + + Once more the slow, dumb years + Bring their avenging cycle round, + And, more than Hellas taught of old, + Our wiser lesson shall be told, + Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, + To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their + blood and tears. + + 1868. + + + + +AT PORT ROYAL. + +In November, 1861, a Union force under Commodore Dupont and General +Sherman captured Port Royal, and from this point as a basis of +operations, the neighboring islands between Charleston and Savannah were +taken possession of. The early occupation of this district, where the +negro population was greatly in excess of the white, gave an opportunity +which was at once seized upon, of practically emancipating the slaves +and of beginning that work of civilization which was accepted as the +grave responsibility of those who had labored for freedom. + + + THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, + The ship-lights on the sea; + The night-wind smooths with drifting sand + Our track on lone Tybee. + + At last our grating keels outslide, + Our good boats forward swing; + And while we ride the land-locked tide, + Our negroes row and sing. + + For dear the bondman holds his gifts + Of music and of song + The gold that kindly Nature sifts + Among his sands of wrong: + + The power to make his toiling days + And poor home-comforts please; + The quaint relief of mirth that plays + With sorrow's minor keys. + + Another glow than sunset's fire + Has filled the west with light, + Where field and garner, barn and byre, + Are blazing through the night. + + The land is wild with fear and hate, + The rout runs mad and fast; + From hand to hand, from gate to gate + The flaming brand is passed. + + The lurid glow falls strong across + Dark faces broad with smiles + Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss + That fire yon blazing piles. + + With oar-strokes timing to their song, + They weave in simple lays + The pathos of remembered wrong, + The hope of better days,-- + + The triumph-note that Miriam sung, + The joy of uncaged birds + Softening with Afric's mellow tongue + Their broken Saxon words. + + + + +SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. + + Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come + To set de people free; + An' massa tink it day ob doom, + An' we ob jubilee. + De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves + He jus' as 'trong as den; + He say de word: we las' night slaves; + To-day, de Lord's freemen. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn; + Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + Ole massa on he trabbels gone; + He leaf de land behind + De Lord's breff blow him furder on, + Like corn-shuck in de wind. + We own de hoe, we own de plough, + We own de hands dat hold; + We sell de pig, we sell de cow, + But nebber chile be sold. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn; + Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We pray de Lord: he gib us signs + Dat some day we be free; + De norf-wind tell it to de pines, + De wild-duck to de sea; + We tink it when de church-bell ring, + We dream it in de dream; + De rice-bird mean it when he sing, + De eagle when be scream. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn + Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We know de promise nebber fail, + An' nebber lie de word; + So like de 'postles in de jail, + We waited for de Lord + An' now he open ebery door, + An' trow away de key; + He tink we lub him so before, + We hub him better free. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + He'll gib de rice an' corn; + Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + So sing our dusky gondoliers; + And with a secret pain, + And smiles that seem akin to tears, + We hear the wild refrain. + + We dare not share the negro's trust, + Nor yet his hope deny; + We only know that God is just, + And every wrong shall die. + + Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, + Flame-lighted, ruder still + We start to think that hapless race + Must shape our good or ill; + + That laws of changeless justice bind + Oppressor with oppressed; + And, close as sin and suffering joined, + We march to Fate abreast. + + Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be + Our sign of blight or bloom, + The Vala-song of Liberty, + Or death-rune of our doom! + + 1862. + + + + +ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL. + +ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862. + + WHEN first I saw our banner wave + Above the nation's council-hall, + I heard beneath its marble wall + The clanking fetters of the slave! + + In the foul market-place I stood, + And saw the Christian mother sold, + And childhood with its locks of gold, + Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood. + + I shut my eyes, I held my breath, + And, smothering down the wrath and shame + That set my Northern blood aflame, + Stood silent,--where to speak was death. + + Beside me gloomed the prison-cell + Where wasted one in slow decline + For uttering simple words of mine, + And loving freedom all too well. + + The flag that floated from the dome + Flapped menace in the morning air; + I stood a perilled stranger where + The human broker made his home. + + For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword + And Law their threefold sanction gave, + And to the quarry of the slave + Went hawking with our symbol-bird. + + On the oppressor's side was power; + And yet I knew that every wrong, + However old, however strong, + But waited God's avenging hour. + + I knew that truth would crush the lie, + Somehow, some time, the end would be; + Yet scarcely dared I hope to see + The triumph with my mortal eye. + + But now I see it! In the sun + A free flag floats from yonder dome, + And at the nation's hearth and home + The justice long delayed is done. + + Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, + The message of deliverance comes, + But heralded by roll of drums + On waves of battle-troubled air! + + Midst sounds that madden and appall, + The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew! + The harp of David melting through + The demon-agonies of Saul! + + Not as we hoped; but what are we? + Above our broken dreams and plans + God lays, with wiser hand than man's, + The corner-stones of liberty. + + I cavil not with Him: the voice + That freedom's blessed gospel tells + Is sweet to me as silver bells, + Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice! + + Dear friends still toiling in the sun; + Ye dearer ones who, gone before, + Are watching from the eternal shore + The slow work by your hands begun, + + Rejoice with me! The chastening rod + Blossoms with love; the furnace heat + Grows cool beneath His blessed feet + Whose form is as the Son of God! + + Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs + Are sweetened; on our ground of grief + Rise day by day in strong relief + The prophecies of better things. + + Rejoice in hope! The day and night + Are one with God, and one with them + Who see by faith the cloudy hem + Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light. + + 1862. + + + + +THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. + + THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, + The charging trumpets blow; + Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, + No earthquake strives below. + + And, calm and patient, Nature keeps + Her ancient promise well, + Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps + The battle's breath of hell. + + And still she walks in golden hours + Through harvest-happy farms, + And still she wears her fruits and flowers + Like jewels on her arms. + + What mean the gladness of the plain, + This joy of eve and morn, + The mirth that shakes the beard of grain + And yellow locks of corn? + + Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, + And hearts with hate are hot; + But even-paced come round the years, + And Nature changes not. + + She meets with smiles our bitter grief, + With songs our groans of pain; + She mocks with tint of flower and leaf + The war-field's crimson stain. + + Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear + Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; + Too near to God for doubt or fear, + She shares the eternal calm. + + She knows the seed lies safe below + The fires that blast and burn; + For all the tears of blood we sow + She waits the rich return. + + She sees with clearer eve than ours + The good of suffering born,-- + The hearts that blossom like her flowers, + And ripen like her corn. + + Oh, give to us, in times like these, + The vision of her eyes; + And make her fields and fruited trees + Our golden prophecies + + Oh, give to us her finer ear + Above this stormy din, + We too would hear the bells of cheer + Ring peace and freedom in. + + 1862. + + + + +HYMN, + +SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. + + OH, none in all the world before + Were ever glad as we! + We're free on Carolina's shore, + We're all at home and free. + + Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, + Who suffered for our sake, + To open every prison door, + And every yoke to break! + + Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, + And help us sing and pray; + The hand that blessed the little child, + Upon our foreheads lay. + + We hear no more the driver's horn, + No more the whip we fear, + This holy day that saw Thee born + Was never half so dear. + + The very oaks are greener clad, + The waters brighter smile; + Oh, never shone a day so glad + On sweet St. Helen's Isle. + + We praise Thee in our songs to-day, + To Thee in prayer we call, + Make swift the feet and straight the way + Of freedom unto all. + + Come once again, O blessed Lord! + Come walking on the sea! + And let the mainlands hear the word + That sets the islands free! + + 1863. + + + + +THE PROCLAMATION. + +President Lincoln's proclamation of emancipation was issued +January 1, 1863. + + + SAINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds + Of Ballymena, wakened with these words + "Arise, and flee + Out from the land of bondage, and be free!" + + Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven + The angels singing of his sins forgiven, + And, wondering, sees + His prison opening to their golden keys, + + He rose a man who laid him down a slave, + Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, + And outward trod + Into the glorious liberty of God. + + He cast the symbols of his shame away; + And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, + Though back and limb + Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon + him!" + + So went he forth; but in God's time he came + To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame; + And, dying, gave + The land a saint that lost him as a slave. + + O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb + Waiting for God, your hour at last has come, + And freedom's song + Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong! + + Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint + Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, + The oppressor spare, + Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. + + Go forth, like him! like him return again, + To bless the land whereon in bitter pain + Ye toiled at first, + And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed. + + 1863. + + + + +ANNIVERSARY POEM. + +Read before the Alumni of the Friends' Yearly Meeting School, at the +Annual Meeting at Newport, R. I., 15th 6th mo., 1863. + + + ONCE more, dear friends, you meet beneath + A clouded sky + Not yet the sword has found its sheath, + And on the sweet spring airs the breath + Of war floats by. + + Yet trouble springs not from the ground, + Nor pain from chance; + The Eternal order circles round, + And wave and storm find mete and bound + In Providence. + + Full long our feet the flowery ways + Of peace have trod, + Content with creed and garb and phrase: + A harder path in earlier days + Led up to God. + + Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear, + Are made our own; + Too long the world has smiled to hear + Our boast of full corn in the ear + By others sown; + + To see us stir the martyr fires + Of long ago, + And wrap our satisfied desires + In the singed mantles that our sires + Have dropped below. + + But now the cross our worthies bore + On us is laid; + Profession's quiet sleep is o'er, + And in the scale of truth once more + Our faith is weighed. + + The cry of innocent blood at last + Is calling down + An answer in the whirlwind-blast, + The thunder and the shadow cast + From Heaven's dark frown. + + The land is red with judgments. Who + Stands guiltless forth? + Have we been faithful as we knew, + To God and to our brother true, + To Heaven and Earth. + + How faint, through din of merchandise + And count of gain, + Have seemed to us the captive's cries! + How far away the tears and sighs + Of souls in pain! + + This day the fearful reckoning comes + To each and all; + We hear amidst our peaceful homes + The summons of the conscript drums, + The bugle's call. + + Our path is plain; the war-net draws + Round us in vain, + While, faithful to the Higher Cause, + We keep our fealty to the laws + Through patient pain. + + The levelled gun, the battle-brand, + We may not take + But, calmly loyal, we can stand + And suffer with our suffering land + For conscience' sake. + + Why ask for ease where all is pain? + Shall we alone + Be left to add our gain to gain, + When over Armageddon's plain + The trump is blown? + + To suffer well is well to serve; + Safe in our Lord + The rigid lines of law shall curve + To spare us; from our heads shall swerve + Its smiting sword. + + And light is mingled with the gloom, + And joy with grief; + Divinest compensations come, + Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom + In sweet relief. + + Thanks for our privilege to bless, + By word and deed, + The widow in her keen distress, + The childless and the fatherless, + The hearts that bleed! + + For fields of duty, opening wide, + Where all our powers + Are tasked the eager steps to guide + Of millions on a path untried + The slave is ours! + + Ours by traditions dear and old, + Which make the race + Our wards to cherish and uphold, + And cast their freedom in the mould + Of Christian grace. + + And we may tread the sick-bed floors + Where strong men pine, + And, down the groaning corridors, + Pour freely from our liberal stores + The oil and wine. + + Who murmurs that in these dark days + His lot is cast? + God's hand within the shadow lays + The stones whereon His gates of praise + Shall rise at last. + + Turn and o'erturn, O outstretched Hand + Nor stint, nor stay; + The years have never dropped their sand + On mortal issue vast and grand + As ours to-day. + + Already, on the sable ground + Of man's despair + Is Freedom's glorious picture found, + With all its dusky hands unbound + Upraised in prayer. + + Oh, small shall seem all sacrifice + And pain and loss, + When God shall wipe the weeping eyes, + For suffering give the victor's prize, + The crown for cross. + + + + +BARBARA FRIETCHIE. + +This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of the +incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources. It has +since been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and the +story was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted by +all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed +gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, +holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when +the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, she +denounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, and +drove them out; and when General Burnside's troops followed close upon +Jackson's, she waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May +Qnantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave +her flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has +been a blending of the two incidents. + + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in the cool September morn. + + The clustered spires of Frederick stand + Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + + Round about them orchards sweep, + Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + + Fair as the garden of the Lord + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + On that pleasant morn of the early fall + When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; + + Over the mountains winding down, + Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + + Forty flags with their silver stars, + Forty flags with their crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind: the sun + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, + Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; + + Bravest of all in Frederick town, + She took up the flag the men hauled down; + + In her attic window the staff she set, + To show that one heart was loyal yet. + + Up the street came the rebel tread, + Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + + Under his slouched hat left and right + He glanced; the old flag met his sight. + + "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. + "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. + + It shivered the window, pane and sash; + It rent the banner with seam and gash. + + Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff + Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. + + She leaned far out on the window-sill, + And shook it forth with a royal will. + + "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, + But spare your country's flag," she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word. + + "Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet. + + All day long that free flag tost + Over the heads of the rebel host. + + Ever its torn folds rose and fell + On the loyal winds that loved it well; + + And through the hill-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honor to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, + Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! + + Peace and order and beauty draw + Round thy symbol of light and law; + + And ever the stars above look down + On thy stars below in Frederick town! + + 1863. + + + + +WHAT THE BIRDS SAID. + + THE birds against the April wind + Flew northward, singing as they flew; + They sang, "The land we leave behind + Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew." + + "O wild-birds, flying from the South, + What saw and heard ye, gazing down?" + "We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, + The sickened camp, the blazing town! + + "Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps, + We saw your march-worn children die; + In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, + We saw your dead uncoffined lie. + + "We heard the starving prisoner's sighs, + And saw, from line and trench, your sons + Follow our flight with home-sick eyes + Beyond the battery's smoking guns." + + "And heard and saw ye only wrong + And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?" + "We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song, + The crash of Slavery's broken locks! + + "We saw from new, uprising States + The treason-nursing mischief spurned, + As, crowding Freedom's ample gates, + The long estranged and lost returned. + + "O'er dusky faces, seamed and old, + And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, + With hope in every rustling fold, + We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. + + "And struggling up through sounds accursed, + A grateful murmur clomb the air; + A whisper scarcely heard at first, + It filled the listening heavens with prayer. + + "And sweet and far, as from a star, + Replied a voice which shall not cease, + Till, drowning all the noise of war, + It sings the blessed song of peace!" + + So to me, in a doubtful day + Of chill and slowly greening spring, + Low stooping from the cloudy gray, + The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing. + + They vanished in the misty air, + The song went with them in their flight; + But lo! they left the sunset fair, + And in the evening there was light. + April, 1864. + + + + +THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. + +A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," A. D. 1154-1864. + + A STRONG and mighty Angel, + Calm, terrible, and bright, + The cross in blended red and blue + Upon his mantle white. + + Two captives by him kneeling, + Each on his broken chain, + Sang praise to God who raiseth + The dead to life again! + + Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, + "Wear this," the Angel said; + "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign, + The white, the blue, and red." + + Then rose up John de Matha + In the strength the Lord Christ gave, + And begged through all the land of France + The ransom of the slave. + + The gates of tower and castle + Before him open flew, + The drawbridge at his coming fell, + The door-bolt backward drew. + + For all men owned his errand, + And paid his righteous tax; + And the hearts of lord and peasant + Were in his hands as wax. + + At last, outbound from Tunis, + His bark her anchor weighed, + Freighted with seven-score Christian souls + Whose ransom he had paid. + + But, torn by Paynim hatred, + Her sails in tatters hung; + And on the wild waves, rudderless, + A shattered hulk she swung. + + "God save us!" cried the captain, + "For naught can man avail; + Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks + Her rudder and her sail! + + "Behind us are the Moormen; + At sea we sink or strand + There's death upon the water, + There's death upon the land!" + + Then up spake John de Matha + "God's errands never fail! + Take thou the mantle which I wear, + And make of it a sail." + + They raised the cross-wrought mantle, + The blue, the white, the red; + And straight before the wind off-shore + The ship of Freedom sped. + + "God help us!" cried the seamen, + "For vain is mortal skill + The good ship on a stormy sea + Is drifting at its will." + + Then up spake John de Matha + "My mariners, never fear + The Lord whose breath has filled her sail + May well our vessel steer!" + + So on through storm and darkness + They drove for weary hours; + And lo! the third gray morning shone + On Ostia's friendly towers. + + And on the walls the watchers + The ship of mercy knew, + They knew far off its holy cross, + The red, the white, and blue. + + And the bells in all the steeples + Rang out in glad accord, + To welcome home to Christian soil + The ransomed of the Lord. + + So runs the ancient legend + By bard and painter told; + And lo! the cycle rounds again, + The new is as the old! + + With rudder foully broken, + And sails by traitors torn, + Our country on a midnight sea + Is waiting for the morn. + + Before her, nameless terror; + Behind, the pirate foe; + The clouds are black above her, + The sea is white below. + + The hope of all who suffer, + The dread of all who wrong, + She drifts in darkness and in storm, + How long, O Lord I how long? + + But courage, O my mariners + Ye shall not suffer wreck, + While up to God the freedman's prayers + Are rising from your deck. + + Is not your sail the banner + Which God hath blest anew, + The mantle that De Matha wore, + The red, the white, the blue? + + Its hues are all of heaven, + The red of sunset's dye, + The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud, + The blue of morning's sky. + + Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, + For daylight and for land; + The breath of God is in your sail, + Your rudder is His hand. + + Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted + With blessings and with hopes; + The saints of old with shadowy hands + Are pulling at your ropes. + + Behind ye holy martyrs + Uplift the palm and crown; + Before ye unborn ages send + Their benedictions down. + + Take heart from John de Matha!-- + God's errands never fail! + Sweep on through storm and darkness, + The thunder and the hail! + + Sail on! The morning cometh, + The port ye yet shall win; + And all the bells of God shall ring + The good ship bravely in! + + 1865. + + + + +LAUS DEO! + +On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the constitutional amendment +abolishing slavery. The resolution was adopted by Congress, January 31, +1865. The ratification by the requisite number of states was announced +December 18, 1865. + + + IT is done! + Clang of bell and roar of gun + Send the tidings up and down. + How the belfries rock and reel! + How the great guns, peal on peal, + Fling the joy from town to town! + + Ring, O bells! + Every stroke exulting tells + Of the burial hour of crime. + Loud and long, that all may hear, + Ring for every listening ear + Of Eternity and Time! + + Let us kneel + God's own voice is in that peal, + And this spot is holy ground. + Lord, forgive us! What are we, + That our eyes this glory see, + That our ears have heard the sound! + + For the Lord + On the whirlwind is abroad; + In the earthquake He has spoken; + He has smitten with His thunder + The iron walls asunder, + And the gates of brass are broken. + + Loud and long + Lift the old exulting song; + Sing with Miriam by the sea, + He has cast the mighty down; + Horse and rider sink and drown; + "He hath triumphed gloriously!" + + Did we dare, + In our agony of prayer, + Ask for more than He has done? + When was ever His right hand + Over any time or land + Stretched as now beneath the sun? + + How they pale, + Ancient myth and song and tale, + In this wonder of our days, + When the cruel rod of war + Blossoms white with righteous law, + And the wrath of man is praise! + + Blotted out + All within and all about + Shall a fresher life begin; + Freer breathe the universe + As it rolls its heavy curse + On the dead and buried sin! + + It is done! + In the circuit of the sun + Shall the sound thereof go forth. + It shall bid the sad rejoice, + It shall give the dumb a voice, + It shall belt with joy the earth! + + Ring and swing, + Bells of joy! On morning's wing + Send the song of praise abroad! + With a sound of broken chains + Tell the nations that He reigns, + Who alone is Lord and God! + + 1865. + + + + +HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPATION AT NEWBURYPORT. + + NOT unto us who did but seek + The word that burned within to speak, + Not unto us this day belong + The triumph and exultant song. + + Upon us fell in early youth + The burden of unwelcome truth, + And left us, weak and frail and few, + The censor's painful work to do. + + Thenceforth our life a fight became, + The air we breathed was hot with blame; + For not with gauged and softened tone + We made the bondman's cause our own. + + We bore, as Freedom's hope forlorn, + The private hate, the public scorn; + Yet held through all the paths we trod + Our faith in man and trust in God. + + We prayed and hoped; but still, with awe, + The coming of the sword we saw; + We heard the nearing steps of doom, + We saw the shade of things to come. + + In grief which they alone can feel + Who from a mother's wrong appeal, + With blended lines of fear and hope + We cast our country's horoscope. + + For still within her house of life + We marked the lurid sign of strife, + And, poisoning and imbittering all, + We saw the star of Wormwood fall. + + Deep as our love for her became + Our hate of all that wrought her shame, + And if, thereby, with tongue and pen + We erred,--we were but mortal men. + + We hoped for peace; our eyes survey + The blood-red dawn of Freedom's day + We prayed for love to loose the chain; + 'T is shorn by battle's axe in twain! + + Nor skill nor strength nor zeal of ours + Has mined and heaved the hostile towers; + Not by our hands is turned the key + That sets the sighing captives free. + + A redder sea than Egypt's wave + Is piled and parted for the slave; + A darker cloud moves on in light; + A fiercer fire is guide by night. + + The praise, O Lord! is Thine alone, + In Thy own way Thy work is done! + Our poor gifts at Thy feet we cast, + To whom be glory, first and last! + + 1865. + + + + + +AFTER THE WAR. + + + + +THE PEACE AUTUMN. + +Written for the Fssex County Agricultural Festival, 1865. + + + THANK God for rest, where none molest, + And none can make afraid; + For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest + Beneath the homestead shade! + + Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge, + The negro's broken chains, + And beat them at the blacksmith's forge + To ploughshares for our plains. + + Alike henceforth our hills of snow, + And vales where cotton flowers; + All streams that flow, all winds that blow, + Are Freedom's motive-powers. + + Henceforth to Labor's chivalry + Be knightly honors paid; + For nobler than the sword's shall be + The sickle's accolade. + + Build up an altar to the Lord, + O grateful hearts of ours + And shape it of the greenest sward + That ever drank the showers. + + Lay all the bloom of gardens there, + And there the orchard fruits; + Bring golden grain from sun and air, + From earth her goodly roots. + + There let our banners droop and flow, + The stars uprise and fall; + Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow, + Let sighing breezes call. + + Their names let hands of horn and tan + And rough-shod feet applaud, + Who died to make the slave a man, + And link with toil reward. + + There let the common heart keep time + To such an anthem sung + As never swelled on poet's rhyme, + Or thrilled on singer's tongue. + + Song of our burden and relief, + Of peace and long annoy; + The passion of our mighty grief + And our exceeding joy! + + A song of praise to Him who filled + The harvests sown in tears, + And gave each field a double yield + To feed our battle-years. + + A song of faith that trusts the end + To match the good begun, + Nor doubts the power of Love to blend + The hearts of men as one! + + + + +TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS. + +The thirty-ninth congress was that which met in 1865 after the close of +the war, when it was charged with the great question of reconstruction; +the uppermost subject in men's minds was the standing of those who had +recently been in arms against the Union and their relations to the +freedmen. + + + O PEOPLE-CHOSEN! are ye not + Likewise the chosen of the Lord, + To do His will and speak His word? + + From the loud thunder-storm of war + Not man alone hath called ye forth, + But He, the God of all the earth! + + The torch of vengeance in your hands + He quenches; unto Him belongs + The solemn recompense of wrongs. + + Enough of blood the land has seen, + And not by cell or gallows-stair + Shall ye the way of God prepare. + + Say to the pardon-seekers: Keep + Your manhood, bend no suppliant knees, + Nor palter with unworthy pleas. + + Above your voices sounds the wail + Of starving men; we shut in vain * + Our eyes to Pillow's ghastly stain. ** + + What words can drown that bitter cry? + What tears wash out the stain of death? + What oaths confirm your broken faith? + + From you alone the guaranty + Of union, freedom, peace, we claim; + We urge no conqueror's terms of shame. + + Alas! no victor's pride is ours; + We bend above our triumphs won + Like David o'er his rebel son. + + Be men, not beggars. Cancel all + By one brave, generous action; trust + Your better instincts, and be just. + + Make all men peers before the law, + Take hands from off the negro's throat, + Give black and white an equal vote. + + Keep all your forfeit lives and lands, + But give the common law's redress + To labor's utter nakedness. + + Revive the old heroic will; + Be in the right as brave and strong + As ye have proved yourselves in wrong. + + Defeat shall then be victory, + Your loss the wealth of full amends, + And hate be love, and foes be friends. + + Then buried be the dreadful past, + Its common slain be mourned, and let + All memories soften to regret. + + Then shall the Union's mother-heart + Her lost and wandering ones recall, + Forgiving and restoring all,-- + + And Freedom break her marble trance + Above the Capitolian dome, + Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home + November, 1865. + + * Andersonville prison. + ** The massacre of Negro troops at Fort Pillow. + + + + +THE HIVE AT GETTYSBURG. + + IN the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, + So terrible alive, + Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became + The wandering wild bees' hive; + And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore + Those jaws of death apart, + In after time drew forth their honeyed store + To strengthen his strong heart. + + Dead seemed the legend: but it only slept + To wake beneath our sky; + Just on the spot whence ravening Treason crept + Back to its lair to die, + Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, + A stained and shattered drum + Is now the hive where, on their flowery rounds, + The wild bees go and come. + + Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, + They wander wide and far, + Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell, + Through vales once choked with war. + The low reveille of their battle-drum + Disturbs no morning prayer; + With deeper peace in summer noons their hum + Fills all the drowsy air. + + And Samson's riddle is our own to-day, + Of sweetness from the strong, + Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away + From the rent jaws of wrong. + From Treason's death we draw a purer life, + As, from the beast he slew, + A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife + The old-time athlete drew! + 1868. + + + + +HOWARD AT ATLANTA. + + RIGHT in the track where Sherman + Ploughed his red furrow, + Out of the narrow cabin, + Up from the cellar's burrow, + Gathered the little black people, + With freedom newly dowered, + Where, beside their Northern teacher, + Stood the soldier, Howard. + + He listened and heard the children + Of the poor and long-enslaved + Reading the words of Jesus, + Singing the songs of David. + Behold!--the dumb lips speaking, + The blind eyes seeing! + Bones of the Prophet's vision + Warmed into being! + + Transformed he saw them passing + Their new life's portal + Almost it seemed the mortal + Put on the immortal. + No more with the beasts of burden, + No more with stone and clod, + But crowned with glory and honor + In the image of God! + + There was the human chattel + Its manhood taking; + There, in each dark, bronze statue, + A soul was waking! + The man of many battles, + With tears his eyelids pressing, + Stretched over those dusky foreheads + His one-armed blessing. + + And he said: "Who hears can never + Fear for or doubt you; + What shall I tell the children + Up North about you?" + Then ran round a whisper, a murmur, + Some answer devising: + And a little boy stood up: "General, + Tell 'em we're rising!" + + O black boy of Atlanta! + But half was spoken + The slave's chain and the master's + Alike are broken. + The one curse of the races + Held both in tether + They are rising,--all are rising, + The black and white together! + + O brave men and fair women! + Ill comes of hate and scorning + Shall the dark faces only + Be turned to mourning?-- + Make Time your sole avenger, + All-healing, all-redressing; + Meet Fate half-way, and make it + A joy and blessing! + + 1869. + + + + +THE EMANCIPATION GROUP. + +Moses Kimball, a citizen of Boston, presented to the city a duplicate +of the Freedman's Memorial statue erected in Lincoln Square, Washington. +The group, which stands in Park Square, represents the figure of a +slave, from whose limbs the broken fetters have fallen, kneeling in +gratitude at the feet of Lincoln. The group was designed by Thomas Ball, +and was unveiled December 9, 1879. These verses were written for the +occasion. + + AMIDST thy sacred effigies + Of old renown give place, + O city, Freedom-loved! to his + Whose hand unchained a race. + + Take the worn frame, that rested not + Save in a martyr's grave; + The care-lined face, that none forgot, + Bent to the kneeling slave. + + Let man be free! The mighty word + He spake was not his own; + An impulse from the Highest stirred + These chiselled lips alone. + + The cloudy sign, the fiery guide, + Along his pathway ran, + And Nature, through his voice, denied + The ownership of man. + + We rest in peace where these sad eyes + Saw peril, strife, and pain; + His was the nation's sacrifice, + And ours the priceless gain. + + O symbol of God's will on earth + As it is done above! + Bear witness to the cost and worth + Of justice and of love. + + Stand in thy place and testify + To coming ages long, + That truth is stronger than a lie, + And righteousness than wrong. + + + + +THE JUBILEE SINGERS. + +A number of students of Fisk University, under the direction of one of +the officers, gave a series of concerts in the Northern States, for the +purpose of establishing the college on a firmer financial foundation. +Their hymns and songs, mostly in a minor key, touched the hearts of the +people, and were received as peculiarly expressive of a race delivered +from bondage. + + VOICE of a people suffering long, + The pathos of their mournful song, + The sorrow of their night of wrong! + + Their cry like that which Israel gave, + A prayer for one to guide and save, + Like Moses by the Red Sea's wave! + + The stern accord her timbrel lent + To Miriam's note of triumph sent + O'er Egypt's sunken armament! + + The tramp that startled camp and town, + And shook the walls of slavery down, + The spectral march of old John Brown! + + The storm that swept through battle-days, + The triumph after long delays, + The bondmen giving God the praise! + + Voice of a ransomed race, sing on + Till Freedom's every right is won, + And slavery's every wrong undone + + 1880. + + + + +GARRISON. + +The earliest poem in this division was my youthful tribute to the great +reformer when himself a young man he was first sounding his trumpet in +Essex County. I close with the verses inscribed to him at the end of his +earthly career, May 24, 1879. My poetical service in the cause of +freedom is thus almost synchronous with his life of devotion to the +same cause. + + THE storm and peril overpast, + The hounding hatred shamed and still, + Go, soul of freedom! take at last + The place which thou alone canst fill. + + Confirm the lesson taught of old-- + Life saved for self is lost, while they + Who lose it in His service hold + The lease of God's eternal day. + + Not for thyself, but for the slave + Thy words of thunder shook the world; + No selfish griefs or hatred gave + The strength wherewith thy bolts were hurled. + + From lips that Sinai's trumpet blew + We heard a tender under song; + Thy very wrath from pity grew, + From love of man thy hate of wrong. + + Now past and present are as one; + The life below is life above; + Thy mortal years have but begun + Thy immortality of love. + + With somewhat of thy lofty faith + We lay thy outworn garment by, + Give death but what belongs to death, + And life the life that cannot die! + + Not for a soul like thine the calm + Of selfish ease and joys of sense; + But duty, more than crown or palm, + Its own exceeding recompense. + + Go up and on thy day well done, + Its morning promise well fulfilled, + Arise to triumphs yet unwon, + To holier tasks that God has willed. + + Go, leave behind thee all that mars + The work below of man for man; + With the white legions of the stars + Do service such as angels can. + + Wherever wrong shall right deny + Or suffering spirits urge their plea, + Be thine a voice to smite the lie, + A hand to set the captive free! + + + + + +SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM + + + + +THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. + + THE Quaker of the olden time! + How calm and firm and true, + Unspotted by its wrong and crime, + He walked the dark earth through. + The lust of power, the love of gain, + The thousand lures of sin + Around him, had no power to stain + The purity within. + + With that deep insight which detects + All great things in the small, + And knows how each man's life affects + The spiritual life of all, + He walked by faith and not by sight, + By love and not by law; + The presence of the wrong or right + He rather felt than saw. + + He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, + That nothing stands alone, + That whoso gives the motive, makes + His brother's sin his own. + And, pausing not for doubtful choice + Of evils great or small, + He listened to that inward voice + Which called away from all. + + O Spirit of that early day, + So pure and strong and true, + Be with us in the narrow way + Our faithful fathers knew. + Give strength the evil to forsake, + The cross of Truth to bear, + And love and reverent fear to make + Our daily lives a prayer! + + 1838. + + + + +DEMOCRACY. + +All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so +to them.--MATTHEW vii. 12. + + + BEARER of Freedom's holy light, + Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, + The foe of all which pains the sight, + Or wounds the generous ear of God! + + Beautiful yet thy temples rise, + Though there profaning gifts are thrown; + And fires unkindled of the skies + Are glaring round thy altar-stone. + + Still sacred, though thy name be breathed + By those whose hearts thy truth deride; + And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed + Around the haughty brows of Pride. + + Oh, ideal of my boyhood's time! + The faith in which my father stood, + Even when the sons of Lust and Crime + Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood! + + Still to those courts my footsteps turn, + For through the mists which darken there, + I see the flame of Freedom burn,-- + The Kebla of the patriot's prayer! + + The generous feeling, pure and warm, + Which owns the right of all divine; + The pitying heart, the helping arm, + The prompt self-sacrifice, are thine. + + Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, + How fade the lines of caste and birth! + How equal in their suffering lie + The groaning multitudes of earth! + + Still to a stricken brother true, + Whatever clime hath nurtured him; + As stooped to heal the wounded Jew + The worshipper of Gerizim. + + By misery unrepelled, unawed + By pomp or power, thou seest a Man + In prince or peasant, slave or lord, + Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. + + Through all disguise, form, place, or name, + Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, + Through poverty and squalid shame, + Thou lookest on the man within. + + On man, as man, retaining yet, + Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, + The crown upon his forehead set, + The immortal gift of God to him. + + And there is reverence in thy look; + For that frail form which mortals wear + The Spirit of the Holiest took, + And veiled His perfect brightness there. + + Not from the shallow babbling fount + Of vain philosophy thou art; + He who of old on Syria's Mount + Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart, + + In holy words which cannot die, + In thoughts which angels leaned to know, + Proclaimed thy message from on high, + Thy mission to a world of woe. + + That voice's echo hath not died! + From the blue lake of Galilee, + And Tabor's lonely mountain-side, + It calls a struggling world to thee. + + Thy name and watchword o'er this land + I hear in every breeze that stirs, + And round a thousand altars stand + Thy banded party worshippers. + + Not, to these altars of a day, + At party's call, my gift I bring; + But on thy olden shrine I lay + A freeman's dearest offering. + + The voiceless utterance of his will,-- + His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, + That manhood's heart remembers still + The homage of his generous youth. + + Election Day, 1841 + + + + +THE GALLOWS. + +Written on reading pamphlets published by clergymen against the +abolition of the gallows. + + + I. + THE suns of eighteen centuries have shone + Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made + The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone, + And mountain moss, a pillow for His head; + And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew, + And broke with publicans the bread of shame, + And drank with blessings, in His Father's name, + The water which Samaria's outcast drew, + Hath now His temples upon every shore, + Altar and shrine and priest; and incense dim + Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, + From lips which press the temple's marble floor, + Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread cross He bore. + + + II. + Yet as of old, when, meekly "doing good," + He fed a blind and selfish multitude, + And even the poor companions of His lot + With their dim earthly vision knew Him not, + How ill are His high teachings understood + Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest + At His own altar binds the chain anew; + Where He hath bidden to Life's equal feast, + The starving many wait upon the few; + Where He hath spoken Peace, His name hath been + The loudest war-cry of contending men; + Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed + The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, + Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, + And crossed its blazon with the holy sign; + Yea, in His name who bade the erring live, + And daily taught His lesson, to forgive! + Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel; + And, with His words of mercy on their lips, + Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips, + And the grim horror of the straining wheel; + Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, + Who saw before his searing eyeballs swim + The image of their Christ in cruel zeal, + Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly to him! + + + III. + The blood which mingled with the desert sand, + And beaded with its red and ghastly dew + The vines and olives of the Holy Land; + The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew; + The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er + They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear; + Goa's dark dungeons, Malta's sea-washed cell, + Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung + Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, + Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell! + The midnight of Bartholomew, the stake + Of Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame + Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake; + New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer + Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, + When guilt itself a human tear might claim,-- + Bear witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One! + That Earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy + name been done! + + + IV. + Thank God! that I have lived to see the time + When the great truth begins at last to find + An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, + Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime, + That man is holier than a creed, that all + Restraint upon him must consult his good, + Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, + And Love look in upon his solitude. + The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught + Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought + Into the common mind and popular thought; + And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore + The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, + Have found an echo in the general heart, + And of the public faith become a living part. + + + V. + Who shall arrest this tendency? Bring back + The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack? + Harden the softening human heart again + To cold indifference to a brother's pain? + Ye most unhappy men! who, turned away + From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, + Grope in the shadows of Man's twilight time, + What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood, + O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, + Permitted in another age and clime? + Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew + Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew + No evil in the Just One? Wherefore turn + To the dark, cruel past? Can ye not learn + From the pure Teacher's life how mildly free + Is the great Gospel of Humanity? + The Flamen's knife is bloodless, and no more + Mexitli's altars soak with human gore, + No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke + Through the green arches of the Druid's oak; + And ye of milder faith, with your high claim + Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, + Will ye become the Druids of our time + Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, + And, consecrators of Law's darkest crime, + Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand? + Beware, lest human nature, roused at last, + From its peeled shoulder your encumbrance cast, + And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, + Rank ye with those who led their victims round + The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, + Abhorred of Earth and Heaven, a pagan brotherhood! + + 1842. + + + + +SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. + + As o'er his furrowed fields which lie + Beneath a coldly dropping sky, + Yet chill with winter's melted snow, + The husbandman goes forth to sow, + + Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast + The ventures of thy seed we cast, + And trust to warmer sun and rain + To swell the germs and fill the grain. + + Who calls thy glorious service hard? + Who deems it not its own reward? + Who, for its trials, counts it less. + A cause of praise and thankfulness? + + It may not be our lot to wield + The sickle in the ripened field; + Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, + The reaper's song among the sheaves. + + Yet where our duty's task is wrought + In unison with God's great thought, + The near and future blend in one, + And whatsoe'er is willed, is done! + + And ours the grateful service whence + Comes day by day the recompense; + The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, + The fountain and the noonday shade. + + And were this life the utmost span, + The only end and aim of man, + Better the toil of fields like these + Than waking dream and slothful ease. + + But life, though falling like our grain, + Like that revives and springs again; + And, early called, how blest are they + Who wait in heaven their harvest-day! + + 1843. + + + + +TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. + +This poem was addressed to those who like Richard Cobden and John Bright +were seeking the reform of political evils in Great Britain by peaceful +and Christian means. It will be remembered that the Anti-Corn Law League +was in the midst of its labors at this time. + + + GOD bless ye, brothers! in the fight + Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail, + For better is your sense of right + Than king-craft's triple mail. + + Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban, + More mighty is your simplest word; + The free heart of an honest man + Than crosier or the sword. + + Go, let your blinded Church rehearse + The lesson it has learned so well; + It moves not with its prayer or curse + The gates of heaven or hell. + + Let the State scaffold rise again; + Did Freedom die when Russell died? + Forget ye how the blood of Vane + From earth's green bosom cried? + + The great hearts of your olden time + Are beating with you, full and strong; + All holy memories and sublime + And glorious round ye throng. + + The bluff, bold men of Runnymede + Are with ye still in times like these; + The shades of England's mighty dead, + Your cloud of witnesses! + + The truths ye urge are borne abroad + By every wind and every tide; + The voice of Nature and of God + Speaks out upon your side. + + The weapons which your hands have found + Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, + Light, Truth, and Love; your battle-ground + The free, broad field of Thought. + + No partial, selfish purpose breaks + The simple beauty of your plan, + Nor lie from throne or altar shakes + Your steady faith in man. + + The languid pulse of England starts + And bounds beneath your words of power, + The beating of her million hearts + Is with you at this hour! + + O ye who, with undoubting eyes, + Through present cloud and gathering storm, + Behold the span of Freedom's skies, + And sunshine soft and warm; + + Press bravely onward! not in vain + Your generous trust in human-kind; + The good which bloodshed could not gain + Your peaceful zeal shall find. + + Press on! the triumph shall be won + Of common rights and equal laws, + The glorious dream of Harrington, + And Sidney's good old cause. + + Blessing the cotter and the crown, + Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup; + And, plucking not the highest down, + Lifting the lowest up. + + Press on! and we who may not share + The toil or glory of your fight + May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, + God's blessing on the right! + + 1843. + + + + +THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. + +Some leading sectarian papers had lately published the letter of a +clergyman, giving an account of his attendance upon a criminal (who had +committed murder during a fit of intoxication), at the time of his +execution, in western New York. The writer describes the agony of the +wretched being, his abortive attempts at prayer, his appeal for life, +his fear of a violent death; and, after declaring his belief that the +poor victim died without hope of salvation, concludes with a warm eulogy +upon the gallows, being more than ever convinced of its utility by the +awful dread and horror which it inspired. + + + I. + FAR from his close and noisome cell, + By grassy lane and sunny stream, + Blown clover field and strawberry dell, + And green and meadow freshness, fell + The footsteps of his dream. + Again from careless feet the dew + Of summer's misty morn he shook; + Again with merry heart he threw + His light line in the rippling brook. + Back crowded all his school-day joys; + He urged the ball and quoit again, + And heard the shout of laughing boys + Come ringing down the walnut glen. + Again he felt the western breeze, + With scent of flowers and crisping hay; + And down again through wind-stirred trees + He saw the quivering sunlight play. + An angel in home's vine-hung door, + He saw his sister smile once more; + Once more the truant's brown-locked head + Upon his mother's knees was laid, + And sweetly lulled to slumber there, + With evening's holy hymn and prayer! + + II. + He woke. At once on heart and brain + The present Terror rushed again; + Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain + He woke, to hear the church-tower tell + Time's footfall on the conscious bell, + And, shuddering, feel that clanging din + His life's last hour had ushered in; + To see within his prison-yard, + Through the small window, iron barred, + The gallows shadow rising dim + Between the sunrise heaven and him; + A horror in God's blessed air; + A blackness in his morning light; + Like some foul devil-altar there + Built up by demon hands at night. + And, maddened by that evil sight, + Dark, horrible, confused, and strange, + A chaos of wild, weltering change, + All power of check and guidance gone, + Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on. + In vain he strove to breathe a prayer, + In vain he turned the Holy Book, + He only heard the gallows-stair + Creak as the wind its timbers shook. + No dream for him of sin forgiven, + While still that baleful spectre stood, + With its hoarse murmur, "Blood for Blood!" + Between him and the pitying Heaven. + + III. + Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, + And smote his breast, and on his chain, + Whose iron clasp he always felt, + His hot tears fell like rain; + And near him, with the cold, calm look + And tone of one whose formal part, + Unwarmed, unsoftened of the heart, + Is measured out by rule and book, + With placid lip and tranquil blood, + The hangman's ghostly ally stood, + Blessing with solemn text and word + The gallows-drop and strangling cord; + Lending the sacred Gospel's awe + And sanction to the crime of Law. + + IV. + He saw the victim's tortured brow, + The sweat of anguish starting there, + The record of a nameless woe + In the dim eye's imploring stare, + Seen hideous through the long, damp hair,-- + Fingers of ghastly skin and bone + Working and writhing on the stone! + And heard, by mortal terror wrung + From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, + The choking sob and low hoarse prayer; + As o'er his half-crazed fancy came + A vision of the eternal flame, + Its smoking cloud of agonies, + Its demon-worm that never dies, + The everlasting rise and fall + Of fire-waves round the infernal wall; + While high above that dark red flood, + Black, giant-like, the gallows stood; + Two busy fiends attending there + One with cold mocking rite and prayer, + The other with impatient grasp, + Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp. + + V. + The unfelt rite at length was done, + The prayer unheard at length was said, + An hour had passed: the noonday sun + Smote on the features of the dead! + And he who stood the doomed beside, + Calm gauger of the swelling tide + Of mortal agony and fear, + Heeding with curious eye and ear + Whate'er revealed the keen excess + Of man's extremest wretchedness + And who in that dark anguish saw + An earnest of the victim's fate, + The vengeful terrors of God's law, + The kindlings of Eternal hate, + The first drops of that fiery rain + Which beats the dark red realm of pain, + Did he uplift his earnest cries + Against the crime of Law, which gave + His brother to that fearful grave, + Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies, + And Faith's white blossoms never wave + To the soft breath of Memory's sighs; + Which sent a spirit marred and stained, + By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, + In madness and in blindness stark, + Into the silent, unknown dark? + No, from the wild and shrinking dread, + With which he saw the victim led + Beneath the dark veil which divides + Ever the living from the dead, + And Nature's solemn secret hides, + The man of prayer can only draw + New reasons for his bloody law; + New faith in staying Murder's hand + By murder at that Law's command; + New reverence for the gallows-rope, + As human nature's latest hope; + Last relic of the good old time, + When Power found license for its crime, + And held a writhing world in check + By that fell cord about its neck; + Stifled Sedition's rising shout, + Choked the young breath of Freedom out, + And timely checked the words which sprung + From Heresy's forbidden tongue; + While in its noose of terror bound, + The Church its cherished union found, + Conforming, on the Moslem plan, + The motley-colored mind of man, + Not by the Koran and the Sword, + But by the Bible and the Cord. + + VI. + O Thou at whose rebuke the grave + Back to warm life its sleeper gave, + Beneath whose sad and tearful glance + The cold and changed countenance + Broke the still horror of its trance, + And, waking, saw with joy above, + A brother's face of tenderest love; + Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, + The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, + And from Thy very garment's hem + Drew life and healing unto them, + The burden of Thy holy faith + Was love and life, not hate and death; + Man's demon ministers of pain, + The fiends of his revenge, were sent + From thy pure Gospel's element + To their dark home again. + Thy name is Love! What, then, is he, + Who in that name the gallows rears, + An awful altar built to Thee, + With sacrifice of blood and tears? + Oh, once again Thy healing lay + On the blind eyes which knew Thee not, + And let the light of Thy pure day + Melt in upon his darkened thought. + Soften his hard, cold heart, and show + The power which in forbearance lies, + And let him feel that mercy now + Is better than old sacrifice. + + VII. + As on the White Sea's charmed shore, + The Parsee sees his holy hill (10) + With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er, + Yet knows beneath them, evermore, + The low, pale fire is quivering still; + So, underneath its clouds of sin, + The heart of man retaineth yet + Gleams of its holy origin; + And half-quenched stars that never set, + Dim colors of its faded bow, + And early beauty, linger there, + And o'er its wasted desert blow + Faint breathings of its morning air. + Oh, never yet upon the scroll + Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul, + Hath Heaven inscribed "Despair!" + Cast not the clouded gem away, + Quench not the dim but living ray,-- + My brother man, Beware! + With that deep voice which from the skies + Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, + God's angel cries, Forbear. + + 1843 + + + + + +SONGS OF LABOR. + + + + +DEDICATION. + +Prefixed to the volume of which the group of six poems following this +prelude constituted the first portion. + + + I WOULD the gift I offer here + Might graces from thy favor take, + And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, + On softened lines and coloring, wear + The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. + + Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain + But what I have I give to thee, + The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, + And paler flowers, the latter rain + Calls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea. + + Above the fallen groves of green, + Where youth's enchanted forest stood, + Dry root and mossed trunk between, + A sober after-growth is seen, + As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood! + + Yet birds will sing, and breezes play + Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree; + And through the bleak and wintry day + It keeps its steady green alway,-- + So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. + + Art's perfect forms no moral need, + And beauty is its own excuse; + But for the dull and flowerless weed + Some healing virtue still must plead, + And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. + + So haply these, my simple lays + Of homely toil, may serve to show + The orchard bloom and tasselled maize + That skirt and gladden duty's ways, + The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. + + Haply from them the toiler, bent + Above his forge or plough, may gain, + A manlier spirit of content, + And feel that life is wisest spent + Where the strong working hand makes strong the + working brain. + + The doom which to the guilty pair + Without the walls of Eden came, + Transforming sinless ease to care + And rugged toil, no more shall bear + The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. + + A blessing now, a curse no more; + Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, + The coarse mechanic vesture wore, + A poor man toiling with the poor, + In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. + + 1850. + + + + +THE SHOEMAKERS. + + Ho! workers of the old time styled + The Gentle Craft of Leather + Young brothers of the ancient guild, + Stand forth once more together! + Call out again your long array, + In the olden merry manner + Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, + Fling out your blazoned banner! + + Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone + How falls the polished hammer + Rap, rap I the measured sound has grown + A quick and merry clamor. + Now shape the sole! now deftly curl + The glossy vamp around it, + And bless the while the bright-eyed girl + Whose gentle fingers bound it! + + For you, along the Spanish main + A hundred keels are ploughing; + For you, the Indian on the plain + His lasso-coil is throwing; + For you, deep glens with hemlock dark + The woodman's fire is lighting; + For you, upon the oak's gray bark, + The woodman's axe is smiting. + + For you, from Carolina's pine + The rosin-gum is stealing; + For you, the dark-eyed Florentine + Her silken skein is reeling; + For you, the dizzy goatherd roams + His rugged Alpine ledges; + For you, round all her shepherd homes, + Bloom England's thorny hedges. + + The foremost still, by day or night, + On moated mound or heather, + Where'er the need of trampled right + Brought toiling men together; + Where the free burghers from the wall + Defied the mail-clad master, + Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call, + No craftsmen rallied faster. + + Let foplings sneer, let fools deride, + Ye heed no idle scorner; + Free hands and hearts are still your pride, + And duty done, your honor. + Ye dare to trust, for honest fame, + The jury Time empanels, + And leave to truth each noble name + Which glorifies your annals. + + Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, + In strong and hearty German; + And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit, + And patriot fame of Sherman; + Still from his book, a mystic seer, + The soul of Behmen teaches, + And England's priestcraft shakes to hear + Of Fox's leathern breeches. + + The foot is yours; where'er it falls, + It treads your well-wrought leather, + On earthen floor, in marble halls, + On carpet, or on heather. + Still there the sweetest charm is found + Of matron grace or vestal's, + As Hebe's foot bore nectar round + Among the old celestials. + + Rap, rap!--your stout and bluff brogan, + With footsteps slow and weary, + May wander where the sky's blue span + Shuts down upon the prairie. + On Beauty's foot your slippers glance, + By Saratoga's fountains, + Or twinkle down the summer dance + Beneath the Crystal Mountains! + + The red brick to the mason's hand, + The brown earth to the tiller's, + The shoe in yours shall wealth command, + Like fairy Cinderella's! + As they who shunned the household maid + Beheld the crown upon her, + So all shall see your toil repaid + With hearth and home and honor. + + Then let the toast be freely quaffed, + In water cool and brimming,-- + "All honor to the good old Craft, + Its merry men and women!" + Call out again your long array, + In the old time's pleasant manner + Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, + Fling out his blazoned banner! + + 1845. + + + + +THE FISHERMEN. + + HURRAH! the seaward breezes + Sweep down the bay amain; + Heave up, my lads, the anchor! + Run up the sail again + Leave to the lubber landsmen + The rail-car and the steed; + The stars of heaven shall guide us, + The breath of heaven shall speed. + + From the hill-top looks the steeple, + And the lighthouse from the sand; + And the scattered pines are waving + Their farewell from the land. + One glance, my lads, behind us, + For the homes we leave one sigh, + Ere we take the change and chances + Of the ocean and the sky. + + Now, brothers, for the icebergs + Of frozen Labrador, + Floating spectral in the moonshine, + Along the low, black shore! + Where like snow the gannet's feathers + On Brador's rocks are shed, + And the noisy murr are flying, + Like black scuds, overhead; + + Where in mist tie rock is hiding, + And the sharp reef lurks below, + And the white squall smites in summer, + And the autumn tempests blow; + Where, through gray and rolling vapor, + From evening unto morn, + A thousand boats are hailing, + Horn answering unto horn. + + Hurrah! for the Red Island, + With the white cross on its crown + Hurrah! for Meccatina, + And its mountains bare and brown! + Where the Caribou's tall antlers + O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, + And the footstep of the Mickmack + Has no sound upon the moss. + + There we'll drop our lines, and gather + Old Ocean's treasures in, + Where'er the mottled mackerel + Turns up a steel-dark fin. + The sea's our field of harvest, + Its scaly tribes our grain; + We'll reap the teeming waters + As at home they reap the plain. + + Our wet hands spread the carpet, + And light the hearth of home; + From our fish, as in the old time, + The silver coin shall come. + As the demon fled the chamber + Where the fish of Tobit lay, + So ours from all our dwellings + Shall frighten Want away. + + Though the mist upon our jackets + In the bitter air congeals, + And our lines wind stiff and slowly + From off the frozen reels; + Though the fog be dark around us, + And the storm blow high and loud, + We will whistle down the wild wind, + And laugh beneath the cloud! + + In the darkness as in daylight, + On the water as on land, + God's eye is looking on us, + And beneath us is His hand! + Death will find us soon or later, + On the deck or in the cot; + And we cannot meet him better + Than in working out our lot. + + Hurrah! hurrah! the west-wind + Comes freshening down the bay, + The rising sails are filling; + Give way, my lads, give way! + Leave the coward landsman clinging + To the dull earth, like a weed; + The stars of heaven shall guide us, + The breath of heaven shall speed! + + 1845. + + + + +THE LUMBERMEN. + + WILDLY round our woodland quarters + Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; + Thickly down these swelling waters + Float his fallen leaves. + Through the tall and naked timber, + Column-like and old, + Gleam the sunsets of November, + From their skies of gold. + + O'er us, to the southland heading, + Screams the gray wild-goose; + On the night-frost sounds the treading + Of the brindled moose. + Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, + Frost his task-work plies; + Soon, his icy bridges heaping, + Shall our log-piles rise. + + When, with sounds of smothered thunder, + On some night of rain, + Lake and river break asunder + Winter's weakened chain, + Down the wild March flood shall bear them + To the saw-mill's wheel, + Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them + With his teeth of steel. + + Be it starlight, be it moonlight, + In these vales below, + When the earliest beams of sunlight + Streak the mountain's snow, + Crisps the boar-frost, keen and early, + To our hurrying feet, + And the forest echoes clearly + All our blows repeat. + + Where the crystal Ambijejis + Stretches broad and clear, + And Millnoket's pine-black ridges + Hide the browsing deer + Where, through lakes and wide morasses, + Or through rocky walls, + Swift and strong, Penobscot passes + White with foamy falls; + + Where, through clouds, are glimpses given + Of Katahdin's sides,-- + Rock and forest piled to heaven, + Torn and ploughed by slides! + Far below, the Indian trapping, + In the sunshine warm; + Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping + Half the peak in storm! + + Where are mossy carpets better + Than the Persian weaves, + And than Eastern perfumes sweeter + Seem the fading leaves; + And a music wild and solemn, + From the pine-tree's height, + Rolls its vast and sea-like volume + On the wind of night; + + Make we here our camp of winter; + And, through sleet and snow, + Pitchy knot and beechen splinter + On our hearth shall glow. + Here, with mirth to lighten duty, + We shall lack alone + Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, + Childhood's lisping tone. + + But their hearth is brighter burning + For our toil to-day; + And the welcome of returning + Shall our loss repay, + When, like seamen from the waters, + From the woods we come, + Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, + Angels of our home! + + Not for us the measured ringing + From the village spire, + Not for us the Sabbath singing + Of the sweet-voiced choir, + Ours the old, majestic temple, + Where God's brightness shines + Down the dome so grand and ample, + Propped by lofty pines! + + Through each branch-enwoven skylight, + Speaks He in the breeze, + As of old beneath the twilight + Of lost Eden's trees! + For His ear, the inward feeling + Needs no outward tongue; + He can see the spirit kneeling + While the axe is swung. + + Heeding truth alone, and turning + From the false and dim, + Lamp of toil or altar burning + Are alike to Him. + Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting + On our rugged toil; + Far ships waiting for the freighting + Of our woodland spoil. + + Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, + Bleak and cold, of ours, + With the citron-planted islands + Of a clime of flowers; + To our frosts the tribute bringing + Of eternal heats; + In our lap of winter flinging + Tropic fruits and sweets. + + Cheerly, on the axe of labor, + Let the sunbeams dance, + Better than the flash of sabre + Or the gleam of lance! + Strike! With every blow is given + Freer sun and sky, + And the long-hid earth to heaven + Looks, with wondering eye! + + Loud behind us grow the murmurs + Of the age to come; + Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, + Bearing harvest home! + Here her virgin lap with treasures + Shall the green earth fill; + Waving wheat and golden maize-ears + Crown each beechen hill. + + Keep who will the city's alleys + Take the smooth-shorn plain'; + Give to us the cedarn valleys, + Rocks and hills of Maine! + In our North-land, wild and woody, + Let us still have part + Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, + Hold us to thy heart! + + Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer + For thy breath of snow; + And our tread is all the firmer + For thy rocks below. + Freedom, hand in hand with labor, + Walketh strong and brave; + On the forehead of his neighbor + No man writeth Slave! + + Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's + Pine-trees show its fires, + While from these dim forest gardens + Rise their blackened spires. + Up, my comrades! up and doing! + Manhood's rugged play + Still renewing, bravely hewing + Through the world our way! + + 1845. + + + + +THE SHIP-BUILDERS + + THE sky is ruddy in the east, + The earth is gray below, + And, spectral in the river-mist, + The ship's white timbers show. + Then let the sounds of measured stroke + And grating saw begin; + The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, + The mallet to the pin! + + Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast, + The sooty smithy jars, + And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, + Are fading with the stars. + All day for us the smith shall stand + Beside that flashing forge; + All day for us his heavy hand + The groaning anvil scourge. + + From far-off hills, the panting team + For us is toiling near; + For us the raftsmen down the stream + Their island barges steer. + Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke + In forests old and still; + For us the century-circled oak + Falls crashing down his hill. + + Up! up! in nobler toil than ours + No craftsmen bear a part + We make of Nature's giant powers + The slaves of human Art. + Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, + And drive the treenails free; + Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam + Shall tempt the searching sea. + + Where'er the keel of our good ship + The sea's rough field shall plough; + Where'er her tossing spars shall drip + With salt-spray caught below; + That ship must heed her master's beck, + Her helm obey his hand, + And seamen tread her reeling deck + As if they trod the land. + + Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak + Of Northern ice may peel; + The sunken rock and coral peak + May grate along her keel; + And know we well the painted shell + We give to wind and wave, + Must float, the sailor's citadel, + Or sink, the sailor's grave. + + Ho! strike away the bars and blocks, + And set the good ship free! + Why lingers on these dusty rocks + The young bride of the sea? + Look! how she moves adown the grooves, + In graceful beauty now! + How lowly on the breast she loves + Sinks down her virgin prow. + + God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze + Her snowy wing shall fan, + Aside the frozen Hebrides, + Or sultry Hindostan! + Where'er, in mart or on the main, + With peaceful flag unfurled, + She helps to wind the silken chain + Of commerce round the world! + + Speed on the ship! But let her bear + No merchandise of sin, + No groaning cargo of despair + Her roomy hold within; + No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, + Nor poison-draught for ours; + But honest fruits of toiling hands + And Nature's sun and showers. + + Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, + The Desert's golden sand, + The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, + The spice of Morning-land! + Her pathway on the open main + May blessings follow free, + And glad hearts welcome back again + Her white sails from the sea + 1846. + + + + +THE DROVERS. + + THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun, + Still onward cheerly driving + There's life alone in duty done, + And rest alone in striving. + But see! the day is closing cool, + The woods are dim before us; + The white fog of the wayside pool + Is creeping slowly o'er us. + + The night is falling, comrades mine, + Our footsore beasts are weary, + And through yon elms the tavern sign + Looks out upon us cheery. + The landlord beckons from his door, + His beechen fire is glowing; + These ample barns, with feed in store, + Are filled to overflowing. + + From many a valley frowned across + By brows of rugged mountains; + From hillsides where, through spongy moss, + Gush out the river fountains; + From quiet farm-fields, green and low, + And bright with blooming clover; + From vales of corn the wandering crow + No richer hovers over; + + Day after day our way has been + O'er many a hill and hollow; + By lake and stream, by wood and glen, + Our stately drove we follow. + Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, + As smoke of battle o'er us, + Their white horns glisten in the sun, + Like plumes and crests before us. + + We see them slowly climb the hill, + As slow behind it sinking; + Or, thronging close, from roadside rill, + Or sunny lakelet, drinking. + Now crowding in the narrow road, + In thick and struggling masses, + They glare upon the teamster's load, + Or rattling coach that passes. + + Anon, with toss of horn and tail, + And paw of hoof, and bellow, + They leap some farmer's broken pale, + O'er meadow-close or fallow. + Forth comes the startled goodman; forth + Wife, children, house-dog, sally, + Till once more on their dusty path + The baffled truants rally. + + We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, + Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, + Like those who grind their noses down + On pastures bare and stony,-- + Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, + And cows too lean for shadows, + Disputing feebly with the frogs + The crop of saw-grass meadows! + + In our good drove, so sleek and fair, + No bones of leanness rattle; + No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, + Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. + Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand + That fed him unrepining; + The fatness of a goodly land + In each dun hide is shining. + + We've sought them where, in warmest nooks, + The freshest feed is growing, + By sweetest springs and clearest brooks + Through honeysuckle flowing; + Wherever hillsides, sloping south, + Are bright with early grasses, + Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth, + The mountain streamlet passes. + + But now the day is closing cool, + The woods are dim before us, + The white fog of the wayside pool + Is creeping slowly o'er us. + The cricket to the frog's bassoon + His shrillest time is keeping; + The sickle of yon setting moon + The meadow-mist is reaping. + + The night is falling, comrades mine, + Our footsore beasts are weary, + And through yon elms the tavern sign + Looks out upon us cheery. + To-morrow, eastward with our charge + We'll go to meet the dawning, + Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge + Have seen the sun of morning. + + When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth, + Instead of birds, are flitting; + When children throng the glowing hearth, + And quiet wives are knitting; + While in the fire-light strong and clear + Young eyes of pleasure glisten, + To tales of all we see and hear + The ears of home shall listen. + + By many a Northern lake and bill, + From many a mountain pasture, + Shall Fancy play the Drover still, + And speed the long night faster. + Then let us on, through shower and sun, + And heat and cold, be driving; + There 's life alone in duty done, + And rest alone in striving. + + 1847. + + + + +THE HUSKERS. + + IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain + Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; + The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay + With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May. + + Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, + At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; + Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, + On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. + + And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, + He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; + Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill; + And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. + + And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, + Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; + And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, + Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. + + From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks; + But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. + No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, + And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell. + + The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, + Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves + of rye; + But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, + Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. + + Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, + Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; + Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, + And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. + + There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain + Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; + Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, + And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. + + And to! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond, + Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, + Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, + And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one! + + As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, + And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; + From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, + Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came. + + Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, + Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; + The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, + And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. + + Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, + Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; + While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, + At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. + + Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, + Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, + The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, + To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking ballad sung. + + + + +THE CORN-SONG. + + Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard + Heap high the golden corn + No richer gift has Autumn poured + From out her lavish horn! + + Let other lands, exulting, glean + The apple from the pine, + The orange from its glossy green, + The cluster from the vine; + + We better love the hardy gift + Our rugged vales bestow, + To cheer us when the storm shall drift + Our harvest-fields with snow. + + Through vales of grass and mends of flowers + Our ploughs their furrows made, + While on the hills the sun and showers + Of changeful April played. + + We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain + Beneath the sun of May, + And frightened from our sprouting grain + The robber crows away. + + All through the long, bright days of June + Its leaves grew green and fair, + And waved in hot midsummer's noon + Its soft and yellow hair. + + And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, + Its harvest-time has come, + We pluck away the frosted leaves, + And bear the treasure home. + + There, when the snows about us drift, + And winter winds are cold, + Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, + And knead its meal of gold. + + Let vapid idlers loll in silk + Around their costly board; + Give us the bowl of samp and milk, + By homespun beauty poured! + + Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth + Sends up its smoky curls, + Who will not thank the kindly earth, + And bless our farmer girls! + + Then shame on all the proud and vain, + Whose folly laughs to scorn + The blessing of our hardy grain, + Our wealth of golden corn. + + Let earth withhold her goodly root, + Let mildew blight the rye, + Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, + The wheat-field to the fly. + + But let the good old crop adorn + The hills our fathers trod; + Still let us, for his golden corn, + Send up our thanks to God! + + 1847. + + + + +THE REFORMER. + + ALL grim and soiled and brown with tan, + I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, + Smiting the godless shrines of man + Along his path. + + The Church, beneath her trembling dome, + Essayed in vain her ghostly charm + Wealth shook within his gilded home + With strange alarm. + + Fraud from his secret chambers fled + Before the sunlight bursting in + Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head + To drown the din. + + "Spare," Art implored, "yon holy pile; + That grand, old, time-worn turret spare;" + Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, + Cried out, "Forbear!" + + Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, + Groped for his old accustomed stone, + Leaned on his staff, and wept to find + His seat o'erthrown. + + Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, + O'erhung with paly locks of gold,-- + "Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, + "The fair, the old?" + + Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, + Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam; + Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, + As from a dream. + + I looked: aside the dust-cloud rolled, + The Waster seemed the Builder too; + Upspringing from the ruined Old + I saw the New. + + 'T was but the ruin of the bad,-- + The wasting of the wrong and ill; + Whate'er of good the old time had + Was living still. + + Calm grew the brows of him I feared; + The frown which awed me passed away, + And left behind a smile which cheered + Like breaking day. + + The grain grew green on battle-plains, + O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow; + The slave stood forging from his chains + The spade and plough. + + Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay + And cottage windows, flower-entwined, + Looked out upon the peaceful bay + And hills behind. + + Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, + The lights on brimming crystal fell, + Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head + And mossy well. + + Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope, + Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, + And with the idle gallows-rope + The young child played. + + Where the doomed victim in his cell + Had counted o'er the weary hours, + Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, + Came crowned with flowers. + + Grown wiser for the lesson given, + I fear no longer, for I know + That, where the share is deepest driven, + The best fruits grow. + + The outworn rite, the old abuse, + The pious fraud transparent grown, + The good held captive in the use + Of wrong alone,-- + + These wait their doom, from that great law + Which makes the past time serve to-day; + And fresher life the world shall draw + From their decay. + + Oh, backward-looking son of time! + The new is old, the old is new, + The cycle of a change sublime + Still sweeping through. + + So wisely taught the Indian seer; + Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, + Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, + Are one, the same. + + Idly as thou, in that old day + Thou mournest, did thy sire repine; + So, in his time, thy child grown gray + Shall sigh for thine. + + But life shall on and upward go; + Th' eternal step of Progress beats + To that great anthem, calm and slow, + Which God repeats. + + Take heart! the Waster builds again, + A charmed life old Goodness bath; + The tares may perish, but the grain + Is not for death. + + God works in all things; all obey + His first propulsion from the night + Wake thou and watch! the world is gray + With morning light! + + 1848. + + + + +THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. + + STILL in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stain + Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain; + Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through, + And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew, + When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread, + At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed + The yawning trenches with her noble dead; + Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls + The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, + And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, + The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride; + Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow + Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, + The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, + Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall; + On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, + And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. + + "What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, + With sneering lip, and wise world-knowing eyes, + "While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat + The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, + And round the green earth, to the church-bell's chime, + The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, + To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, + Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms, + Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, + Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood, + Like tipplers answering Father Matthew's call; + The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, + The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life, + The Yankee swaggering with his bowie-knife, + The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared, + The blood still dripping from his amber beard, + Quitting their mad Berserker dance to hear + The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer; + Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, + Where men for dice each titled gambler flings, + To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, + For tea and gossip, like old country dames + No! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant, + Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, + Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, + And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues, + Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er, + Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar; + Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade + Of "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made, + Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hope + To capsize navies with a windy trope; + Still shall the glory and the pomp of War + Along their train the shouting millions draw; + Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave + His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave; + Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song, + Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong; + Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, + O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine, + To plumed and sworded auditors, shall prove + Their trade accordant with the Law of Love; + And Church for State, and State for Church, shall fight, + And both agree, that "Might alone is Right!" + Despite of sneers like these, O faithful few, + Who dare to hold God's word and witness true, + Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time, + And o'er the present wilderness of crime + Sees the calm future, with its robes of green, + Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between,-- + Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread, + Though worldly wisdom shake the cautious head; + No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere, + Without the greeting of the skeptic's sneer; + Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall, + Common as dew and sunshine, over all." + + Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, + Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace; + As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre, + Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, + Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell, + And love subdued the maddened heart of hell. + Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue, + Which the glad angels of the Advent sung, + Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth, + Glory to God, and peace unto the earth + Through the mad discord send that calming word + Which wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard, + Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword! + Not vain the vision which the prophets saw, + Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, + Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm + On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm. + Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, + The great hope resting on the truth of God,-- + Evil shall cease and Violence pass away, + And the tired world breathe free through a long + Sabbath day. + + 11th mo., 1848. + + + + +THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. + +Before the law authorizing imprisonment for debt had been abolished in +Massachusetts, a revolutionary pensioner was confined in Charlestown +jail for a debt of fourteen dollars, and on the fourth of July was seen +waving a handkerchief from the bars of his cell in honor of the day. + + + Look on him! through his dungeon grate, + Feebly and cold, the morning light + Comes stealing round him, dim and late, + As if it loathed the sight. + Reclining on his strawy bed, + His hand upholds his drooping head; + His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, + Unshorn his gray, neglected beard; + And o'er his bony fingers flow + His long, dishevelled locks of snow. + No grateful fire before him glows, + And yet the winter's breath is chill; + And o'er his half-clad person goes + The frequent ague thrill! + Silent, save ever and anon, + A sound, half murmur and half groan, + Forces apart the painful grip + Of the old sufferer's bearded lip; + Oh, sad and crushing is the fate + Of old age chained and desolate! + + Just God! why lies that old man there? + A murderer shares his prison bed, + Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, + Gleam on him, fierce and red; + And the rude oath and heartless jeer + Fall ever on his loathing ear, + And, or in wakefulness or sleep, + Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep + Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, + Crimson with murder, touches him! + + What has the gray-haired prisoner done? + Has murder stained his hands with gore? + Not so; his crime's a fouler one; + God made the old man poor! + For this he shares a felon's cell, + The fittest earthly type of hell + For this, the boon for which he poured + His young blood on the invader's sword, + And counted light the fearful cost; + His blood-gained liberty is lost! + + And so, for such a place of rest, + Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain + On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, + And Saratoga's plain? + Look forth, thou man of many scars, + Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars; + It must be joy, in sooth, to see + Yon monument upreared to thee; + Piled granite and a prison cell, + The land repays thy service well! + + Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, + And fling the starry banner out; + Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones + Give back their cradle-shout; + Let boastful eloquence declaim + Of honor, liberty, and fame; + Still let the poet's strain be heard, + With glory for each second word, + And everything with breath agree + To praise "our glorious liberty!" + + But when the patron cannon jars + That prison's cold and gloomy wall, + And through its grates the stripes and stars + Rise on the wind, and fall, + Think ye that prisoner's aged ear + Rejoices in the general cheer? + Think ye his dim and failing eye + Is kindled at your pageantry? + Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, + What is your carnival to him? + + Down with the law that binds him thus! + Unworthy freemen, let it find + No refuge from the withering curse + Of God and human-kind + Open the prison's living tomb, + And usher from its brooding gloom + The victims of your savage code + To the free sun and air of God; + No longer dare as crime to brand + The chastening of the Almighty's hand. + + 1849. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS. + +The reader of the biography of William Allen, the philanthropic +associate of Clarkson and Romilly, cannot fail to admire his simple and +beautiful record of a tour through Europe, in the years 1818 and 1819, +in the company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett. + + + No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest + Goaded from shore to shore; + No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest, + The leaves of empire o'er. + Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts + The love of man and God, + Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, + And Scythia's steppes, they trod. + + Where the long shadows of the fir and pine + In the night sun are cast, + And the deep heart of many a Norland mine + Quakes at each riving blast; + Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, + A baptized Scythian queen, + With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, + The North and East between! + + Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray + The classic forms of yore, + And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray, + And Dian weeps once more; + Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds; + And Stamboul from the sea + Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds + Black with the cypress-tree. + + From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, + Following the track of Paul, + And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home + Their vast, eternal wall; + They paused not by the ruins of old time, + They scanned no pictures rare, + Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains + climb + The cold abyss of air! + + But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, + To haunts where Hunger pined, + To kings and courts forgetful of the pains + And wants of human-kind, + Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good, + Along their way, like flowers, + Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could, + With princes and with powers; + + Their single aim the purpose to fulfil + Of Truth, from day to day, + Simply obedient to its guiding will, + They held their pilgrim way. + Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old + Were wasted on their sight, + Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold + All outward things aright. + + Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown + From off the Cyprian shore, + Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, + That man they valued more. + A life of beauty lends to all it sees + The beauty of its thought; + And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies + Make glad its way, unsought. + + In sweet accordancy of praise and love, + The singing waters run; + And sunset mountains wear in light above + The smile of duty done; + Sure stands the promise,--ever to the meek + A heritage is given; + Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek + The righteousness of Heaven! + + 1849. + + + + +THE MEN OF OLD. + + "WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast! + Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, + If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, + Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, + By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind + To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. + Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by + The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, + Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs + The effigies of old confessors lie, + God's witnesses; the voices of His will, + Heard in the slow march of the centuries still + Such were the men at whose rebuking frown, + Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down; + Such from the terrors of the guilty drew + The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due." + + St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore + In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale + Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale + Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. + To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate + St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate,-- + Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix, + Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. + "Man is worth more than temples!" he replied + To such as came his holy work to chide. + And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, + And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard + The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer + Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord + Stifled their love of man,--"An earthen dish + The last sad supper of the Master bore + Most miserable sinners! do ye wish + More than your Lord, and grudge His dying poor + What your own pride and not His need requires? + Souls, than these shining gauds, He values more + Mercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires!" + O faithful worthies! resting far behind + In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep, + Much has been done for truth and human-kind; + Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind; + Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap + Through peoples driven in your day like sheep; + Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, + Though widening still, is walled around by night; + With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, + Skeptic at heart, the lessons of its Head; + Counting, too oft, its living members less + Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress; + World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed + Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, + Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed; + Sect builds and worships where its wealth and + pride + And vanity stand shrined and deified, + Careless that in the shadow of its walls + God's living temple into ruin falls. + We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, + Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, + To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod + The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, + Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, + And startling tyrants with the fear of hell + Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well; + But to rebuke the age's popular crime, + We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old + time! + + 1849. + + + + +TO PIUS IX. + +The writer of these lines is no enemy of Catholics. He has, on more than +one occasion, exposed himself to the censures of his Protestant +brethren, by his strenuous endeavors to procure indemnification for the +owners of the convent destroyed near Boston. He defended the cause of +the Irish patriots long before it had become popular in this country; +and he was one of the first to urge the most liberal aid to the +suffering and starving population of the Catholic island. The severity +of his language finds its ample apology in the reluctant confession of +one of the most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father +Ventura. + + + THE cannon's brazen lips are cold; + No red shell blazes down the air; + And street and tower, and temple old, + Are silent as despair. + + The Lombard stands no more at bay, + Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain; + The ravens scattered by the day + Come back with night again. + + Now, while the fratricides of France + Are treading on the neck of Rome, + Hider at Gaeta, seize thy chance! + Coward and cruel, come! + + Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt; + Thy mummer's part was acted well, + While Rome, with steel and fire begirt, + Before thy crusade fell! + + Her death-groans answered to thy prayer; + Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call; + Thy lights, the burning villa's glare; + Thy beads, the shell and ball! + + Let Austria clear thy way, with hands + Foul from Ancona's cruel sack, + And Naples, with his dastard bands + Of murderers, lead thee back! + + Rome's lips are dumb; the orphan's wail, + The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear + Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, + The unsexed shaveling's cheer! + + Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight, + The double curse of crook and crown, + Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate + From wall and roof flash down! + + Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall, + Not Tiber's flood can wash away, + Where, in thy stately Quirinal, + Thy mangled victims lay! + + Let the world murmur; let its cry + Of horror and disgust be heard; + Truth stands alone; thy coward lie + Is backed by lance and sword! + + The cannon of St. Angelo, + And chanting priest and clanging bell, + And beat of drum and bugle blow, + Shall greet thy coming well! + + Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves + Fit welcome give thee; for her part, + Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves, + Shall curse thee from her heart! + + No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers + Shall childhood in thy pathway fling; + No garlands from their ravaged bowers + Shall Terni's maidens bring; + + But, hateful as that tyrant old, + The mocking witness of his crime, + In thee shall loathing eyes behold + The Nero of our time! + + Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, + Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call + Its curses on the patriot dead, + Its blessings on the Gaul! + + Or sit upon thy throne of lies, + A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, + Whom even its worshippers despise, + Unhonored, unrevered! + + Yet, Scandal of the World! from thee + One needful truth mankind shall learn + That kings and priests to Liberty + And God are false in turn. + + Earth wearies of them; and the long + Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail; + Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong + Wake, struggle, and prevail! + + Not vainly Roman hearts have bled + To feed the Crosier and the Crown, + If, roused thereby, the world shall tread + The twin-born vampires down. + + 1849. + + + + +CALEF IN BOSTON. + +1692. + + IN the solemn days of old, + Two men met in Boston town, + One a tradesman frank and bold, + One a preacher of renown. + + Cried the last, in bitter tone: + "Poisoner of the wells of truth + Satan's hireling, thou hast sown + With his tares the heart of youth!" + + Spake the simple tradesman then, + "God be judge 'twixt thee and me; + All thou knowed of truth hath been + Once a lie to men like thee. + + "Falsehoods which we spurn to-day + Were the truths of long ago; + Let the dead boughs fall away, + Fresher shall the living grow. + + "God is good and God is light, + In this faith I rest secure; + Evil can but serve the right, + Over all shall love endure. + + "Of your spectral puppet play + I have traced the cunning wires; + Come what will, I needs must say, + God is true, and ye are liars." + + When the thought of man is free, + Error fears its lightest tones; + So the priest cried, "Sadducee!" + And the people took up stones. + + In the ancient burying-ground, + Side by side the twain now lie; + One with humble grassy mound, + One with marbles pale and high. + + But the Lord hath blest the seed + Which that tradesman scattered then, + And the preacher's spectral creed + Chills no more the blood of men. + + Let us trust, to one is known + Perfect love which casts out fear, + While the other's joys atone + For the wrong he suffered here. + + 1849. + + + + +OUR STATE. + + THE South-land boasts its teeming cane, + The prairied West its heavy grain, + And sunset's radiant gates unfold + On rising marts and sands of gold. + + Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State + Is scant of soil, of limits strait; + Her yellow sands are sands alone, + Her only mines are ice and stone! + + From Autumn frost to April rain, + Too long her winter woods complain; + From budding flower to falling leaf, + Her summer time is all too brief. + + Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, + And wintry hills, the school-house stands, + And what her rugged soil denies, + The harvest of the mind supplies. + + The riches of the Commonwealth + Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; + And more to her than gold or grain, + The cunning hand and cultured brain. + + For well she keeps her ancient stock, + The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; + And still maintains, with milder laws, + And clearer light, the Good Old Cause. + + Nor heeds the skeptic's puny hands, + While near her school the church-spire stands; + Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, + While near her church-spire stands the school. + + 1849. + + + + +THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. + + I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound + In Naples, dying for the lack of air + And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain, + Where hope is not, and innocence in vain + Appeals against the torture and the chain! + Unfortunates! whose crime it was to share + Our common love of freedom, and to dare, + In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned, + And her base pander, the most hateful thing + Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground + Makes vile the old heroic name of king. + O God most merciful! Father just and kind + Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind. + Or, if thy purposes of good behind + Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find + Strong consolations; leave them not to doubt + Thy providential care, nor yet without + The hope which all thy attributes inspire, + That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire + Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain; + Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth, + Electrical, with every throb of pain, + Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain + Of fire and spirit over all the earth, + Making the dead in slavery live again. + Let this great hope be with them, as they lie + Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky; + From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze, + The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees; + Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease + And sins abhorred make loathsome; let them share + Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear + Years of unutterable torment, stern and still, + As the chained Titan victor through his will! + Comfort them with thy future; let them see + The day-dawn of Italian liberty; + For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee, + And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be. + + I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost + Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize + Of name or place, and more than I have lost + Have gained in wider reach of sympathies, + And free communion with the good and wise; + May God forbid that I should ever boast + Such easy self-denial, or repine + That the strong pulse of health no more is mine; + That, overworn at noonday, I must yield + To other hands the gleaning of the field; + A tired on-looker through the day's decline. + For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing + That kindly Providence its care is showing + In the withdrawal as in the bestowing, + Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray. + Beautiful yet for me this autumn day + Melts on its sunset hills; and, far away, + For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm, + To me the pine-woods whisper; and for me + Yon river, winding through its vales of calm, + By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred, + And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay, + Flows down in silent gladness to the sea, + Like a pure spirit to its great reward! + + Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear, + Whose love is round me like this atmosphere, + Warm, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me + What shall I render, O my God, to thee? + Let me not dwell upon my lighter share + Of pain and ill that human life must bear; + Save me from selfish pining; let my heart, + Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget + The bitter longings of a vain regret, + The anguish of its own peculiar smart. + Remembering others, as I have to-day, + In their great sorrows, let me live alway + Not for myself alone, but have a part, + Such as a frail and erring spirit may, + In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou art! + + 1851. + + + + +THE PEACE OF EUROPE. + + "GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns + From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!" + So say her kings and priests; so say + The lying prophets of our day. + + Go lay to earth a listening ear; + The tramp of measured marches hear; + The rolling of the cannon's wheel, + The shotted musket's murderous peal, + The night alarm, the sentry's call, + The quick-eared spy in hut and hall! + From Polar sea and tropic fen + The dying-groans of exiled men! + The bolted cell, the galley's chains, + The scaffold smoking with its stains! + Order, the hush of brooding slaves + Peace, in the dungeon-vaults and graves! + + O Fisher! of the world-wide net, + With meshes in all waters set, + Whose fabled keys of heaven and hell + Bolt hard the patriot's prison-cell, + And open wide the banquet-hall, + Where kings and priests hold carnival! + Weak vassal tricked in royal guise, + Boy Kaiser with thy lip of lies; + Base gambler for Napoleon's crown, + Barnacle on his dead renown! + Thou, Bourbon Neapolitan, + Crowned scandal, loathed of God and man + And thou, fell Spider of the North! + Stretching thy giant feelers forth, + Within whose web the freedom dies + Of nations eaten up like flies! + Speak, Prince and Kaiser, Priest and Czar I + If this be Peace, pray what is War? + + White Angel of the Lord! unmeet + That soil accursed for thy pure feet. + Never in Slavery's desert flows + The fountain of thy charmed repose; + No tyrant's hand thy chaplet weaves + Of lilies and of olive-leaves; + Not with the wicked shalt thou dwell, + Thus saith the Eternal Oracle; + Thy home is with the pure and free! + Stern herald of thy better day, + Before thee, to prepare thy way, + The Baptist Shade of Liberty, + Gray, scarred and hairy-robed, must press + With bleeding feet the wilderness! + Oh that its voice might pierces the ear + Of princes, trembling while they hear + A cry as of the Hebrew seer + Repent! God's kingdom draweth near! + + 1852. + + + + +ASTRAEA. + + "Jove means to settle + Astraea in her seat again, + And let down from his golden chain + An age of better metal." + BEN JONSON, 1615. + + + O POET rare and old! + Thy words are prophecies; + Forward the age of gold, + The new Saturnian lies. + + The universal prayer + And hope are not in vain; + Rise, brothers! and prepare + The way for Saturn's reign. + + Perish shall all which takes + From labor's board and can; + Perish shall all which makes + A spaniel of the man! + + Free from its bonds the mind, + The body from the rod; + Broken all chains that bind + The image of our God. + + Just men no longer pine + Behind their prison-bars; + Through the rent dungeon shine + The free sun and the stars. + + Earth own, at last, untrod + By sect, or caste, or clan, + The fatherhood of God, + The brotherhood of man! + + Fraud fail, craft perish, forth + The money-changers driven, + And God's will done on earth, + As now in heaven. + + 1852. + + + + +THE DISENTHRALLED. + + HE had bowed down to drunkenness, + An abject worshipper + The pride of manhood's pulse had grown + Too faint and cold to stir; + And he had given his spirit up + To the unblessed thrall, + And bowing to the poison cup, + He gloried in his fall! + + There came a change--the cloud rolled off, + And light fell on his brain-- + And like the passing of a dream + That cometh not again, + The shadow of the spirit fled. + He saw the gulf before, + He shuddered at the waste behind, + And was a man once more. + + He shook the serpent folds away, + That gathered round his heart, + As shakes the swaying forest-oak + Its poison vine apart; + He stood erect; returning pride + Grew terrible within, + And conscience sat in judgment, on + His most familiar sin. + + The light of Intellect again + Along his pathway shone; + And Reason like a monarch sat + Upon his olden throne. + The honored and the wise once more + Within his presence came; + And lingered oft on lovely lips + His once forbidden name. + + There may be glory in the might, + That treadeth nations down; + Wreaths for the crimson conqueror, + Pride for the kingly crown; + But nobler is that triumph hour, + The disenthralled shall find, + When evil passion boweth down, + Unto the Godlike mind. + + + + +THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY. + + THE proudest now is but my peer, + The highest not more high; + To-day, of all the weary year, + A king of men am I. + To-day, alike are great and small, + The nameless and the known; + My palace is the people's hall, + The ballot-box my throne! + + Who serves to-day upon the list + Beside the served shall stand; + Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, + The gloved and dainty hand! + The rich is level with the poor, + The weak is strong to-day; + And sleekest broadcloth counts no more + Than homespun frock of gray. + + To-day let pomp and vain pretence + My stubborn right abide; + I set a plain man's common sense + Against the pedant's pride. + To-day shall simple manhood try + The strength of gold and land; + The wide world has not wealth to buy + The power in my right hand! + + While there's a grief to seek redress, + Or balance to adjust, + Where weighs our living manhood less + Than Mammon's vilest dust,-- + While there's a right to need my vote, + A wrong to sweep away, + Up! clouted knee and ragged coat + A man's a man to-day. + + 1848. + + + + +THE DREAM OF PIO NONO. + + IT chanced that while the pious troops of France + Fought in the crusade Pio Nono preached, + What time the holy Bourbons stayed his hands + (The Hun and Aaron meet for such a Moses), + Stretched forth from Naples towards rebellious Rome + To bless the ministry of Oudinot, + And sanctify his iron homilies + And sharp persuasions of the bayonet, + That the great pontiff fell asleep, and dreamed. + + He stood by Lake Tiberias, in the sun + Of the bight Orient; and beheld the lame, + The sick, and blind, kneel at the Master's feet, + And rise up whole. And, sweetly over all, + Dropping the ladder of their hymn of praise + From heaven to earth, in silver rounds of song, + He heard the blessed angels sing of peace, + Good-will to man, and glory to the Lord. + + Then one, with feet unshod, and leathern face + Hardened and darkened by fierce summer suns + And hot winds of the desert, closer drew + His fisher's haick, and girded up his loins, + And spake, as one who had authority + "Come thou with me." + + Lakeside and eastern sky + And the sweet song of angels passed away, + And, with a dream's alacrity of change, + The priest, and the swart fisher by his side, + Beheld the Eternal City lift its domes + And solemn fanes and monumental pomp + Above the waste Campagna. On the hills + The blaze of burning villas rose and fell, + And momently the mortar's iron throat + Roared from the trenches; and, within the walls, + Sharp crash of shells, low groans of human pain, + Shout, drum beat, and the clanging larum-bell, + And tramp of hosts, sent up a mingled sound, + Half wail and half defiance. As they passed + The gate of San Pancrazio, human blood + Flowed ankle-high about them, and dead men + Choked the long street with gashed and gory piles,-- + A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh, + From which at times, quivered a living hand, + And white lips moved and moaned. A father tore + His gray hairs, by the body of his son, + In frenzy; and his fair young daughter wept + On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash + Clove the thick sulphurous air, and man and maid + Sank, crushed and mangled by the shattering shell. + + Then spake the Galilean: "Thou hast seen + The blessed Master and His works of love; + Look now on thine! Hear'st thou the angels sing + Above this open hell? Thou God's high-priest! + Thou the Vicegerent of the Prince of Peace! + Thou the successor of His chosen ones! + I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee, + In the dear Master's name, and for the love + Of His true Church, proclaim thee Antichrist, + Alien and separate from His holy faith, + Wide as the difference between death and life, + The hate of man and the great love of God! + Hence, and repent!" + + Thereat the pontiff woke, + Trembling, and muttering o'er his fearful dream. + "What means he?" cried the Bourbon, "Nothing more + Than that your majesty hath all too well + Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth, + The Holy Father's supper troubleth him," + Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a smile. + + 1853. + + + + +THE VOICES. + + WHY urge the long, unequal fight, + Since Truth has fallen in the street, + Or lift anew the trampled light, + Quenched by the heedless million's feet? + + "Give o'er the thankless task; forsake + The fools who know not ill from good + Eat, drink, enjoy thy own, and take + Thine ease among the multitude. + + "Live out thyself; with others share + Thy proper life no more; assume + The unconcern of sun and air, + For life or death, or blight or bloom. + + "The mountain pine looks calmly on + The fires that scourge the plains below, + Nor heeds the eagle in the sun + The small birds piping in the snow! + + "The world is God's, not thine; let Him + Work out a change, if change must be + The hand that planted best can trim + And nurse the old unfruitful tree." + + So spake the Tempter, when the light + Of sun and stars had left the sky; + I listened, through the cloud and night, + And beard, methought, a voice reply: + + "Thy task may well seem over-hard, + Who scatterest in a thankless soil + Thy life as seed, with no reward + Save that which Duty gives to Toil. + + "Not wholly is thy heart resigned + To Heaven's benign and just decree, + Which, linking thee with all thy kind, + Transmits their joys and griefs to thee. + + "Break off that sacred chain, and turn + Back on thyself thy love and care; + Be thou thine own mean idol, burn + Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there. + + "Released from that fraternal law + Which shares the common bale and bliss, + No sadder lot could Folly draw, + Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this. + + "The meal unshared is food unblest + Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend; + Self-ease is pain; thy only rest + Is labor for a worthy end; + + "A toil that gains with what it yields, + And scatters to its own increase, + And hears, while sowing outward fields, + The harvest-song of inward peace. + + "Free-lipped the liberal streamlets run, + Free shines for all the healthful ray; + The still pool stagnates in the sun, + The lurid earth-fire haunts decay. + + "What is it that the crowd requite + Thy love with hate, thy truth with lies? + And but to faith, and not to sight, + The walls of Freedom's temple rise? + + "Yet do thy work; it shall succeed + In thine or in another's day; + And, if denied the victor's meed, + Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay. + + "Faith shares the future's promise; Love's + Self-offering is a triumph won; + And each good thought or action moves + The dark world nearer to the sun. + + "Then faint not, falter not, nor plead + Thy weakness; truth itself is strong; + The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, + Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong. + + "Thy nature, which, through fire and flood, + To place or gain finds out its way, + Hath power to seek the highest good, + And duty's holiest call obey! + + "Strivest thou in darkness?--Foes without + In league with traitor thoughts within; + Thy night-watch kept with trembling Doubt + And pale Remorse the ghost of Sin? + + "Hast thou not, on some week of storm, + Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair, + And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form + The curtains of its tent of prayer? + + "So, haply, when thy task shall end, + The wrong shall lose itself in right, + And all thy week-day darkness blend + With the long Sabbath of the light!" + + 1854. + + + + +THE NEW EXODUS. + +Written upon hearing that slavery had been formally abolished in Egypt. +Unhappily, the professions and pledges of the vacillating government of +Egypt proved unreliable. + + + BY fire and cloud, across the desert sand, + And through the parted waves, + From their long bondage, with an outstretched hand, + God led the Hebrew slaves! + + Dead as the letter of the Pentateuch, + As Egypt's statues cold, + In the adytum of the sacred book + Now stands that marvel old. + + "Lo, God is great!" the simple Moslem says. + We seek the ancient date, + Turn the dry scroll, and make that living phrase + A dead one: "God was great!" + + And, like the Coptic monks by Mousa's wells, + We dream of wonders past, + Vague as the tales the wandering Arab tells, + Each drowsier than the last. + + O fools and blind! Above the Pyramids + Stretches once more that hand, + And tranced Egypt, from her stony lids, + Flings back her veil of sand. + + And morning-smitten Memnon, singing, wakes; + And, listening by his Nile, + O'er Ammon's grave and awful visage breaks + A sweet and human smile. + + Not, as before, with hail and fire, and call + Of death for midnight graves, + But in the stillness of the noonday, fall + The fetters of the slaves. + + No longer through the Red Sea, as of old, + The bondmen walk dry shod; + Through human hearts, by love of Him controlled, + Runs now that path of God. + + 1856. + + + + +THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND. + +"Joseph Sturge, with a companion, Thomas Harvey, has been visiting the +shores of Finland, to ascertain the amount of mischief and loss to poor +and peaceable sufferers, occasioned by the gun-boats of the allied +squadrons in the late war, with a view to obtaining relief for them."-- +Friends' Review. + + + ACROSS the frozen marshes + The winds of autumn blow, + And the fen-lands of the Wetter + Are white with early snow. + + But where the low, gray headlands + Look o'er the Baltic brine, + A bark is sailing in the track + Of England's battle-line. + + No wares hath she to barter + For Bothnia's fish and grain; + She saileth not for pleasure, + She saileth not for gain. + + But still by isle or mainland + She drops her anchor down, + Where'er the British cannon + Rained fire on tower and town. + + Outspake the ancient Amtman, + At the gate of Helsingfors + "Why comes this ship a-spying + In the track of England's wars?" + + "God bless her," said the coast-guard,-- + "God bless the ship, I say. + The holy angels trim the sails + That speed her on her way! + + "Where'er she drops her anchor, + The peasant's heart is glad; + Where'er she spreads her parting sail, + The peasant's heart is sad. + + "Each wasted town and hamlet + She visits to restore; + To roof the shattered cabin, + And feed the starving poor. + + "The sunken boats of fishers, + The foraged beeves and grain, + The spoil of flake and storehouse, + The good ship brings again. + + "And so to Finland's sorrow + The sweet amend is made, + As if the healing hand of Christ + Upon her wounds were laid!" + + Then said the gray old Amtman, + "The will of God be done! + The battle lost by England's hate, + By England's love is won! + + "We braved the iron tempest + That thundered on our shore; + But when did kindness fail to find + The key to Finland's door? + + "No more from Aland's ramparts + Shall warning signal come, + Nor startled Sweaborg hear again + The roll of midnight drum. + + "Beside our fierce Black Eagle + The Dove of Peace shall rest; + And in the mouths of cannon + The sea-bird make her nest. + + "For Finland, looking seaward, + No coming foe shall scan; + And the holy bells of Abo + Shall ring, 'Good-will to man!' + + "Then row thy boat, O fisher! + In peace on lake and bay; + And thou, young maiden, dance again + Around the poles of May! + + "Sit down, old men, together, + Old wives, in quiet spin; + Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon + Is the brother of the Finn!" + + 1856. + + + + +THE EVE OF ELECTION. + + FROM gold to gray + Our mild sweet day + Of Indian Summer fades too soon; + But tenderly + Above the sea + Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. + + In its pale fire, + The village spire + Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance; + The painted walls + Whereon it falls + Transfigured stand in marble trance! + + O'er fallen leaves + The west-wind grieves, + Yet comes a seed-time round again; + And morn shall see + The State sown free + With baleful tares or healthful grain. + + Along the street + The shadows meet + Of Destiny, whose hands conceal + The moulds of fate + That shape the State, + And make or mar the common weal. + + Around I see + The powers that be; + I stand by Empire's primal springs; + And princes meet, + In every street, + And hear the tread of uncrowned kings! + + Hark! through the crowd + The laugh runs loud, + Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. + God save the land + A careless hand + May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon! + + No jest is this; + One cast amiss + May blast the hope of Freedom's year. + Oh, take me where + Are hearts of prayer, + And foreheads bowed in reverent fear! + + Not lightly fall + Beyond recall + The written scrolls a breath can float; + The crowning fact + The kingliest act + Of Freedom is the freeman's vote! + + For pearls that gem + A diadem + The diver in the deep sea dies; + The regal right + We boast to-night + Is ours through costlier sacrifice; + + The blood of Vane, + His prison pain + Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, + And hers whose faith + Drew strength from death, + And prayed her Russell up to God! + + Our hearts grow cold, + We lightly hold + A right which brave men died to gain; + The stake, the cord, + The axe, the sword, + Grim nurses at its birth of pain. + + The shadow rend, + And o'er us bend, + O martyrs, with your crowns and palms; + Breathe through these throngs + Your battle songs, + Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms. + + Look from the sky, + Like God's great eye, + Thou solemn moon, with searching beam, + Till in the sight + Of thy pure light + Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. + + Shame from our hearts + Unworthy arts, + The fraud designed, the purpose dark; + And smite away + The hands we lay + Profanely on the sacred ark. + + To party claims + And private aims, + Reveal that august face of Truth, + Whereto are given + The age of heaven, + The beauty of immortal youth. + + So shall our voice + Of sovereign choice + Swell the deep bass of duty done, + And strike the key + Of time to be, + When God and man shall speak as one! + + 1858. + + + + +FROM PERUGIA. + +"The thing which has the most dissevered the people from the Pope,--the +unforgivable thing,--the breaking point between him and them,--has been +the encouragement and promotion he gave to the officer under whom were +executed the slaughters of Perugia. That made the breaking point in many +honest hearts that had clung to him before."--HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S +Letters from Italy. + + + The tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread, + Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red; + And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff, + And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff; + Next, in red-legged pomp, come the cardinals forth, + Each a lord of the church and a prince of the earth. + + What's this squeak of the fife, and this batter of drum + Lo! the Swiss of the Church from Perugia come; + The militant angels, whose sabres drive home + To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred, + The good Father's missives, and "Thus saith the Lord!" + And lend to his logic the point of the sword! + + O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn + O'er dark Thrasymenus, dishevelled and torn! + O fathers, who pluck at your gray beards for shame! + O mothers, struck dumb by a woe without name! + Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling behaves, + And his tender compassion of prisons and graves! + + There they stand, the hired stabbers, the blood-stains yet fresh, + That splashed like red wine from the vintage of flesh; + Grim instruments, careless as pincers and rack + How the joints tear apart, and the strained sinews crack; + But the hate that glares on them is sharp as their swords, + And the sneer and the scowl print the air with fierce words! + + Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad! + Here's the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, + From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick, + Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick, + Who the role of the priest and the soldier unites, + And, praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights! + + Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom + We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome; + With whose advent we dreamed the new era began + When the priest should be human, the monk be a man? + Ah, the wolf's with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl, + When freedom we trust to the crosier and cowl! + + Stand aside, men of Rome! Here's a hangman-faced Swiss-- + (A blessing for him surely can't go amiss)-- + Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss. + Short shrift will suffice him,--he's blest beyond doubt; + But there 's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out, + Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout! + + Make way for the next! Here's another sweet son + What's this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulets done? + He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid!) + At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did. + And the mothers? Don't name them! these humors of war + They who keep him in service must pardon him for. + + Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, + With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat + (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), + Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold, + Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, + And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence! + + + Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased + When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? + When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, + The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, + When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, + And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead! + + There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way + That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's day. + Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys, + Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise. + Te Deum laudamus! All round without stint + The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in 't! + + And now for the blessing! Of little account, + You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount. + Its giver was landless, His raiment was poor, + No jewelled tiara His fishermen wore; + No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home, + No Swiss guards! We order things better at Rome. + + So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak; + Let Austria's vulture have food for her beak; + Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again, + With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain; + Put reason, and justice, and truth under ban; + For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man! + + 1858. + + + + +ITALY. + + ACROSS the sea I heard the groans + Of nations in the intervals + Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones + Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, + And sucked by priestly cannibals. + + I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained + By martyr meekness, patience, faith, + And lo! an athlete grimly stained, + With corded muscles battle-strained, + Shouting it from the fields of death! + + I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, + Among the clamoring thousands mute, + I only know that God is right, + And that the children of the light + Shall tread the darkness under foot. + + I know the pent fire heaves its crust, + That sultry skies the bolt will form + To smite them clear; that Nature must + The balance of her powers adjust, + Though with the earthquake and the storm. + + God reigns, and let the earth rejoice! + I bow before His sterner plan. + Dumb are the organs of my choice; + He speaks in battle's stormy voice, + His praise is in the wrath of man! + + Yet, surely as He lives, the day + Of peace He promised shall be ours, + To fold the flags of war, and lay + Its sword and spear to rust away, + And sow its ghastly fields with flowers! + + 1860. + + + + +FREEDOM IN BRAZIL. + + WITH clearer light, Cross of the South, shine forth + In blue Brazilian skies; + And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth + From sunset to sunrise, + + From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves + Thy joy's long anthem pour. + Yet a few years (God make them less!) and slaves + Shall shame thy pride no more. + No fettered feet thy shaded margins press; + But all men shall walk free + Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness, + Hast wedded sea to sea. + + And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth + The word of God is said, + Once more, "Let there be light!"--Son of the South, + Lift up thy honored head, + Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert + More than by birth thy own, + Careless of watch and ward; thou art begirt + By grateful hearts alone. + The moated wall and battle-ship may fail, + But safe shall justice prove; + Stronger than greaves of brass or iron mail + The panoply of love. + + Crowned doubly by man's blessing and God's grace, + Thy future is secure; + Who frees a people makes his statue's place + In Time's Valhalla sure. + Lo! from his Neva's banks the Scythian Czar + Stretches to thee his hand, + Who, with the pencil of the Northern star, + Wrote freedom on his land. + And he whose grave is holy by our calm + And prairied Sangamon, + From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's palm + To greet thee with "Well done!" + + And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet, + And let thy wail be stilled, + To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat + Her promise half fulfilled. + The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, + No sound thereof hath died; + Alike thy hope and Heaven's eternal will + Shall yet be satisfied. + The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long, + And far the end may be; + But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong + Go out and leave thee free. + + 1867. + + + + +AFTER ELECTION. + + THE day's sharp strife is ended now, + Our work is done, God knoweth how! + As on the thronged, unrestful town + The patience of the moon looks down, + I wait to hear, beside the wire, + The voices of its tongues of fire. + + Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first + Be strong, my heart, to know the worst! + Hark! there the Alleghanies spoke; + That sound from lake and prairie broke, + That sunset-gun of triumph rent + The silence of a continent! + + That signal from Nebraska sprung, + This, from Nevada's mountain tongue! + Is that thy answer, strong and free, + O loyal heart of Tennessee? + What strange, glad voice is that which calls + From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls? + + From Mississippi's fountain-head + A sound as of the bison's tread! + There rustled freedom's Charter Oak + In that wild burst the Ozarks spoke! + Cheer answers cheer from rise to set + Of sun. We have a country yet! + + The praise, O God, be thine alone! + Thou givest not for bread a stone; + Thou hast not led us through the night + To blind us with returning light; + Not through the furnace have we passed, + To perish at its mouth at last. + + O night of peace, thy flight restrain! + November's moon, be slow to wane! + Shine on the freedman's cabin floor, + On brows of prayer a blessing pour; + And give, with full assurance blest, + The weary heart of Freedom rest! + + 1868. + + + + +DISARMAMENT. + + "PUT up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more + Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, + O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped + And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped + With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow + Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe + Down which a groaning diapason runs + From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons + Of desolate women in their far-off homes, + Waiting to hear the step that never comes! + O men and brothers! let that voice be heard. + War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword! + + Fear not the end. There is a story told + In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, + And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit + With grave responses listening unto it + Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, + Buddha, the holy and benevolent, + Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, + Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. + "O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate + Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate." + The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace + Of fear or anger, in the monster's face, + In pity said: "Poor fiend, even thee I love." + Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank + To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank + Into the form and fashion of a dove; + And where the thunder of its rage was heard, + Circling above him sweetly sang the bird + "Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song; + "And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!" + + 1871. + + + + +THE PROBLEM. + + I. + NOT without envy Wealth at times must look + On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook + And scythe, or at the forge-fire shape the plough + Or the steel harness of the steeds of steam; + All who, by skill and patience, anyhow + Make service noble, and the earth redeem + From savageness. By kingly accolade + Than theirs was never worthier knighthood made. + Well for them, if, while demagogues their vain + And evil counsels proffer, they maintain + Their honest manhood unseduced, and wage + No war with Labor's right to Labor's gain + Of sweet home-comfort, rest of hand and brain, + And softer pillow for the head of Age. + + II. + And well for Gain if it ungrudging yields + Labor its just demand; and well for Ease + If in the uses of its own, it sees + No wrong to him who tills its pleasant fields + And spreads the table of its luxuries. + The interests of the rich man and the poor + Are one and same, inseparable evermore; + And, when scant wage or labor fail to give + Food, shelter, raiment, wherewithal to live, + Need has its rights, necessity its claim. + Yea, even self-wrought misery and shame + Test well the charity suffering long and kind. + The home-pressed question of the age can find + No answer in the catch-words of the blind + Leaders of blind. Solution there is none + Save in the Golden Rule of Christ alone. + + 1877. + + + + +OUR COUNTRY. + +Read at Woodstock, Conn., July 4,1883. + + + WE give thy natal day to hope, + O Country of our love and prayer I + Thy way is down no fatal slope, + But up to freer sun and air. + + Tried as by furnace-fires, and yet + By God's grace only stronger made, + In future tasks before thee set + Thou shalt not lack the old-time aid. + + The fathers sleep, but men remain + As wise, as true, and brave as they; + Why count the loss and not the gain? + The best is that we have to-day. + + Whate'er of folly, shame, or crime, + Within thy mighty bounds transpires, + With speed defying space and time + Comes to us on the accusing wires; + + While of thy wealth of noble deeds, + Thy homes of peace, thy votes unsold, + The love that pleads for human needs, + The wrong redressed, but half is told! + + We read each felon's chronicle, + His acts, his words, his gallows-mood; + We know the single sinner well + And not the nine and ninety good. + + Yet if, on daily scandals fed, + We seem at times to doubt thy worth, + We know thee still, when all is said, + The best and dearest spot on earth. + + From the warm Mexic Gulf, or where + Belted with flowers Los Angeles + Basks in the semi-tropic air, + To where Katahdin's cedar trees + + Are dwarfed and bent by Northern winds, + Thy plenty's horn is yearly filled; + Alone, the rounding century finds + Thy liberal soil by free hands tilled. + + A refuge for the wronged and poor, + Thy generous heart has borne the blame + That, with them, through thy open door, + The old world's evil outcasts came. + + But, with thy just and equal rule, + And labor's need and breadth of lands, + Free press and rostrum, church and school, + Thy sure, if slow, transforming hands + + Shall mould even them to thy design, + Making a blessing of the ban; + And Freedom's chemistry combine + The alien elements of man. + + The power that broke their prison bar + And set the dusky millions free, + And welded in the flame of war + The Union fast to Liberty, + + Shall it not deal with other ills, + Redress the red man's grievance, break + The Circean cup which shames and kills, + And Labor full requital make? + + Alone to such as fitly bear + Thy civic honors bid them fall? + And call thy daughters forth to share + The rights and duties pledged to all? + + Give every child his right of school, + Merge private greed in public good, + And spare a treasury overfull + The tax upon a poor man's food? + + No lack was in thy primal stock, + No weakling founders builded here; + Thine were the men of Plymouth Rock, + The Huguenot and Cavalier; + + And they whose firm endurance gained + The freedom of the souls of men, + Whose hands, unstained with blood, maintained + The swordless commonwealth of Penn. + + And thine shall be the power of all + To do the work which duty bids, + And make the people's council hall + As lasting as the Pyramids! + + Well have thy later years made good + Thy brave-said word a century back, + The pledge of human brotherhood, + The equal claim of white and black. + + That word still echoes round the world, + And all who hear it turn to thee, + And read upon thy flag unfurled + The prophecies of destiny. + + Thy great world-lesson all shall learn, + The nations in thy school shall sit, + Earth's farthest mountain-tops shall burn + With watch-fires from thy own uplit. + + Great without seeking to be great + By fraud or conquest, rich in gold, + But richer in the large estate + Of virtue which thy children hold, + + With peace that comes of purity + And strength to simple justice due, + So runs our loyal dream of thee; + God of our fathers! make it true. + + O Land of lands! to thee we give + Our prayers, our hopes, our service free; + For thee thy sons shall nobly live, + And at thy need shall die for thee! + + + + +ON THE BIG HORN. + +In the disastrous battle on the Big Horn River, in which General Custer +and his entire force were slain, the chief Rain-in-the-Face was one of +the fiercest leaders of the Indians. In Longfellow's poem on the +massacre, these lines will be remembered:-- + + "Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, + "Revenge upon all the race + Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" + And the mountains dark and high + From their crags reechoed the cry + Of his anger and despair. + +He is now a man of peace; and the agent at Standing Rock, Dakota, +writes, September 28, 1886: "Rain-in-the-Face is very anxious to go to +Hampton. I fear he is too old, but he desires very much to go." The +Southern Workman, the organ of General Armstrong's Industrial School at +Hampton, Va., says in a late number:-- + +"Rain-in-the-Face has applied before to come to Hampton, but his age +would exclude him from the school as an ordinary student. He has shown +himself very much in earnest about it, and is anxious, all say, to learn +the better ways of life. It is as unusual as it is striking to see a man +of his age, and one who has had such an experience, willing to give up +the old way, and put himself in the position of a boy and a student." + + + THE years are but half a score, + And the war-whoop sounds no more + With the blast of bugles, where + Straight into a slaughter pen, + With his doomed three hundred men, + Rode the chief with the yellow hair. + + O Hampton, down by the sea! + What voice is beseeching thee + For the scholar's lowliest place? + Can this be the voice of him + Who fought on the Big Horn's rim? + Can this be Rain-in-the-Face? + + His war-paint is washed away, + His hands have forgotten to slay; + He seeks for himself and his race + The arts of peace and the lore + That give to the skilled hand more + Than the spoils of war and chase. + + O chief of the Christ-like school! + Can the zeal of thy heart grow cool + When the victor scarred with fight + Like a child for thy guidance craves, + And the faces of hunters and braves + Are turning to thee for light? + + The hatchet lies overgrown + With grass by the Yellowstone, + Wind River and Paw of Bear; + And, in sign that foes are friends, + Each lodge like a peace-pipe sends + Its smoke in the quiet air. + + The hands that have done the wrong + To right the wronged are strong, + And the voice of a nation saith + "Enough of the war of swords, + Enough of the lying words + And shame of a broken faith!" + + The hills that have watched afar + The valleys ablaze with war + Shall look on the tasselled corn; + And the dust of the grinded grain, + Instead of the blood of the slain, + Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn! + + The Ute and the wandering Crow + Shall know as the white men know, + And fare as the white men fare; + The pale and the red shall be brothers, + One's rights shall be as another's, + Home, School, and House of Prayer! + + O mountains that climb to snow, + O river winding below, + Through meadows by war once trod, + O wild, waste lands that await + The harvest exceeding great, + Break forth into praise of God! + + 1887. + + + + +NOTES + +Note 1, page 18. The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful +sonnet of William Wordsworth, addressed to Toussaint L'Ouverture, during +his confinement in France. + + "Toussaint!--thou most unhappy man of men + Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough + Within thy hearing, or thou liest now + Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den; + O miserable chieftain!--where and when + Wilt thou find patience?--Yet, die not, do thou + Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow; + Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, + Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind + Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies,-- + There's not a breathing of the common wind + That will forget thee; thou hast great allies. + Thy friends are exultations, agonies, + And love, and man's unconquerable mind." + + +Note 2, page 67. The Northern author of the Congressional rule against +receiving petitions of the people on the subject of Slavery. + + +Note 3, page 88. There was at the time when this poem was written an +Association in Liberty County, Georgia, for the religious instruction of +negroes. One of their annual reports contains an address by the Rev. +Josiah Spry Law, in which the following passage occurs: "There is a +growing interest in this community in the religious instruction of +negroes. There is a conviction that religious instruction promotes the +quiet and order of the people, and the pecuniary interest of the +owners." + + +Note 4, page 117. The book-establishment of the Free-Will Baptists in +Dover was refused the act of incorporation by the New Hampshire +Legislature, for the reason that the newspaper organ of that sect and +its leading preachers favored abolition. + + +Note 5, page 118. The senatorial editor of the Belknap Gazette all along +manifested a peculiar horror of "niggers" and "nigger parties." + + +Note 6, page 118. The justice before whom Elder Storrs was brought for +preaching abolition on a writ drawn by Hon. M. N., Jr., of Pittsfield. +The sheriff served the writ while the elder was praying. + + +Note 7, page 118. The academy at Canaan, N. H., received one or two +colored scholars, and was in consequence dragged off into a swamp by +Democratic teams. + + +Note 8, page 119. "Papers and memorials touching the subject of slavery +shall be laid on the table without reading, debate, or reference." So +read the gag-law, as it was called, introduced in the House by Mr. +Atherton. + + +Note 9, page 120. The Female Anti-Slavery Society, at its first meeting +in Concord, was assailed with stones and brickbats. + + +Note 10, page 168. The election of Charles Sumner to the United States +Senate "followed hard upon" the rendition of the fugitive Sims by the +United States officials and the armed police of Boston. + + +Note 11, page 290. For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, +in his inimitable sonnet to the Rhodora,-- + + "If eyes were made for seeing, + Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Whittier, Volume III (of +VII), by John Greenleaf Whittier + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF WHITTIER *** + +***** This file should be named 9580.txt or 9580.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/5/8/9580/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. 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