JB9B . . W BANCROFT LIBRARY O THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA M&%$& T&T m '^w m 3S JOHN GREENLEAF ' WHITTIER'S POET- nx !CAL WORKS . NEW YORK, THOMAS Y. j^j CROWELL & COMPANY, jg PUBLISHERS jt ^ Poems of John Greenleaf Whittier, With Biographical Sketch BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL .& COMPANY PUBLISHERS P 5 COPYRIGHT, 1893 AND 1902, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. BANCROFT LIBRARY CONTENTS. PAGE MOGG MEGONE, 1835 .... i THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 1848 . 20 LEGENDARY, 1846: The Merrimack 34 The Norsemen 35 Cassandra Southwick ... 37 Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 41 St. John 42 Pentucket 44 The Familist's Hymn ... 45 The Fountain 46 The Exiles 47 The New Wife and the Old 51 VOICES OF FREEDOM, FROM 1833 TO 1848: Toussaint L'Ouverture . . 53 The Slave-ships .... 56 Stanzas 57 The Yankee Girl .... 59 To W. L. G 60 Song of the Free . . . . 61 The Hunters of Men . . . 61 Clerical Oppressors ... 63 The Christian Slave ... 64 Stanzas for the Times . . 65 PAGE Lines on the Anti-slavery Message of Governor Ritner, 1836 66 The Pastoral Letter ... 68 Lines for Anti-slavery Meet- ing, 1834 69 Lines for Third Anniversary of British Emancipation, 1837 70 Lines on British Emancipa- tion, 1846 71 The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother 72 The Moral Warfare ... 73 The World's Convention of the Friends of Emancipa- tion, 1840 73 New Hampshire .... 76 The New Year 77 Massachusetts to Virginia . 79 The Relic 82 The Branded Hand ... 83 Texas 84 To Faneuil Hall .... 86 To Massachusetts .... 86 The Pine-tree 87 Lines on a Visit to Washing- ton, 1845 88 Lines to a Young Clerical Friend 90 CONTENTS. PAGE Yorktown 90 Lines written in a Friend's Book 92 Paean 94 To the Memory of Thomas Shipley 95 To a Southern Statesman . 96 Lines on Pinckney's Reso- lutions and Calhoun's Bill 97 The Curse of the Charter- breakers 98 The Slaves of Martinique . 99 The Crisis 102 Miscella n eo us . The Knight of St. John . 104 The Holy Land .... 105 Palestine 105 Ezekiel, chapter xxxiii. 30-33 i7 The Wife of Manoah to her Husband 108 The Cities of the Plain . . no The Crucifixion . . . . 1 1 1 The Star of Bethlehem . . 1 1 1 Hymns from the French of Lamartine 113 The Female Martyr . . . 115 The Frost Spirit . . . . 116 The Vaudois Teacher . . 117 The Call of the Christian . 118 My Soul and I 118 To a Friend 121 The Angel of Patience . . 122 Follen 123 To the Reformers of Eng- land 124 The Quaker of the Olden Time 125 The Reformer . 126 PAGE The Prisoner for Debt . . 127 Lines on Clergymen's Views of the Gallows .... 128 The Human Sacrifice . . 130 Randolph of Roanoke . . 133 Democracy 134 To Ronge 135 ChalkleyHall 136 To J. P 137 The Cypress-tree of Ceylon 138 A Dream of Summer . . 1 39 To 139 Leggett's Monument . . 141 SONGS OF LABOR, AND OTHER POEMS, 1850: Dedication 142 The Ship-builders . . . 143 The Shoemakers .... 144 The Drovers 145 The Fishermen . . . . 146 The Huskers 147 The Corn -song .... 149 The Lumbermen .... 149 Miscellaneous. The Angels of Buena Vista, 1 5 1 Forgiveness 153 Barclay of Ury 153 What the Voice said . . 155 To Delaware 156 Worship 156 The Demon of the Study . 158 The Pumpkin 160 Extract from " A New Eng- land Legend" . . . . 161 Hampton Beach . . . . 162 Lines on the Death of Silas Wright 163 Lines accompanying Manu- scripts 164 CONTENTS. PAGE The Reward 165 Raphael 165 Lucy Hooper 167 Charming 168 To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs 169 Lines on the Death of S. O. Torrey 170 A Lament 171 Daniel Wheeler .... 172 Daniel Neall 174 To my Friend on the Death of his Sister 175 Gone 175 The Lake-side 176 The Hill-top 177 On receiving an Eagle's Quill from Lake Superior, 178 Memories 179 The Legend of St. Mark . 180 The Well of Loch Maree . 181 To my Sister 182 Autumn Thoughts . . . 182 Calef in Boston .... 183 To Pius IX 183 Elliott 184 Ichabod! 185 The Christian Tourists . . 186 The Men of Old .... 187 The Peace Convention at Brussels The Wish of To-day . Our State All's Well Seed-time and Harvest . To A. K. 1 88 190 190 191 191 191 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS, AND OTHER POEMS, 1852: The Chapel of the Hermits, 193 Miscellaneous. Questions of Life .... The Prisoners of Naples . Moloch in State Street . . The Peace of Europe Wordsworth To , after a Day's Ex- cursion In Peace Benedicite Pictures Derne Astraea Invocation The Cross Eva To Fredrika Bremer . April Stanzas for the Times, 1850 A Sabbath Scene .... Remembrance The Poor Voter on Election Day Trust Kathleen First-day Thoughts . Kossuth To my Old Schoolmaster . THE PANORAMA, AND OTHER POEMS, 1856: PAGE I 99 201 202 20 3 204 2O4 205 206 206 20 7 20 9 20 9 210 210 211 211 212 2I 3 214 215 2I 5 2I 5 217 218 218 221 The Panorama .... Miscella n eo us . Summer by the Lakeside . 231 The Hermit of the Thebaid, 233 Burns 235 William Forster .... 236 Rantoul 237 The Dream of Pio Nono . 239 Tauler 240 CONTENTS. PAGE Lines suggested by reading a State Paper .... 242 The Voices 242 The Hero 244 My Dream 245 The Barefoot Boy . . . 246 Flowers in Winter . . . 247 The Rendition 248 Lines the Fugitive Slave Act 249 The Fruit-gift 249 A Memory 250 To C. S 251 The Kansas Emigrants. . 251 Song of Slaves in the Desert 252 Lines to Friends arrested by Slave Power . . . 252 The New Exodus . . . . 253 The Haschish 254 BALLADS : Mary Garvin 255 Maud Muller 258 The Ranger 260 LATER POEMS, 1856-1857: The Last Walk in Autumn 262 The Mayflowers .... 266 Burial of Barbour .... 267 To Pennsylvania .... 268 The Pass of the Sierra . . 268 The Conquest of Finland . 269 A Lay of Old Time ... 270 What of the Day? ... 270 The First Flowers . . . 271 My Namesake 272 HOME BALLADS, 1860: The Witch's Daughter . 275 PAGE The Garrison of Cape Ann 279 The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall . ,281 Skipper Ireson's Ride . . Telling the Bees .... The Sycamores .... The Double-headed Snake of Newbury The Swan Song of Parson Avery The Truce of Piscataqua . POEMS AND LYRICS: The Shadow and the Light 295 The Gift of Tritemius . - 297 The Eve of Election . . t 298 The Over-heart .... 299 In Remembrance of Joseph Sturge 300 Trinitas 302 The Old Bury ing-ground . 303 The Pipes at Lucknow . . 304 My Psalm 305 Le Marais du Cygne . . 306 "The Rock" in El Ghor . 307 On a Prayer-book . . . 308 To J. T. F 310 The Palm-tree 310 Lines for the Burns Celebra- tion, 1859 311 The Red River Voyageur . 312 Kenoza Lake 312 To G. B. C 313 The Sisters 314 Lines for Agricultural Ex- hibition 314 The Preacher 315 The Quaker Alumni . . . 321 Brown of Ossawatomie . . 325 CONTENTS. PAGE From Perugia 326 For an Autumn Festival . 327 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS : The Exile's Departure . . 329 The Deity 329 To the "Rustic Bard" . . 330 The Album 331 Mount Agiochook . . . 332 Metacom 333 PAGE The Fratricide 335 Eternity 337 Isabella of Austria . . . 338 Stanzas 340 The Missionary .... 341 Massachusetts 345 Address on Opening of Pennsylvania Hall, 1838 346 The Response 349 Stanzas for the Times, 1844 351 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. CIRCUMSTANCES determine the poet ; inheritance determines who the poet shall be. It somehow seems to be a marvellous thing that a thrifty, plain Quaker stock should come to such a flowering as was seen in John Greenleaf Whittier. That iri- descent colors should play over the Quaker drab ! That from the insignificant chrys- alis should emerge the brilliant butterfly ! From Keltic origin one might expect any surprises. Boyle O'Reilly, who had also something of the prophetic spirit, who also threw himself generously into conflict with powers that did their best to crush him and make a martyr of him, is explained by the fact that he was Keltic. But one scarcely expects a singer from the ranks of sober Friends. That is an anomaly; and to explain the phenomenon one must look into Whittier's ancestry. Four steps bring us back to the days of the Puritans. Whittier's father, John, born in 1760, was the tenth child of Joseph, born in 1716, the ninth and youngest son of Joseph, born in 1669, who was in turn the tenth and youngest child of Thomas, who was born in Southampton, England, in 1620, and sailed for America in the good ship "Confidence" a little more than two and a half centuries ago. Thomas Whittier was no common man. He settled on the Merrimack River, first in Salisbury, then in old Newbury, then in Haverhill, where he built the house in which his famous de- scendant was born. He is said to have brought the first hive of bees to Haverhill. In those days Indians frequently scalped and murdered defenceless families of white settlers; but Thomas Whittier made them his friends and disdained to protect his house with flint-lock or stockade. Thomas Whittier's son, Joseph, married the daughter of the Quaker, Joseph Peasley, and thus the strain which in those days was regarded as a disgrace, but which in time became a mark of distinction, was grafted upon the Whittier stock. The poet's grandfather married Sarah Greenleaf, a descendant of a French exile, whose name, instead of being perverted like the Lummydews (L'Hommedieux) and the Desizzles (Des Isles), was simply translated into English. What part this Gallic blood played in Whittier's mental make-up, it would be no less difficult than interest- ing to determine. Whittier's mother, Abagail Hussey, was descended from the Rev. Stephen Bach- elor or Batchelder of Hampton, N.H., a man who was famed for his "splendid eye." This feature, which is generally associated with genius, seemed to have been inherited by Whittier, and Daniel Webster, and William Pitt Fessenden, and Caleb Gushing. ix BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Dark, expressive, penetrating eyes, full of soul and flashing with sudden lightning glances, were characteristic of the " Batchelder eye," common to so many families in New Hampshire. Whittier's father married at the age of forty-four and had only four children, Mary, John Greenleaf, who was born September 17, 1807, Matthew Franklin, and Elizabeth Hussey. The old Whittier farmhouse, with its huge central chimney, faces the south; the front lower rooms are square, with fifteen-inch oaken beams supporting the low ceilings. The poet was born in the west front room, the two small-paned windows of which look down to a little brook, which in those early days, says Whittier, " foamed, rippled, and laughed " behind its natural fringe of bushes. Across the way was the big unpainted barn. The scenery was the typical landscape of New England a smooth, grassy knoll (known as Job's Hill), woodland composed of oaks, walnuts, pines, firs, and spruces, with sumachs, which in the autumn, and in the spring as well, are gorgeous with many colors. Whittier, however, was color-blind, and all that splendid display counted as naught to him. Behind the house was the orchard, and behind the orchard a clump of oaks, near which the Whittier graveyard used to be. In 1798 the farm was rated as worth $200. The year before the poet was born his father bought one of three shares in it for $600 of borrowed money, and the debt was not cleared for a quarter of a century. Money was scarce in those clays. And yet John Whittier was honored by his townspeople, was frequently in the public service, and entertained men of note at his humble fireside. When Whittier was seven years old, he went to school. His first teacher, who was his lifelong friend, was Joshua Coffin of old Newbury. Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial. The charcoal frescos on its wall; The door's worn sill betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing. It stood about half a mile from Whittier's home, but the fount of knowledge flowed during only about three months in the year. At home the library was scanty. Only twenty books or so, mostly journals and memoirs of pious Quakers, furnished the boy home reading. He would walk miles BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. to borrow a volume of biography or travel. Naturally, the precepts of the Bible, which was daily read, became a part of his mental and moral (ibre. His poems are full of references to Bible events and characters. " In my boyhood," he says, " in our lonely farmhouse, we had scanty sources of information, few books, and only a small weekly newspaper. Our only annual was the Almanac. Under such circum- stances story-telling was a necessary resource in the long winter evenings." When Nature sets about to make a poet, she has her own college. These appar- ent deprivations are enrichments. They concentrate genius. The few hours of regular schooling were counterbalanced with lessons from Dame Nature herself. Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, How the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robiu feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewingi books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks. He goes on autobiographically : I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! There was scanty time for play, however; that perpetual interest was eating up the meagre products of the farm; boys had to put their hands to the plough. " At an early age," he says, " I was set at work on the farm and doing errands for my mother, who, in addition to her ordinary house duties, was busy in spinning and weaving the linen and woollen cloth needed for the family." The family was large, consisting, says \Vhittier, of " my father, mother, my brother and two sisters, and my uncle and aunt, both unmarried." In addition there was the district school-master, who boarded with them. For graphic pen-pictures of this group, one must go to " Snow-Bound." There we shall see Uncle Moses, with whom the boys delighted to go fishing in the dancing brook. His aunt, Miss Hussey, had the reputation of making the best squash pies that were ever baked. The influence of pie in developing character must not be over-i looked. What oatmeal was to Carlyle, what the haggis was to Burns, the pie was to the true New Englander. It will not be forgotten how fond Emerson was of pie. Indigestion and poetry have a certain strange alliance; did not Byron purposely exacerbate his stomach in order to coin "Don Juan" into guineas? Each member of that delightful household stands forth in living lines. " Snow- Bound " now needs no praise. It has been accepted as the typical idyl of a New England winter, the sweetest flower of New England home life. It is greater than " The Cotter's Saturday Night " because it was written more from the heart. It stands with " The Cotter's Saturday Night " and, though, quite unlike, may have been inspired by Burns's immortal poem. To Burns, Whittier owed his first inspiration, and he himself tells how he learned first to know the Scotch poet. A wandering Scotchman came one day to the Whittier farmhouse. " After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider, he gave us ' Bonnie Boon,' ' Highland Mary,' and ' Auld Lang Syne.' He had a full rich voice and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics." When he was fourteen, Joshua Coffin brought a volume of Burns's poems, and read some of them, greatly to his delight. Says Whittier : " I begged him to leave the book with me, and set myself at once to the task of mastering the glossary of the Scottish dialect to its close. This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventure." When pen and ink failed him, he resorted to chalk or charcoal, and he hid away his effusions with the care with which a cat hides her young kittens. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. It is interesting to know that recently one or two of Whittier's first attempts in rhyme, in Scotch dialect and in the manner of Burns, have been discovered. When Whittier was in his eighteenth year, that is, in 1825, he wrote several poems which found their way the following year to the Newburyport Free Press, then just established by William Lloyd Garrison. The Whittiers subscribed for it, and in the " Poets' Corner " appeared in print the first of the young man's published verses, entitled " The Exile's Departure," written in the metre of " The Old Oaken Bucket." It is noticeable that the Exile sings : Farewell, shores of Erin, green land of my fathers, Once more and forever, a mournful adieu. It would seem that Thomas Moore's Irish melodies must have fallen into his hands. The trace of Whittier's reading is often to be found in his poems. " Mogg Megone " also shows the insidious influence of " Lalla Rookh." " The Bridal of Pen- nacook" is Wordsworth, pure and simple, the praise of whom betrays its origin; but not as yet, and not until long afterwards, did he succeed in attaining felicity in epithet. It was also the day of the Scott and of the Byron fever, and Whittier did not escape it. It is said that Whittier was mending fences when the carrier brought the paper that contained his first printed lines and the editorial notice : " If W. at Haverhill will continue to favor us with pieces beautiful as the one inserted in our poetical department of to-day, we shall esteem it a favor." Whittier could hardly believe his eyes. He accepted the invitation. The second of his Free Press poems was in blank verse and entitled " Deity." He confided the secret to his sister. She in- formed Garrison that it was her brother who wrote them. One day when the young poet was hoeing in the cornfield, clad only in shirt, trousers, and straw hat, he was summoned into the house to see a visitor. It proved to be Garrison, who had driven over from Newburyport to make the acquaintance of his contributor. He insisted that Whittier showed such talent that he ought to have further education. Whittier's father remonstrated against putting notions into the lad's head. " Sir," he said, " poetry will not give him bread." Besides, there was no money and no prospect of money. Suddenly a way opened. A young hired man knew how to make ladies' shoes and slippers. He offered to teach the art to his employer's son. Mr. Moses Emerson, one of Whittier's early teachers, used to relate how Whittier worked at his shoemaking in a little shop which stood in the yard, and how he sat on a bench amid tanned hides, pincers, bristles, paste pots, and rosin, stitching for dear life. During the following winter he earned by it enough money to buy a suit of clothes and pay for six months' schooling at the new Academy in Haverhill. Whit- tier wrote the ode that was sung at the dedication of the new building. He boarded at the house of Mr. A. W. Thayer, editor and publisher of the Haverhill Gazette. Naturally the young poet contributed also to this paper some of his verses. He was now nineteen, and was long remembered as " a very handsome, distinguished-looking BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. young man " with remarkably handsome eyes; tall, slight, and very erect, bashful but never awkward. Whittier used to like to relate the story of his first visit to Boston. He was dressed in a new suit of homespun, which for the first time were adorned with " boughten buttons." He expected to spend a week with the Greenes, who were family connections. Shortly after his arrival he sallied forth to see the sights. He described how he wandered up and down the streets, but somehow found it different from what he expected. The crowd was worse on Washington Street, and he soon got tired of being jostled and thought he would step aside into an alley-way and wait till " the folks " got by. But there was no cessation of the " terrible stream of people," some of whom stared at him with curious or mocking eyes. He stayed there a long time and began to be " lonesome." At last, however, he mustered courage to leave his " coign of vantage," and safely reached Mrs. Greene's in time for tea. She had guests, among them a gay young woman*whose beauty and vivacity especially interested him. But she began to talk about the theatre, and finally asked him to be present that evening. She was the leading lady ! Whittier had promised his mother that he would never enter a playhouse. He was terribly shocked at the-danger which he had run. He could not sleep that night, and next morning he took the early stage-coach for his country home. In after years he told this story with great zest, but he never broke the promise which he made to his mother. At the close of the term, W 7 hittier taught the district school at West Amesbury, thus enabling him to return for another six months at the Academy. Garrison had meantime gone to Boston, and through his influence Whittier secured a place there at a salary of nine dollars a week on the American Manufacturer. But this engage- ment was of short duration. In 1830 he was editing the Haverhill Gazette. He was beginning to be widely known as a poet. Next he became editor of the New England Weekly Review of Hartford, Conn., to which he also contributed upwards of forty poems, besides sketches and tales in prose. He boarded at the Exchange Coffee House, and lived a solitary, sedentary life. His health even then was delicate. At this time, if ever, occurred the hinted romance of his life. Writing of a visit to his home, he said : " I can say that I have clasped more than one fair hand, and read my welcome in more than one bright eye." More than one love-poem dated from this time. Long afterwards he touched upon these episodes in " Memories " and in " A Sea-dream." But Whittier never married. He published his first volume in 1831, "Legends of New England," a collection of his prose and verse. This was afterwards suppressed, as well as his first narrative poem, " Moll Pitcher," published the following year. So far, with much promise, he had as yet shown little originality. He bade fair to be simply a poet. But two years later he took part in an event which was destined to change the face of all things, not for him alone, but for his country. In 1833 he helped to organize the American Anti-slavery Society. Henceforth, during a whole generation, his life was to be a warfare : . BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 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. Side by side with William Lloyd Garrison stood Whittier. The manifesto of the one was the inspiration of the other : " I will be harsh as truth and as uncom- promising as justice. I am in earnest; I will not equivocate; I will not excuse; I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard ! " Whittier in the same spirit sang : If we have whispered truth, whisper no longer; Speak as the tempest does, sterner and stronger; Still be the tones of truth louder and firmer, Startling the haughty South with the deep murmur; God and our charter's right, Freedom forever, Truce with oppression, never, oh, never ! Nor would he allow the charms of mere literature to beguile him into pleasant paths. Putting aside melancholy, sentimental yearnings, he resisted the temptation, as he pathetically sings in the poem entitled " Ego." The question of slavery began to be borne in upon him even before he settled in Hartford. On his return home he made a thorough study of the subject and wrote a twenty-three page pamphlet entitled "Justice and Expediency; or, Slavery Con- sidered with a View to its Rightful and Effectual Remedy, Abolition." It was printed at Haverhill at his own expense. Its argument was never answered. It con- cluded with this eloquent peroration : "And when the stain on our own escutcheon shall be seen no more; when the Declaration of Independence and the practice of our people shall agree; when Truth shall be exalted among us; when Love shall take the place of Wrong; when all the baneful pride and prejudice of caste and color shall fall forever; when under one common sun of political Liberty the slave-holding portions of our Republic shall BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. no longer sit like Egyptians of old, themselves mantled in thick darkness while all around them is glowing with the blessed light of freedom and equality then and not till then shall it GO WELL FOR AMERICA." This preceded and led to his appointment as one of the delegates of the great Anti-slavery Convention at Philadelphia. Next to Magna Charta and the Declaration of Independence, the Declaration of Principles then formulated, and signed by Whittier, is a document of which the generations unborn will be most proud. A copy of it framed in wood from Pennsylvania Hall, destroyed by a pro-slavery mob, was one of Whittier's most precious possessions. In spite of his stand on an unpopular side, Whittier's character was appreciated by his fellow-citizens. He was elected a member of the Massachusetts State legis- lature in 1835. He held only one other public office that of presidential elector. But the people of his own communion looked askance upon his political, reformatory, and literary achievements. He was even brought into danger of discipline, and it is said that in his later days he used to remark jokingly that not until he was old would the Quakers of his society show any willingness to put upon him the little dignities from which his position as a reformer had in his youth excluded him. The very year that he was a member of the Massachusetts legislature, he had his first experience of a mob. George Thompson, the famous English abolitionist and member of Parliament, came to this country to preach abolition. It was noised abroad that he was brought over to disseminate dissension between North and South, so as to destroy American trade, to the advantage of British. This noble reformer had narrowly escaped a mob in Salem. Whittier invited him to his East Haverhill home, that he might have perfect rest and quiet. The two men enjoyed making hay together and were entirely unmolested. At last they started to drive to Plymouth, N. H., to visit a prominent abolitionist there. On their way they stopped at Concord, where Thompson was invited to speak on reform. After the lecture they found it impossible to leave the hall, which was surrounded by a mob of several hundred persons. On their way back, they were assailed with stones. Whittier declared that he understood how St. Paul felt when the Jews attacked him. Fortunately, their heads were not broken, but they were severely lamed. The mob surrounded the house and demanded that the Quaker and his guest should be handed over to them. His host opened the door and exclaimed : " Whoever comes in here must come in over my dead body." Decoyed away, the rabble returned with muskets and a cannon. Their lives were in danger. They managed to harness a horse, and then, when the gate was suddenly opened, they drove off at a furious gallop and escaped from the hooting mob, which one of them- selves afterwards declared was like a throng of demons. At Plymouth they narrowly escaped another mobbing. Not long after, when Whittier was attending an extra session of the legislature, the female anti-slavery society meeting was broken up by a mob. The police rescued Garrison, just as they were going to hang him to a lamp- post. Whittier's sister was one of the delegates, and the two were stopping at the BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. same house. Whittier managed to remove her to a place of safety; he and Samuel J. May sat up all night watching developments. Those were exciting times. Most of the year Whittier, like Cincinnatus, worked his farm. His father had died, and the brunt of the burden of supporting the family rested on him. He was often seen in the fall of the year at the head of tide-water in the Merrimack, exchanging apples and vegetables for the salt fish brought by coasting vessels. In the spring of March, 1838, he went to Philadelphia to edit the Pennsylvania Free- man, which had its offices in a large building built by the anti-slavery people, and named Pennsylvania Hall. It was publicly opened on the fifteenth of May with speeches, and a long poem by Whittier. That evening a stone was flung through one of the windows of the hall. This was the preliminary symptom of impending trouble. The next day a mob collected and disturbed the meetings with their jeers and yells. On the third day, in spite of the association's formal demand for protec- tion, and the mayor's promise, the building was given into the hands of the mob, which sacked it and then set it on fire. The firemen refused to quench the flames and were complimented by the Southern press on their noble conduct. One paper printed a boasting letter from a participant saying: "Not a drop of water did they pour on that accursed Moloch until it was a heap of ruins." A charitable shelter for colored orphans was also burned, and a colored church was attacked and wrecked. The members of the Pennsylvania Anti-slavery Society met the next morning after the outrage, beside the smoking ruins of their hall, and calmly elected their officers while a vast mob was still howling around them. Whittier's investment in the paper was lost, but he stayed in Philadelphia for about a year, when his failing health compelled him to return to Massachusetts. The East Haverhill farm was sold in 1840, and he removed with his mother, sister, and aunt to Amesbury, which was his legal residence through the rest of his life. Within ten or twelve minutes' walk of Whittier's house rises Pow-wow Hill, so often celebrated in his verse. The surrounding region which is visible from it has been well called his Ayrshire: far to the north the White Mountains are dimly visible, his beloved Ossipee and Bearcamp. To the south, Agamenticus Adamaticus, as the natives call it stands in its purple isolation. The Isles of Shoals are visible, like rough stones in a turquoise arch, the lone line of beaches which he often called by name, and the rock-ribbed coast of Cape Ann. Scarcely a point which had not a legend, scarcely a legend which he did not put into verse. After the death of his sister and the marriage of his niece, he resided during the most of the year with his cousins, at their beautiful country-seat at Oak Knoll, Danvers. The storm and stress were past. Henceforth, for the most part, he devoted his genius to song. His watchword was : Our country, and Liberty and God for the Right. He was not afraid to lift the whip of scorpion stings : he called the pro-slavery congressmen : cviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. A passive herd of Northern mules, Just braying from their purchased throats Whate'er their owner rules. The Northern author of the congressional rule against receiving the petitions of ;he people in regard to slavery was thus held up to execration : . . . the basest of the base, The vilest of the vile, ... * * * * * A mark for every passing blast Of scorn to whistle through. When he felt that Daniel Webster, whom he had so much admired, was recreant, le wrote against him that tremendous accusation entitled " Ichabod." He never ;eased, however, to regret the severity of those awful lines, which make Browning's ' Lost Leader " sound flat and insipid in comparison. Whittier was never despondent. In the darkest hours he saw the rainbow Dromise bent on high. He cried in 1844 to the men of Massachusetts: Shrink not from strife unequal ! With the best is always hope; And ever in the sequel God holds the right side up ! Fhus, while he knew how to apply the lash, he also could cheer, and encourage, and idvise. His practical common sense, his clear vision, saw far ahead. It would be impossible to write the history of Emancipation and not recognize ;he influence of Whittier's lyrics. Lacking in imagination, in grace, in what is commonly called poetic charm, often clumsy, ill-rhymed, and unrhythmical, they yet nave an awakening power like that of a trumpet. Plain and unadorned, they ippealed to a plain and simple people. They won their way by these very homely qualities. Whittier learned from his parents the art of story-telling. Naturally, the Indians irst appealed to him, and many of his earliest poems have the Red-skins as their leroes; speaking of " Mogg Megone" many years after it was written, he ;ays : " Looking at it at the present time, it suggests the idea of a big Indian in his A'ar-paint strutting about in Sir Walter Scott's plaid." But the early history of New England was full of folk-lore, and Whittier had the Ballad-maker's instinct. As he grew older, his sureness of touch increased. The homely names conferred on his native brooks and ponds fitted into his verse, rhus : t BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. The dark pines sing on Ramoth Hill The slow song of the sea. The sweetbriar blooms on Kittery-side And green are Eliot's bowers. And he talks about the " nuts of Wenham woods." One could quote hundreds of such felicitous touches, which endear a poet to his neighbors and then to his nation. Catching hold of the New England legends and turning them into homely rhymes, as a ballad -singer would have done in the early days, he becomes not only the poet, but the creator of the legends. The very mean- ing of the word " poet " is the maker. A friend sends him the rough prose outline of a story connected with some old house, and Whittier easily remodels it and makes it his own. Thus he is the Poet of New England, and as New England has colonized the West, his fame spreads over the whole land. He gets hearers for himself by this double capacity. He is the ballad-maker; and in this view he stands far higher as a poet than in his nobler but less poetic capacity of Laureate of Freedom and Faith. The word " Liberty" has a hundred rhymes; the word "slave" its dozens. How the poet is put to it when he wants to find a rhyme for " love " ! " Dove " and " above " and " glove " are about all the words that are left to him. Whittier, with his ease of rhyming, put little poetry but immense feeling into his anti-slavery poems. Not by them will he be judged as a poet. He has still another claim on us. He was the descendant of godly men and women. No American poet of his rank was so distinctively religious, and yet his verse is absolutely undimmed By dust of theologic strife or breath Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore. He could not be kept within the narrow limits of a sect. His religion was a vital principle with him. Like his own " Quaker of the Olden Time," he made his daily life a prayer. Faith in God was supreme. Read any of his hymns, his ad- dresses to friends, his memorials to the dead; there are more than seventy of them gathered in the second volume of his collected works. How they speak of immortality and the Eternal Goodness ! In one of his last poems, while he speaks almost mournfully of sitting alone and watching the warm, sweet day Lapse tenderly away, he calms his troubled thought with these words : Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-merciful and Just. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine. One of his letters was written in favor of a union of the numerous sects in the one vital centre the Christ. After this, it seems almost ungracious to speak criti- cally of Whittier's work. He himself often wished that at least half of it were sunk in the Red Sea. A good deal of his early work had indeed The simple air and rustic dress And sign of haste and carelessness which he attributes to it, but also it was More than the specious counterfeit Of sentiment or studied wit. He calls his verse " simple lays of homely toil." He may have written commonplaces, but he declared that he could not trace the cold and heartless commonplace. 'Whittier was utterly color-blind; he also declared that he did not know anything of music, " not one tune from another." " The gods made him most unmusical," he whimsically remarked. Lack of musical ear is not uncommon in poets. Burns was behind all his schoolmates in that respect. Bryant had no music in his soul; Byron also lacked it. The rhythmic sense atones for the lack. Whittier, unlike Lowell, did not try to write in the Yankee dialect, but his origin betrayed itself. The long- suffering " r " was absolutely ignored. We have such rhymes as " gone worn horn"; "war squaw"; "accurst lust" (as though he pronounced it accust} ; "water escort her"; "honor and scorner"; "off serf"; "sisters vistas"; "reward and God" (such infelicities did not offend his taste); "farmer ham- mer"; "thus curse"; "ever leave her Eva"; "favors save us"; "tellers Cinderellas "; " treasures maize-ears"; "woody sturdy"; " Katahdin's gardens." He, like Byron (who pronounced " camelopard " " camel-leopard "), often put the wrong accents on words: " strong-/z0A/," " a;z-cestral," "^/-troons," "grape- vine" " moon-shine,^ " r^-mance," " z>z'0-lin" as though in two syllables. True to his Quaker origin, he rarely makes reference to music. Once he speaks of " The light viol and the mellow flute." He rarely indulges in comparisons. In that respect he is like the author of the Iliad. As a general thing his lines flow rather monotonously in the four-line ballad metre; he was neither bold nor very happy in more compli- cated structures of verse. His few sonnets were not successful. Sometimes he allowed the exigences of rhyme to force him into showing the Indian's birchen boat propelled by glancing oars. He once in a while wrote such lines as these : The faded coloring of Time's tapestry Let Fancy with her dream-dipt brush supply. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi Whittier, in conversation with his intimates, possessed a remarkable vein of humor; his letters are full of drolleries, but he seemed to have little sense of the ludicrous, else he could not have written such a line as Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea, or From the rude board of Bonython Venison and succotash have gone. He rarely indulged in alliteration, yet we find "greenly growing grain" and " Summer's shade and sunshine warm." In one place he boldly indulges for rhyme's sake in such bad grammar as this : When Warkworth wood Closed o'er my steed and I. And again : " twixt thou and I." In spite of these faults, we would not willingly let a line of Whittier's verse perish. Even the fugitive pieces of his youth, which he himself came to detest, the crudities of " Mogg Megone," are interesting and valu- able. When his verse is studied chronologically, it is easy to see what constant progress he made. It was the noble growth of a New England pine, which, while the branches near the ground are dead and broken, still towers up higher and higher, with ever abundant foliage toward the sun-kissed top. And what pictures he painted ! Whittier, without the advantages, or so-called advantages, of college training, without ever travelling abroad, a hermit, almost, in his later years, keeping aloof from the people, painfully suffering from constant ill-health, unable to work half an hour at a time, ranks with the greatest of American men of letters. His prose is simple and pure ; his verse goes right to the heart. It is free from the sentimentality and turbidity of Lowell, from the artificiality that we sometimes feel in Longfellow, from the classic coldness of Bryant. He was the poet of the people, and yet the cultured find no less to love and admire in him. To have written " Snow-Bound " alone would have been to achieve immortality. But Whittier wrote so many popular poems, which have become household words, that I have not even attempted to enumerate them or the date of their appearing. He lived to see the crown of immortality unanimously conferred upon him. He lived to a grand old age, and yet he has said that for many years not merely the exer- tion of writing but even the mere thought of taking his pen into his hand brought on a terrible headache. Neither could he read with comfort. He therefore had to sit patiently and wait for Friend Death to come and lead him into that world where he believed the loved ones were waiting to welcome him. He died on the seventh of September, 1892, not at his favorite abiding-place at Oak Knoll, Danvers, but at Hampton Falls, N. H., where he was visiting the daughter of an old friend. Pure, simple, humble, unspoiled, full of love to God and man, triumphing in his faith, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Whittier went forward into the unknown. Such a death is not to be deplored. He was willing, nay, anxious to go. Let the thick curtain fall; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained. Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue; Nobler than any fact My wish that failed of act. Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong, Finish what I begin, And all I fail of, win ! The airs of heaven blow o'er me, A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be Pure, generous, brave, and free. Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples ! Sound, trumpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own ! NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. NOTE BY THE AUTHOR TO THE EDITION OF 1 857. IN these volumes, for the first time, a complete collection of my poetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know that these scattered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that attention to their revision and arrangement, which respect for the opinions of others and my own afterthought and experience demand. That there are pieces in this collection which I would " will- ingly let die," I am free to confess. But it is now too late to disown them, and I must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as v/ell as other sins. There are others, intimately con- nected with the author's life and times, which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which they were written, and the events by which they were suggested. The long poem of Mogg Megone was, in a great measure, composed in early life ; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such as the writer would have chosen at any subsequent period. J. G. W. AMESBURY, \%th ^d mo., 1857. PROEM. I LOVE the old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days, Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. Yet, vainly in my quiet hours To breathe their marvellous notes I try ; I feel them, as the leaves and flowers In silence feel the dewy showers, And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky. The rigor of a frozen clime, The harshness of an untaught ear, The jarring words of one whose rhyme Beat often Labor's hurried time, Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, No rounded art the lack supplies ; Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, Or softer shades of Nature's face, I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. Nor mine the seer- like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind ; To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown ; A hate of tyranny intense, And hearty in its vehemence, As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. O Freedom ! if to me belong Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine ! AMESBURY, \\thino., 1847. xxiv POEMS OF WHITTIER. MOGG MEGONE, 1835. [THE story of MOGG MEGONE has been considered by the author only as a framework for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineations of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams ; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man.] PART I. WHO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Me- gone? Close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing. Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its path- way hewing! Far down, through the mist of the fall- ing river, Which rises up like an incense ever, The splintered points of the crags are seen, With water howling and vexed be- tween, While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! But Mogg Megone never trembled yet Wherever his eye or his foot was set. He is watchful : each form in the moonlight dim, Of rock or of tree, is seen of him : He listens ; each sound from afar is caught, The faintest shiver of leaf and limb : But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. The moonlight, through the open bough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked . root Coils like a serpent at his foot, Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair, Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife, When, breast to breast and knee to knee, Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping- knife. Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun, And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on : His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid. MOGG MEGONE. And magic words on its polished blade, 'T was the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone, For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn : His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, And Modocawando's wives had strung The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine On the polished breech, and broad bright line Of beaded wampum around it hung. What seeks Megone? His foes are near, Gray Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping, And the garrison lights are burning clear, Where Phillips' men their watch are keeping. Let him hie him away through the dank river fog, Never rustling the boughs nor dis- placing the rocks, For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg, Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. He starts, there's a rustle among the leaves : Another, the click of his gun is heard! A footstep is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword ? Steals Harmon down from the sands of York, With hand of iron and foot of cork ? Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ? Hark! at that whistle, soft and low. How lights the eye of Mogg Me- gone! A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, " Boon welcome, Johnny Bony- thon!" Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, And quick, keen glances to and fro, The hunted outlaw, Bonython! A low, lean, swarthy man is he, With blanket-garb and buskined knee, And naught of English fashion on ; For he hates the race from whence he sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. "Hush, let the Sachem's voice be weak ; The water-rat shall hear him speak, The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear, That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here!" He pauses, dark, over cheek and brow, A flush, as of shame, is stealing now : "Sachem!" he says, "let me have the land, Which stretches away upon either hand, As far about as my feet can stray In the half of a gentle summer's day,' From the leaping brook to the Saco river, And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me, Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever." There 's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling, Of love or triumph, or both perchance, Over his proud, calm features steal- ing. " The words of my father are very good ; He shall have the land, and water, and wood ; And he who harms the Sagamore John, Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone ; But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast, And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." MOGG MEGONE. "But, father!' 1 and the Indian's hand Falls gently on the white man's arm, And with a smile as shrewdly bland As the deep voice is slow and calm, " Where is my father's singing-bird, The sunny eye, and sunset hair? I know I have my father's word, And that his word is good and fair ; But will my father tell me where Megone shall go and look for his bride ?- For he sees her not by her father's side." The dark, stern eye of Bonython Flashes over the features of Mogg Megone, In one of those glances which search within ; But the stolid calm of the Indian alone Remains where the trace of emotion has been. "Does the Sachem doubt? Let him go with me, And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see." Cautious and slow, with pauses oft, And watchful eyes and whispers soft, The twain are stealing through the wood, Leaving the downward-rushing flood, Whose deep and solemn roar behind Grows fainter on the evening wind. Hark! is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among? Or the hooting of the owl, On his leafy cradle swung? Quickly glancing, to and fro, Listening to each sound they go Round the columns of the pine, Indistinct, -in shadow, seeming Like some old and pillared shrine ; With the soft and white moonshine, Round the foliage-tracery shed Of each column's branching head, For its lamps of worship gleaming! And the sounds awakened there, In the pine-leaves fine and small, Soft and sweetly musical, By the fingers of the air, For the anthem's dying fall Lingering round some temple's wall ! Niche and cornice round and round Wailing like the ghost of sound! Is not Nature's worship thus, Ceaseless ever, going on? Hath it not a voice for us In the thunder, or the tone Of the leaf-harp faint and small, Speaking to the unsealed ear Words of blended love and fear, Of the mighty Soul of all ? Naught had the twain of thoughts like these As they wound along through the crowded trees, Where never had rung the axeman's stroke On the gnarled trunk of the rough- barked oak ; Climbing the dead tree's mossy log, Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine, Turning aside the wild grape vine, And lightly crossing the quaking bog Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog, And out of whose pools the ghostly fog Creeps into the chill moonshine! Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard The preaching of the Holy Word : Sanchekantacket's isle of sand Was once his father's hunting land, Where zealous Hiacoomes stood, The wild apostle of the wood, Shook from his soul the fear of harm, And trampled onthePowwaw's charm ; Until the wizard's curses hung Suspended on his palsying tongue, And the fierce warrior, grim and tall, Trembled before the forest Paul ! A cottage hidden in the wood, Red through its seams a light is glowing, MOGG MEGONE. On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands ; "Hold, Ruth, 'tis I, the Saga- more!" Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door ; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The flashes of the kindled pine. Tall and erect the maiden stands, Like some young priestess of the wood, The freeborn child of Solitude, And bearing still the wild and rude, Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain More from the sunshine than the rain ; Yet, where her long fair hair is parting, A pure white brow into light is start- ing ; And, where the folds of her blanket sever, Are a neck and bosom as white as ever The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. But in the convulsive quiver and grip Of the muscles around her bloodless lip, _ There is something painful and sad to see ; And her eye has a glance more sternly wild Than even that of a forest child In its fearless and untamed free- dom should be. Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen So queenly aform and so noble a mien, As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone : " Pray, father, how does thy hunt- ing fare? And, Sachem, say, does Scamman wear, In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own ? " Hurried and light is the maiden's tone ; But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone, An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair ! With hand upraised, with quick-drawn breath, She meets that ghastly sign of death. In one long, glassy, spectral stare The enlarging eye is fastened there, As if that mesh of pale brown hair Had power to change at sight alone, Even as the fearful locks which wound Medusa's fatal forehead round, The gazer into stone. With such a look Herodias read The features of the bleeding head, So looked the mad Moor on his dead, Or the young Cenci as she stood, O'er-dabbled with a father's blood ! Look! feeling melts that frozen glance, It moves that marble countenance, As if at once within her strove Pity with shame, and hate with love. The Past recalls its joy and pain, Old memories rise before her brain, The lips which love's embraces met, The hand her tears of parting wet, The voice whose pleading tones be- guiled The pleased ear of the forest-child, And tears she may no more repress Reveal her lingering tenderness. O, woman wronged, can cherish hate More deep and dark than manhood may; But when the mockery of Fate Hath left Revenge its chosen way, And the fell curse, which years have nursed, MOGG MEGONE. 5 Full on the spoiler's head hath burst, When all her wrong, and shame, and pain, Burns fiercely on his heart and brain, Still lingers something of the spell Which bound her to the traitor's bosom. Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell* Some flowers of old affection blos- som. John Bonython's eyebrows together are drawn With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn, He hoarsely whispers, " Ruth, beware ! Is this the time to be playing the fool, Crying over a paltry lock of hair, Like a love-sick girl at school ? Curse on it! an Indian can see and hear : Away, and prepare our evening cheer!" How keenly the Indian is watching now Her tearful eye and her varying brow, With a serpent eye, which kindles and burns, Like a fiery star in the upper air : On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns : " Has my old white father a scalp to spare? For his young one loves the pale brown hair Of the scalp of an English dog, far more Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor : Go, Mogg is wise : he will keep his land, And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand, Shall miss his scalp where it grew before." The moment's gust of grief is gone, The lip is clenched, the tears are still, God pity thee, Ruth Bonython! With what a strength of will Are nature's feelings in thy breast, As with an iron hand, repressed! And how, upon that nameless woe, Quick as the pulse can come and go, While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet The bosom heaves, the eye is wet, Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's wild current on its way? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Which over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek, can throw The mockery of a smile? Warned by her father's blackening frown, With one strong effort crushing down Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again The savage murderer's sullen gaze, And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain. "Is the Sachem angry, angry with Ruth, Because she cries with an ache in her tooth, Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry, And look about with a woman's eye? No, Ruth will sit in the Sachem's door And braid the mats for his wigwam floor, And broil his fish and tender fawn, And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, For she loves the brave and the wise, and none Are braver and wiser than Mogg Me- gone ! " The Indian's brow is clear once more : With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, MOGG MEGONE. He sits upon the wigwam floor, And watches Ruth go by. Intent upon her household care; And ever and anon, the while, Or on the maiden, or her fare, Which smokes in grateful promise there, Bestows his quiet smile. Ah, Mogg Megone! what dreams are thine, But those which love's own fancies dress, The sum of Indian happiness! A wigwam, where the warm sunshine Looks in among the groves of pine, A stream, where, round thy light canoe, The trout and salmon dart in view, And the fair girl, before thee now, Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, Or plying, in the dews of morn, Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, Or offering up, at eve, to thee, Thy birchen dish of hominy! From the rude board of Bonython, Venison and suckatash have gone, F*or long these dwellers of the wood Have felt the gnawing want of food. But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer, With head averted, yet ready ear, She stands by the side of her austere sire, Feeding, at times, the unequal fire With the yellow knots of the pitch- pine tree, Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, And over its inmates three. From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone : " Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask? Will he make'his mark, that it may be known, On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land, From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand?" The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes, As he rises, the white man's bidding to do : " Wuttamuttata weekan ! Mogg is wise, For the water he drinks is strong and new, M egg's heart is great! will he shut his hand, When his father asks for a little land?"- With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow, " Boon water, boon water, Saga- more John ! Wuttamuttata, weekan ! our hearts will grow ! " He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low, He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, His head falls down on his naked breast, He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. " Humph drunk as a beast ! " and Bonython's brow Is darker than ever with evil thought " The fool has signed his warrant ; but how And when shall the deed be wrought ? Speak, Ruth! why, what the devil is there, To fix thy gaze in that empty air? Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought that tear, Which shames thyself and our pur- pose here, MOGG MEGONE. Were shed for that cursed and pale- faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, This this!" he dashes his hand upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun, " Should send thee with him to do thy weeping ! " " Father!" the eye of Bonython Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, Hollow and deep, as it were spoken By the unmoving tongue of death, Or from some statue's lips had bro- ken, A sound without a breath ! " Father ! my life I value less Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; And how it ends it matters not, By heart-break or by rifle-shot ; But spare awhile the scoff and threat, Our business is not finished yet." " True, true, my girl, I only meant To draw up again the bow unbent. Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought To frighten off thy gloomy thought ; Come, let 1 s be friends ! " He seeks to clasp His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. Ruth startles from her fathers grasp, As if each nerve and muscle felt, Instinctively, the touch of guilt, Through all their subtle sympathies. He points her to the sleeping Mogg : " What shall be done with yonder clog? Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine, The deed is signed and the land is mine ; And this drunken fool is of use no more, Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 'T were Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth, Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor, If not for thine, at least for his sake, Rather than let the poor dog awake To drain my flask, and claim as his bride Such a forest devil to run by his side, Such a Wetuomanit as thou wouldst make!" He laughs at his jest. Hush what is there? The sleeping Indian is striving to rise, With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes ! " Wagh ! Mogg will have the pale- face's hair, For his knife is sharp, and his fin- gers can help The hair to pull and the skin to peel, Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel, The great Captain Scamman must loose his scalp ! And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg." His eyes are fixed, but his lips draw in, With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiend- ish grin, And he sinks again, like a senseless log. Ruth does not speak, she does not stir; But she gazes down on the murderer, Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, And the dark fingers clenching the bear-skin bed ! What thoughts of horror and madness whirl MOGG MEGONE. Through the burning brain of that fallen girl ! John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, But he drops it again. " Some one may be nigh, And I would not that even the wolves should hear." He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, - Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; - Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian's side, From his throat he opens the blanket wide ; And twice or thrice he feebly essays A trembling hand with the knife to raise. " I cannot," he mutters, " did he not save My life from a cold and wintry grave, When the storm came down from Agioochook, And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook, And I strove, in the drifts of the rush- ing snow, Till my knees grew weak and I could not go, And I felt the cold to my vitals creep, And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep ! I cannot strike him Ruth Bonython! In the Devil's name, tell me what's to be done ? " O, when the soul, once pure and high, Is stricken down from Virtue's sky, As, with the downcast star of morn, Some gems of light are with it drawn, And, through its night of darkness, play Some tokens of its primal day, Some lofty feelings linger still, The strength to dare, the nerve to meet Whatever threatens with defeat Its all-indomitable will! But lacks the mean of mind and heart, Though eager for the gains of crime, Oft, at his chosen place and time, The strength to bear his evil part ; And, shielded by his very Vice, Escapes from Crime by Cowardice. Ruth starts erect, with bloodshot eye, And lips drawn tight across her teeth, Showing their locked embrace beneath, In the red fire-light: "Mogg must die! Give me the knife ! " The outlaw turns, Shuddering in heart and limb, away, But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, And he sees on shadows play. A lifted arm, a tremulous blade, Are dimly pictured in light and shade, Plunging down in the darkness. Hark, that cry Again and again he sees it fell, That shadowy arm down the lighted wall! He hears quick footsteps a shape flits by The door on its rusted hinges creaks : "Ruth daughter Ruth!" the out- law shrieks. But no sound comes back, he is standing alone By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone! the wall strange PART II. 'T is morning over Norridgewock, On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred MOGG MEGONE. At intervals by breeze and bird, And wearing all the hues which glow In heaven's own pure and perfect bow, That glorious picture of the air, Which summer's light-robed angel forms On the dark ground of fading storms, With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, And, stretching out, on either hand, O'er all that wide and unshorn land, Till, weary of its gorgeousness, The aching and the dazzled eye Rests gladdened, on the calm blue sky, Slumbers the mighty wilderness! The oak, upon the windy hill, Its dark green burthen upward heaves The hemlock broods above its rill, Its cone-like foliage darker still, Against the birch's graceful stem, And the rough walnut-bough receives The sun upon its crowded leaves, Each colored like a topaz gem ; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal which autumn gives, The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year! The hermit priest, who lingers now On the Bald Mountain's shrubless brow, The gray and thunder-smitten pile Which marks afar the Desert Isle, While gazing on the scene below, May half forget the dreams of home, That nightly with his slumbers come, The tranquil skies of sunny France, The peasant's harvest song and dance, The vines around the hillsides wreath- ing The soft airs midst their clusters breathing, The wings which dipped, the stars which shone Within thy bosom, blue Garonne! And round the Abbey's shadowed wall, At morning spring and even-fall, Sweet voices in the still air sing- ing, The chant of many a holy hymn, The solemn bell of vespers ring- ing, s- And hallowed torch-light falling dim On pictured saint and seraphim ! For here beneath him lies unrolled, Bathed deep in morning's flood of gold, A vision gorgeous as the dream Of the beatified may seem, When, as his Church's legends say, Borne upward in ecstatic bliss, The rapt enthusiast soars away Unto a brighter world than this': A mortal's glimpse beyond the pale, A moment's lifting of the veil ! Far eastward o'er the lovely bay, Penobscot's clustered wigwams lay ; And gently from that Indian town The verdant hillside slopes adown, To where the sparkling waters play Upon the yellow sands below ; And shooting round the winding shores Of narrow capes, and isles which lie Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, With birchen boat and glancing oars, The red men to their fishing go ; While from their planting ground is borne The treasure of the golden corn, By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow Wild through the locks wnich o'er them flow. The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, Watching the huskers, with a smile For each full ear which swells the pile; And the old chief, who nevermore May bend the bow or pull the oar, Smokes gravely in his wigwam door, Or slowly shapes, with axe of stone, The arrow-head from flint and bone. MOGG MEGONE. Beneath the westward turning eye A thousand wooded islands lie, Gems of the waters! with each hue Of brightness set in ocean's blue. Each bears aloft its tuft of trees Touched by the pencil of the frost, And, with the motion of each breeze, A moment seen, a moment lost, Changing and blent, confused and tossed. The brighter with the darker crossed, Their thousand tints of beauty glow Down in the restless waves below, And tremble in the sunny skies, As if, from waving bough to bough, Flitted the birds of paradise. There sleep Placentia's group, and there Pere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff, On which the Father's hut is seen, The Indian stays his rocking skiff, And peers the hemlock-boughs be- tween, Half trembling, as he seeks to look Upon the Jesuit's Cross and Book. There, gloomily against the sky The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare, Lifts its gray turrets in the air, Seen from afar, like some stronghold Built by the ocean kings of old ; And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin, Swells in the north vast Katahdin : And, wandering from its marshy feet, The broad Penobscot comes to meet And mingle with his own bright bay. Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods. Arched over by the ancient woods, Which Time, in those dim solitudes, Wielding the dull axe of Decay, Alone hath ever shorn away. Not thus, within the woods which hide The beauty of thy azure tide, And with their falling timbers block Thy broken currents, Kennebec ! Gazes the white man on the wreck Of the down-trodden Norridge- wock, In one lone village hemmed at length, In battle shorn of half their strength, Turned, like the panther in his lair, With his fast-flowing life-blood wet, For one last struggle of despair, Wounded and faint, but tameless yet! Unreaped, upon the planting lands, The scant, neglected harvest stands : No shout is there, no dance, no song : The aspect of the very child Scowls with a meaning sad and wild Of bitterness and wrong. The almost infant Norridgevvock Essays to lift the tomahawk ; And plucks his father's knife away, To mimic, in his frightful play, The scalping of an English foe : Wreathes on his lip a horrid smile, Burns, like a snake's, his small eye, while Some bough or sapling meets his blow. The fisher, as he drops his line, Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver Along the margin of the river, Looks up and down the rippling tide, And grasps the firelock at his side. For Bomazeen from Tacconock Has sent his runners to Norridge- wock, With tidings that Moulton and Har- mon of York Far up the river have come : They have left their boats, they have entered the wood, And filled the depths of the soli- tude With the sound of the ranger's drum. MOGG MEGONE. On the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet The flowing river, and bathe its feet, The bare-washed rock, and the droop- ing grass, _ And the creeping vine, as the waters pass, A rude and unshapely chapel stands, Built up in that wild by unskilled hands ; Yet the traveller knows it a place of prayer, For the holy sign of the cross is there : And should he chance at that place to be, Of a Sabbath morn, or some hal- lowed day, When prayers are made and masses are said, Some for the living and some for the dead, Well might that traveller start 'to see The tall dark forms, that take their way From the birch canoe, on the river- shore, And the forest paths, to that chapel door; And marvel to mark the naked knees And the dusky foreheads bending there, While, in coarse white vesture, over these In blessing or in prayer, Stretching abroad his thin pale hands. Like a shrouded ghost, the Jesuit stands. Two forms are now in that chapel dim, The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale, Anxiously heeding some fearful tale, Which a stranger is telling him. That stranger's garb is soiled and torn, And wet with dew and loosely worn ; Her fair neglected hair falls down O'er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown ; Yet still, in that disordered face, The Jesuit's cautious eye can trace Those elements of former grace Which, half effaced, seem scarcely less, Even now, than perfect loveliness. With drooping head, and voice so low, That scarce it meets "the Jesuit's ears, While through her clasped fingers flow, From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, Her penitential tears, She tells the story of the woe And evil of her years. " O father, bear with me ; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain, Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again. Bear with me while I speak, but turn Away that gentle eye. the while, The fires of guilt more fiercely burn Beneath its holy smile ; For half I fancy I can see My mother's sainted look in thee. " My dear lost mother ! sad and pale, Mournfully sinking day by day, And with a hold on life as frail As frosted leaves, that, thin and Hang feebly on their parent spray, And tremble in the gale ; Yet watching o'er my childishness With patient fondness, not the less For all the agony which kept Her blue eye wakeful, while I slept ; And checking every tear and groan MOGG MEGONE. That haply might have waked my own, And bearing still, without offence, My idle words, and petulance ; Reproving with a tear, and, while The tooth of pain was keenly preying Upon her very heart, repaying My brief repentance with a smile. " O, in her meek, forgiving eye There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity Was borrowed not of earth. Along her cheek a deepening red Told where the feverish hectic fed ; And yet, each fatal token gave To the mild beauty of her face A newer and a dearer grace, Unwarning of the grave. 'Twas like the hue which Autumn gives To yonder changed and dying leaves, Breathed over by his frosty breath ; Scarce can the gazer feel that this Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss, The mocking smile of Death ! " Sweet were the tales she used to tell When summer's eve was dear to us, And, fading from the darkening dell, The glory of the sunset fell On wooded Agamenticus, When, sitting by our cottage wall, The murmur of the Saco's fall, And the south-wind's expiring sighs Came, softly blending, on my ear, With the low tones I loved to hear : Tales of the pure, the good, the wise, The holy men and maids of old, In the all-sacred pages told ; Of Rachel, stooped at Haran's foun- tains, Amid her father's thirsty flock, Beautiful to her kinsman seeming As the bright angels of his dreaming, On Padan-aran's holy rock ; Of gentle Ruth, and her who kept Her awful vigil on the mountains, By Israel's virgin daughters wept ; Of Miriam, with her maidens, singing The song for grateful Israel meet, While every crimson wave was bring- ing The spoils of Egypt at her feet ; Of her, Samaria's humble daughter, Who paused to hear, beside her well, Lessons of love and truth, which fell Softly as Shiloh's flowing water ; And saw, beneath his pilgrim guise, The Promised One, so long foretold By holy seer and bard of old, Revealed before her wondering eyes ! " Slowly she faded. Day by day Her step grew weaker in our hall, And fainter, at each even-fall, Her sad voice died away. Yet on her thin, pale lip, the while, Sat Resignation's holy smile : And even my father checked his tread, And hushed his voice, beside her bed: Beneath the calm and sad rebuke Of her meek eye's imploring look, The scowl of hate his brow forsook, And in his stern and gloomy eye, At times, a few unwonted tears Wet the dark lashes, which for years Hatred and pride had kept so dry. " Calm as a child to slumber soothed, As if an angel's hand had smoothed The still, white features into rest, Silent and cold, without a breath To stir the drapery on her breast, Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang, The horror of the mortal pang, The suffering look her brow had worn, The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, She slept at last in death ! MOGG MEGONE. " O, tell me, father, can the dead Walk on the earth, and look on us, And lay upon the living's head Their blessing or their curse ? For, O, last night she stood by me, As I lay beneath the woodland tree ! " The Jesuit crosses himself in awe, "Jesu! what was it my daughter saw?" " She came to me last night. The dried leaves did not feel her tread ; She stood by me in the wan moon- light, In the white robes of the dead! Pale, and very mournfully She bent her light form over me. I heard no sound, I felt no breath Breathe o'er me from that face of death : Its blue eyes rested on my own, Rayless and cold as eyes of stone ; Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze, Something, which spoke of early days, A sadness in their quiet glare, As if love's smile were frozen there, Came o'er me with an icy thrill ; O God! I feel its presence still!" The Jesuit makes the holy sign, " How passed the vision, daughter mine?" " All dimly in the wan moonshine, As a wreath of mist will twist and twine, And scatter, and melt into the light, So scattering, melting on my sight, The pale, cold vision passed ; But those sad eyes were fixed on mine Mournfully to the last." "God help thee, daughter, tell me why That spirit passed before thine eye!" " Father, I know not, save it be That deeds of mine have summoned her From the unbreathing sepulchre, To leave her last rebuke with me. Ah, woe for me! my mother died Just at the moment when I stood Close on the verge of womanhood, A child in everything beside ; And when my wild heart needed most Her gentle counsels, they were lost. " My father lived a stormy life, Of frequent change and daily strife ; And, God forgive him ! left his child To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; To love the red man's dwelling-place, The birch boat on his shaded floods, The wild excitement of the chase Sweeping the ancient woods, The camp-fire, blazing on the shore Of the still lakes, the clear stream, where The idle fisher sets his wear, Or angles in the shade, far more Than that restraining awe I felt Beneath my gentle mother's care, When nightly at her knee I knelt, With childhood's simple prayer. " There came a change. The wild, glad mood Of unchecked freedom passed. Amid the ancient solitude Of unshorn grass and waving wood, And waters glancing bright and fast, A softened voice was in my ear, Sweet as those lulling sounds and fine The hunter lifts his head to hear, Now far and faint, now full and near The murmur of the wind-swept pine. A manly form was ever nigh, A bold, free hunter, with an eye H MOGG MEGONE. Whose dark, keen glance had power to wake Both fear and love, to awe and charm ; 'T was as the wizard rattlesnake, Whose evil glances lure to harm Whose cold and small and glittering eye, And brilliant coil, and changing dye, Draw, step by step, the gazer near, With drooping wing and cry of fear, Yet powerless all to turn away, A conscious, but a willing prey ! " Fear, doubt, thought, life itself, erelong Merged in one feeling deep and strong. Faded the world which I had known, A poor vain shadow, cold and waste ; In the warm present bliss alone Seemed I of actual life to taste. Fond longings dimly understood, The glow of passion's quickening blood, And cherished fantasies which press The young lip with a dream's ca- ress, The heart's forecast and prophecy Took form and life before my eye, Seen in the glance which met my own, Heard in the soft and pleading tone, Felt in the arms around me cast, And warm heart-pulses beating fast. Ah ! scarcely yet to God above With deeper trust, with stronger love Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent, Or cloistered nun at twilight bent, Than I, before a human shrine, As mortal and as frail as mine, With heart, and soul, and mind, and form, Knelt madly to a fellow-worm. " Full soon, upon that dream of sin. An awful light came bursting in. The shrine was cold, at which I knelt, The idol of that shrine was gone ; A humbled thing of shame and guilt, Outcast, and spurned and lone, Wrapt in the shadows of my crime, With withering heart and burning brain, And tears that fell like fiery rain, I passed a fearful time. soul it wrought a "There came a voice it checked the tear In heart and change ; My father's voice was in my ear ; It whispered of revenge! A new and fiercer feeling swept All lingering tenderness away ; And tiger passions, which had slept In childhood's better day, Unknown, unfelt, arose at length In all their own demoniac strength. " A youthful warrior of the wild, By words deceived, by smiles be- guiled, Of crime the cheated instrument, Upon our fatal errands went. Through camp and town and wilderness He tracked his victim ; and, at last, Just when the tide of hate had passed, And milder thoughts came warm and fast, Exulting, at my feet he cast The bloody token of success. " O God ! with what an awful power I saw the buried past uprise, And gather, in a single hour, Its ghost-like memories! And then I felt alas ! too late That underneath the mask of hate, That shame and guilt and wrong had thrown O'er feelings which they might not own, The heart's wild love had known no change ; MOGG MEGONE. And still, that deep and hidden love, With its first fondness, wept above The victim of its own revenge ! There lay the fearful scalp, and there The blood was on its pale brown hair ! I thought not of the victim's scorn, I thought not of his baleful guile, My deadly wrong, my outcast name, The characters of sin and shame On heart and forehead drawn ; I only saw that victim 1 s smile, The still, green places where we met, The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word, The smile, the embrace, the tone, which made An Eden of the forest shade. " And oh, with what a loathing eye, With what a deadly hate, and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie Before me, in his drunken sleep! What though for me the deed was done, And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept, The horrors of that deed of blood, The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And, father, with this hand of mine " Ha! what didst thou? " the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain, And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, With the other he makes the holy sign. " I smote him as I would a worm ; With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm : He never woke again ! " " Woman of sin and blood and shame, Speak, I would know that victim's name. 1 ' 'Father," she gasped, "a chieftain, known As Saco's Sachem, MOGG ME- GONE ! " Pale priest! What proud and lofty dreams, What keen desires, what cherished schemes, What hopes, that time may not recall, Are darkened by that chieftain's fall ! Was he not pledged, by cross and vow, To lift the hatchet of his sire, And, round his own, the Church's foe, To light the avenging fire ? Who now the Tarrantine shall wake, For thine and for the Church's sake ? Who summon to the scene Of conquest and unsparing strife, And vengeance dearer than his life, The fiery-souled Castine ? Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, His long, thin frame as ague shakes ; And loathing hate is in his eye, As from his lips these words of fear Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear, " The soul that sinneth shall surely die ! " She stands, as stands the stricken deer, Checked midway in the fearful chase, When bursts, upon his eye and ear, The gaunt, gray robber, baying near, Between him and his hiding-place ; While still behind, with yell and blow, Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. " Save me, O holy man ! " her cry Fills all the void, as if a tongue, Unseen, from rib and rafter hung, Thrilling with mortal agony ; Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee, And her eye looks fearfully into his own ; " Ofif, woman of sin ! nay, touch not me With those fingers of blood ; be- gone ! " i6 MOGG MEGONE. With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm. Ever thus the spirit must, Guilty in the sight of Heaven, With a keener woe be riven, For its weak and sinful trust In the strength of human dust ; And its anguish thrill afresh, For each vain reliance given To the failing arm of flesh. PART III. AH, weary Priest ! with pale hands pressed On thy throbbing brow of pain, Baffled in thy life-long quest, Overworn with toiling vain, How ill thy troubled musings fit The holy quiet of a breast With the Dove of Peace at rest, Sweetly brooding over it. Thoughts are thine which have no part With the meek and pure of heart, Undisturbed by outward things, Resting in the heavenly shade, By the overspreading wings Of the Blessed Spirit made. Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong Sweep thy heated brain along, Fa'ding hopes, for whose success It were sin to breathe a prayer ; Schemes which Heaven may never bless, Fears which darken to despair. Hoary priest ! thy dream is done Of a hundred red tribes won To the pale of Holy Church ; And the heretic o'erthrown, And his na"me no longer known, And thy weary brethren turning, Joyful from their years of mourning, 'Twixt the altar and the porch. Hark ! what sudden sound is heard In the wood and in the sky, Shriller than the scream of bird, Than the trumpet's clang more high ! Every wolf-cave of the hills, Forest arch and mountain gorge, Rock and dell, and river verge, With an answering echo thrills. Well does the Jesuit know that cry, Which summons the Norridgewock to die. And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh. He listens, and hears the rangers come, With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot, And taunt and menace, answered well By the Indians' mocking cry and yell, The bark of dogs, the squaw's mad scream, The dash of paddles along the stream, The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves Of the maples around the church's eaves, And the gride of hatchets, fiercely thrown, On wigwam-log and tree and stone. Black with the grime of paint and dust, Spotted and streaked with human gore, A grim and naked head is thrust Within the chapel-door. " Ha Bomazeen ! In God's name say, What mean these sounds of bloody fray?" Silent, the Indian points his hand To where across the echoing glen Sweep Harmon's dreaded ranger-band, And Moulton with his men. " Where are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? W T here are De Rouville and Castine, And where the braves of Sawga's queen ? " " Let my father find the winter snow Which the sun drank up long moons ago! MOGG MEGONE. Under the falls of Tacconock, The wolves are eating the Norridge- wock; Castine with his wives lies closely hid Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid! On Sawga's banks the man of war Sits in his wigwam like a squaw, Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, Lies stiffand stark and cold as a stone." Fearfully over the Jesuit's face, Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace, Like swift cloud-shadows, each other chase. One instant, his fingers grasp his knife, For a last vain struggle for cherished life, The next, he hurls the blade away, And kneels at his altar's foot to pray ; Over his beads his fingers stray, And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud On the Virgin and her Son ; For terrible thoughts his memory crowd Of evil seen and done, Of scalps brought home by his savage flock From Casco and Sawga and Sagada- hock, In the Church's service won. No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he looks : ' ' Cowesass co wesass ta which wes- saseen ? Let my father look upon Bomazeen, My father's heart is the heart of a squaw, But mine is so hard that it does not thaw : Let my father ask his God to make A dance and a feast for a great saga- more, When he paddles across the western lake, With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit's shore. Cowesass cowesass tawhich wes- saseen ? Let my father die like Bomazeen ! " Through the chapel's narrow doors, And through each window in the walls, Round the priest and warrior pours The deadly shower of English balls. Low on his cross the Jesuit falls ; While at his side the Norridgewock, With failing breath, essays to mock And menace yet the hated foe, Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro Exultingly before their eyes, Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow, Defiant still, he dies. "So fare all eaters of the frog ! Death to the Babylonish dog! Down with the beast of Rome!" With shouts like these, around the dead, Unconscious on his bloody bed, The rangers crowding come. Brave men! the dead priest cannot hear The unfeeling taunt, the brutal jeer ; Spurn for he sees ye not in wrath, The symbol of your Saviour's death ; Tear from his death -grasp, in your zeal, And trample, as a thing accursed, The cross he cherished in the dust : The dead man cannot feel! Brutal alike in deed and word, With callous heart and hand oi strife, How like a fiend may man be made, Plying the foul and monstrous trade Whose harvest-field is human life, Whose sickle is the reeking sword! Ouenching, with reckless hand in blood. Sparks kindled by the breath of God; 1 8 MOGG MEGONE. Urging the deathless soul, unshriven, Of open guilt or secret sin, Before the bar of that pure Heaven The holy only enter in! O, by the widow's sore distress, The orphan's wailing wretchedness, By Virtue struggling in the accursed Embraces of polluting Lust, By the fell discord of the Pit, And the pained souls that people it, And by the blessed peace which fills The Paradise of God forever, Resting on all its holy hills, And flowing with its crystal river, Let Christian hands no longer bear In triumph on his crimson car The foul and idol god of war ; No more the purple wreaths prepare To bind amid his snaky hair ; Nor Christian bards his glories tell, Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. Through the gun-smoke wreathing white, Glimpses on the soldiers 1 sight A thing of human shape I ween, For a moment only seen, With its loose hair backward stream- ing* And its eyeballs madly gleaming, Shrieking, like a soul in pain, From the world of light and breath, Hurrying to its place again, Spectre-like it vanisheth ! Wretched girl ! one eye alone Notes the way which thou hast gone. That great Eye, which slumbers never, Watching o'er a lost world ever, Tracks thee over vale and mountain, By the gushing forest-fountain, Plucking from the vine its fruit, Searching for the ground-nut's root, Peering in the she-wolfs den, Wading through the marshy fen, Where the sluggish water-snake Basks beside the sunny brake, Coiling in his slimy bed, Smooth and cold against thy tread, Purposeless, thy mazy way Threading through the lingering day. And at night securely sleeping Where the dogwood's dews are weep- ing ! Still, though earth and man discard thee, Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee : He who spared the guilty Cain, Even when a brother's blood, Crying in the ear of God, Gave the earth its primal stain, He whose mercy ever liveth, W T ho repenting guilt forgiveth, And the broken heart receiveth, Wanderer of the wilderness, Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild, He regardeth thy distress, And careth for his sinful child ! 'T is spring-time on the eastern hills! Like torrents gush the summer rills ; Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves The bladed grass revives and lives, Pushes the mouldering waste away, And glimpses to the April day. In kindly shower and sunshine bud The branches of the dull gray wood ; Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks The blue eye of the violet looks ; The southwest wind is warmly blowing, And odors from the springing grass, The pine-tree and the sassafras, Are with it on its errands going. A band is marching through the wood Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, The warriors of the wilderness, Painted, and in their battle dress ; MOGG MEGONE. And with them one whose bearded cheek. And white and wrinkled brow, be- speak A wanderer from the shores of France. A few long locks of scattering snow Beneath a battered morion flow, And from the rivets of the vest Which girds in steel his ample breast, The slanted sunbeams glance. In the harsh outlines of his face Passion and sin have left their trace ; Yet, save worn brow and thin gray hair, No signs of weary age are there. His step is firm, his eye is keen. Nor years in broil and battle spent. Nor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bent The lordly frame of old Castine. No purpose now of strife and blood Urges the hoary veteran on : The fire of conquest, and the mood Of chivalry have gone. A mournful task is his, to lay Within the earth the bones of those Who perished in that fearful day, When Norridgewock became the prey Of all unsparing foes. Sadly and still, dark thoughts be- tween, Of coming vengeance mused Cas- tine, Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, Who bade for him the Norridge- wocks. Dig up their buried tomahawks For firm defence or swift attack ; And him whose friendship formed the tie Which held the stern self-exile back From lapsing into savagery ; Whose garb and tone and kindly glance Recalled a younger, happier day, And prompted memory's fond essay, To bridge the mighty waste which lay Between his wild home and that gray, Tall chateau of his native France, Whose chapel bell, with far-heard din Ushered his birth-hour gayly in, And counted with its solemn toll The masses for his father's soul. Hark! from the foremost of the band Suddenly bursts the Indian yell ; For now on the very spot they stand Where the Norridgewocks fighting fell. No wigwam smoke is curling there; The very earth is scorched and bare: And they pause and listen to catch a sound Of breathing life, but there comes not one, Save the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound ; But here and there, on the blackened ground, White bones are glistening in the sun. And where the house of prayer arose, And the holy hymn, at daylight's close, And the aged priest stood up to bless The children of the wilderness, There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; And the birchen boats of the Nor- ridgewock, Tethered to tree and stump and rock, Rotting along the river bank! Blessed Mary! who is she Leaning against that maple-tree? 20 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. The sun upon her face burns hot, But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; The squirrel's chirp is shrill and clear From the dry bough above her ear ; Dashing from rock and root its spray, Close at her feet the river rushes ; The blackbird's wing against her brushes, And sweetly through the hazel- bushes The robin's mellow music gushes ; God save her! will she sleep alway? Castine hath bent him over the sleeper : " Wake, daughter, wake ! " but she stirs no limb : The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim ; And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, Until the angel's oath is said, And the final blast of the trump goes forth To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth . RUTH BONYTHON IS DEAD ! THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 1848. WE had been wandering for many days Through the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud, Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake Of Winnepiseogee ; and had felt The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, Silent with wonder, where the moun- tain wall Is piled to heaven ; and, through the narrow rift Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar, Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind Comes burdened with the everlasting moan Of forests and of far-off waterfalls, We had looked upward where the summer sky, Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun, Sprung its blue arch above the abut- ting crags O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed The high source of the Saco ; and be- wildered In the dwarf spruce- belts of the Crystal Hills, Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud, The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atop Of old Agioochook had seen the moun- tains Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick As meadow mole-hills, the far sea of Casco, A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun! THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 21 And we had rested underneath the oaks Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken By the perpetual beating of the falls Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked The winding Pemigewasset, overhung By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, Or lazily gliding through its intervals, From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines, Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its beams At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver The Merrimack by Uncanoonuc's falls. There were five souls of us whom travel's chance Had thrown together in these wild north hills : A city lawyer, for a month escaping From his dull office, where the weary eye Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets, Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to take Its chances all as godsends ; and his brother, Pale from long pulpit studies, yet re- taining The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, Whose mirror of the beautiful and true, In Man and Nature, was as yet un- dimmed By dust of theologic strife, or breath Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers, Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon, Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves, And tenderest moonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study, To mark his spirit, alternating between A decent and professional gravity And an irreverent mirthfulness, which often Laughed in the face of his divinity, Plucked off the sacred ephod, quite unshrined The oracle, and for the pattern priest Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant, To whom the soiled sheet found in Crawford's inn, Giving the latest news of city stocks And sales of cotton, had a deeper meaning Than the great presence of the awful mountains Glorified by the sunset; and his daughter A delicate flower on whom had blown too long Those evil winds, which, sweeping from the ice And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, Shed their cold blight round Massa- chusetts Bay, With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening leaves And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem, Poisoning our seaside atmosphere. It chanced That as we turned upon our homeward way, A drear northeastern storm came howling up The valley of the Saco ; and that girl Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington, Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled In gusts around its sharp cold pin- nacle, 22 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streams Which lave that giant's feet; whose laugh was heard Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green islands, Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and visibly drooped Like a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet inn Which looks from Conway on the mountains piled Heavily against the horizon of the north, Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our home : And while the mist hung over dripping hills, And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, We strove to cheer our gentle invalid. The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, returning, Recounted his adventures and mis- haps ; Gave us the history of his scaly clients, Mingling with ludicrous yet apt cita- tions Of barbarous law Latin, passages From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and fresh As the flower-skirted streams of Staf- fordshire, Where, under aged trees, the south- west wind Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told, Our youthful candidate forsook his sermons, His commentaries, articles and creeds, For the fair page of human loveli- ness, - The missal of young hearts, whose sacred text, Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. He sang the songs she loved ; and in his low, Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page Of poetry, the holiest, tenderest lines Of the sad bard of Olney, the sweet songs, Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing From the green hills, immortal in his lays. And for myself, obedient to her wish, I searched our landlord's proffered library, A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them, Watts' unmelodious psalms, Astrol- ogy's Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, And an old chronicle of border wars And Indian history. And, as I read A story of the marriage of the Chief Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt In the old time upon the Merrimack, Our fair one, in the playful exercise Of her prerogative, the right di- vine Of youth and beauty, bade us versify The legend, and with ready pencil sketched Its plan and outlines, laughingly as- signing To each his part, and barring our excuses With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers Whose voices still are heard in the Romance THE BRIDAL OF TENNACOOK. Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling The ear of languid beauty, plague- exiled From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes To their fair auditor, and shared by turns Her kind approval and her playful censure. It may be that these fragments owe alone To the fair setting of their circum- stances, The associations of time, scene, and audience, Their place amid the pictures which fill up The chambers of my memory. Yet I trust That some, who sigh, while wander- ing in thought, Pilgrims of Romance o ? er the olden world, That our broad land, our sea-like lakes and mountains Piled to the clouds, our rivers over- hung By forests which have known no other change For ages, than the budding and the fall Of leaves, our valleys lovelier than those Which the old poets sang of, should but figure On the apocryphal chart of specu- lation As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges, Rights, and appurtenances, which make up A Yankee Paradise, unsung, un- known, To beautiful tradition ; even their names, Whose melody yet lingers like the last Vibration of the red man's requiem, Exchanged for syllables significant Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look kindly Upon this effort to call up the ghost Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased ear To the responses of the questioned Shade. I. THE MERRIMACK. O CHILD of that white-crested moun- tain whose springs Gush forth in the shade of the cliff- eagle^s wings, Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine, Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf pine. From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone, From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of stone, By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free, The mountain-born brightness glanced down to the sea ! No bridge arched thy water save that where the trees Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in the breeze : No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores, The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amos- keag's fall Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn, And the hills of Pentucket were tas- selled with corn. 2 4 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, And greener its grasses and taller its trees, Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, Or the mower his scythe in the mead- ows had swung. In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood The bark-builded wigwams of Penna- cook stood ; There glided the corn-dance, the council-fire shone, And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown. There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the young To the pike and the white-perch their baited lines flung ; There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy maid Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum braid. O Stream of the Mountains ! if answer of thine Could rise frorn thy waters to question of mine, Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a moan Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone. Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel, The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel ; But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze, The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees ! II. THE BASHABA. LIFT we the twilight curtains of the Past, And, turning from familiar sight and sound, Sadly and full of reverence let us cast A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground, Led by the few pale lights which, glimmering round That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast ; And that which history gives not to the eye, The faded coloring of Time's tapestry, Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush supply. Roof of bark and walls of pine, Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine, Tracing many a golden line On the ample floor within ; Where upon that earth-floor stark, Lay the gaudy mats of bark, With the bear's hide, rough and dark, And the red-deer's skin. Window-tracery, small and slight, Woven of the willow white, Lent a dimly checkered light, And the night-stars glimmered down, Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke, Slowly through an opening broke, In the low roof, ribbed with oak, Sheathed with hemlock brown. Gloomed behind the changeless shade, By the solemn pine-wood made ; Through the rugged palisade, In the open foreground planted, Glimpses came of rowers rowing, Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blow- ing, Steel-like gleams of water flowing, In the sunlight slanted. Here the mighty Bashaba, Held his long-unquestioned sway, From the White Hills, far away, To the great sea's sounding shore \ Chief of chiefs, his regal word All the river Sachems heard, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. At his call the war-dance stirred, Or was still once more. There his spoils of chase and war, Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw, Panther's skin and eagle's claw, Lay beside his axe and bow ; And, adown the roof-pole hung, Loosely on a snake-skin strung, In the smoke his scalp-locks swung Grimly to and fro. Nightly down the river going, Swifter was the hunter's rowing, When he saw that lodge-fire glowing O'er the waters still and red ; And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter, And she drew her blanket tighter, As, with quicker step and lighter, From that door she fled. For that chief had magic skill, And a Panisee's dark will, Over powers of good and ill. Powers which bless and powers which ban, Wizard lord of Pennacook, Chiefs upon their war-path shook, When they met the steady look Of that wise dark man. Tales of him the gray squaw told, When the winter night-wind cold Pierced her blanket's thickest fold. And the fire burned low and small, Till the very child abed, Drew its bear-skin over head, Shrinking from the pale lights shed On the trembling wall. All the subtle spirits hiding Under earth or wave, abiding In the caverned rock, or riding Misty clouds or morning breeze ; Every dark intelligence, Secret soul, and influence Of all things which outward sense Feels, or hears, or sees, These the wizard's skill confessed, At his bidding banned or blessed, Stormful woke or lulled to rest Wind and cloud, and fire and flood ; Burned for him the drifted snow, Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, And the leaves of summer grow Over winter's wood ! Not untrue that tale of old ! Now, as then, the wise and bold All the powers of Nature hold Subject to their kingly will ; From the wandering crowds ashore, Treading life's wild waters o'er, As upon a marble floor, Moves the strong man still. Still, to such, life's elements With their sterner laws dispense, And the chain of consequence Broken in their pathway lies ; Time and change their vassals mak- ing? Flowers from icy pillows waking, Tresses of the sunrise shaking Over midnight skies. Still, to earnest souls, the sun Rests on towered Gibeon, And the moon of Ajalon Lights the battle-grounds of life ; To his aid the strong reverses Hidden powers and giant forces, And the high stars, in their courses, Mingle in his strife! III. THE DAUGHTER. THE soot-black brows of men, the yell Of women thronging round the bed, The tinkling charm of ring and shell, The Powah whispering o'er the dead! All these the Sachem's home had known, 26 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. When, on her journey long and wild To the dim World of Souls, alone, In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling They laid her in the walnut shade, Where a green hillock gently swell- ing Her fitting mound of burial made. There trailed the vine in summer hours, The tree-perched squirrel dropped On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, Woven with leaf and spray, the soft- ened sunshine fell ! The Indian's heart is hard and cold, It closes darkly o'er its care, And formed in Nature's sternest mould, Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. The war-paint on the Sachem's face, Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red, And, still in battle or in chase, Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped be- neath his foremost tread. Yet when her name was heard no more, And when the robe her mother gave, And small, light moccasin she wore, Had slowly wasted on her grave, Unmarked of him the dark maids sped Their sunset dance and moonlit play ; No other shared his lonely bed, No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. A lone, stern man. Yet, as some- times The tempest-smitten tree receives From one small root the sap which climbs Its topmost spray and crowning leaves, So from his child the Sachem drew A life of Love and Hope, and felt His cold and rugged nature through The softness and the warmth of her young being melt. A laugh which in the woodland rang Bemocking April's gladdest bird, A light and graceful form which sprang To meet him when his step was heard, Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark, Small fingers stringing bead and shell Or weaving mats of bright-hued bark, With these the household-god had graced his wigwam well. Child of the forest! strong and free, Slight-robed, with loosely flow- ing hair, She swam the lake or climbed the tree, Or struck the flying bird in air. O'er the heaped drifts of winter's moon Her snow-shoes tracked the hun- ter's way ; And dazzling in the summer noon The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray! Unknown to her the rigid rule, The dull restraint, the chiding frown, The weary torture of the school, The taming of wild nature down. Her only lore, the legends told Around the hunter's fire at night ; Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 27 Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight. Unknown to her the subtle skill With which the artist-eye can trace In rock and tree and lake and hill The outlines of divinest grace ; Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest, Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway ; Too closely on her mother's breast To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay! It is enough for such to be Of common, natural things apart, To feel, with bird and stream and tree, The pulses of the same great heart ; But we, from Nature long exiled In our cold homes of Art and Thought, Grieve like the stranger-tended child, Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels them not. The garden rose may richly bloom In cultured soil and genial air, To cloud the light of Fashion's room Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair; In lonelier grace, to sun and dew The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue, Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose! Thus o'er the heart of Weetamoo Their mingling shades of joy and ill The instincts of her nature threw, The savage was a woman still. Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, Heart-colored prophecies of life, Rose on the ground of her young dreams The light of a new home, the lover and the wife. IV. THE WEDDING. COOL and dark fell the autumn night, But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with light, For down from its roof by green withes hung Flaring and smoking the pine-knots swung. And along the river great wood-fires Shot into the night their long red spires, Showing behind the tall, dark wood, Flashing before on the sweeping flood. In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, Now high, now low, that firelight played, On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, On gliding water and still canoes. The trapper that night on Turee's brook, And the weary fisher on Contoocook, Saw over the marshes and through the pine, And down on the river the dance- lights shine. For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, And laid at her father's feet that night His softest furs and wampum white. From the Crystal Hills to the far southeast The river Sagamores came to the feast ; And chiefs whose homes the sea -winds shook, Sat down on the mats of Pennacook. They came from Sunapee's shore of rock, From the snowy sources of Snooga- nock, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. And from rough Coos whose thick woods shake Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake. From Ammonoosuc's mountain pass, Wild as his home, came Chepewass ; And the Keenomps of the hills which throw Their shade on the Smile of Manito. With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, Glowing with paint came old and young, In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed To the dance and feast the Bashaba made. Bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and waters yield, On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, Garnished and graced that banquet wild. Steaks of the brown bear fat and large From the rocky slopes of the Kear- sarge ; Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, And salmon speared in the Contoo- cook; Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick In the gravelly bed of the Otternic, And small wild-hens in reed-snares caught From the banks of Sondagardee brought ; Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog, And grapes from the vines of Piscata- quog : And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands In the river scooped by a spirit's hands, Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and the waters yield, Furnished in that olden day The bridal feast of the Bashaba. And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit green the dance begun, With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum Of old men beating the Indian drum. Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, Now in the light and now in the shade Around the fires the dancers played. The step was quicker, the song more shrill, And the beat of the small drums louder still Whenever within the circle drew The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. The moons of forty winters had shed Their snow upon that chieftain's head, And toil and care, and battle's chance Had seamed his hard dark counte- nance. A fawn beside the bison grim, Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, In whose cold look is naught beside The triumph of a sullen pride? Ask why the graceful grape entwines The rough oak with her arm of vines ; And why the gray rock's rugged cheek The soft lips of the mosses seek : THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 29 Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems To harmonize her wide extremes. Linking the stronger with'the weak, The haughty with the soft and meek! V. THE NEW HOME. A WILD and broken landscape, spiked with firs, Roughening the bleak horizon's northern edge, Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs And sharp, gray splinters of the wind- swept ledge Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bris- tling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows. And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away, Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree, O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day Gurgled the waters of the moon- struck sea ; And faint with distance came the stifled roar, The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. No cheerful village with its mingling smokes, No laugh of children wrestling in the snow, No camp-fire blazing through the hill- side oaks, No fishers kneeling on the ice be- low; Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo. Her heart had found a home ; and freshly all Its beautiful affections overgrew Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall Soft vine-leaves open to the mois- tening dew And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life. The steep bleak hills, the melancholy shore, The long dead level of the marsh between, A coloring of unreal beauty wore Through the soft golden mist of young love seen. For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain, Nightly she welcomed home her hun- ter chief again. No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss, No fond and playful dalliance half concealing, Under the guise of mirth, its ten- derness ; But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride, And vanity's pleased smile with hom- age satisfied. Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side ; That he whose fame to her young ear had flown Now looked upon her proudly as his bride ; That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heard Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word. For she had learned the maxims of her race, Which teach the woman to become a slave THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. And feel herself the pardonless dis- grace Of love's fond weakness in the wise and brave, The scandal and the shame which they incur, Who give to woman all which man requires of her. So passed the winter moons. The sun at last Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills, And the warm breathings of the south- west passed Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills ; The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round the Sachem's door. Then from far Pennacook swift run- ners came, With gift and greeting for the Sau- gus chief; Beseeching him in the great Sachem's name, That, with the coming of the flower and leaf, The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain, Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again. And Winnepurkit called his chiefs to- gether, And a grave council in his wigwam met, Solemn and brief in words, consider- ing whether The rigid rules of forest etiquette Permitted Weetamoo once more to look Upon her father's face and green- banked Pennacook. With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water, The forest sages pondered, and at length, Concluded in a body to escort her Up to her father's home of pride and strength, Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense Of Winnepurkit's power and regal consequence. So through old woods which Aukee- tamit's hand, A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, Over high breezy hills, and meadow land Yellow with flowers, the wild pro- cession went, Till, rolling down its wooded banks between, A broad, clear mountain stream, the Merrimack was seen. The hunter leaning on his bow un- drawn, The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores, Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn, Young children peering through the wigwam doors, Saw with delight, surrounded by her train Of painted Saugus braves, their Wee- tamoo again. VI. AT PENNACOOK. THE hills are dearest which our child- ish feet Have climbed the earliest ; and the streams most sweet Are ever those at which our young lips drank, Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank : Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home's hearth-light THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night ; And still, with inward eye, the trav- eller sees In close, dark, stranger streets his na- tive trees. The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fanned By breezes whispering of his native land, And on the stranger's dim and dying eye The soft, sweet pictures of his child- hood lie. Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more A child upon her father's wigwam floor! Once more with her old fondness to beguile From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. The long bright days of summer swiftly passed, The dry leaves whirled in autumn's rising blast, And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime Told of the coming of the winter- time. But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo, Down the dark river for her chiefs canoe ; No dusky messenger from Saugus brought The grateful tidings which the young wife sought. At length a runner from her father sent, To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam went : " Eagle of Saugus, in the woods the dove Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love." But the dark cnief of Saugus turned aside In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride ; "I bore her as became a chieftain's daughter, Up to her home beside the gliding water. "If now no more a mat for her is found Of all which line her father's wigwam round, Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, And send her back with wampum gifts again." The baffled runner turned upon his track, Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. " Dog of the Marsh," cried Penna- cook, " no more Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. "Go, let him seek some meaner squaw to spread The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed: Son of a fish-hawk ! let him dig his clams For some vile daughter of the Aga- "Or coward Nipmucks! may his scalp dry black In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, While hoarse assent his listening coun- cil gave. Alas, poor bride ! can thy grim sire impart THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. His iron hardness to thy woman's heart ? Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone For love denied and life's warm beauty flown ? On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow Hung its white wreaths ; with stifled voice and low The river crept, by one vast bridge o'ercrossed, Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost. And many a Moon in beauty newly born Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn, Or, from the east, across her azure field Rolled the wide brightness of her full- orbed shield. Yet Winnepurkit came not, on the mat Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat; And he, the while, in Western woods afar, Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief ! Waste not on him the sacredness of grief; Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights, The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress, Her home-bound grief and pining lone- liness? VII. THE DEPARTURE. THE wild March rains had fallen fast and long The snowy mountains of the North among, Making each vale a watercourse, each hill Bright with the cascade of some new- made rill. Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain, The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merri- mack Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. On that strong turbid water, a small boat Guided by one weak hand was seen to float'; Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, Too early voyager with too frail an oar! Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side, The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. The trapper, moistening his moose's meat On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet, Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream Slept he, or waked he? was it truth or dream ? The straining eye bent fearfully before, The small hand clenching on the use- less oar, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 33 The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water He knew them all woe for the Sa- chem's daughter. Sick and aweary of her lonely life, Heedless of peril the still faithful wife Had left her mother's grave, her fa- ther's door, To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. Down the white rapids like a sere leaf whirled, On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, Empty and broken, circled the canoe In the vexed pool below but, where was Weetamoo ? VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. THE Dark eye has left us, The Spring-bird has flown ; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore, Mat wonck kunna-monee ! We hear it no more! O, dark water Spirit ! We cast on thy wave These furs which may never Hang over her grave ; Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore, Mat ivonck kunna-monee I We see her no more! Of the strange land she walks in No Powah has told : It may burn with the sunshine, Or freeze with the cold. Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore, Mat wonck kunna monee I We see her no more ! The path she is treading Shall soon be our own ; Each gliding in shadow Unseen and alone! In vain shall we call on the souls gone before, Mat wonck kunna-monee ! They hear us no more! O mighty Sowanna! Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwam of sunset Lift curtains of gold ! Take home the poor Spirit whose jour- ney is o'er, Mat wonck kunna-monee ! We see her no more ! So sang the Children of the Leaves beside The broad, dark river's coldly-flowing tide, Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature's wild music, sounds of wind- swept trees. The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, Mingled and murmured in that fare- well sons:. 34 LEGENDARY. LEGENDARY, 1846. THE MERRIMACK. [" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merri- mack." SiEUR DE MONTS: 1604.] STREAM of my fathers ! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill ; Poured slantwise down the long de- file, Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. I see the winding Powow fold The green hill in its belt of gold, And following down its wavy line. Its sparkling waters blend with thine. There 's not a tree upon thy side, Nor rock, which thy returning tide As yet hath left abrupt and stark Above thy evening water-mark ; No calm cove with its rocky hem, No isle whose emerald swells begem Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail Bowed to the freshening ocean gale ; No small boat with its busy oars, Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; Nor farm-house with its maple shade, Or rigid poplar colonnade, But lies distinct and full in sight, Beneath this gush of sunset light. Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, Stretching its length of foam afar, And Salisbury's beach of shining sand, And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, Saw the adventurer's tiny sail Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; And o'er these woods and waters broke The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, As brightly on the voyager's eye, Weary of forest, sea, and sky, Breaking the dull continuous wood. The Merrimack rolled down his flood ; Mingling that clear pellucid brook, Which channels vast Agioochook When spring-time's sun and shower unlock The frozen fountains of the rock, And more abundant waters given From that pure lake, " The Smile of Heaven," Tributes from vale and mountain- side, With ocean's dark, eternal tide! On yonder rocky cape, which braves The stormy challenge of the waves, Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, Planting upon the topmost crag The staff of England's battle-flag ; And, while from out its heavy fold Saint George's crimson cross un- rolled, Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, And weapons brandishing in air, He gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story ; Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters, Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters, Who, when the chance of war had bound The Moslem chain his limbs around, Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, And fondly to her youthful slave A dearer gift than freedom gave. But look ! the yellow light no more Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; And clearly on the calm air swells The twilight voice of distant bells. THE NORSEMEN. From Ocean's bosom, white and thin, The mists come slowly rolling in ; Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, Amidst the sea-like vapor swim. While yonder lonely coast-light, set Within its wave-washed minaret, Half quenched, a beamless star and pale. Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! Home of my fathers ! I have stood Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood : Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade Along his frowning Palisade; Looked down the Appalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak ; Have seen along his valley gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; The level light of sunset shine Through broad Potomac's hem of pine ; And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be, Thy wandering child looked back to Thee! Heard in his dreams thy river's sound Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, The unforgotten swell and roar Of waves on thy familiar shore ; And saw, amidst the curtained gloom And quiet of his lonely room, Thy sunset scenes before him pass ; As, in Agrippa's magic glass, The loved and lost arose to view, Remembered groves in greenness grew, Bathed still in childhood's morning dew, Along whose bowers of beauty swept Whatever Memory's mourners wept, Sweet faces, which the charnel kept, Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept ; And while the gazer leaned to trace, More near, some dear familiar face, He wept to find the vision flown, A phantom and a dream alone ! THE NORSEMEN. GIFT from the cold and silent Past! A relic to the present cast ; Left on the ever-changing strand Of shifting and unstable sand, Which wastes beneath the steady chime And beating of the waves of Time ! Who from its bed of primal rock First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block? Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? The waters of my native stream Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : From sail-urged keel and flashing oar The circles widen to its shore ; And cultured field and peopled town Slope to its willowed margin down. Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing The home-life sound of school-bells ringing, And rolling wheel, and rapid jar Of the fire-winged and steedless car, And voices from the wayside near Come quick and blended on my ear, A spell is in this old gray stone, My thoughts are with the Past alone! A change! the steepled town no more Stretches along the sail-thronged shore ; Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, Fade sun -gilt spire and mansion proud : Spectrally rising where they stood, I see the old, primeval wood : Dark, shadow-like, on either hand I see its solemn waste expand : It climbs the green and cultured hill, It arches o'er the valley's rill ; And leans from clififand crag, to throw Its wild arms o'er the stream below. Unchanged, alone, the same bright river LEGENDARY. Flows on, as it will flow forever ! I listen, and I hear the low Soft ripple where its waters go ; I hear behind the panther's cry, The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling t>y> And shyly on the river's brink The deer is stooping down to drink. But hark ! from wood and rock flung back, What sound comes up the Merrimack ? What sea-worn barks are those which throw The light spray from each rushing prow? Have they not in the North Sea's blast Bowed to the waves the straining mast? Their frozen sails the low, pale sun Of Thud's night has shone upon ; Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep Round icy drift, and headland steep. Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters Have watched them fading o'er the waters, Lessening through driving mist and spray, Like white-winged sea-birds on their way ! Onward they glide, and now I view Their iron-armed and stalwart crew ; Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, Turned to green earth and summer sky : Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide ; Bared to the sun and soft warm air, Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. I see the gleam of axe and spear, The sound of smitten shields I hear, Keeping a harsh and fitting time To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme ; Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, His gray and naked isles among ; Or muttered low at midnight hour Round Odin's mossy stone of power. The wolf beneath the Arctic moon Has answered to that startling rune ; The Gael has heard its stormy swell, The light Frank knows its summons well; lona's sable-stoled Culdee Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, And swept, with hoary beard and hair, His altar's foot in trembling prayer! 'T is past, the 'wildering vision dies In darkness on my dreaming eyes! The forest vanishes in air, Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare ; I hear the common tread of men, And hum of work-day life again : The mystic relic seems alone A broken mass of common stone ; And if it be the chiselled limb Of Berserker or idol grim, A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, The stormy Viking's god of War, Or Praga of the Runic lay, Or love-awakening Siona, I know not, for no graven line, Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, Is left me here, by which to trace Its name, or origin, or place. Yet, for this vision of the Past, This glance upon its darkness cast, My spirit bows in gratitude Before the Giver of all good, Who fashioned so the human mind. That, from the waste of Time behind A simple stone, or mound of earth, Can summon the departed forth ; Quicken the Past to life again, The Present lose in what hath been, And in their primal freshness show The buried forms of long ago. As if a portion of that Thought By which the Eternal will is wrought, Whose impulse fills anew with breath The frozen solitude of Death, To mortal mind were sometimes lent, CASSANDRA SOUTH WICK. 37 To mortal musings sometimes sent, To whisper even when it seems But Memory's fantasy of dreams Through the mind's waste of woe and sin, Of an immortal origin ! CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 1658. To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away, Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free ! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars ; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky ; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold ! O, the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking and the shame ; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly! " the wicked murmur said, " Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed ? " Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street? Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew? " Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra? Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth ; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. " Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken, No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid. 38 LEGENDARY. " O, weak, deluded maiden! by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound ; And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound. " Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine ; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. " And what a fate awaits thee ? a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The 'easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all ! " O, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippics cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. Bless the Lord for all his mercies ! for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt ; When, " Get behind me, Satan ! " was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell ; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet. At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed ; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me. And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak : " O Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt.' Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze. And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these : " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all." CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 39 We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock ; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high. Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky. And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer ; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke. I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak! "Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones, go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock! 1 ' Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people,' 1 quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her, the Devil owns his child!" But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said, " Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid? In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen !" no voice, no sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear, "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear! " A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye ; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea, " Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me! I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!" 40 LEGENDARY. " Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws ! " Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. " Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold ? " I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn ; Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way ; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. O, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free ; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid ! Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm ; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong ; The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay his hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in his avenging hour ! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour ! But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad. And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad, For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save ! FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 1756. AROUND Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, Are painted on its glassy floor. The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, The snowy mountain-tops which lie Piled coldly up against the sky. Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak, Wild winds have bared some splinter- ing peak, Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. Yet green are Saco's banks below, And belts of spruce and cedar show, Dark fringing round those cones of The earth hath felt the breath of spring, Though yet on her deliverer's wing The lingering frosts of winter cling. Fresh grasses fringe the meadow- brooks, And mildly from its sunny nooks The blue eye of the violet looks. And odors from the springing grass, The sweet birch and the sassafras, Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. Her tokens of renewing care Hath Nature scattered everywhere, In bud and flower, and warmer air. But in their hour of bitterness, What reck the broken Sokokis, Beside their slaughtered chief, of this? The turfs red stain is yet undried, Scarce have the death-shot echoes died Along Sebago's wooded side : And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkly, where a swell of land Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. Fire and the axe have swept it bare, Save one lone beech, unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air. With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, They break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root. They heave the stubborn trunk aside, The firm roots from the earth divide, The rent beneath yawns darkand wide. And there the fallen chief is laid, In tasselled garbs of skins arrayed, And girded with his wampum-braid. The silver cross he loved is pressed Beneath the heavy arms, which rest Upon his scarred and naked breast. 'T is done : the roots are backward sent, The beechen-tree stands up unbent, The Indian's fitting monument ! When of that sleeper's broken race Their green and pleasant dwelling- place Which knew them once, retains no trace ; O, long may sunset's light be shed As now upon that beech's head, A green memorial of the dead ! There shall his fitting requiem be, In northern winds, that, cold and free, Howl nightly in that funeral tree. LEGENDARY. To their wild wail the waves which break Forever round that lonely lake A solemn undertone shall make ! And who shall deem the spot unblest, Where Nature's younger children rest, Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast ? Deem ye that mother loveth less These bronzed forms of the wilderness She foldeth in her long caress? As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow, As if with fairer hair and brow The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. What though the places of their rest No priestly knee hath ever pressed, No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed? What though the bigot's ban be there, And thoughts of wailing and despair, And cursing in the place of prayer! Yet Heaven hath angels watching round The Indian's lowliest forest-mound, And they have made it holy ground. There ceases man's frail judgment; all His powerless bolts of cursing foil Unheeded on that grassy pall. O, peeled, and hunted, and reviled, Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! Great Nature owns her simple child ! And Nature's God, to whom alone The secret of the heart is known, The hidden language traced thereon ; Who from its many cumberings Of form and creed, and outward tilings, To light the naked spirit brings ; Not with our partial eye shall scan, Not with our pride and scorn shali ban, The spirit of our brother man! ST. JOHN. 1647. " To the winds give our banner. Bear homeward again! " Cried the Lord of Acadia, Cried Charles of Estienne , From the prow of his shallop He gazed, as the sun, From its bed in the ocean, Streamed up the St. John. O'er the blue western waters That shallop had passed, Where the mists of Penobscot Clung damp on her mast. St. Saviour had looked On the heretic sail, As the songs of the Huguenot Rose on the gale. The pale, ghostly fathers Remembered her well, And had cursed her while passing, With taper and bell, But the men of Monhegan, Of Papists abhorred, Had welcomed and feasted The heretic Lord. They had loaded his shallop With dun-fish and ball, With stores for his larder, And steel for his wall. Pemequid, from her bastions And turrets of stone, Had welcomed his coming With banner and gun. And the prayers of the elders Had followed his way, As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. ST. JOHN. 43 O, well sped La Tour! For, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch, For his coming again. O'er the Isle of the Pheasant The morning sun shone, On the plane-trees which shaded The shores of St. John. " Now, why from yon battlements Speaks not my love ! Why waves there no banner My fortress above ? " Dark and wild, from his deck St. Estienne gazed about, On fire-wasted dwellings, And silent redoubt ; From the low, shattered walls Which the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner, There thundered no gun ! But beneath the low arch Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome, In his cloak and his hood. With the bound of a lion, La Tour sprang to land, On the throat of the Papist He fastened his hand. " Speak, son of the Woman Of scarlet and sin! What wolf has been prowling My castle within?" From the grasp of the soldier The Jesuit broke, Half in scorn, half in sorrow, He smiled as he spoke : " No wolf, Lord of Estienne, Has ravaged thy hall, But. thy red-handed rival. With fire, steel, and ball! On an errand of mercy I hitherward came, While the walls of thy castle Yet 'spouted with flame. " Pentagoet's dark vessels Were moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaring Aloud for their prey." " But what of my lady ? " Cried Charles of Estienne : " On the shot-crumbled turret Thy lady was seen : " Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayed In the hot breath of cannon! But woe to the heretic, Evermore woe! When the son of the church And the cross is his foe! " In the track of the shell, In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept over The breach of the wall ! Steel to steel, gun to gun, One moment, and then Alone stood the victor, Alone with his men! " Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner Float over St. John. 1 ' " Let the dastard look to it ! " Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulney King Louis, I 'd free her again ! " " Alas for thy lady ! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free : Nine days, in stern silence, Her thraldom she bore, But the tenth morning came, And Death opened her door! 11 As if suddenly smitten La Tour staggered back ; His hand grasped his sword hilt, His forehead grew black. 44 LEGENDARY. He sprang on the deck Of his shallop again. " We cruise now for vengeance ! Give way!" cried Estienne. " Massachusetts shall hear Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creekside Her fishers shall throng! Pentagoet shall rue What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo The Puritan's gun!" O, the loveliest of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine, And green isles before him : But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on ; And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John! PENTUCKET. 1708. How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone ! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still Mirror the forest and the hill, Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless west, Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of heaven, Left, by the spirit of the star Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! Beside the river's tranquil flood The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blackened stumps be- tween. Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, The wild, untravelled forest spread, Back to those mountains, white and cold, Of which the Indian trapper told, Upon whose summits never yet Was mortal foot in safety set. Quiet and calm, without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plough, The milkmaid carolled by her cow, From cottage door and household hearth Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. At length the murmur died away, And silence on that village lay, So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, Undreaming of the fiery fate Which made its dwellings desolate! Hours passed away. By moonlight sped The Merrimack along his bed. Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, As the hushed grouping of a dream. Yet on the still air crept a sound, No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound, Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing, Nor leaves in midnight breezes blow- ing. Was that the tread of many feet, Which downward from the hillside beat? What forms were those which darkly stood Just on the margin of the wood? Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, Or paling rude, or leafless limb? No, through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed Dark human forms in moonshine showed, Wild from their native wilderness, With painted limbs and battle-dress! THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. 45 A yell the dead might wake to hear Swelled on the night air, far and clear, Then smote the Indian tomahawk On crashing door and shattering lock, Then rang the rifle-shot, and then The shrill death-scream of stricken men, Sank the red axe in woman's brain, And childhood's cry arose in vain, Bursting through roof and window came, Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame; And blended fire and moonlight glared On still dead men and weapons bared. The morning sun looked brightly through The river willows, wet with dew. No sound of combat filled the air, No shout was heard, nor gunshot there : Yet still the thick and sullen smoke From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; And on the greensward many a stain. And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had sped, Pentucket, on thy fated head! Even now the villager can tell Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, Still show the door of wasting oak, Through which the fatal death-shot broke, And point the curious stranger where De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare, Whose hideous head, in death still feared, Bore not a trace of hair or beard, And still, within the churchyard ground, Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, Whose grass-grown surface overlies The victims of that sacrifice. THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. FATHER! to thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith im- part, And with thy own love restore Comfort to the broken heart! O, the failing ones confirm With a holier strength of zeal! Give thou not the feeble worm Helpless to the spoiler's heel ! Father! for thy holy sake We are spoiled and hunted thus ; Joyful, for thy truth we take Bonds and burthens unto us : Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, Weary with our daily task, That thy truth may never fall Through our weakness, Lord, we ask. Round our fired and wasted homes Flits the forest-bird unscared, And at noon the wild beast comes Where our frugal meal was shared ; For the song of praises there Shrieks the crow the livelong day ; For the sound of evening prayer Howls the evil beast of prey! Sweet the songs we loved to sing Underneath thy holy sky, Words and tones that used to bring Tears of joy in every eye, Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair, Bowed, O God, alone to thee. As thine early children, Lord, Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord, We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard, Not with us his grasping hand ; Equal round a common board, Drew our meek and brother band ! LEGENDARY. Safe our quiet Eden lay When the war-whoop stirred the land And the Indian turned away From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curse Of the white man's cruel law Rested also upon us. Torn apart, and driven forth To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth Lift we still our grateful song! Grateful, that in bonds we share In thy love which maketh free ; Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to thee ! Grateful ! that where'er we toil, By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea- worn isle, Or by wild Neponset's tide, Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies ! Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast, Redden not thy bolts in store Through the blackness of thy skies ? For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise? Worn and wasted, oh! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain? In thy name they bear the wrong, In thy cause the bonds of pain ! Melt oppression's heart of steel, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel. That in us they mock at Thee! In thy time, O Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts, Smote apart the Red Sea's wave! Lead us from this evil land, From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship thee ! THE FOUNTAIN. TRAVELLER ! on thy journey toiling By the swift Powow, With the summer sunshine falling On thy heated brow, Listen, while all else is still, To the brooklet from the hill. Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing By that streamlet's side, And a greener verdure showing Where its waters glide, Down the hill-slope murmuring on, Over root and mossy stone. Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth O'er the sloping hill, Beautiful and freshly springeth That soft-flowing rill, Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, Gushing up to sun and air. Brighter waters sparkled never In that magic well, Of whose gift of life forever Ancient legends tell, In the lonely desert wasted, And by mortal lip untasted. Waters which the proud Castilian Sought with longing eyes, Underneath the bright pavilion Of the Indian skies ; Where his forest pathway lay Through the blooms of Florida. Years ago a lonely stranger, With the dusky brow Of the outcast forest-ranger, Crossed the swift Powow ; And betook him to the rill And the oak upon the hill. THE EXILES. O'er his face of moody sadness For an instant shone Something like a gleam of gladness, As he stooped him down To the fountain's grassy side, And his eager thirst supplied. With the oak its shadow throwing O'er his mossy seat, And the cool, sweet waters flowing Softly at his feet, Closely by the fountain's rim That lone Indian seated him. Autumn's earliest frost had given To the woods below Hues of beauty, such as heaven Lendeth to its bow ; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. Far behind was Ocean striving With his chains of sand ; Southward, sunny glimpses giving, 'Tvvixt the swells of land, Of its calm and silvery track, Rolled the tranquil Merrimack. Over village, wood, and meadow Gazed that stranger man, Sadly, till the twilight shadow Over all things ran, Save where spire and westward pane Flashed the sunset back again. Gazing thus upon the dwelling . Of his warrior sires, Where no lingering trace was telling Of their wigwam fires, Who the gloomy thoughts might know Of that wandering child of woe ? Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, Hills that once had stood Down their sides the shadows throw- ing Of a mighty wood, Where the deer his covert kept, And the eagle's pinion swept! Where the birch canoe had glided Down the swift Powow, Dark and gloomy bridges strided Those clear waters now ; And where once the beaver swam, Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam. and hammer's ringing For the wood-bird's merry singing, And the hunter's cheer, Iron clan^ Smote upon his ear ; And the thick and sullen smoke From the blackened forges broke. Could it be his fathers ever Loved to linger here ? These bare hills, this conquered river, Could they hold them dear, With their native loveliness Tamed and tortured into this? Sadly, as the shades of even Gathered o'er the hill, While the western half of heaven Blushed with sunset still, From the fountain's mossy seat Turned the Indian's weary feet. Year on year hath flown forever, But he came no more To the hillside or the river Where he came before. But the villager can tell Of that strange man's visit well. And the merry children, laden With their fruits or flowers, Roving boy and laughing maiden, In their school-day hours, Love the simple tale to tell Of the Indian and his well. THE EXILES. 1660. THE good man sat beside his door One sultry afternoon, LEGENDARY. With his young wife singing at his side An old and goodly tune. A glimmer of heat was in the air ; The dark green woods were still ; And the skirts of a heavy thunder- cloud Hung over the western hill. Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud Above the wilderness, As some dark world from upper air Were stooping over this. At times the solemn thunder pealed, And all was still again, Save a low murmur in the air Of coming wind and rain. Just as the first big rain-drop fell, A weary stranger came, And stood before the farmer's door, With travel soiled and lame. Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope Was in his quiet glance, And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed His tranquil countenance. A look, like that his Master wore In Pilate's council-hall : It told of wrongs, but of a love Meekly forgiving all. " Friend ! wilt thou give me shelter here?" The stranger meekly said ; And, leaning on his oaken staff, The goodman's features read. " My life is hunted, evil men Are following in my track ; The traces of the torturer's whip Are on my aged back. " And much, I fear, 't will peril thee Within thy doors to take A hunted seeker of the Truth, Oppressed for conscience' sake." O, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, - " Come in, old man ! " quoth she, " We will not leave thee to the storm, Whoever thou mayst be." Then came the aged wanderer in, And silent sat him down ; While all within grew dark as night Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. But while the sudden lightning's blaze Filled every cottage nook, And with the jarring thunder-roll The loosened casements shook, A heavy tramp of horses' feet Came sounding up the lane, And half a score of horse, or more, Came plunging through the rain. " Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, We would not be house-breakers ; A rueful deed thou 'st done this day, In harboring banished Quakers." Out looked the cautious goodman then, With much of fear and awe, For there, with broad wig drenched with rain, The parish priest he saw. "Open thy door, thou wicked man, And let thy pastor in, And give God thanks, if forty stripes Repay thy deadly sin." " What seek ye ? " quoth the good- man, " The stranger is my guest ; He is worn with toil and grievous wrong, Pray let the old man rest." " Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" And strong hands shook the door, THE EXILES. 49 " Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, " Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore." Then kindled Macey's eye of fire : " No priest who walks the earth, Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth." Down from his cottage wall he caught The matchlock, hotly tried At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, By fiery Ireton's side ; Where Puritan, and Cavalier, With shout and psalm contended ; And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, With battle-thunder blended. Up rose the ancient stranger then : " My spirit is not free To bring the wrath and violence Of evil men on thee : "And for thyself, I pray forbear, Bethink thee of thy Lord, Who healed again the smitten ear, And sheathed his follower's sword. " I go, as to the slaughter led : Friends of the poor, farewell!" Beneath his hand the oaken door, Back on its hinges fell. " Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay " ; The reckless scoffers cried, As to a horseman's saddle-bow The old man's arms were tied. And of his bondage hard and long In Boston's crowded jail, Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, With sickening childhood's wail, It suits not with our tale to tell : Those scenes have passed away, ,E Let the dim shadows of the past Brood o'er that evil day. "Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest, " Take Goodman Macey too ; The sin of this day's heresy, His back or purse shall rue." "Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey cried, She caught his manly arm : Behind, the parson urged pursuit, With outcry and alarm. Ho! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, The river-course was near: The plashing on its pebbled shore Was music to their ear. A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, Above the waters hung, And at its base, with every wave, A small light wherry swung. A leap they gain the boat and there The goodman wields his oar : "111 luck betide them all," he cried, " The laggards upon the shore." Down through the crashing under- wood, The burly sheriff came : " Stand, Goodman Macey, yield thyself; Yield in the King's own name." "Now out upon thy hangman's face!" Bold Macey answered then, " Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men" The priest came panting to the shore, His grave cocked hat was gone ; 5 LEGENDARY. Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn. " Come back, come back ! " the parson cried, "The church's curse beware. 1 ' " Curse, an 1 thou wilt, 1 ' said Macey, " but Thy blessing prithee spare." "Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest, " Thou 'It yet the gallows see." " Who 1 s born to be hanged, will not be drowned," Quoth Macey, merrily ; u And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by! " He bent him to his oar, And the small boat glided quietly From the twain upon the shore. Now in the west, the heavy clouds Scattered and fell asunder, While feebler came the rush of rain, And fainter growled the thunder. And through the broken clouds, the sun Looked out serene and warm, Painting its holy symbol-light Upon the passing storm. O, beautiful! that rainbow span, O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; One bright foot touched the eastern hills, And one with ocean blended. By green Pentucket's southern slope The small boat glided fast, The watchers of "the Block-house 1 ' saw The strangers as they passed. That night a stalwart garrison Sat shaking in their shoes, To hear the dip of Indian oars, The glide of birch canoes. The fisher- wives of Salisbury, (The men were all away,) Looked out to see the stranger oar Upon their waters play. Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weather- cock Peered o'er the pines before them. Around the Black Rocks, on their left, The marsh lay broad and green ; And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, Plum Island's hills were seen. With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed ; A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed. The glory of the sunset heaven On land and water lay, On the steep hills of Agawam, On cape, and bluff, and bay. They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, And Gloucester's harbor-bar ; The watch-fire of the garrison Shone like a setting star. How brightly broke the morning On Massachusetts Bay! Blue wave, and bright green island, Rejoicing in the day. On passed the bark in safety Round isle and headland steep, No tempest broke above them, No fog-cloud veiled the deep. Far round the bleak and stormy Cape The vent'rous Macey passed, THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. And on Nantucket's naked isle, Drew up his boat at last. And how, in log-built cabin, They braved the rough sea- weather ; And there, in peace and quietness, Went down life's vale together : How others drew around them, And how their fishing sped, Until to every wind of heaven Nantuckefs sails were spread ; How pale Want alternated With Plenty's golden smile ; Behold, is it not written In the annals of the isle? And yet that isle remaineth A refuge of the free, As when true-hearted Macey Beheld it from the sea. Free as the winds that winnow Her shrubless hills of sand, Free as the waves that batter Along her yielding land. Than hers, at duty's summons, No loftier spirit stirs, Nor falls o'er human suffering A readier tear than hers. God bless the sea-beat island ! And grant forevermore, That charity and freedom dwell, As now upon her shore! THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. DARK the halls, and cold the feast,- Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest : All is over, all is done, Twain of yesterday are one ! Blooming girl and manhood gray, Autumn in the arms of May! Hushed within and hushed without, Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout ; Dies the bonfire on the hill ; All is dark and all is still, Save the starlight, save the breeze Moaning through the graveyard trees ; And the great sea-waves below, Pulse of the midnight beating slow. From the brief dream of a bride She hath wakened, at his side. With half-uttered shriek and start, Feels she not his beating heart? And the pressure of his arm, And his breathing near and warm? Lightly from the bridal bed Springs that fair dishevelled head, And a feeling, new, intense, Half of shame, half innocence, Maiden fear and wonder speaks Through her lips and changing cheeks. From the oaken mantle glowing Faintest light the lamp is throwing On the mirror's antique mould, High-backed chair, and wainscot old, And, through faded curtains stealing, His dark sleeping face revealing. Listless lies the strong man there, Silver-streaked his careless hair ; Lips of love have left no trace On that hard and haughty face ; And that forehead's knitted thought Love's soft hand hath not unwrought. " Yet," she sighs, " he loves me well, More than these calm lips will tell. Stooping to my lowly state, Lie hath made me rich and great, And I bless him, though he be Hard and stern to all save me! " While she speaketh, falls the light O'er her fingers small and white ; Gold and gem, and costly ring LEGENDARY. Back the timid lustre fling, Love's selectest gifts, and rare, His proud hand had fastened there. Gratefully she marks the glow From those tapering lines of snow ; Fondly o'er the sleeper bending His black hair with golden blending, In her soft and light caress, Cheek and lip together press. Ha! that start of horror! Why That wild stare and wilder cry, Full of terror, full of pain? Is there madness in her brain? Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low, " Spare me, spare me, let me go ! " God have mercy! Icy cold Spectral hands her own enfold, Drawing silently from them Love's fair gifts of gold and gem, " Waken ! save me ! " still as death At her side he slumbereth. Ring and bracelet all are gone, And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ; But she hears a murmur low, Full of sweetness, full of woe, Half a sigh and half a moan : " Fear not ! give the dead her own ! " Ah ! the dead wife's voice she knows ! That cold hand, whose pressure froze, Once in warmest life had borne Gem and band her own hath worn. "Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes Open with a dull surprise. In his arms the strong man folds her, Closer to his breast he holds her ; Trembling limbs his own are meeting, And he feels her heart's quick beating : "Nay, my dearest, why this fear?" "Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" " Nay, a dream, an idle dream." But before the lamp's pale gleam Tremblingly her hand she raises, There no more the diamond blazes, Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, "Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!" Broken words of cheer he saith, But his dark lip quivereth, And as o'er the past he thinketh, From his young wife's arms he shrink- eth; Can those soft arms round him lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye? She her fair young head can rest Soothed and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocence Draw new strength and courage thence ; He, the proud man, feels within But the cowardice of sin ! She can murmur in her thought Simple prayers her mother taught, And His blessed angels call, Whose great love is over all ; He, alone, in prayerless pride, Meets the dark Past at her side ! One, who living shrank with dread From his look, or word, or tread, Unto whom her early grave Was as freedom to the slave, Moves him at this midnight hour, With the dead's unconscious power ! Ah, the dead, the unforgot! From their solemn homes of thought, Where the cypress shadows blend Darkly over foe and friend, Or in love or sad rebuke, Back upon the living look. And the tenderest ones and weakest, Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, Lifting from those dark, still places, Sweet and sad-remembered faces, O'er the guilty hearts behind An unwitting triumph find. TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 53 VOICES OF FREEDOM. FROM 1833 TO 1848. TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 'TWAS night. The tranquil moon- light 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 ! Yes, 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. 54 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 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! 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 speed- ing ; 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 1'Ouvertuf e ! 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 Tolcl 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. 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 TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 55 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 cav- erned hill. And one was weeping in his sight, The sweetest flower of all the isle, The bride who seemed but yester- night 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 hills 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 colons 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, VOICES OF FREEDOM. Which still hath spurned the base control Of tyrants through all time! Far other hands than mine may wreath 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 amidst its chains, That kindness to the wronged is never Without its excellent reward, Holy to human-kind, and ever Acceptable to God. THE SLAVE-SHIPS. " That fatal, that perfidious bark, Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." Milton's Lycidas. " 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 came : 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 Her fiery mesh of hair. Amidst a group in blindness, STANZAS. 57 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 wee 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 warm 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 slavers 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. STANZAS. ["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 extermi- nating 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 Mon- archy ? Shall we, in the vigor and buoy- ancy of our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age ? " Dr. Fallen'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. Afay.~\ VOICES OF FREEDOM. OUR fellow-countrymen in chains ! Slaves in a land of light and law ! Slaves crouching on the very plains Where rolled the storm of Free- dom's war! A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, A wail where Camden's martyrs fell, By every shrine of patriot blood. From Moul trie'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 Schoen- brun'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? O, 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 YANKEE GIRL. 59 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 hea- then'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 grow- ing! ^ 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? Up 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 re- move, 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! 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? 6o VOICES OF FREEDOM. '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 bless- ing and pride. " O, come where no winter thy foot- steps 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! " O, come to my home, where my ser- vants 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." O, 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 hast sold ; Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear The crack of the whip and the foot- steps 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 moun- tains 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 ! " TO W. L. G. CHAMPION of those who groan be- neath 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! THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 61 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! 1833- SONG OF THE FREE. PRIDE of New England! Soul of our fathers ! Shrink we all craven-like When the storm gathers ? What though the tempest be Over us lowering, Where 's the New-Englander Shamefully cowering? Graves green and holy Around us are lying, :8 3 6. Free were the sleepers all, Living and dying! Back with the Southerner's Padlocks and scourges! Go, let him fetter down Ocean's free surges ! Go, let him silence Winds, clouds, and waters, Never New England's own Free sons and daughters ! Free as our rivers are Ocean-ward going, Free as the breezes are Over us blowing. Up to our altars, then, Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness, Manhood and woman! Deep let our pledges be : Freedom forever ! Truce with oppression, Never, oh! never! By our own birthright-gift, Granted of Heaven, Freedom for heart and lip, Be the pledge given ! If we have whispered truth, Whisper no longer ; Speak as the tempest does, Sterner and stronger ; Still be the tones of truth Louder and firmer, Startling the haughty South With the deep murmur ; God and our charter's right, Freedom forever! Truce with oppression, Never, oh! never! THE HUNTERS OF MEN. HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest, the hunting of men? VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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, cTer moun- tain 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 ! O, 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 grasp- ing 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 Free- dom 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. O, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. O, haste, ere he leave us ! for who will ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ? 1835- CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. [In the report of the celebrated pro- slavery meeting in Charleston, S. C., on the 4th of the gth 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 pres- ence 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, fet- tering 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 briht and lorious 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. O, speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease, and Lib- erty and Love And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known As in their home above. 6 4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. [In a late publication of L. T. Tasistro, " Random Shots and Southern Breezes," is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recom- mended the woman on the stand as " A GOOD CHRISTIAN!"] A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! Who bids for God's own image ? for his grace, Which that poor victim of the market- pi ace 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'er- task 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 toil- ing 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 ! 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. O, 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? STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. O, 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 cofHe'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 ? STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 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 assas- sin'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 chil- dren'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! 66 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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! LINES, WRITTEN ON READING THE MESSAGE OF GOVERNOR RITNEU, OF PENN- SYLVANIA, 1836. THANK God for the token! one lip is still free, One spirit untrammelled, unbend- ing 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 forgot- ten 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 free- man has spoken ! O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown ! Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the mur- mur 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 rob- bing the poor! LINES. Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high, And the words which he utters, are WORSHIP, OR DIE! Right onward, O speed it! Wherever the blood Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God ; Wherever a slave in his fetters is pin- ing; Wherever the lash of the driver is twining ; Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart, Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart ; \Vherever 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 O, will the land where the free soul of PENN Still lingers and breathes over moun- tain 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 ances- tral band ; Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, Counting coldness injustice, and si- lence a crime ; Turning back from 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, hon- est 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 shaU deepen and grow 68 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! The voice of a PEOPLE, uprisen, awake, Pennsylvania's watchword, with Free- dom at stake, Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each height, "OUR COUNTRY AND LIBERTY! GOD FOR THE RIGHT! " THE PASTORAL LETTER. 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 Let- ter! " Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! Was it thus with those, your prede- cessors, Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes Their loving-kindness to transgres- sors? A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull Alas ! in hoof and horns and fea- tures, 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. O, glorious days, when Church and State Were wedded by your spiritual fa- thers J And on submissive shoulders sat Your Wilsons and your Cotton Ma- thers. 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- Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church Of heretic and mischief-maker, And priest and bailifTjoined in search, By turns, of Papist, witch, and Qua- ker! The stocks were at each church's door, The gallows stood on Boston Com- mon, 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 Newbury, 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 warn- ing, LINES. 69 And from your precincts shut the light Of Freedom's day around ye dawn- ing; 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 hath 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 mad- ness Are closely with your own combined, Yet "'less in anger than in sad- ness " ? 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 sur- round them. O, 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! LINES, WRITTEN FOR THE MEETING OF THE ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY, AT CHAT- HAM STREET CHAPEL, N.Y., HELD ON THE 4TH OF THE 7TH MONTH, 1834. O THOU, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, 7 o VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 O, 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 living 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, O, 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! LINES, WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BRIT- ISH EMANCIPATION AT THE BROAD- WAY TABERNAC 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 O, 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, LINES. 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, O, 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. LINES, WRITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF THE FIRST OF AUGUST, AT MILTON, 1846. 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 bond- man'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 be- fore, 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, 7 2 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 ! " 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. O, 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 hougfe 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. O 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, O, 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 ! THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 73 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 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 gir^l 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. THE WORLD'S CONVENTION OF THE FRIENDS OF EMANCIPATION, HELD IN LONDON IN 1840. YES, let them gather! Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth, From every land, whose hills have heard The bugle blast of Freedom wak- ing ; Or shrieking of her symbol-bird From out his cloudy eyrie break- ing: Where Justice hath one worshipper, Or truth one altar built to her ; Where'er a human eye is weeping O'er wrongs which Earths 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 Genessaret ; Or, borne with England's battle line, O'er Acre's shattered turrets stoop- ing* 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 74 VOICES OF FREEDOM. The garden moss, the mountain stone, Whereon his holy sandals pressed, The fountain which his lip hath blessed, Whatever 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, W'hen o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness And slogan cries and lyke-wake sad- ness, The hand of her O'Connell moves ! Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, And mountain hold, and heathery hill, Shall catch and echo back the note, As if she heard upon her 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 curl- ing ; . 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, Shallgatherat thatsummons strong, Broglie, Passy, and him 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 wheresoever 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 Sante 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 THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 75 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 heard the Coptic hymn, Or song of Nubia's sable daugh- ters, 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 ! O, 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! u 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 herMoro'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 7 6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; And where my country's flag is flow- ing* On breezes from Mount Vernon blow- ing 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 for 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 hall 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 clone, Her captives from their chains un- bound, 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 strong- er! O, 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. NEW HAMPSHIRE. 1845. 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 ! O, all undreamed-of, all unhoped-for changes ! The tyrant's ally proves his stern- est foe ; To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, New Hampshire thunders an indig- nant No! Who is it now despairs? O, 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 ! THE NEW YEAR. 77 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? 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. O, 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 hath 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 man- hood'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, VOICES OF FREEDOM. The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, His regal manhood gone! O, 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. O, 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, 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 St. 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, MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 79 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 1 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 hell, Let Heaven's own light break in. So conscience shall the Southern 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. 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, the result of whose case in Mas- sachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SOMERSET in England, in 1772.] 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. So VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 tlie 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 ! MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 81 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 Bunkers 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-damps 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! VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 ! THE RELIC. [PENNSYLVANIA HALL, dedicated to Free Discussion and the cause of human liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. The fol- lowing was written on receiving a cane wrought from a fragment of the wood-work 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 sin- cere ; Around that gift of friendship dwells A memory doubly clear, Earth's noblest aim, man's holiest thought, With that memorial frail inwrought! 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 ! O, 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 " blow- ing 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 Free- dom trod, Lifting on high, with hands unstained, Thanksgiving unto God ; Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading For human hearts in bondage bleed- THE BRANDED HAND. 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. THE BRANDED HAND. 1846. 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 scymitars, 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! 8 4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign, When it points its finger Southward along the Puritan line : Woe to the State-gorged leeches and the Church's locust band, When they look from slavery's ramparts on the coming of that hand! TEXAS. VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 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. TEXAS. 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. O, 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! 86 VOICES OF FREEDOM. " 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 1 God ! " TO FANEUIL HALL. 1844. 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 1 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. 1844- 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 stands 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, Why, stand with that alone ! Shrink not from strife unequal! With the best is always hope ; And ever in the sequel God holds trie right side up ! But when, with tmne uniting, Come voices long -.and loud, And far-off hills are writing Thy fire-words on the cloud ; THE PINE-TREE. 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 ? O, 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 ! THE PINE-TREE. 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! VOICES OF FREEDOM. LINES, SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, IN THE I2TH 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 cop- ing 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 measures 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 what- soe'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! LINES. 89 Nay, my words are all too sweep- ing : 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 be- low, Who shall marvel if thus striving We have counted friend as foe ; Unto one another giving in the dark- ness 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 over- tasked 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. VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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! LINES, FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERI- CAL 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, O, 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! YORKTOWN. 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, YORKTOWN. 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 banner- less : 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 1 wine, With stolen beeves, and foraged corn, Are they not men, Virginian born? O, 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! threescore years have passed; and where The Gallic timbrel stirred the air, With Northern drum-roll, and the clear, Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer, While Britain grounded on that plain The arms she might not lift again, As abject as in that old day The slave still toils his life away. O, fields still green and fresh in story, Old clays 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 un- rolled, What of the New World fears the Old? VOICES OF FREEDOM. LINES, WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. ON page of thine I cannot trace The cold and heartless common- place, A statue's fixed and marble grace. For ever as these lines I penned, Still with the thought of thee will blend That of some loved and common friend, Who in life's desert track has made His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed Beneath the same remembered shade. And hence my pen unfettered moves In freedom which the heart ap- proves, The negligence which friendship loves. And wilt thou prize my poor gift less For simple air and rustic dress, And sign of haste and carelessness ? O, more than specious counterfeit Of sentiment or studied wit, A heart like thine should value it. Yet half I fear my gift will be Unto thy book, if not to thee, Of more than doubtful courtesy. A banished name from fashion's sphere, A lay unheard of Beauty's ear, Forbid, disowned, what do they here ? Upon my ear not all in vain Came the sad captive's clanking chain, The groaning from his bed of pain. And sadder still, I saw the woe Which only wounded spirits know When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. Spurned not alone in walks abroad, But from the " temples of the Lord " Thrust out apart, like things abhorred. Deep as I felt, and stern and strong, In words which Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong ; Not mine alone the task to speak Of comfort to the poor and weak, And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek ; But, mingled in the conflict warm, To pour the fiery breath of storm Through the harsh trumpet of Reform ; To brave Opinion's settled frown, From ermined robe and saintly gown, While wrestling reverenced Error down. Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray. And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of Fairy- land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ; Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's .ear will grow, Of forest streamlets soft and low. And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause. LINES. 93 From youthful hopes, from each green spot Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not, From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng, With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom's struggling band, To the sad Helots of our land. What marvel then that Fame should turn Her notes of praise to those of scorn, Hergifts reclaimed, her smiles with- drawn? What matters it! a few years more, Life's surge so restless heretofore Shall break upon the unknown shore! In that far land shall disappear The shadows which we follow here, The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere ! Before no work of mortal hand, Of human will or strength expand The pearl gates of the Better Land ; Alone in that great love which gave Life to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to " seek and save." Yet, if the spirit gazing through The vista of the past can view One deed to Heaven and virtue true, If through the wreck of wasted powers, Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers, Of idle aims and misspent hours, The eye can note one sacred spot By Pride and Self profaned not, A green place in the waste of thought, Where deed or word hath rendered less " The sum of human wretchedness," And Gratitude looks forth to bless, The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing, Better than Glory's pomp will be That green and blessed spot to me, A palm-shade in Eternity! Something of Time which may invite The purified and spiritual sight To rest on with a calm delight. And when the summer winds shall sweep With their light wings my place of sleep, And mosses round my headstone creep, If still, as Freedom's rallying sign, Upon the young heart's altars shine The very fires they caught from If words my lips once uttered still, In the calm faith and steadfast will Of other hearts, their work fulfil, Perchance with joy the soul may learn These tokens, and its eye discern The fires which on those altars burn, A marvellous joy that even then, The spirit hath its life again, In the strong hearts of mortal men. Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, No gay and graceful offering, No flower-smile of the laughing spring. Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May, 94 VOICES OF FREEDOM. With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, My sad and sombre gift I lay. And if it deepens in thy mind A sense of suffering human-kind, The outcast and the spirit-blind : Oppressed and spoiled on every side, By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, Life's common courtesies denied ; Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, Children by want and misery nursed, Tasting life's bitter cup at first ; If to their strong appeals which come From fireless hearth, and crowded room, And the close alley's noisome gloom, Though dark the hands upraised to thee In mute beseeching agony, Thou lend'st thy woman's sympa- thy, - Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friend- ship twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine. 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 crpwd 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 break- ing 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, TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. ''5 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 1 roaring fires, The signal-call that Freedom makes ! TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. 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 glow- ing! 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 sweep- ing ; Hunted and branded, and a prey, Our watch amidst the darkness keeping, O for that hidden strength which can Nerve unto death the inner mail! O for thy spirit, tried and true. And constant in the hour of trial, Prepare to suffer, or to do, In meekness and in self-denial. O for that spirit, meek and mild, Derided, spurned, yet uncomplain- ing? 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 ! VOICES OF FREEDOM. And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine, Shall come the outcast and the lowly, Of gentle deeds and words of thine Recalling memories sweet and holy ! O for the death the righteous die ! An end, like autumn's day declining, On human hearts, as on the sky, With holier, tenderer beauty shin- ing; 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! TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. 1846. Is this thy voice, whose treble notes of fear Wail in the wind? And dost thou shake to hear, Actaeon-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 hun- gry 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 un- known, 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 wiz- ard 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, A myriad-handed Aztec host may pour, And swarthy South with pallid North combine Back on thyself to turn thy dark design. LINES. 97 LINES, 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 SUB- JECT OF SLAVERY FROM THE U.S. POST-OFFICE, 1 ' IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES. MEN of the North-land ! where 's the manly spirit Of the true-hearted and the un- shackled 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 down- ward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger Day after day? O 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 bil- lows' motion Round rock and cliff, From the free fireside of her unbought 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 ; 9 8 VOICES OF FREEDOM. And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it Within her grave. O, let that voice go forth ! The bond- man 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. O for your ancient freedom, pure and holy, For the deliverance of a groaning earth, For the wronged captive, bleeding, crushed, and low f y, 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-strengthened for the trial, come together, Put on the harness for the moral fight, And, with the blessing of your Heav- enly Father, MAINTAIN THE RIGHT ! THE CURSE OF THE CHAR- TER-BREAKERS. 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. THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 99 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. O, 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 ! THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. SUGGESTED BY A DAGUERREOTYPE FROM A FRENCH ENGRAVING. 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 ; ioo VOICES OF FREEDOM. Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman in his heart, As the greegree 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, wheresoe'er ve 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. THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 'Tis 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! " 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 ; 1 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! " 102 VOICES OF FREEDOM. But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a low voice call : Hate of Slavery, Ijope of Freedom, Love is mightier than all. 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 Algodones 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 wings 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 CRISIS. 103 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 blackness 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 blackness 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 Penobscot'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! 104 MISCELLANEOUS. MISCELLANEOUS. THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills The sun shall sink again, Farewell to life and alf its ills, Farewell to cell and chain. These prison shades are dark and cold, But, darker far than they, The shadow of a sorrow old Is on my heart alway. For since the day when Warkworth- wood Closed o'er my steed and I, An alien from my name and blood, A weed cast out to die, When, looking back in sunset light, I saw her turret gleam, And from its casement, far and white, Her sign of farewell stream, Like one who, from some desert shore, Doth home's green isles descry, And, vainly longing, gazes o'er The waste of wave and sky ; So from the desert of my fate I gaze across the past ; Forever on life's dial-plate The shade is backward cast ! I Ve wandered wide from shore to shore, I 've knelt at many a shrine ; And bowed me to the rocky floor Where Bethlehem's tapers shine ; And by the Holy Sepulchre I Ve pledged my knightly sword To Christ, his blessed Church, and her, The Mother of our Lord. O, vain the vow, and vain the strife! How vain do all things seem ! My soul is in the past, and life To-day is but a dream ! In vain the penance strange and long, And hard for flesh to bear ; The prayer, the fasting, and the thong And sackcloth shirt of hair. The eyes of memory will not sleep, Its ears are open still ; And vigils with the past they keep Against .my feeble will. And still the loves and joys of old Do evermore uprise ; I see the flow of locks of gold, The shine of loving eyes! Ah me! upon another's breast Those golden locks recline ; I see upon another rest The glance that once was mine. " O faithless priest ! O perjured knight!" I hear the Master cry ; " Shut out the vision from thy sight, Let Earth and Nature die. "The Church of God is now thy spouse, And thou the bridegroom art ; Then let the burden of thy vows Crush down thy human heart! " In vain! This heart its grief must know, Till life itself hath ceased, And falls beneath the selfsame blow The lover and the priest ! PALESTINE. 105 O pitying Mother! souls of light, And saints, and martyrs old! Pray for a weak and sinful knight, A suffering man uphold. Then let the Paynim work his will, And death unbind my chain, Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill The sun shall fall again. THE HOLY LAND. FROM LAMARTINE. I HAVE not felt, o'er seas of sand, The rocking of the desert bark ; Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand, By Hebron's palm-trees cool and dark ; Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, On dust where Job of old has lain, Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall, The dream of Jacob o'er again. One vast world-page remains unread ; How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky, How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread, How beats the heart with God so riigh! How round gray arch and column lone The spirit of the old time broods, And sighs in all the winds that moan Along the sandy solitudes ! In thy tall cedars, Lebanon, I have not heard the nations' cries, Nor seen thy eagles stooping down Where buried Tyre in ruin lies. The Christian's prayer I have not said In Tadmor's temples of decay, Nor startled, with my dreary tread, The waste where Memnon's empire lay. Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, O Jordan! heard the low lament, Like that sad wail along thy side Which Israel's mournful prophet sent ! Nor thrilled within that grotto lone Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings Felt hands of fire direct his own, And sweep for God the conscious strings. I have not climbed to Olivet, Nor laid me where my Saviour lay, And left his trace of tears as yet By angel eyes unwept away ; Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time, The garden where his prayer and groan, Wrung by his sorrow and our crime, Rose to One listening ear alone. I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot Where in his Mother's arms he lay Nor knelt upon the sacred spot Where last his footsteps pressed the clay ; Nor looked on that sad mountain head, Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide His arms to fold the world he spread, And bowed his head to bless and died! PALESTINE. BLEST land of Judaea ! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pil- grim-like throng ; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, io6 MISCELLANEOUS. Where pilgrim and prophet have lin- gered before ; With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. Blue sea of the hills ! in my spirit I hear Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear; Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown. Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, And the desolate hills of the wild Gad- arene ; And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see The gleam of thy waters, O dark Gal- ilee! Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong, Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along ; Where the Canaanite strove with Je- hovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, And NaphtalTs stag, with his eyeballs of flame, And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, For the arm of the Lord was Abino- am's son ! There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, When the princes of Issachar stood by her side. And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, With the mountains around, and the valleys between ; There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; But where are the sisters who has- tened to greet The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet? I tread where the TWELVE in their wayfaring trod ; I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF GOD, Where his blessing was heard and his lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought. O, here with his flock the sad Wan- derer came, These hills he toiled over in grief are the same, The founts where he drank by the .wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow! And throned on her hills sits Jerusa- lem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet ; For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode EZEKIEL. 107 Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God? Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the pres- ence of Him ! Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In love and in meekness, He moved among men ; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea In the hush of my spirit would whis- per to me! And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Gal- ilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer. Yet, Loved of the Father, thy Spirit is near To the meek, and the lowly, and pen- itent here ; And the voice of thy love is the same even now As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow. O, the outward hath gone! but in glory and power, The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour ; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pente- cost flame On the .heart's secret altar is burning the same! EZEKIEL. CHAPTER XXXIII. 30-33. THEY hear thee not, O God! nor see ; Beneath thy rod they mock at thee ; The princes of our ancient line. Lie drunken with Assyrian wine ; The priests around thy altar speak The false words which their hearers seek; And hymns which Chaldea's wanton maids Have sung in Dura's idol-shades Are with the Levites' chant ascending, With Zion's holiest anthems blending! On Israel's bleeding bosom set, The heathen heel is crushing yet; The towers upon our holy hill Echo Chaldean footsteps still. Our wasted shrines, who weeps for them ? Who mourneth for Jerusalem? Who turneth from his gains away? Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray ? Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, Takes Zion's lamentation up? A sad and thoughtful youth, I went With Israel's early banishment ; And where the' sullen Chebar crept, The ritual of my fathers kept. The water for the trench I drew, The firstling of the flock I slew, And, standing at the altar's side, I shared the Levites' lingering pride, That still, amidst her mocking foes, The smoke of Zion's offering rose. In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, The Spirit of the Highest came! Before mine eyes a vision passed, A glory terrible and vast ; With dreadful eyes of living things, And sounding sweep of angel wings, With circling light and sapphire throne, And flame-like form of One thereon, And voice of that dread Likeness sent Down from the crystal firmament ! The burden of a prophet's power Fell on me in that fearful hour ; From off unutterable woes The curtain of the future rose ; MISCELLANEOUS. I saw far down the coming time The fiery chastisement of crime ; With noise of mingling hosts, and jar Of falling towers and shouts of war, I saw the nations rise and fall, Like fire-gleams on my tent's white wall. In dream and trance, I saw the slain Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain ; I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre Swept over by the spoiler's fire ; And heard the low, expiring moan Of Edom on his rocky throne ; And, woe is me ! the wild lament From Zion's desolation sent ; And felt within my heart each blow Which laid her holy places low. In bonds and sorrow, day by day, Before the pictured tile I lay ; And there, as in a mirror, saw The coming of Assyria's war, Her swarthy lines of spearmen pass Like locusts through Bethhoron's grass ; I saw them draw their stormy hem Of battle round Jerusalem ; And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail Blend with the victor-trump of Baal ! Who trembled at my warning word? Who owned the prophet of the Lord ? How mocked the rude, how scoffed the vile, How stung the Levites' scornful smile, As o'er my spirit, dark and slow, The shadow crept of Israel's woe, As if the angel's mournful roll Had left its record on my soul, And traced in lines of darkness there The picture of its great despair! Yet ever at the hour I feel My lips in prophecy unseal. Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, And Salenrs daughters haste to hear, On Chebar's waste and alien shore, The harp of Judah swept once more. They listen, as in Babel's throng The Chaldeans to the dancer's song, Or wild sabbeka's nightly play, As careless and as vain as they. And thus, O Prophet-bard of old, Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told ! The same which earth's unwelcome seers Have felt in all succeeding years. Sport of the changeful multitude, Nor calmly heard nor understood, Their song has seemed a trick of art, Their warnings but the actor's part. With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, The world requites its prophets still. So was it when the Holy One The garments of the flesh put on ! Men followed where the Highest led For common gifts of daily bread, And gross of ear, of vision dim, Owned not the godlike power of him. Vain as a dreamer's words to them His wail above Jerusalem, And meaningless the watch he kept Through which his weak disciples slept. Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art, For God's great purpose set apart, Before whose far-discerning eyes, The Future as the Present lies! Beyond a narrow-bounded age Stretches thy prophet-heritage, Through Heaven's dim spaces angel- trod, Through arches round the throne of God! Thy audience, worlds ! all Time to be The witness of the Truth in thee ! THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. AGAINST the sunset's glowing wall The city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah on its rocky height, THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. 109 Stands like an armed man in the light. Down EshtaoPs vales of ripened grain Falls like a cloud the night amain, And up the hillsides climbing slow The barley reapers homeward go. Look, dearest! how our fair child's head The sunset light hath hallowed, Where at this olive's foot he lies, Uplooking to the tranquil skies. O, while beneath the fervent heat Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat, I Ve watched, with mingled joy and dread, Our child upon his grassy bed. Joy, which the mother feels alone Whose morning hope like mine had flown, When to her bosom, over blessed, A dearer life than hers is pressed. Dread, for the future dark and still. Which shapes our dear one to its will ; Forever in his large calm eyes, I read a tale of sacrifice. The same foreboding awe I felt When at the altar's side we knelt, And he, who as a pilgrim came, Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame. I slept not, though the wild bees made A dreamlike murmuring in the shade, And on me the warm-fingered hours Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers. Before me, in a vision, rose The hosts of Israel's scornful foes, Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, Glittered in noon's hot atmosphere. I heard their boast, and bitter word, Their mockery of the Hebrew's Lord, I saw their hands his ark assail, Their feet profane his holy veil. No angel down the blue space spoke, No thunder from the still sky broke ; But in their midst, in power and awe, Like God's waked wrath, OUR CHILD I saw! A child no more! harsh-browed and strong, He towered a giant in the throng, And down his shoulders, broad and bare, Swept the black terror of his hair. He raised his arm ; he smote amain ; As round the reaper falls the grain, So the dark host around him fell, So sank the foes of Israel ! Again I looked. In sunlight shone The towers and domes of Askelon. Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd, Within her idol temple bowed. Yet one knelt not ; stark, gaunt, and blind, His arms the massive pillars twined, An eyeless captive, strong with hate, He stood there like an evil Fate. The red shrines smoked, the trum- pets pealed : He stooped, the giant columns reeled, Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall, And the thick dust-cloud closed o'er all! Above the shriek, the crash, the groan Of the fallen pride of Askelon, I heard, sheer down the echoing sky, A voice as of an angel cry, no MISCELLANEOUS. The voice of him, who at our side Sat through the golden eventide, Of him who, on thy altar's blaze, Rose fire- winged, with his song of praise. " Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain, Gray mother of the mighty slain! Rejoice ! " it cried, " he vanquisheth ! The strong in life is strong in death ! "To him shall Zorah's daughters raise Through coining years their hymns of praise, And gray old men at evening tell Of all he wrought for Israel. " And they who sing and they who hear Alike shall hold thy memory dear, And pour their blessings on thy head, mother of the mighty dead ! " It ceased ; and though a sound I heard As if great wings the still air stirred, I. only saw the barley sheaves And hills half hid by olive leaves. 1 bowed my face, in awe and fear, On the dear child who slumbered near. " With me, as with my only son, O God," I said, " THY WILL BE DONE!" THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. " GET ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! T is the vintage of blood, 't is the ful- ness of time, And vengeance shall gather the har- vest of crime ! " The warning was spoken ; the right- eous had gone, And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone ; All gay was the banquet; the revel was long, With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song. 'Twas an evening of beauty; the air was perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom ; And softly the delicate viol was heard, Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, With the magic of motion and sun- shine of glance ; And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free As the plumage of birds in some trop- ical tree. Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, And wantonness tempted the lust of the eye ; Midst rites of obsceneness, strange, loathsome, abhorred, The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. Hark ! the growl of the thunder, the quaking of earth ! Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth! The black sky has opened, there's flame in the air, The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare! Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song And the low tone of love had been whispered along ; For the fierce flames went lightly o'ei palace and bower, THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. in Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour! Down, down on the fallen the red ruin rained, And the reveller sank with his wine- cup undrained ; The foot of the dancer, the musics loved thrill, And the shout of the laughter grew suddenly still. The last throb of anguish was fear- fully given ; The last eye glared forth in its mad- ness on Heaven! The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain, And death brooded over the pride of the Plain! THE CRUCIFIXION. SUNLIGHT upon Judaea's hills! And on the waves of Galilee, On Jordan's stream, and on the rills That feed the dead and sleeping sea ! Most freshly from the green wood springs The light breeze on its scented wings ; And gayly quiver in the sun The cedar tops of Lebanon ! A few more hours, a change hath come! The sky is dark without a cloud! The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb, And proud knees unto earth are bowed. A change is on the hill of Death, The helmed watchers pant for breath. And turn with wild and maniac eyes From the dark scene of sacrifice! That Sacrifice! the death of Him. - The High and ever Holy One! Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim, And blacken the beholding Sun. The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day, And earthquake from his caverned bed Is waking with a thrill of dread ! The dead are waking underneath! Their prison door is rent away! And, ghastly with the seal of death, They wander in the eye of day! The temple of the Cherubim, The House of God is cold and dim ; A curse is on its trembling walls, Its mighty veil asunder falls! Well may the cavern-depths of Earth Be shaken, and her mountains nod ; Well may the sheeted dead come forth To gaze upon a suffering God! Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, And shadows veil the Cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given! And shall the sinful heart, alone, Behold unmoved the atoning hour, When Nature trembles on her throne, And Death resigns his iron power? O, shall the heart, whose sinfulness Gave keenness to his sore distress, And added to his tears of blood, Refuse its trembling gratitude! THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. WHERE Time the measure of his hours By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps ; Where, to her poet's turban stone, The Spring her gift of flowers im- parts, 112 MISCELLANEOUS. Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts : There sat the stranger, where the shade Of scattered date-trees thinly lay, While in the hot clear heaven delayed The long and still and weary day. Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air, Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there. And strange bright blossoms shone around, Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, As if the Gheber's soul had found A fitting home in Iran's flowers. Whatever he saw, whatever he heard, Awakened feelings new and sad, No Christian garb, nor Christian word, Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad, But Moslem graves, with turban stones, And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And graybeard Mollahs in low tones Chanting their Koran service through. The flowers which smiled on either hand, Like tempting fiends, were such as they Which once, o'er all that Eastern land, As gifts on demon altars lay. As if the burning eye of Baal The servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil, The Sun's hot glances smote him through . "Ah me!" the lonely stranger said, " The hope which led my footsteps on, And light from heaven around them shed, O'er weary wave and waste, is gone! "Where are the harvest fields all white, For Truth to thrust her sickle in? Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, From the dark hiding-place of sin ? " A silent horror broods o'er all, The burden of a hateful spell, The very flowers around recall The hoary magi's rites of hell! " And what am I, o'er such a land The banner of the Cross to bear? Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand, Thy strength with human weakness share ! " He ceased ; for at his very feet In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, How thrilled his sinking heart to greet The Star-flower of the Virgin's child! Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew Its life from alien air and earth, And told to Paynim sun and dew The story of the Saviour's birth. From scorching beams, in kindly mood, The Persian plants its beauty screened, And on its pagan sisterhood, In love, the Christian floweret leaned. HYMNS. With tears of joy the wanderer felt The darkness of his long despair Before that hallowed symbol melt, Which God's dear love had nurtured there. From Nature's face, that simple flower The lines of sin and sadness swept ; And Magian pile and Paynim bower In peace like that of Eden slept. Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, Looked holy through the sunset air ; And, angel-like, the Muezzin told From tower and mosque the hour of prayer. With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn From Shiraz saw the stranger part ; The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born Still blooming in his hopeful heart! HYMNS. FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. ONE hymn more, O my lyre! Praise to the God above, Of joy and life and love, Sweeping its strings of fire ! O, who the speed of bird and wind And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may find My resting-place and home in Thee? Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame, Mysterious spirit! unto whom Pertain nor sign nor name! Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go, Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow, Whose moving spirit sent them forth. But as for me, O God ! for me, The lowly creature of thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still ! Was not my spirit born to shine Where yonder stars and suns are glowing? To breathe with them the light divine From God's own holy altar flowing? To be, indeed, whate'er the soul In dreams hath thirsted for so long, A portion of Heaven's glorious whole Of loveliness and song? O, watchers of the stars at night, Who breathe their fire, as we the air, Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, O, say, is He, the Eternal, there? Bend there around his awful throne The seraph's glance, the angel's knee? Or are thy inmost depths his own, O wild and mighty sea? Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go! Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, Or arrows from the archer's bow, To the far aim of your desire ! Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them your sacrifice Of music unto God! And shall these thoughts of joy and love Come back again no more to me ? Returning like the Patriarch's dove Wing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing arms 114 MISCELLANEOUS. The promise-bough of kindlier skies, Plucked from the green, immortal palms Which shadow Paradise? All-moving spirit! freely forth At thy command the strong wind goes ; Its errand to the passive earth, Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, Until it folds its weary wing Once more within the hand divine ; So, weary from its wandering, My spirit turns to thine ! Child of the sea, the mountain stream, From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest, O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast, So turns my soul to Thee ! O Thou who bid'st the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind, Mover of all things ! where art thou? O, whither shall I go to find The secret of thy resting-place? Is there no holy wing for me, That, soaring, I may search the space Of highest heaven for Thee? O, would I were as free to rise As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through earth and Heaven; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee! WHEN the BREATH DIVINE is flowing, Zephyr-like o'er all things going, And. as the touch of viewless fingers, Softly on my soul it lingers, Open to a breath the lightest, Conscious of a touch the slightest, As some calm, still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings : When my upward gaze is turning Where the stars of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss, Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path : When the breaking day is flushing All the east, and light is gushing Upward through the horizon's haze, Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom : When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and hover, Holy as the seraphs are, Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, "HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD!" When, inspired with rapture high, It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love create, That my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still ! Then, O Father! thou alone, From the shadow of thy throne, To the sighing of my breast And its rapture answerest. All my thoughts, which, upward winging, THE FEMALE MARTYR. Bathe where thy own light is spring- ing? All my yearnings to be free Are as echoes answering thee ! Seldom upon lips of mine, Father! rests that name of thine, Deep within my inmost breast, In the secret place of mind, Like an awful presence shrined, Doth the dread idea rest! Hushed and holy dwells it there, Prompter of the silent prayer, Lifting up my spirit's eye And its faint, but earnest cry, From its dark and cold abode, Unto thee, my Guide and God! THE FEMALE MARTYR. [Mary G , aged 18, a " SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.] " BRING out your dead!" The mid- night street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, Her coffin and her pall. " What only one ! " the brutal hack- man said, As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. How sunk the inmost hearts of all, As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, With creaking wheel and harsh hoof- fall! The dying turned him to the wall, To hear it and to die! Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed, And hoarsely clamored, " Ho ! bring out your dead. 11 It paused beside the burial-place ; " Toss in your load ! " and it was done. With quick hand and averted face, Hastily to the grave's embrace They cast them, one by one, Stranger and friend, the evil and the just, Together trodden in the churchyard dust! And thou, young martyr! thou wast there, No white-robed sisters round thee trod, Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer Rose through the damp and noisome air, Giving thee to thy God ; Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave! Yet, gentle sufferer ! there shall be, In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy paid to thee As if beneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well. Enduring with a martyr's might, Through weary day and wakeful night Far more than words may tell : Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and un- known, Thy mercies measured by thy God alone! Where manly hearts were failing, where The throngful street grew foul with death, MISCELLANEOUS. O high-souled martyr! thou wast there, Inhaling, from the loathsome air, Poison with every breath. Yet shrinking not from offices of dread For the wrung dying, and the uncon- scious dead. And, where the sickly taper shed Its light through vapors, damp, con- fined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, A new Electra by the bed Of suffering human-kind! Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, To that pure hope which fadeth not away. Innocent teacher of the high And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy, As thy low prayers were given ; And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features, a deliverer's smile ! A blessed task! and worthy one Who, turning from the world, as thou, Before life's pathway had begun To leave its spring-time flower and sun, Had sealed her early vow ; Giving to God her beauty and her youth, Her pure affections and her guileless truth. Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Could be for thee a meet reward ; Thine is a treasure far more dear, Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard, The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love! Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrought, The lofty energies of thought, The fire of poesy, These have but frail and fading hon- ors ; thine Shall Time unto Eternity consign. Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall,- The herald's line of long renown, The mitre and the kingly crown, Perishing glories all! The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. THE FROST SPIRIT. HE comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his foot- steps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth. He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 117 Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow! He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes ! and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel ; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, :hain, and in mournful silence pass. Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass. He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes ! let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away ; And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by! THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. "O LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear ; And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie ; I have brought them with me a weary way, will my gentle lady buy? " And the lady smiled on the worn old man through the dark and clustering curls \Vhich veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks and glittering pearls ; And she placed their price in the old man's hand, and lightly turned away, But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, "My gentle lady, stay!" " O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre flings, Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the lofty brow of kings, A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not decay, Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way! " The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace was seen, Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved tlfeir clasping pearls between ; " Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old, And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy gold." The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he took! ' Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee! Nay keep thy gold I ask it not, for the word of God is free!" MISCELLANEOUS. The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind, And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth, And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth! And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had power, The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower-, And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God ! THE CALL OF THE CHRIS- TIAN. NOT always as the whirlwind's rush On Horeb's mount of fear, Not always as the burning bush To Miclian's shepherd seer, Nor as the awful voice which came To Israel's prophet bards, Nor as the tongues of cloven flame, Nor gift of fearful words, Not always thus, with outward sign Of fire or voice from Heaven, The message of a truth divine, The call of God is given! Awaking in the human heart Love for the true and right, Zeal for the Christian's " better part," Strength for the Christian's fight. Nor unto manhood's heart alone The holy influence steals : Warm with a rapture not its own, The heart of woman feels ! As she who by Samaria's wall The Saviour's errand sought, As those who with the fervent Paul And meek Aquila wrought : Or those meek ones whose martyrdom Rome's gathered grandeur saw : Or those who in their Alpine home Braved the Crusader's war, When the green Vaudois, trembling, heard, Through all its vales of death, The martyr's song of triumph poured From woman's failing breath. And gently, by a thousand things Which o'er our spirits pass, Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, Or vapors o'er a glass, Leaving their token strange and new Of music or of shade. The summons to the right and true And merciful is made. O, then, if gleams of truth and light Flash o'er thy waiting mind, Unfolding to thy mental sight The wants of human-kind ; If, brooding over human grief, The earnest wish is known To soothe and gladden with relief An anguish not thine own ; Though heralded with naught of fear, Or outward sign or show ; Though only to the inward ear It whispers soft and low ; Though dropping, as the manna fell, Unseen, yet from above, Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, Thy Father's call of love ! MY SOUL AND I. STAND still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and stark With God and me ! What, my soul, was thy errand here? Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year? " Nay, none of these ! " MY SOUL AND I. 119 Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight Whose eye looks still And steadily on thee through the night : "To do his will!" What hast thou done, O soul of mine, That thou tremblest so ? Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line He bade thee go? What, silent all ! art sad of cheer? Art fearful now ? When God seemed far and men were near, How brave wert thou ! Aha! thou tremblest! well I see Thou 'rt craven grown. Is it so hard with God and me To stand alone? Summon thy sunshine bravery back, O wretched sprite! Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black Abysmal night. What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, For God and Man, From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth To life's mid span ? Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, But weak and low, Like far sad murmurs on my ear They come and go. "I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, And borne the Right From beneath the footfall of the throng To life and light. " Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, God speed, quoth I ; To Error amidst her shouting train I gave the lie." Ah, soul of mine! ah, soul of mine! Thy deeds are well : Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine? My soul, pray tell. "Of all the work my hand hath wrought Beneath the sky, Save a place in kindly human thought, No gain have I." Go to, go to ! for thy very self Thy deeds were done : Thou for fame, the miser for pelf, Your end is one ! And where art thou going, soul of mine ? Canst see the end? And whither this troubled life of thine Evermore doth tend ? What daunts thee now ? what shakes thee so? My sad soul say. " I see a cloud like a curtain low Hang o'er my way. "Whither I go I cannot tell : That cloud hangs black, High as the heaven and deep as hell Across my track. " I see its shadow coldly enwrap The souls before. Sadly they enter it, step by step, To return no more. " They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel To thee in prayer. They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel That it still is there. "In vain they turn from the dread Before 120 MISCELLANEOUS. To the Known and Gone ; For while gazing behind them ever- more Their feet glide on. " Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale faces A light begin To tremble, as if from holy places And shrines within. "And at times methinks their cold lips move With hymn and prayer, As if somewhat of awe, but more of love And hope were there. " I call on the souls who have left the light To reveal their lot ; I bend mine ear to that wall of night, And they answer not. " But I hear around me sighs of pain And the cry of fear, And a sound like the slow sad drop- ping of rain, Each drop a tear ! u Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day I am moving thither: I must pass beneath it on my way God pity me! WHITHER? " Ah, soul of mine! so brave and wise In the life-storm loud, Fronting so calmly all human eyes In the sunlit crowd! Now standing apart with God and me Thou art weakness all, Gazing vainly after the things to be Through Death's dread wall. But never for this, never for this Was thy being lent ; For the craven's fear is but selfishness, Like his merriment. Folly and Fear are sisters twain : One closing her eyes, The other peopling the dark inane With spectral lies. Know well, my soul, God's hand con- trols Whate'er thou fearest ; Round him in calmest music rolls Whate'er thou nearest. What to thee is shadow, to him is day, And the end he knoweth, And not on a blind and aimless way The spirit goeth. Man sees no future, a phantom show Is alone before him : Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, And flowers bloom o'er him. Nothing before, nothing behind ; The steps of Faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The rock beneath. The Present, the Present is all thou hast For thy sure possessing ; Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast Till it gives its blessing. Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, That phantom wan? There is nothing in heaven or earth beneath Save God and man. Peopling the shadows we turn from Him And from one another ; All is spectral and vague and dim Save God and our brother! Like warp and woof all destinies Are woven fast, TO A FRIEND. 121 Linked in sympathy like the keys Of an organ vast. Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar ; Break but one Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar Through all will run. O restless spirit! wherefore strain Beyond thy sphere? Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, Are now and here. Back to thyself is measured well All thou hast given ; Thy neighbors wrong is thy present hell, His bliss, thy heaven. And in life, in death, in dark and light, All are in God's care ; Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, And he is there! All which is real now remaineth, And fadeth never : The hand which upholds it now sus- taineth The soul forever. Leaning on him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will, And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness Life's task fulfil ; And that cloud itself, which now be- fore thee Lies dark in view, Shall with beams of light from the inner glory Be stricken through. And like meadow mist through au- tumn's dawn Uprolling thin, Its thickest folds when about thee drawn Let sunlight in. Then of what is to be, and of what is done, Why queriest thou? The past and the time to be are one, And both are NOW! 'TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE". How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover! Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over. Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine : Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender. Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell, Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swell With its isles teeming. Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, . Splintering with icy spears Autumn's blue heaven : Loose rock and frozen slide. Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glide Downward, storm-driven ! Rhine stream, by castle old, Baron's and robber's hold, Peacefully flowing ; 122 MISCELLANEOUS. Sweeping through vineyards green, Or where the cliffs are seen O'er the broad wave between Grim shadows throwing. Or, where St. Peter's dome Swells o'er eternal Rome, Vast, dim, and solemn, Hymns ever chanting low, Censers swung to and fro, Sable stoles sweeping slow Cornice and column! O, as from each and all Will there not voices call Evermore back again ? In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again? New forms thy presence haunt, New voices softly chant, New faces greet thee! Pilgrims from many a shrine Hallowed by poet's line, At memory's magic sign, Rising to meet thee. And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band Whence thou wast taken ? While, at the sunset time, Swells the cathedral's chime, Yet, in thy dreaming, While to thy spirit's eye Yet the vast mountains lie Piled in the Svvitzer's sky, Icy and gleaming: Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture there In the mind's chamber, And, through each coming day Him who, as staff and stay, Watched o'er thy wandering way, Freshly remember. So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven! THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes : No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again ; And yet in tenderest love, our dear And Heavenly Father sends him here. There 's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear ; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure. Angel of Patience! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; To lay the storms of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear; The throbs of wounded pride to still. And make our own our Father's will ! O thou who mourn est on thy way, With longings for the close of day ; He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, " Be resigned : Bear up. bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well!" POLLEN. 123 POLLEN. ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE." FRIEND of my soul ! as with moist eye I look up from this page of thine, Is it a dream that thou art nigh, Thy mild face gazing into mine? That presence seems before me now, A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, When, dew-like, on the earth below Descends the quiet of the skies. The calm brow through the parted hair, The gentle lips which knew no guile, Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care With the bland beauty of their smile. Ah me! at times that last dread scene Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea, _ Will cast its shade of doubt between The failing eyes of Faith and thee. Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page, Where through the twilight air of earth, Alike enthusiast and sage, Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth ; Lifting the Future's solemn veil ; The reaching of a mortal hand To put aside the cold and pale Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land ; In thoughts which answer to my own, In words which reach my inward ear, Like whispers from the void Un- known, I feel thy living presence here. The waves which lull thy body's rest, The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, Unwasted, through each change, at- test The fixed economy of God. Shall these poor elements outlive The mind whose kingly will they wrought ? Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy godlike energy of thought? THOU LIVEST, FOLLEN! not in vain Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne The burthen of Life's cross of pain, And the thorned crown of suffering w r orn. O, while Life's solemn mystery glooms Around us like a dungeon's wall, Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, Silent the heaven which bends o'er all! While day by day our loved ones glide In spectral silence, hushed and lone, To the cold shadows which divide The living from the dread Un- known ; While even on the closing eye, And on the lip which moves in vain, The seals of that stern mystery Their undiscovered trust retain ; And only midst the gloom of death. Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, Smile dimly on us through their tears ; 'T is something to a heart like mine. To think of thee as living yet ; 124 MISCELLANEOUS. To feel that such a light as thine Could not in utter darkness set. Less dreary seems the untried way Since thou hast left thy footprints there, And beams of mournful beauty play Round the sad Angel's sable hair. Oh! at this hour when half the sky Is glorious with its evening light, And fair broad fields of summer lie Hung o'er with greenness in my sight ; While through these elm-boughs wet with rain The sunset's golden walls are seen, With clover-bloom and yellow grain And wood-draped hill and stream between ; I long to know if scenes like this Are hidden from an angel's eyes ; If earth's familiar loveliness Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies. For sweetly here upon thee grew The lesson which that beauty gave, The ideal of the Pure and True In earth and sky and gliding wave. And it may be that all which lends The soul an upward impulse here, With a diviner beauty blends, And greets us in a holier sphere. Through groves where blighting never fell The humbler flowers of earth may twine ; And simple draughts from childhood's well Blend with the angel-tasted wine. But be the prying vision veiled, And let the seeking lips be dumb, Where even seraph eyes have failed Shall mortal blindness seek to come ? We only know that thou hast gone, And that the same returnless tide Which bore thee from us still glides on, And we who mourn thee with it glide. On all thou lookest we shall look, And to our gaze erelong shall turn That page of God's mysterious book We so much wish, yet dread to learn. With Him, before whose awful power Thy spirit bent its trembling knee; Who, in the silent greeting flower, And forest leaf, looked out on thee, We leave thee, with a trust serene, Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we lean, On Him whose dearest name is Love ! TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 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 bloated Church rehearse The lesson it has learned so well ; It moves not with its prayer or curse The gates of heaven or hell. THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 125 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 gather- ing 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! 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. 126 MISCELLANEOUS. Give strength the evil to forsake, The cross of Truth to bear, And love and reverent fear to make Our daily lives a prayer! 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, 11 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 ; Up springing 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-en- twined, 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 ^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 PRISONER FOR DEBT. 127 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. O. 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. As idly as, in that old day, Thou mournest, did thy sires repine, So, in his time, thy child grown gray Shall sigh for thine. Yet, not the less for them or thou The 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 hath : The tares may perish, but the grain Is not for death. God works in all things ; all obey His first propulsion from the night : Ho, wake and watch ! the world is gray With morning light! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 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 ; O 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, 128 MISCELLANEOUS. 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. LINES, 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 w f ith 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 under- stood! LINES. 129 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 for- give! Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel ; And, with his words of mercy on their lips, Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burn- ing grips, And the grim horror of the strain- ing 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! in. The blood which mingled with the desert sand, And beaded with its red and ghastly dew The vines and olives of the Holy Land, K 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, W T here with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung Mingled the groans by subtle tor- ture wrung, Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell! The midnight of Bartholomew, the stake Of Smithfield, and that thrice-ac- cursed 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! 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 Sav- iour taught 1 3 o MISCELLANEOUS. 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 twi- light 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? Where- fore 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 Dru- id'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 encum- brance cast, And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, Rank ye with those who led their vic- tims round The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, Abhorred of Earth and Heaven, a pagan brotherhood ! THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 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 summers 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; THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 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 I " 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 132 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 Whatever 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 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? O, 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 With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er, Yet knows beneath them, evermore, The low, pale fire is quivering still ; RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 133 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, O, never yet upon the scroll Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul. Hath Heaven inscribed "DE- SPAIR!" 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 Patriarchs sacrifice, God's angel cries, FORBEAR! 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 wave, 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, 134 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living. O, 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 "RE- MORSE!" 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! O, more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living! DEMOCRACY. All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. Rtatthew 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. O, 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, TO RONGE. I see the flame of Freedom burn, The Kebla of the patriot's prayer! The generous feeling, pure and warm, Which owns the rights of all di- vine, 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, imawed 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 j>ian 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 lis- tener"^ 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, 1843. TO RONGE. STRIKE home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then Put nerve into thy task. Let other men Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, On crown or crosier, which shall inter- pose Between thee and the weal of Father- land. 136 MISCELLANEOUS. Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. Be faithful to both worlds ; nor think to feed Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed. Servant of Him whose mission high and holy Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly, Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere. Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span; Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, The New Jerusalem comes down to man! Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb The rusted chain of ages, help to bind His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind ! CHALKLEY HALL. How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous dream The close dark city lies ! Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng The marble floor Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din Of the world's madness let me gather, in My better thoughts once more. O, once again revive, while on my ear The cry of Gain And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away, Ye blessed memories of my early day Like sere grass wet with rain ! Once more let God's green earth and sunset air Old feelings waken : Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, O, let me feel that my good angel still Hath not his trust forsaken. And well do time and place befit my mood : Beneath the arms Of this embracing wood, a good man made His home, like Abraham resting in the shade Of Mamre's lonely palms. Here, rich with autumn gifts of count- less years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil. Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, Weary and worn, He came to meet his children and to bless The Giver of all good in thankfulness And praise for his return. TO J. P. 137 And here his neighbors gathered in to greet Their friend again, Safe from the wave and the destroy- ing gales, Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, And vex the Carib main. To hear the good man tell of simple truth, Sown in an hour Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, From the parched bosom of a barren soil, Raised up in life and power : How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering love Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above : How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain : How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, And fair and bright-eyed youth. O, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy. And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm, Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, Its soft, green meadows and its up- land glade, r To me is holy ground. And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still ; Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Pe- trarch's shade, Or Virgil's laurelled hill. To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete, To Juliet's urn, Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange- grove, Where Tasso sang, let young Ro- mance and Love Like brother pilgrims turn. But here a deeper and serener charm To all is given ; And blessed memories of the faithful dead O'er wood and vale and meadow- stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven! TO J. P. NOT as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Pales- tine, Not to the poet, but the man I bring MISCELLANEOUS. In friendship's fearless trust my of- fering : How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me Life all too earnest, and its time too short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport ; And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. [IBN BATUTA, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable JOGEES, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.] THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows Their failing eyes looked out. Gray Age and Sickness waiting there Through weary night and lingering day, Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they. Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet. O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, Yet there they waited still ! What was the world without to them? The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance ? They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wandering Jogees sing : Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring. O, if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal ; Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree Whose healing leaves of life are shed, In answer to the breath of prayer, Upon the waiting head ; Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, But, on the fainting SOUL to shed A light and life divine ; Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at the long delay ? Impatient of our Father's time And his appointed way? Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die? Alas ! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make. TO 139 We gird us bravely to rebuke Our erring brother in the wrong, And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong. Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than " watch one hour " in hum- bling prayer. Life's u great things," like the Syrian lord, Our hearts can do and dare. But oh ! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save; And murmur for Abana's banks And Pharpar's brighter wave. O Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hour Forgetful of thy pain ; Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee ! A DREAM OF SUMMER. BLAND as the morning breath of June The southwest breezes play ; And, through its haze, the winter noon Seems warm as summer's day. The snow-plumed Angel of the North Has dropped his icy spear ; Again the mossy earth looks forth, Again the streams gush clear. The fox his hillside cell forsakes, The muskrat leaves his nook, The bluebird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook. " Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; u Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!" So, in those winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers, And how beneath the winter's snow Lie germs of summer flowers! The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall ; For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all! 4/// ist month, 1847. WITH TO , COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL. " Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Essays of Elia. MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky. Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide, Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide. Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold. And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies, 140 MISCELLANEOUS. Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirror In the selfsame sun. But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies ; And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes. With an early introversion, Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the hidden springs. Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been. Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime. All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed, Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest : That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw. From the doubt and darkness spring- ing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast, Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching : WHAT and WHERE is TRUTH? Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead. Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings, Only wake a quiet scorn, Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn. But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest. O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail! O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow. And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply. But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin ; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within. Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy. But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught, More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought. Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came. LEGGETTS MONUMENT. 141 Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our beings end, Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily striving And performance shown. Earnest toil and strong endeavor Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil And besetting sin ; And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong. Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of WOOLMAN'S feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet! O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew. All which glows in Pascal's pages, All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught : Beauty such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head. Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known. When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue, All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one, Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun ! Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee, Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be. If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living waters And diviner food ; If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look! If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith, Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak, Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek ; And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise. LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. "Ye build the tombs of the prophets." Holy Writ. YES, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, 142 SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS. Who clamored down the bold re- former when He pleaded for his captive fellow- ' men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well it is now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame! SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS, 1850. DEDICATION. 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 re- main : 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 be- tween, 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 clay 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 THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 143 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. 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 W T e 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 ; 144 SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS. 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! 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! 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, Han 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 earthern 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 bro- g an > With footsteps slow and weary, THE DROVERS. 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 com- mand, 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! 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 foot-sore 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 ! I 4 6 SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS. 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 '11 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 hill, 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. 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 the 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, THE HUSKERS. 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 '11 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 '11 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 clown the bay, The rising sails are filling, Give way, my lads, give way! Leave the coward landsman cling- ing To the dull earth, like a weed, The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed! 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. 148 SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS. 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 lo ! 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 LUMBERMEN. 149 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 meads 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, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, 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! 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 sleep- ing? Frost his task-work plies ; Soon, his icy bridges heaping, Shall our log-piles rise. When, with sounds of smothered thun- der, 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, SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS. 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 hoar-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 mo- rasses, Or through rocky walls, Swift and strong, Penobscot passes White with foamy foils ; 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 sky- light, 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 high- lands, 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. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 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 cedar 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! O, 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! MISCELLANEOUS. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, . Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. " Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena! " Ah ! the smoke has rolled away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. 152 MISCELLANEOUS. "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall ; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on : Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won? " Alas! alas! I know not ; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all! " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise ; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! " O my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my knee : Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!" Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said : To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother! " murmured he, and died! " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind ; Ah! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels! oh thou Christ of God, forgive!" BARCLAY OF URY. 153 Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours'; Upward, through it blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! FORGIVENESS. MY heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; So, turning gloomily from my fellow- men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled among The green mounds of the village bur- ial-place ; Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late, Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our com- mon grave, Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, Awed for myself, and pitying my race, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trem- bling I forgave ! BARCLAY OF URY. UP the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury ; Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, Pressed the mob in fury. Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master ; And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, Cursed him as he passed her. Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen Came he slowly riding ; And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word, Turning not for chiding. Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and frovvard ; Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down! 154 MISCELLANEOUS. Push him ! prick him ! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!" But from out the thickening crowd Cried a sudden voice and loud : "Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried, Scarred and sun-burned darkly ; Who with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there, Cried aloud : " God save us, Call ye coward him who stood Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, With the brave Gustavus ? " " Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; " Put it up, I pray thee : Passive to his holy will,' Trust I in my Master still, Even though he slay me. " Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death, Not by me are needed." Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old, Now so meekly pleaded. " Woe 's the day ! " he sadly said, With a slowly-shaking head, And a look of pity ; u Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city! " Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line, And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we '11 teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers!" " Marvel not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end " : Quoth the Laird of Ury, " Is the sinful servant more Than his gracious Lord who bore Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? " Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame, All these vain ones offer ; While for them He suffereth long, Shall I answer wrong with wrong, Scoffing with the scoffer? " Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me. " When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door ; And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown From red fields of slaughter. " Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, Hard the old friend's falling off, Hard to learn forgiving : But the Lord his own rewards, And his lt>ve with theirs accords, Warm and fresh and living. "Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking ; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest For the full day-breaking ! " So the Laird of Ury said, Turning slow his horse's head Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron grates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen ! WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 155 Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial ; Every age on him, who strays From its broad and beaten ways, Pours its sevenfold vial. Happy he whose inward ear Angel comfortings can hear, O'er the rabble's laughter ; And, while Hatred's fagots burn, Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter. Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow ; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow. Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the Future borrow ; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain, Paint the golden morrow! WHAT THE VOICE SAID. MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil, " Lord! " I cried in sudden ire, " From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire ! " Love is lost, and Faith is dying ; With the brute the man is sold ; And the dropping blood of labor Hardens into gold. " Here the dying wail of Famine, There the battle's groan of pain ; And, in silence, smooth-face Mammon Reaping men like grain. " < Where is God, that we should fear Him?' Thus the earth-born Titans say ; ' God ! if thou art living, hear us ! ' Thus the weak ones pray." " Thou, the patient Heaven upbraid- ing," Spake a solemn Voice within ; " W T eary of our Lord's forbearance, Art thou free from sin? " Fearless brow to Him uplifting, Canst thou for his thunders call ? Knowing that to guilt's attraction Evermore they fall ? " Know'st thou not all germs of evil In thy heart await their time? Not thyself, but God's restraining, Stays their growth of crime. " Couldst thou boast, O child of weak- ness ! O'er the sons of wrong and strife, Were their strong temptations planted In thy path of life? " Thou hast seen two streamlets gush- ing From one fountain, clear and free, But by widely varying channels Searching for the sea. "Glideth one through greenest valleys, Kissing them with lips still sweet ; One, mad roaring down the mountains, Stagnates at their feet. " Is it choice whereby the Parsee Kneels before his mother's fire? In his black tent did the Tartar Choose his wandering sire? " He alone, whose hand is bounding Human power and human will, Looking through each soul's surround- ing. Knows its good or ill. I 5 6 MISCELLANEOUS. " For thyself, while wrong and sorrow Make to thee their strong appeal, Coward wert thou not to utter What the heart must feel. " Earnest words must needs be spoken When the warm heart bleeds or burns With its scorn of wrong, or pity For the wronged, by turns. " But, by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies known, Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own. " Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty To thy lips her trumpet set, But with harsher blasts shall mingle Wailings of regret." Cease not, Voice of holy speaking, Teacher sent of God, be near, Whispering through the day's cool silence, Let my spirit hear! So, when thoughts of evil-doers Waken scorn, or hatred move, Shall a mournful fellow-feeling Temper all with love. 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 holi- day. 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 ! WORSHIP. " Pure religion, and undefiled, before God and the Father is this : To visit the widows and the fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." James i. 27. THE Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan WORSHIP. Round fane and altar overthrown and broken, O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood, With mother's offering, to the Fiend's embraces, Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. Red altars, kindling through that night of error, Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky; Beneath whose baleful shadow, over- casting All heaven above, and blighting earth below, The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, And man's oblation was his fear and woe! Then through great temples swelled the dismal moaning Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, Swung their white censers in the burdened air : As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor Of gums and spices could the Un- seen One please ; As if his ear could bend, with childish favor, To the poor flattery of the organ keys ! Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy, With trembling reverence : and the oppressor there, Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly, Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. Not such the service the benignant Father Requireth at his earthly children's hands : Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather The simple duty man from man demands. For Earth he asks it : the full joy of Heaven Knoweth no change of waning or increase ; The great heart of the Infinite beats even, Untroubled flows the river of his peace. He asks no taper lights, on high sur- rounding The priestly altar and the saintly grave, No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, Nor incense clouding up the twi- light nave. For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken : The holier worship which he deigns to bless Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, And feeds the widow and the father- less! Types of our human weakness and our sorrow ! Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead? I 5 8 MISCELLANEOUS. Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow From stranger eyes the home lights which have fled? O brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother; Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there ; To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer. Follow with reverent steps the great example Of Him whose holy work was "doing good " ; So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, Each loving life a psalm of grati- tude. Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangor Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace ! THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. THE Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, And eats his meat and drinks his ale, And beats the maid with her unused broom, And the lazy lout with his idle flail, But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn, And hies him away ere the break of dawn. The shade of Denmark fled from the And the Cocklane ghost from the barnloft cheer, The fiend of Faust was a faithful Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, And the devil of Martin Luther sat By the stout monk's side in social chat. The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him Who seven times crossed the deep, Twined closely each lean and with- ered limb, Like the nightmare in one's sleep. But he drank of the wine, and Sin- bad cast The evil weight from his back at last. But the demon that cometh day by day To my quiet room and fireside nook, Where the casement light falls dim and gray On faded painting and ancient book, Is a sorrier one than any whose names Are chronicled well by good King James. No bearer of burdens like Caliban, No runner of errands like Ariel, He comes in the shape of a fat old man, Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell; And whence he comes, or whither he goes, I know as I do of the wind which blows. A stout old man with a greasy hat Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, And two gray eyes enveloped in fat. Looking through glasses with iron bows. Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, Guard well your doors from that old man ! THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 159 He comes with a careless " How d' ye do?" And seats himself in my elbow- chair ; And my morning paper and pamphlet new Fall forthwith under his special care, And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, And, button by button, unfolds his coat. And then he reads from paper and book, In a low and husky asthmatic tone, With the stolid sameness of posture and look Of one who reads to himself alone ; And hour after hour on my senses come That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. The price of stocks, the auction sales, The poet's song and the lover's glee, The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, The marriage list, and thejeu d"*e- sprit, All reach my ear in the selfsame tone, I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! O, sweet as the lapse of water at noon O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone, Of her in whose features I some- times look, As I sit at eve by her side alone, And we read by turns from the selfsame book, Some tale perhaps of the olden time, Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. Then when the story is one of woe, Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his face looks on me worn and pale. And when she reads some merrier song, Her voice is glad as an April bird's, And when the tale is of war and wrong, A trumpet's summons is in her words, And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear ! O, pity me then, when, day by day, The stout fiend darkens my parlor door; And reads me perchance the selfsame lay Which melted in music, the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! I cross my floor with a nervous tread, I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, I flourish my cane above his head, And stir up the fire to roast him out ; i6o MISCELLANEOUS. I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane, And press my hands on my ears, in vain! I Ve studied Glanville and James the wise, And wizard black-letter tomes which treat Of demons of every name and size, Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, But never a hint and never a line Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. IVe crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, And laid the Primer above them all, I Ve nailed a horseshoe over the grate, And hung a wig to my parlor wall Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, At Salem court in the witchcraft day! " Conjuro te, sceleratissime, Abire ad titum locum ! " still Like a visible nightmare he sits by me, The exorcism has lost its skill ; And I hear again in my haunted room The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum ! Ah ! commend me to Mary Magdalen With her sevenfold plagues, to the wandering Jew, To the terrors which haunted Orestes when The furies his midnight curtains drew, But charm him off, ye who charm him can, That reading demon, that fat old man! THE PUMPKIN. O, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o ? er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold ; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Ah ! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection re- stored, \Vhen the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what bright- ens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ? O, fruit loved of boyhood ! the old days recalling, EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND.' 161 When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn- heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lan- tern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team ! Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be length- ened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pump- kin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie ! EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND." How has New England's romance fled, Even as a vision of the morning! Its rights foredone, its guardians dead, Its priestesses, bereft of dread, Waking the veriest urchin's scorn- ing! Gone like the Indian wizard's yell And fire-dance round the magic rock, Forgotten like the Druid's spell At moonrise by his holy oak ! No more along the shadowy glen, Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; No more the unquiet churchyard dead Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, Startling the traveller, late and lone ; As, on some night of starless weather, They silently commune together, Each sitting on his own head-stone! The roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed, No longer rings with midnight revel Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; No pale blue flame sends out its flashes Through creviced roof and shattered sashes! The witch-grass round the hazel spring May sharply to the night-air sing, But there no more shall withered hags Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters As beverage meet for Satan's daugh- ters ; No more their mimic tones be heard, The mew of cat, the chirp of bird, Shrill bending with the hoarser laugh- ter Of the fell demon following after! The cautious goodman nails no more A horseshoe on his outer door, Lest some unseemly hag should fit To his own mouth her bridle-bit, The goodwife's churn no more refuses Its wonted culinary uses Until, with heated needle burned, The witch has to her place returned! Our witches are no longer old ' And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, But young and gay and laughing crea- tures, With the heart's sunshine on their features, Their sorcery the light which dances Where the raised lid unveils its glances ; Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, The music of Love's twilight hours, Soft, dreamlike, as a fairy's moan Above her nightly closing flowers, 162 MISCELLANEOUS. Sweeter than that which sighed of yore, Along the charmed Ausonian shore ! Even she, our own weird heroine, Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, Sleeps calmly where the living laid her; And the wide realm of sorcery, Left by its latest mistress free, Hath found no gray and skilled in- vader : So perished Albion's " glammarye," With him in Melrose Abbey sleep- ing, His charmed torch beside his knee, That even the dead himself might see The magic scroll within his keep- ing, And now our modern Yankee sees Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; And naught above, below, around, Of life or death, of sight or sound, Whatever its nature, form, or look, Excites his terror or surprise, All seeming to his knowing eyes Familiar as his u catechize," Or " Webster's Spelling-Book. 11 HAMPTON BEACH. THE sunlight glitters keen and bright, ^ Where, miles away, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight A luminous belt, a misty light, Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray. The tremulous shadow of the Sea! Against its ground Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, Still as a picture, clear and free, With varying outline mark the coast for miles around. On on we tread with loose-flung rein Our seaward way, Through dark-green fields and blos- soming grain, Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, And bends above our heads the flow- ering locust spray. Ha! like a kind hand on my brow Comes this fresh breeze, Cooling its dull and feverish glow. While through my being seems to flow The breath of a new life, the heal- ing of the seas ! Now rest we, where this grassy mound His feet hath set In the great waters, which have bound His granite ankles greenly round With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet. Good by to pain and care ! I take Mine ease to-day : Here where these sunny waters break, And ripples this keen breeze, I shake All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. I draw a freer breath I seem Like all I see Waves in the sun the white-winged gleam Of sea-birds in the slanting beam And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free. So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, The soul may know No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, Nor sink the weight of mystery under, But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow. LINES. 163 And all we shrink from now may seem No new revealing ; Familiar as our childhood's stream, Or pleasant memory of a dream The loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. Serene and mild the untried light May have its dawning ; And, as in summer's northern night The evening and the dawn unite, The sunset hues of Time blend with the souPs new morning. I sit alone ; in foam and spray Wave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, Shoulder the broken tide away, Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave. What heed I of the dusty land And noisy town? I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down! In listless quietude of mind, I yield to all The change of cloud and wave and wind, And passive on the flood reclined, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall. But look, thou dreamer! wave and shore In shadow lie ; The night-wind warns me back once more To where, my native hill-tops o'er, Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky. So then, beach, bluff, and wave, fare- well! I bear with me No token stone nor glittering shell, But long and oft shall Memory tell Of this brief thoughtful hour of mus- ing by the Sea. LINES, 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 un- dimmed 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 over- head. 164 MISCELLANEOUS. Who now shall rally Freedom's scat- tering 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. loth mo., 1847. LINES, ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRE- SENTED TO A FRIEND. 'T is said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest. That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet- voiced saint at twilight sings The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings ; Till starting from his sandy bed, % The wayworn wanderer looks to see The halo of an angel's head Shine through the tamarisk-tree. So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. That pilgrim pressing to his goal May pause not for the vision's sake, Yet all fair things within his soul The thought of it shall wake ; The graceful palm-tree by the well, Seen on the far horizon's rim ; The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, Bent timidly on him ; Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the con- vent's gloom ; Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb ; And thus each tint or shade which falls, From sunset cloud or waving tree, Along my pilgrim path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee. Of one in sun and shade the same, In weal and woe my steady friend, Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend. Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly bough The upward-struggling tree. These light leaves at thy feet I lay, Poor common thoughts on common things, Which time is shaking, day by day, Like feathers from his wings, Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee Their folly is my own. That tree still clasps the kindly mould, Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, And weaving its pale green with gold, Still shines the sunlight through. RAPHAEL. 165 There still the morning zephyrs play, And there at times the spring bird sings, And mossy trunk and fading spray Are flowered with glossy wings. Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade; The wanderer on its lonely plain Erelong shall miss its shade. O friend beloved, whose curious skill Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, With warm, glad summer thoughts to fill The cold, dark, winter hours! Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring May well defy the wintry cold*, Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, Life's fairer ones unfold. THE REWARD. WHO, looking backward from his manhood's prime. Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? And, through the shade Of funeral cypress planted thick be- hind, Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind From his loved dead? Who bears no trace of passion's evil force ? Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Re- morse ? Who does not cast On the thronged pages of his mem- ,ory's book, At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, Regretful of the Past? Alas ! the evil which we fain would shun We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : Our strength to-day Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall ; Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all Are we alway. Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years, Feels not his eyelids wet with grate- ful tears, If he hath been Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, His fellow-men? If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, If he hath lent Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, Over the suffering, mindless of his creed Or home, hath bent, He has not lived in vain, and while he gives The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives. With thankful heart ; He gazes backward, and with hope before, Knowing that from his works he nevermore Can henceforth part. RAPHAEL. I SHALL not soon forget that sight : The glow of autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, On Raphael's picture lay. It was a simple print I saw, The fair face of a musing boy ; 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS. Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe Seemed blending with my joy. A simple print : the graceful flow Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow Unmarked and clear, were there. Yet through its sweet and calm repose I saw the inward spirit shine ; It was as if before me rose The white veil of a shrine. As if, as Gothland's sage has told, The hidden life, the man within, Dissevered from its frame and mould, By mortal eye were seen. Was it the lifting of that eye, The waving of that pictured hand ? Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, I saw the walls expand. The narrow room had vanished, space, Broad, luminous, remained alone, Through which all hues and shapes of grace And beauty looked or shone. Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought. There drooped thy more than mortal face, O Mother, beautiful and mild ! Enfolding in one dear embrace Thy Saviour and thy Child ! The rapt brow of the Desert John ; The awful glory of that day When all the Father's brightness shone Through manhood's veil of clay. And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild Dark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiled Through locks of brown and gold! There Fornarina's fair young face Once more upon her lover shone, Whose model of an angel's grace He borrowed from her own. Slow passed that vision from my view, But not the lesson which it taught ; The soft, calm shadows which it threw Still rested on my thought : The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, Even in Earth's cold and change- ful clime, Plant for their deathless heritage The fruits and flowers of time. We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade. The tissue of the Life to be We weave with colors all our own, And in the field of Destiny We reap as we have sown. Still shall the soul around it call The shadows which it gathered here, And, painted on the eternal wall, The Past shall reappear. Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died? Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side? O no! W T e live our life again : Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, The pictures of the Past remain, Man's works shall follow him! LUCY HOOPER. 167 LUCY HOOPER. THEY tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses per- ished : And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted day Whose fading light is cold and vain ; The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave to the pure, the true, and good ; And sympathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best. Of them of thee remains there naught But sorrow in the mourner's breast ? A shadow in the land of thought? No! Even my weak and trembling faith Can lift for thee the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death. Even as thou wast I see thee still ; And, save the absence of all ill And pain and Weariness, which here Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, The same as when, two summers back, Beside our childhood's Merrimack, 1 saw thy dark eye wander o'er Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown, There 's not a charm of soul or brow, Of all we knew and loved in thee, But lives in holier beauty now, Baptized in immortality! Not mine the sad and freezing dream Of souls that, with their earthly mould, Cast off the loves and joys of old, Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold ; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest ; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No! I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band, Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came ; Their change, the holy morn-light breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, wak- ing* A change from twilight into day. They 've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie ; Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted to thy bosom taken, As symbols of a faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, As, when on Chebar's banks of old, The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, 1 68 MISCELLANEOUS. A spirit filled the vast machine, A life " within the wheels " was seen. Farewell! A little time, and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity. Yet shall we cherish not the less All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; The memory of thy loveliness Shall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set, A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong, The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song. All lovely things, by thee beloved, Shall whisper to our hearts of thee ; These green hills, where thy child- hood roved, Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake ; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory. CHANNING. NOT vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paint God's great and crowning miracle, The hero and the saint ! For even in a faithless day Can we our sainted ones discern ; And feel, while with them on the way, Our hearts within us burn. And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-wide, echo CHAN- NING'S fame, As one of Heaven's anointed men, Have sanctified his name. In vain shall Rome her portals bar, And shut from him her saintly prize, Whom, in the world's great calendar, All men shall canonize. By Narragansett's sunny bay, Beneath his green embowering wood, To me it seems but yesterday ' Since at his side I stood. The slopes lay green with summer rains, The western wind blew fresh and free, And glimmered down the orchard lanes The white surf of the sea. With us was one, who, calm and true, Life's highest purpose understood, And, like his blessed Master, knew The joy of doing good. Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame, Yet on the lips of England's poor And toiling millions dwelt his name, With blessings evermore. Unknown to power or place, yet where The sun looks o'er the Carib sea, It blended with the freeman's prayer And song of jubilee. He told of England's sin and wrong, The ills her suffering children know, The squalor of the city's throng, The green field's want and woe. TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS. 169 O'er Channing's face the tenderness Of sympathetic sorrow stole, Like a still shadow, passionless, The sorrow of the soul. But when the generous Briton told How hearts were answering to his own, And Freedom's rising murmur rolled Up to the dull-eared throne, I saw, meth ought, a glad surprise Thrill through that frail and pain- worn frame, And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes, A still and earnest flame. His few, brief words were such as move The human heart, the Faith-sown seeds Which ripen in the soil of love To high heroic deeds. No bars of sect or clime were felt, The Babel strife of tongues had ceased, And at one common altar knelt The Quaker and the priest. And not in vain : with strength re- newed, And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim. For that brief meeting, each pursued The path allotted him. How echoes yet each Western hill And vale with Channing's dying word ! How are the hearts of freemen still By that great warning stirred ! The stranger treads his native soil, And pleads, with zeal unfelt before The honest right of British toil, The claim of England's poor. Before him time-wrought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, The Saxon greets the Celt. The yeoman on the Scottish lines, The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, The delver in the Cornwall mines, Look up with hope to him. Swart smiters of the glowing steel, Dark feeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name. And thus the influence of that hour Of converse on Rhode Island's strand, Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our father-land. God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speeds, And Truth, at his requiring taught, He quickens into deeds. Where is the victory of the grave? What dust upon the spirit lies ? God keeps the sacred life he gave, The prophet never dies! TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS, LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RE- SERVE COLLEGE. THOU hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord! With thy last breath crying, " On- ward ! " And thy hand upon the sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles ! When to our cup of trembling, The added drop is given, MISCELLANEOUS. And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven, When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword! When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men ? Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room ; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time. But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines, Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven, Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven, Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God, There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man I Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine? The wall of fire is round us, Our Present Help was thine. Lo, the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep, The murmur of a Universe, Deep calling unto Deep! Joy to thy spirit, brother! On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons Of FREEDOM'S VOICE is given! Glory to God forever ! Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou hast uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart. In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come, In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom, We will think of thee, O brother! And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free. 1834. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF S. O. TORREY. GONE before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land! Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand. Who shall offer youth and beauty On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine? O, thy gentle smile of greeting Who again shall see? Who amidst the solemn meeting Gaze again on thee? A LAMENT. 171 Who, when peril gathers o'er us, Wear so calm a brow ? Who, with evil men before us, So serene as thou? Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love! Autumn's faded earth around thee, And its storms above ! Evermore that turf lie lightly, And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly Blow the summer flowers! In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak ; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing On thy fair young cheek ; Eyes of light and lips of roses, 'Such as Hylas wore, Over all that curtain closes, Which shall rise no more! Will the vigil Love is keeping Round that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weeping Over Sibmah's vine, Will the pleasant memories, swelling Gentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwelling All unheeded be? If the spirit ever gazes, From its journeyings, back ; If the immortal ever traces O'er its mortal track ; Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us Sometimes on our way, And, in hours of sadness, greet us As a spirit may? Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-land! Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours ! A LAMENT. " The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not Its blessing to our tears? " THE circle is broken, one seat is forsaken, One bud from the tree of our friend- ship is shaken, One heart from among us no longer shall thrill With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill. Weep ! lonely and lowly are slum- bering now The light of her glances, the pride of her brow, Weep ! sadly and long shall we listen in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome again. Give our tears to' the dead! For hu- manity's claim From its silence and darkness is ever the same ; The hope of that World whose exist- ence is bliss May not stifle the tears of the mourn- ers of this. For, oh ! if one glance the freed spirit can throw On the scene of its troubled proba- tion below, Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead, To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed. O, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over lips moved with music and feel- ing the while The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, 172 MISCELLANEOUS. In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear. And the charm of her features, while over the whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul, And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams ! But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more pre- cious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave ! The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, While vainly alike on her eye and her ear Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer. How true to our hearts was that beau- tiful sleeper ! With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper! Yet, evermore prompt, whether mourn- ful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray. For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove. And the sting of reproof was still tem- pered by love. As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, As a star that is lost when the day- light is given, As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the holy from this. DANIEL WHEELER. [DANIEL WHEELER, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pa- cific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this coun- try.] O DEARLY loved ! And worthy of our love! No more Thy aged form shall rise before The hushed and waiting worshipper, In meek obedience utterance giving To words of truth, so fresh and living, That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned evidence Of an anointed Messenger! Or, bowing down thy silver hair In reverent awfulness of prayer, The world, its time and sense, shut out, The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt, The cold, dark shadows resting here In Time's unluminous atmosphere, Were lifted by an angel's hand, And through them on thy spiritual eye Shone down the blessedness on high, The glory of the Better Land! The oak has fallen ! While, meet for no good work, the vine May yet its worthless branches twine. Who knoweth not that with thee fell A great man in our Israel? Fallen, while thy loins were girded still, Thy feet with Zion's dews stili wet, And in thy hand retaining yet The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell! DANIEL WHEELER. 173 Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free, Across the Neva's cold morass The breezes from the Frozen Sea With winter's arrowy keenness pass ; Or where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat ; The same mysterious Hand which gave Deliverance upon land and wave, Tempered for thee the blasts which blew Ladaga's frozen surface o'er, And blessed for thee the baleful dew Of evening upon Eimeo's shore, Beneath this sunny heaven of ours, Midst our soft airs and opening flowers Hath given thee a grave! \ His will be done, Who seeth not as man, whose way Is not as ours ! 'T is well with thee! Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay Disquieted thy closing day, But, evermore, thy soul could say, "My Father careth still for me!" Called from thy hearth and home, from her, The last bud on thy household tree, The last dear one to minister In duty and in love to thee, From all which nature holdeth dear, Feeble with 'years and worn with pain, To seek our distant land again, Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing The things which should befall thee here, Whether for labor or for death, In childlike trust serenely going To that last trial of thy faith! O, far away, Where never shines our Northern star On that dark waste which Balboa saw From Darien's mountains stretching far, So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there, With forehead to its damp wind bare, He bent his mailed knee in awe ; In many an isle whose coral feet The surges of that ocean beat, In thy palm shadows, Oahu, And Honolulu's silver bay, Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue, And taro-plains of Tooboonai, Are gentle hearts, which long shall be Sad as our own at thought of thee, Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, Whose souls in weariness and need Were strengthened and refreshed by thine. For blessed by our Father's hand Was thy deep love and tender care, Thy ministry and fervent prayer, Grateful as Eschol's clustered vine To Israel in a weary land ! And they who drew By thousands round thee, in the hour Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep, That He who bade the islands keep Silence before him, might renew Their strength with his unslumber- ing power, They too shall mourn that thou art gone, That nevermore thy aged lip Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn, Of those who first, rejoicing, heard Through thee the Gospel's glorious word, Seals of thy true apostleship. And, if the brightest diadem, Whose gems of glory purely burn Around the ransomed ones in bliss, Be evermore reserved for them Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn Many to righteousness, May we not think of thee as wearing That star-like crown of light, and bearing, 174 MISCELLANEOUS. Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band, The fadeless palm-branch in thy hand ; And joining with a seraph's tongue In that new song the elders sung, Ascribing to its blessed Giver Thanksgiving, love, and praise for- ever! Farewell ! And though the ways of Zion mourn When her strong ones are called away, Who like thyself have calmly borne The heat and burden of the day, Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepeth His ancient watch around us keepeth ; Still, sent from his creating hand, New witnesses for Truth shall stand, New instruments to sound abroad The Gospel of a risen Lord ; To gather to the fold once more The desolate and gone astray, The scattered of a cloudy day, And Zion's broken walls restore ; And, through the travail and the toil Of true obedience, minister Beauty for ashes, and the oil Of joy for mourning, unto her! So shall her holy bounds increase With walls of praise and gates of peace : So shall the Vine, which martyr tears And blood sustained in other years, With fresher life be clothed upon ; And to the world in beauty show Like the rose-plant of Jericho, And glorious as Lebanon ! DANIEL NEALL. 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 tender- ness, 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 ques- tioned 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 Peni- tence alone. II. Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan, A true and brave and downright hon- est man ! He blew no trumpet in the market- place, Nor in the church with hypocritic face Supplied with cant the lack of Chris- tian grace ; Loathing pretence, he did with cheer- ful will What others talked of while their hands were still : And, while "Lord, Lord!" the pious tyrants cried, Who, in the poor, their Master cruci- fied, His daily prayer, far better under- stood In acts than words, was simply DOING GOOD. So calm, so constant was his recti- tude, GONE. 175 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. TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. THINE is a grief, the depth of which another May never know ; Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother ! To thee I go. I lean my heart unto thee, sadly fold- ing Thy hand in mine ; With even the weakness of my soul upholding The strength of thine. I never knew, like thee, the dear de- parted ; I stood not by When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted Lay down to die. And on thy ears my words of weak condoling Must vainly fall : The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, Sounds over all! I will not mock thee with the poor world's common And heartless phrase, Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With idle praise. With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb ! Yet, would I say what thy own heart appro veth : Our Father's will, Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth, Is mercy still. Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought ; Her funeral anthem is a glad evan- gel, The good die not! God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What He hath given ; They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly As in his heaven. And she is with thee ; in thy path of trial She walketh yet ; Still with the baptism of thy self- denial Her locks are wet. Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest Lie white in view ! She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle ! England's toil- worn peasants Thy call abide ; And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside! GONE. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, Another call is given ; And glows once more with Angel- steps The path which reaches Heaven. 1 7 6 MISCELLANEOUS. Dur young and gentle friend, whose smile Made brighter summer hours, Amidst the frosts of autumn time Has left us with the flowers. No paling of the cheek of bloom Forewarned us of decay ; No shadow from the Silent Land Fell round our sister's way. The light of her young life went down, As sinks behind the hill The glory of a setting star, Clear, suddenly, and still. As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed Eternal as the sky ; And like the brook's low song, her voice, A sound which could not die. And half we deemed she needed not The changing of her sphere, To give to Heaven a Shining One, Who walked an Angel here. The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew ; And good thoughts, where her foot- steps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds Were in her very look ; We read her face, as one who reads A true and holy book : The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move ; The breathing of an inward psalm ; A canticle of love. We miss her in the place of prayer, And by the hearth-fire's light ; We pause beside her door to hear Once more her sweet " Good-night ! " There seems a shadow on the day, Her smile no longer cheers ; A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled ; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home his child. Fold her, O Father! in thine arms, And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand Between us and the wrong, And her dear memory serve to make Our faith in Goodness strong:. And grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier home The well-beloved of ours. THE LAKE-SIDE. THE shadows round the inland sea Are deepening into night ; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee They chase the lessening light. Tired of the long day's blinding heat, I rest my languid eye, Lake of the Hills! where, cool and sweet, Thy sunset waters lie! Along the sky, in wavy lines, O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines, The mountains stretch away. Below, the maple masses sleep Where shore with water blends, While midway on the tranquil deep The evening light descends. THE HILL-TOP. 177 So seemed it when yon hill's red crown. Of old, the Indian trod, And, through the sunset air, looked down Upon the Smile of God. To him of light and shade the laws No forest sceptic taught ; Their living and eternal Cause His truer instinct sought. He saw these mountains in the light Which now across them shines ; This lake, in summer sunset bright, Walled round with sombering pines. God near him seemed ; from earth and skies His loving voice he heard, As, face to face, in Paradise, Man stood before the Lord. Thanks, O our Father! that, like him, Thy tender love I see, In radiant hill and woodland dim, And tinted sunset sea. For not in mockery dost thou fill Our earth with light and grace ; Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will Behind thy smiling face ! THE HILL-TOP. THE burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows hid The top-stone, bare and brown, From whence, like GizerTs pyramid, The rough mass slanted down. I felt the cool breath of the North ; Between me and the sun, O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, I saw the cloud-shades run. Before me, stretched for glistening miles, Lay mountain-girdled Squam ; Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles Upon its bosom swam. And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, Far as the eye could roam, Dark billows of an earthquake storm Beflecked with clouds like foam, Their vales in misty shadow deep, Their rugged peaks in shine, I saw the mountain ranges sweep The horizon^ northern line. There towered Chocorua^ peak ; and west, Moosehillock's woods were seen, With many a nameless slide-scarred crest And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, The great Notch mountains shone, Watched over by the solemn-browed And awful face of stone! " A good look-off! " the driver spake : " About this time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake, And stopped, at evening, here. 'T was duskish down below ; but all These hills stood in the sun, Till, dipped behind yon purple wall, He left them, one by one. " A lady, who, from Thornton hill, Had held her place outside, And, as a pleasant woman will, Had cheered the long, dull ride, Besought me, with so sweet a smile, That though I hate delays I could not choose but rest awhile, (These women have such ways! ) " On yonder mossy ledge she sat, Her sketch upon her knees, A stray brown lock beneath her hat Unrolling in the breeze ; Her sweet face, in the sunset light Upraised and glorified, 1 7 8 MISCELLANEOUS. I never saw a prettier sight In all my mountain ride. " As good as fair ; it seemed her joy To comfort and to give ; My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy, Will bless her while they live!" The tremor in the driver's tone His manhood did not shame : " I dare say, sir, you may have known " He named a well-known name. Then sank the pyramidal mounds, The blue lake fled away ; For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds, A lighted hearth for day ! From lonely years and weary miles The shadows fell apart ; Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles Shone warm into my heart. We journeyed on ; but earth and sky Had power to charm no more ; Still dreamed my inward-turning eye The dream of memory o'er. Ah! human kindness, human love, To few who seek denied, Too late we learn to prize above The whole round world beside! ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPE- RIOR. ALL day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky, Like frost upon the pane ; But now my torpid fancy wakes, And, on thy Eagle's plume. Rides forth, like Sinbad on his bird, Or witch upon her broom ! Below me roar the rocking pines, Before me spreads the lake Whose long and solemn-sounding waves Against the sunset break. I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh The grain he has not sown ; I see, with flashing scythe of fire, The prairie harvest mown ! I hear the far-off voyager's horn ; I see the Yankee's trail, His foot on every mountain-pass, On every stream his sail. By forest, lake, and waterfall, I see his pedler show ; The mighty mingling with the mean, The lofty with the low. He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, Upon his loaded wain ; He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks, With eager eyes of gain. I hear the mattock in the mine, The axe-stroke in the dell, The clamor from the Indian lodge, The Jesuit chapel bell ! I see the swarthy trappers come From Mississippi's springs ; And war-chiefs with their painted brows, And crests of eagle wings. Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe, The steamer smokes and raves ; And city lots are staked for sale Above old Indian graves. I hear the tread of pioneers Of nations yet to be ; The first low wash of waves, where soon Shall roll a human sea. MEMORIES. 179 The rudiments of empire here Are plastic yet and warm ; The chaos of a mighty world Is rounding into form! Each rude and jostling fragment soon Its fitting place shall find, The raw material of a State, Its muscle and its mind! And, westering still, the star which leads The New World in its train Has tipped with fire the icy spears Of many a mountain chain. The snowy cones of Oregon Are kindling on its way ; And California's golden sands Gleam brighter in its ray ! Then blessings on thy eagle quill, As, wandering far and wide, I thank thee for this twilight dream And Fancy's airy ride! Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Which Western trappers find, Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind. Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, Whose glistening quill I hold ; Thy home the ample air of hope, And memory's sunset gold ! In thee, let joy with duty join, And strength unite with love, The eagle's pinions folding round The warm heart of the dove ! So, when in darkness sleeps the vale Where still the blind bird clings, The sunshine of the upper sky Shall glitter on thy wings ! MEMORIES. A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair; A seeming child in everything, Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms. A mind rejoicing in the light Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white, Unfolding like a morning flower : A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute, From eye and lip in music spoke. How thrills once more the lengthen- ing chain Of memory, at the thought of thee ! Old hopes which long in dust have lain, Old dreams, come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me ; I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine, As when I leaned to hear thee speak, Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, And timidly again uprise The fringed lids of hazel eyes, With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they ! i8o MISCELLANEOUS. Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see. When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled. And folly's self seemed wise in thee ; I too can smile, when o'er that hour The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace Of graver care and deeper thought ; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, The school-boy's humble name has flown ; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our path ways, one in youth ; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm ; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see, Lingering, even yet, thy way about ; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flow- ers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies, The Indian Summer of the heart! In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain! THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK. THE day is closing dark and cold. With roaring blast and sleety showers ; And through the dusk the lilacs wear The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. I turn me from the gloom without, To ponder o'er a tale of old, A legend of the age of Faith, By dreaming monk or abbess told. On Tintoretto's canvas lives That fancy of a loving heart, In graceful lines and shapes of power, And hues immortal as his art. In Provence (so the story runs) There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant-boy of tender years The chance of trade or conquest gave. Forth-looking from the castle tower, Beyond the hills with almonds dark, The straining eye could scarce discern The chapel of the good St. Mark. And there, when bitter word or fare The service of the youth repaid, By stealth, before that holy shrine, For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. The steed stamped at the castle gate, The boar-hunt sounded on the hill ; THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 181 Why stayed the Baron from the chase, With looks so stern, and words so ill? " Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn, By scath of fire and strain of cord, How ill they speed who give dead saints The homage due their living lord ! " They bound him on the fearful rack, When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes, And knew the face of good St. Mark. Then sank the iron rack apart, The cords released their cruel clasp, The pincers, with their teeth of fire, Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. And lo ! before the Youth and Saint, Barred door and wall of stone gave way ; And up from bondage and the night They passed to freedom and the day! O dreaming monk ! thy tale is true ; O painter! true thy pencil's art; In tones of hope and prophecy, Ye whisper to my listening heart ! Unheard no burdened heart's appeal Moans up to God's inclining ear ; Unheeded by his tender eye, Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. For still the Lord alone is God ! The pomp and power of tyrant man Are scattered at his lightest breath, Like chaff before the winnower's fan. Not always shall the slave uplift His heavy hands to Heaven in vain. God's angel, like the good St. Mark, Comes shining down to break his chain ! O weary ones! ye may not see Your helpers in their downward flight ; Nor hear the sound of silver wings Slow beating through the hush of night ! But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low, That Fear's dim eye beheld alone The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. There are, who, like the Seer of old, Can see the helpers God has sent, And how life's rugged mountain-side Is white with many an angel tent! They hear the heralds whom our Lord Sends down his pathway to pre- pare ; And light, from others hidden, shines On their high place of faith and prayer. Let such, for earth's despairing ones, Hopeless, yet longing to be free, 'Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer : " Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see! " THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. CALM on the breast of Loch Maree A little isle reposes ; A shadow woven of the oak And willow o'er it closes. Within, a Druid's mound is seen, Set round with stony warders : A fountain, gushing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders. 1 82 MISCELLANEOUS. And whoso bathes therein his brow, With care or madness burning, Feels once again his healthful thought And sense of peace returning. O restless heart and fevered brain, Unquiet and unstable, That holy well of Loch Maree Is more than idle fable ! Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindeth, And blest is he who on his way That fount of healing fmcleth! The shadows of a humbled will And contrite heart are o'er it ; Go read its legend "TRUST IN GOD" On Faith's white stones before it. TO MY SISTER; WITH A COPY OF " SUPERNATURAL- ISM OF NEW ENGLAND." DEAR SISTER! while the wise and sage Turn coldly from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened age Should stoop to boyhood's folly ; I know that thou wilt judge aright Of all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the night Of clouded Melancholy. Away with weary cares and themes! Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies. Lo! once again our feet we set On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, By lonely brooks, whose waters fret The roots of spectral beeches ; Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the lore Of faery-folks and witches. Dear heart! the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain, And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze A glimpse of childish gladness. And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turning To con, at times, an idle rhyme, To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noonday chime, For the sweet bells of Morning! AUTUMN THOUGHTS. FROM " MARGARET SMITH'S JOUR- NAL." GONE hath the Spring, with all its flowers, And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, Is waiting for the Winter's snow. I said to Earth, so cold and gray, " An emblem of myself thou art " ; " Not so," the Earth did seem to say, " For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." TO PIUS IX. 183 1 soothe my wintry sleep with dreams Of warmer sun and softer rain, And wait to hear the sound of streams And songs of merry birds again. But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who standest blighted and forlorn, Like Autumn waiting for the snow : No hope is thine of sunnier hours, Thy Winter shall no more depart ; No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart. 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 thou and I ; All thou knowest of truth hath been Unto men like thee a lie. " 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. 1 ' 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 blessed 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. TO PIUS IX. 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, Hicler 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 be- girt, Before thy crusade fell ! Her death -groans answered to thy prayer; Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call ; 184 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 man- hood'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 Term'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-be- smeared, 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 Crozier and the Crown, If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down ! ELLIOTT. HANDS off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play No trick of priestcraft here ! Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay A hand on Elliott's bier? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, Beneath his feet he trod : He knew the locust swarm that cursed The harvest-fields of God. ICHABOD. 185 On these pale lips, the smothered thought Which England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught, As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor, a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung ; God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire, He gave them all a tongue ! Then let the poor man's horny hands Bear up the mighty dead, And labor's swart and stalwart bands Behind as mourners tread. Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds, Leave rank its minster floor ; Give England's green and daisied grounds The poet of the poor! Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge That brave old heart of oak, With fitting dirge from sounding forge, And pall of furnace smoke ! Where whirls the .stone its dizzy rounds. And axe and sledge are swung, And, timing to their stormy sounds, His stormy lays are sung. There let the peasant's step be heard, The grinder chant his rhyme ; Nor patron's praise nor dainty word Befits the man or time. No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh For him whose words were bread, The Runic rhyme and spell whereby The foodless poor were fed ! Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride, O England, as thou wilt! With pomp to nameless worth denied, Emblazon titled guilt! No part or lot in these we claim ; But, o'er the sounding wave, A common right to Elliott's name, A freehold in his grave ! ICHABOD! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore! Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! O, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven ! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains, A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone ; from those great eyes The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame ; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame ! 1 86 MISCELLANEOUS. THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS. 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 vine- yards 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 harmo- nies 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 ; THE MEN OF OLD. 187 Nor lose they Earth who, single- hearted, seek The righteousness of Heaven! THE MEN OF OLD. WELL speed thy mission, bold Icono- clast! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, Thou treacFst 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 shoulclst thou put by The cypress branches and the ama- ranth 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 cen- turies 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. Ansel m (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 candle- sticks. " MAN IS WORTH MORE THAN TEM- PLES !" 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 de- sires ! " O faithful worthies! resting far be- hind 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 o\vn, our age's sphere of light, Though widening still, is walled around by night ; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head ; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pul- pit's dress ; iSS MISCELLANEOUS. 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! 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 Bar- tholomew, 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 spear- man ride ; Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball tor 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 Mathew'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, THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.. 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 gam- bler flings, To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, For tea and gossip, like old country dames! No ! let the cravens plead the weak- ling'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 barri- cade Of i Olive-leaves ' and Resolutions made, Spike guns with pointed Scripture- texts, and hope To capsize navies with awindy 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 ker- chief 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 faith- ful 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 sceptic's sneer ; Denied and mocked at, till its bless- ings fall, Common as dew and sunshine, over all. Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, Like M erven'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 mur- murs 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 190 MISCELLANEOUS. Which wind and wave on wild Genes- areth 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 G d, Evil shall cease and Violence pass away, And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day. \\th mo., 1848. THE WISH OF TO-DAY. I ASK not now for gold to gild With mocking shine a weary frame ; The yearning of the mind is stilled, I ask not now for Fame. A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, Melting in heaven's blue depths away, O, sweet, fond dream of human Love ! For thee I may not pray. But, bowed in lowliness of mind, I make my humble wishes known, I only ask a will resigned, Father, to thine own! To-day, beneath thy chastening eye 1 crave alone for peace and rest, Submissive in thy hand to lie, And feel that it is best. A marvel seems the Universe, A miracle our Life and Death ; A mystery which I cannot pierce, Around, above, beneath. In vain I task my aching brain, In vain the sage's thought I scan, I only feel how weak and vain, How poor and blind, is man. And now my spirit sighs for home, And longs for light whereby to see, And, like a weary child, would come, O Father, unto thee! Though oft, like letters traced on sand, My weak resolves have passed away, In mercy lend thy helping hand Unto my prayer to-day! 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 ; TO A. K. 191 And still maintains, with milder laws, And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! Nor heeds the sceptic'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. ALL'S WELL. THE clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain ; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain ; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew! 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 germ, 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 ! TO A. K. ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA- MOSSES. THANKS for thy gift Of ocean flowers, Born where the golden drift Of the slant sunshine falls Down the green, tremulous walls Of water, to the cool still coral bovv- ers, Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, God's gardens of the deep His patient angels keep ; Gladdeningthe dim, strange solitude With fairest forms and hues, and thus Forever teaching us The lesson which- the many-colored skies, The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies, The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flings The tropic sunshine from its golden wings, I 9 2 MISCELLANEOUS. The brightness of the human counte- nance, Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, Forevermore repeat, In varied tones and sweet, That beauty, in and of itself, is good. O kind and generous friend, o'er whom The sunset hues of Time are cast, Painting, upon the overpast And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow The promise of a fairer morrow, An earnest of the better life to come ; The binding of the spirit broken, The warning to the erring spoken, The comfort of the sad, The eye to see, the hand to cull Of common things the beautiful, The absent heart made glad By simple gift or graceful token Of love it needs as daily food, All own one Source, and all are good! Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach, Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, And toss their gifts of weed and shell From foamy curve and combing swell, No unbefitting task was thine To weave these flowers so soft and fair In unison with His design W ho loveth beauty every where ; And makes in every zone and clime, In ocean and in upper air, " All things beautiful in their time." For not alone in tones of awe and power He speaks to man ; The cloudy horror of the thunder- shower His rainbows span ; And where the caravan Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there, He gives the weary eye The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours, And on its branches dry Calls out the acacia's flowers ; And where the dark shaft pierces down Beneath the mountain roots, Seen by the miner's lamp alone, The star-like crystal shoots ; So, where, the winds and waves below, The coral-branched gardens grow, His climbing weeds and mosses show, Like foliage, on each stony bough, Of varied hues more strangely g a y Than forest leaves in autumn's day;- Thus evermore, On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to say : God's love and power are one ; and they, Who, like the thunder of a sultry day. Smite to restore, And they, who, like the gentle wind, uplift The petals of the dew-wet flowers, and drift Their perfume on the air, Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift, Making their lives a prayer! THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 193 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS, AND OTHER POEMS, 1852. " I DO believe, and yet, in grief, I pray for help to unbelief; For needful strength aside to lay The daily cumberings of my way. " 1 'm sick at heart of craft and cant, Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant, Profession's smooth hypocrisies, And creeds of iron, and lives of ease. " I ponder o'er the sacred word, I read the record of our Lord ; And, weak and troubled, envy them Who touched his seamless garment's hem ; " Who saw the tears of love he wept Above the grave where Lazarus slept ; And heard, amidst the shadows dim Of Olivet, his evening hymn. " How blessed the swineherd's low estate, The beggar crouching at the gate, The leper loathly and abhorred, Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord ! " O sacred soil his sandals pressed ! Sweet fountains of his noonday rest! O light and air of Palestine, Impregnate with his life divine! " O, bear me thither! Let me look On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook, Kneel at Gethsemane, and by Genesaret walk, before I die ! "Methinks this cold and northern night Would melt before that Orient light ; And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain, My childhood's faith revive again ! " So spake my friend, one autumn day, Where the still river slid away Beneath us, and above the brown Red curtains of the woods shut down. Then said I, for I could not brook The mute appealing of his look, * I, too, am weak, and faith is small, And blindness happeneth unto all. " Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right ; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man ; " That all of good the past hath had' Remains to make our owntimeglad, Our common daily life divine, And every land a Palestine. " Thou weariest of thy present state ; What gain to thee time's holiest date? The doubter now perchance had been As High Priest or as Pilate then! "What thought Chorazin's scribes? What faith In Him had Nain and Nazareth? Of the few followers whom He led One sold him, all forsook and fled. li O friend ! we need nor rock nor sand, Nor storied stream of Morning-Land ; The heavens are glassed in Merri- mack, What more could Jordan render back ? " We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here ; 194 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. The still small voice in autumn's hush, Yon maple wood the burning bush. "For still the new transcends the old, In signs and tokens manifold ; Slaves rise up men ; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves! " Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prelude finds its way ; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, A light is breaking, calm and clear. " That song of Love, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star! That light, the breaking day, which tips The golden-spired Apocalypse! " Then, when my good friend shook his head, And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said : " Thou mind'st me of a story told In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." And while the slanted sunbeams wove The shadows of the frost-stained grove, And, picturing all, the river ran O'er cloud and wood, I thus began : In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood The Chapel of the Hermits stood ; And thither, at the close of day. Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. One, whose impetuous youth defied The storms of Baikal's wintry side, And mused and dreamed where tropic day Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay. His simple tale of love and woe All hearts had melted, high or low ; A blissful pain, a sweet distress. Immortal in its tenderness. Yet, while above his charmed page Beat quick the young heart of his age, He walked amidst the crowd unknown, A sorrowing old man, strange and lone. A homeless, troubled age, the gray Pale setting of a weary day ; Too dull his ear for voice of praise, Too sadly worn his brow for bays. Pride, lust of power and glory, slept ; Yet still his heart its young .dream kept. And, wandering like the deluge-dove, Still sought the resting-place of love. And, mateless, childless, envied more The peasant's welcome from his door By smiling eyes at eventide, Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. Until, in place of wife and child, All-pitying Nature on him smiled, And gave to him the golden keys To all her inmost sanctities. Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim! She laid her great heart bare to him, Its loves and sweet accords ; he saw The beauty of her perfect law. The language of her signs he knew, What notes her cloudy clarion blew ; The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, The hymn of sunset's painted skies. And thus he seemed to hear the song Which swept, of old, the stars along ; And to his eyes the earth once more Its fresh and primal beauty wore. Who sought with him, from summer air, And field and wood, a balm for care ; And bathed in light of sunset skies His tortured nerves and weary eyes? THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 195 His fame on all the winds had flown ; His words had shaken crypt and throne ; Like fire, on camp and court and cell They dropped, and kindled as they fell. Beneath the pomps of state, below The mitred juggler's masque and show, A prophecy a vague hope ran His burning thought from man to man. For peace or rest too well he saw The fraud of priests, the wrong of law; And felt how hard, between the two, Their breath of pain the millions drew. A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, The weakness of an unweaned child, A sun-bright hope for human-kind, And self-despair, in him combined. He loathed the false, yet lived not true To half the glorious truths he knew ; The doubt, the discord, and the sin, He mourned without, he felt within. Untrod by him the path he showed, Sweet pictures on his easel glowed Of simple faith, and loves of home, And virtue's golden days to come. But weakness, shame, and folly made The foil to all his pen portrayed ; Still, where his dreamy splendors shone, The shadow of himself was thrown. Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, Up to thy sevenfold brightness climbs, While still his grosser instinct clings To earth, like other creeping things! So rich in words, in acts so mean ; So high, so low ; chance-swung between The foulness of the penal pit And Truth's clear sky, millennium-lit! Vain pride of star-lent genius ! vain Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, Absurdly great, or weakly wise ! Midst yearnings for a truer life, Without were fears, within was strife ; And still his wayward act denied The perfect good for which he sighed. The love he sent forth void returned ; The fame that crowned him scorched and burned, Burning, yet cold and drear and lone, A fire-mount in a frozen zone! Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed, Seen southward from his sleety mast, About whose brows of changeless frost A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed. Far round the mournful beauty played Of lambent light and purple shade. Lost on the fixed and dumb despair Of frozen earth and sea and air ! A man apart, unknown, unloved By those whose wrongs his soul had moved, He bore the ban of Church and State, The good man's fear, the bigot's hate ! Forth from the city's noise and throng, Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, The twain that summer day had strayed To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade. To them the green fields and the wood Lent something of their quietude, And golden-tinted sunset seemed Prophetical of all they dreamed. 196 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. The hermits from their simple cares The bell was calling home to prayers, And, listening to its sound, the twain Seemed lapped in childhood's trust again. Wide open stood the chapel door ; A sweet old music, swelling o'er Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence, The Litanies of Providence ! Then Rousseau spake : " Where two or three In His name meet, He there will be! " And then, in silence, on their knees They sank beneath the chestnut-trees. As to the blind returning light, As daybreak to the Arctic night, Old faith revived : the doubts of years Dissolved in reverential tears. That gush of feeling overpast, " Ah me ! " Bernardin sighed at last, " I would thy bitterest foes could see Thy heart as it is seen of me ! " No church of God hast thou denied ; Thou hast but spurned in scorn aside A base and hollow counterfeit, Profaning the pure name of it ! " With dry dead moss and marish weeds His fire the western herdsman feeds, And greener from the ashen plain The sweet spring grasses rise again. " Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind Disturb the solid sky behind ; And through the cloud the red bolt rends The calm, still smile of Heaven descends ! "Thus through the world, like bolt and blast, And scourging fire, thy words have passed. Clouds break, the steadfast heavens remain ; Weeds burn, the ashes feed the grain ! " But whoso strives with wrong may find Its touch pollute, its darkness blind ; And learn, as latent fraud is shown In others 1 faith, to doubt his own. " With dream and falsehood, simple trust And pious hope we tread in dust ; Lost the calm faith in goodness, lost The baptism of the Pentecost! "Alas! the blows for error meant Too oft on truth itself are spent, As through the false and vile and base Looks forth her sad, rebuking face. " Not ours the Theban's charmed life ; We come not scathless from the strife! The Python's coil about us clings. The trampled Hydra bites and stings! " Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, The plastic shapes of circumstance, What might have been we fondly guess, If earlier born, or tempted less. " And thou, in these wild, troubled days, Misjudged alike in blame and praise, Unsought and undeserved the same The sceptic's praise, the bigot's blame ; " I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been Among the highly favored men Who walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son; THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 197 " And, bright with wings of cherubim Visibly waving over him. Seen through his life, the Church had seemed All that its old confessors dreamed. " I would have been," Jean Jaques replied, " The humblest servant at his side, Obscure, unknown, content to see How beautiful man's life may be! " O, more than thrice-blest relic, more Than solemn rite or sacred lore, The holy life of one who trod The foot-marks of the Christ of God ! " Amidst a blinded world he saw The oneness of the Dual law ; That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, And God was loved through love of " He lived the Truth which reconciled The strong man Reason, Faith the child: ' In him belief and act were one, The homilies of duty done! " So speaking, through the twilight gray The two old pilgrims went their way. What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone. Time passed, and Autumn came to fold Green Summer in her brown and gold ; Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow Dropped on the grave-mound of Rous- seau. " The tree remaineth where it fell. The pained on earth is pained in hell ! " So priestcraft from its altars cursed The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. Ah ! well of old the Psalmist prayed, " Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid! 11 Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love ! No Hermits now the wanderer sees, Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees ; A morning dream, a tale that 's told, The wave of change o'er all has rolled. Yet lives the lesson of that day ; And from its twilight cool and gray Comes up a low, sad whisper, u Make The truth thine own, for truth's own sake. " Why wait to see in thy brief span Its perfect flower and fruit in man ? No saintly touch can save ; no balm Of healing hath the martyr's palm. " Midst soulless forms, and false pre- tence Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, * What is that to thee? Be true thyself, and follow Me ! ' " In days when throne and altar heard The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, And pomp of state and ritual show Scarce hid the loathsome death be- low, " Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, The losel swarm of crown and cowl. White-robed walked Fran9ois Fene- lon, Stainless as Uriel in the sun ! " Yet in his time the stake blazed red, The poor were eaten up like bread ; Men knew him not : his garment's hem No healing virtue had for them. 198 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. " Alas ! no present saint we find ; The white cymar gleams far behind, Revealed in outline vague, sublime, Through telescopic mists of time! "Trust not in man with passing breath, But in the Lord, old Scripture saith ; The truth which saves thou mayst not blend With false professor, faithless friend. " Search thine own heart. What paineth thee In others in thyself may be ; All dust is frail, all flesh is weak ; Be thou the true man thou dost seek! " Where now with pain thou treadest, trod The whitest of the saints of God ! To show thee where their feet were set, The light which led themshineth yet. " The footprints of the life divine, Which marked their path, remain in thine ; And that great Life, transfused in theirs, Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers ! " A lesson which I well may heed, A word of fitness to my need ; So from that twilight cool and gray Still saith a voice, or seems to say. We rose, and slowly homeward turned, While down the west the sunset burned ; And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide, And human forms seemed glorified. The village homes transfigured stood, And purple bluffs, whose belting wood Across the waters leaned to hold The yellow leaves like lamps of gold. Then spake my friend : "Thy words are true ; P^orever old, forever new, These home-seen splendors are the same Which over Eden's sunsets came. " To these bowed heavens let wood and hill Lift voiceless praise and anthem still ; Fall, warm with blessing, over them, Light of the New Jerusalem! " Flow on, sweet river, like the stream Of John's Apocalyptic dream ! This mapled ridge shall Horeb be, Yon green-banked lake our Galilee! " Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more For olden time and holier shore ; God's love and blessing, then and there, Are now and here and everywhere." QUESTIONS OF LIFE. 199 MISCELLANEOUS. QUESTIONS OF LIFE. A.id the angel that was sent unto me, whose name was Uriel, gave me an answer, and said, "Thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thinkest thou to comprehend the way of the Most High ? " Then said I, " Yea, my Lord." Then said he unto me, " Go thy way, weigh me the weight of the fire, or measure me the blast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past." 2 Esdras, chap. iv. A BENDING staff I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away The error which some truth may stay, Whose loss might leave the soul with- out A shield against the shafts of doubt. And yet, at times, when over all A darker mystery seems to fall, (May God forgive the child of dust, Who seeks to know, where Faith should trust ! ) I raise the questions, old and dark, Of Uzdom's tempted patriarch, And, speech-confounded, build again The baffled tower of Shinar's plain. I am : how little more I know! Whence came I? Whither do I go? A centred self, which feels and is ; A cry between the silences ; A shadow-birth of clouds at strife With sunshine on the hills of life ; A shaft from Nature's quiver cast Into the Future from the Past ; Between the cradle and the shroud, A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud. Thorough the vastness, arching all, I see the great stars rise and fall, The rounding seasons come and go. The tided oceans ebb and flow ; The tokens of a central force. Whose circles, in their widening course, O'erlap and move the universe ; The workings of the law whence springs The rhythmic harmony of things, Which shapes in earth the darkling spar, And orbs in heaven the morning star. Of all I see, in earth and sky, Star, flower, beast, bird, what part have I? This conscious life, is it the same Which thrills the universal frame, Whereby the caverned crystal shoots, And mounts the sap from forest roots, Whereby the exiled wood-bird tells When Spring makes green her native dells? How feels the stone the pang of birth, Which brings its sparkling prism forth ? The forest-tree the throb which gives The life-blood to its new-born leaves ? Do bird and blossom feel, like me, Life's many-folded mystery, The wonder which it is TO BE? Or stand I severed and distinct, From Nature's chain of life unlinked? Allied to all, yet not the less Prisoned in separate consciousness, Alone o'erburdened with a sense Of life, and cause, and consequence? In vain to me the Sphinx propounds The riddle of her sights and sounds ; Back still the vaulted mystery gives The echoed question it receives. What sings the brook? What oracle Is in the pine-tree's organ swell? What may the wind's low burden be? The meaning of the moaning sea? The hieroglyphics of the stars? Or clouded sunset's crimson bars? 200 MISCELLANEOUS. I vainly ask, for mocks my skill The trick of Nature's cipher still. I turn from Nature unto men, I ask the stylus and the pen ; What sang the bards of old ? What meant The prophets of the Orient? The rolls of buried Egypt, hid In painted tomb and pyramid? What mean Idiimea's arrowy lines, Or-dusk Elora's monstrous signs ? How speaks the primal thought of man From the grim carvings of Copan? Where rests the secret? Where the keys Of the old death-bolted mysteries ? Alas! the dead retain their trust ; Dust hath no answer from the dust. The great enigma still unguessed, Unanswered the eternal quest ; I gather up the scattered rays Of wisdom in the early days, Faint gleams and broken, like the light Of meteors in a northern night, Betraying to the darkling earth The unseen sun which gave them birth ; I listen to the sibyl's chant, The voice of priest and hierophant ; I know what Indian Kreeshna saith, And what of life and what of death The demon taught to Socrates ; And what, beneath his garden-trees Slow pacing, with a dream-like tread, The solemn-thoughted Plato said ; Nor lack 1 tokens, great or small, Of God's clear light in each and all, While holding with more dear regard The scroll of Hebrew seer and bard, The starry pages promise-lit With Christ's Evangel over-writ, Thy miracle of life and death, O holy one of Nazareth ! On Aztec ruins, gray and lone, The circling serpent coils in stone, Type of the endless and unknown ; Whereof we seek the clew to find, With groping fingers of the blind ! Forever sought, and never found, We trace that serpent-symbol round Our resting-place, our starting bound ! O thriftless ness of dream and guess! wisdom which is foolishness! Why idly seek from outward things The answer inward silence brings ; Why stretch beyond our proper sphere And age, for that which lies so near? Why climb the far-off hills with pain, A nearer view of heaven to gain? In lowliest depths of bosky dells The hermit Contemplation dwells. A fountain's pine-hung slope his seat, And lotus-twined his silent feet, Whence, piercing heaven, with screened sight, He sees at noon the stars, whose light _ Shall glorify the coming night. Here let me pause, my quest forego ; Enough for me to feel and know That he in whom the cause and end, The past and future, meet and blend, Who, girt with his immensities, Our vast and star-hung system sees, Small as the clustered Pleiades, Moves not alone the heavenly quires, But waves the spring-time's grassy spires, Guards not archangel feet alone, But deigns to guide and keep my own ; Speaks not alone the words of fate Which worlds destroy, and worlds create, But whispers in my spirit's ear, In tones of love, or warning fear, A language none beside may hear. To Him, from wanderings long and wild, 1 come, an over-wearied child, In cool and shade his peace to find, Like dew-fall settling on my mind. Assured that all I know is best, And humbly trusting for the rest, THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. 201 I turn from Fancy's cloud-built scheme, Dark creed, and mournful eastern dream Of power, impersonal and cold, Controlling all, itself controlled, Maker and slave of iron laws, Alike the subject and the cause ; From vain philosophies, that try The sevenfold gates of mystery, And, baffled ever, babble still, Word-prodigal of fate and will ; From Nature, and her mockery, Art, And book and speech of men apart, To the still witness in my heart ; With reverence waiting to behold His Avatar of love untold, The Eternal Beauty new and old! 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 hate- ful 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 consolation ; leave them not to doubt Thy providential care, nor yet with- out The hope which all thy attributes inspire, That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fret- ting chain ; Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth, Electrical, with every throb of pain, Unquenchable sparks, thy own bap- tismal 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 pleas- ant 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 202 MISCELLANEOUS. Have gained in wider reach of sym- pathies, 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! MOLOCH IN STATE STREET. 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! THE PEACE OF EUROPE. 203 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 Man 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 peel of bell and gun, And hills aflame, Tell of the first great triumph won In Freedom's name. The long night dies : the welcome gray Of dawn we see ; Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, God of the free! 1851. THE PEACE OF EUROPE. 1852. " GREAT peace in Europe ! Order hills to Danube's regns From Tiber'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, 204 MISCELLANEOUS. 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! 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 ! O that its voice might pierce the ear Of princes, trembling while they hear A cry as of the Hebrew seer : Repent ! God's kingdom draweth near ! WORDSWORTH. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS. DEAR friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discern A beauty and a harmony The many never learn! Kindred in soul of him who found In simple flower and leaf and stone The impulse of the sweetest lays Our Saxon tongue has known, Accept this record of a life As sweet and pure, as calm and good, As a long day of blandest June In green field and in wood. How welcome to our ears, long pained By strife of sect and party noise, The brook-like murmur of his song Of nature's simple joys ! The violet by its mossy stone, The primrose by the river's brim, And chance-sown daffodil, have found Immortal life through him. The sunrise on his breezy lake, The rosy tints his sunset brought, World-seen, are gladdening all the vales And mountain-peaks of thought. Art builds on sand ; the works of pride And human passion change and fall ; But that which shares the life of God With him surviveth all. TO - . LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION. Nature's priestesses ! to whom, In hieroglyph of bud and bloom, Her mysteries are told ; Who, wise in lore of wood and mead, The seasons' pictured scrolls can read, In lessons manifold! Thanks for the courtesy, and gay Good-humor, which on Washing Day Our ill-timed visit bore ; Thanks for your graceful oars, which broke The morning dreams of Artichoke, Along his wooded shore ! Varied as varying Nature's ways, Sprites of the river, woodland fays, Or mountain nymphs, ye seem ; IN PEACE. 205 Free-limbed Dianas on the green, Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine, Upon your favorite stream. The forms of which the poets told, The fair benignities of old, Were doubtless such as you ; What more than Artichoke the rill Of Helicon ? Than Pipe-stave hill Arcadia's mountain view ? No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, In wild Hymettus' scented shade, Than those you dwell among ; Snow-flowered azalias, intertwined With roses, over banks inclined With trembling harebells hung! A charmed life unknown to death, Immortal freshness Nature hath ; Her fabled fount and glen Are now and here : Dodona's shrine Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine, All is that e'er hath been. The Beauty which old Greece or Rome Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home ; We need but eye and ear In all our daily walks to trace The outlines of incarnate grace, The hymns of gods to hear! IN PEACE. A TRACK of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose smalt waves on a silver- sanded shore Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make Such harmonies as keep the woods awake, And listening all night long for their sweet sake A green-waved slope of meadow, hovered o'er By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light On viewless stems, with folded wings of white ; A slumberous stretch of mountain- land, far seen Where the low westering day, with gold and green, Purple and amber, softly blended, fills The wooded vales, and melts among the hills ; A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast, With earthly flowers and heavenly stars impressed, The hues of time and of eternity : Such are the pictures which the thought of thee, O friend, awakeneth, charming the keen pain Of thy departure, and our sense of loss Requiting with the fulness of thy gain. Lo ! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross, Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine, Of thy beatitude the radiant sign! No sob of grief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air; But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayer Of hearts still waiting for a rest like thine. O spirit redeemed! Forgive us, if henceforth, With sweet and pure similitudes of earth, We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart. 206 MISCELLANEOUS. BENEDICITE. GOD'S love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair! Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead, The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine, All keep thy memory fresh and green. Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way, And hence theprayer I breathe to-day ; O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean. Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell- word, nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To'hold the blessed angels fast. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me, What should, dear heart, its burden be? The sighing of a shaken reed, What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need? God's love, unchanging, pure, and true, The Paraclete white-shining through H is peace, the fall of H ermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away! PICTURES. LIGHT, warmth, and sprouting green- ness, and o'er all Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, raining down Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town, The freshening meadows, and the hillsides brown ; Voice of the west-wind from the hills of pine, And the brimmed river from its dis- tant fall, Low hum of bees, and joyous inter- lude Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirt- ing wood, Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight, Blessed forerunners of the warmth and light, Attendant angels to the house of prayer, With reverent footsteps keeping pace with mine, Once more, through God's great love, with you I share A morn of resurrection sweet and fair As that which saw, of old, in Pal- estine, Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom DERNE. 207 From the dark night and winter of the tomb! yh mo., zd, 1852. II. White with its sun-bleached dust, the pathway winds Before me ; dust is on the shrunken grass, And on the trees beneath whose boughs I pass ; Frail screen against the Hunter of the sky, Who, glaring on me with his lidless eye, While mounting with his dog- star high and higher Ambushed in light intolerable, un- binds The burnished quiver of his shafts of fire Between me and the hot fields of his South A tremulous glow, as from a fur- nace-mouth, Glimmers and swims before my dazzled sight, As if the burning arrows of his ire Broke as they fell, and shattered into light ; Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind, And hear it telling to the orchard trees, And to the faint and flower-forsaken bees, Tales of fair meadows, green with constant streams, And mountains rising blue and cool behind, Where in moist dells the purple orchis gleams, And starred with white the virgin's bovver is twined. So the overwearied pilgrim, as he fares Along life's summer waste, at times is fanned, Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs Of a serener and a holier land, Fresh as the morn, and as the dew- fall bland. Breath of the blessed Heaven for which we pray, Blow from the eternal hills! make glad our earthly way ! Wi wo., 1852. DERNE. 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 overspent ; The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone, The merchant with his wares with- drawn ; 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, 208 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 1 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 arme'd man. The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er Its grave of waters to the shore, Lights up that mountain cavalcade, And glints 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. 'Tis 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, INVOCATION. 209 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 dared 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 ! ASTR^A. " Jove means to settle Astrrea 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 ! INVOCATION. THROUGH thy clear spaces, Lord, of old. Formless and void the dead earth rolled ; Deaf to thy heaven's sweet music, blind To the great lights which o'er it shined ; No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath, A dumb despair, a wandering death. To that dark, weltering horror came Thy spirit, like a subtle flame, A breath of life electrical, Awakening and transforming all, 210 MISCELLANEOUS. Till beat and thrilled in every part The pulses of a living heart. Then knew their bounds the land and sea; Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree ; From flower to moth, from beast to man, The quick creative impulse ran ; And earth, with life from thee re- newed, Was in thy holy eyesight good. As lost and void, as dark and cold And formless as that earth of old, A wandering waste of storm and night, Midst spheres of song and realms of light, A blot upon thy holy sky, Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I. O thou who movest on the deep Of spirits, wake my own from sleep! Its darkness melt, its coldness warm, The lost restore, the ill transform, That flower and fruit henceforth may be Its grateful offering, worthy thee. THE CROSS. ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DILL- INGHAM, IN THE NASHVILLE PENI- TENTIARY. "THE cross, if rightly borne, shall be No burden, but support to thee " ; l So, moved of old time for our sake, The holy monk of Kempen spake. Thou brave and true one! upon whom Was laid the cross of martyrdom, How didst thou, in thy generous youth, Bear witness to this blessed truth ! 1 Thomas a Kempis. Imit. Christ. Thy cross of suffering and of shame A staff within thy hands became, In paths where faith alone could see The Master's steps supporting thee. Thine was the seed-time ; God alone Beholds the end of what is sown ; Beyond our vision, weak and dim, The harvest-time is hid with Him. Yet, unforgotten where it lies, That seed of generous sacrifice, Though seeming on the desert cast, Shall rise with bloom and fruit at last. EVA. DRY the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her ; Of the form so soft and fair Give to earth the tender care. For the golden locks of Eva Let the sunny south-land give her Flowery pillow of repose, Orange-bloom and budding rose. In the better home of Eva Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm, Harp of gold and waving palm ! All is light and peace with Eva ; There the darkness cometh never ; Tears are wiped, and fetters fall, And the Lord is all in all. Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her ; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measureless. Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true believer, Listener at the Master's knee, "Suffer such to come to me." APRIL. 211 O, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore ! TO FREDRIKA BREMER. SEERESS of the misty Norland, Daughter of the Vikings bold, Welcome to the sunny Vineland, Which thy fathers sought of old ! Soft as flow of Silja's waters, When the moon of summer shines, Strong as Winter from his mountains Roaring through the sleeted pines. Heart and ear, we long have listened To thy saga, rune, and song, As a household joy and presence We have known and loved thee long. By the mansion's marble mantel, Round the log- walled cabin's hearth, Thy sweet thoughts and northern fancies Meet and mingle with our mirth. And o'er weary spirits keeping Sorrow's night-watch, long and chill, Shine they like thy sun of summer Over midnight vale and hill. We alone to thee are strangers, Thou our friend and teacher art ; Come, and know us as we know thee ; Let us meet thee heart to heart! To our homes and household altars We, in turn, thy steps would lead, As thy loving hand has led us O'er the threshold of the Swede. APRIL. " The spring comes slowly up this way." Christabel. 'Tis the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard ; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the cro- cus should blow ; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter-beds of their late- waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots ; And, longing for light, under wind- driven heaps, Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers! We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south ! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth ; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod ! Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast, Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow, All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau, Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest. 212 MISCELLANEOUS. O soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death ; Renew the great miracle; let us be- hold The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old! Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain, Revive with the warmth and the brightness again, And in blooming of flower and budding of tree The symbols and types of our destiny see ; The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole, And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul ! STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1850. 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! 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. 1 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! A SABBATH SCENE. 213 A SABBATH SCENE. 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,' 1 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, 214 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 coat-tail 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! REMEMBRANCE. WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS. FRIEND of mine! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past, Where, like shadows flitting fast, Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seem Like a half-remembered dream! Touched by change have all things been, Yet I think of thee as when We had speech of lip and pen. For the calm thy kindness lent To a path of discontent, Rough with trial and dissent ; Gentle words where such were few, Softening blame where blame was true, Praising where small praise was due ; For a waking dream made good, For an ideal understood, For thy Christian womanhood ; For thy marvellous gift to cull From our common life and dull Whatsoe'er is beautiful ; Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees Dropping sweetness ; true heart's-ease Of congenial sympathies ; Still for these I own my debt ; Memory, with her eyelids wet, Fain would thank thee even yet ! And as one who scatters flowers W T here the Queen of May's sweet hours Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, KATHLEEN. 215 In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I 'm owing. To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add ; Well assured that thou wilt take Even the offering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake. THE POOR VOTER ON ELEC- TION 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 peopled 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 ! TRUST. THE same old baffling questions! O my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never burn The lamps of science, nor the natu- ral light Of Reason's sun and stars! I cannot learn Their great and solemn meanings, nor discern The awful secrets of the eyes which turn Evermore on us through the day and night With silent challenge and a dumb demand. Proffering the riddles of the dread un- known, Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand ! I have no answer for myself or thee. Save that I learned beside my mother's knee; " All is of God that is, and is to be ; And God is good." Let this suffice us still, Resting in childlike trust upon his will Who moves to his great ends un- thwarted by the ill. KATHLEEN. O NORAH, lay your basket down, And rest your weary hand, And come and hear me sing a song Of our old Ireland. 216 MISCELLANEOUS. There was a lord of Galaway, A mighty lord was he ; And he did wed a second wife, A maid of low degree. But he was old, and she was young, And so, in evil spite, She baked the black bread for his kin, And fed her own with white. She whipped the maids and starved the kern, And drove away the poor ; " Ah, woe is me ! " the old lord said, " I rue my bargain sore! " This lord he had a daughter fair, Beloved of old and young, And nightly round the shealing-fires Of her the gleeman sung. " As sweet and good is young Kathleen As Eve before her fall " ; So sang the harper at the fair, So harped he in the hall. " O come to me, my daughter dear! Come sit upon my knee, For looking in your face, Kathleen, Your mother's own I see ! " He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, He kissed her forehead fair ; " It is my darling Mary's brow, It is my darling's hair ! " O, then spake up the angry dame, u Get up, get up," quoth she, " I '11 sell ye over Ireland, I '11 sell ye o'er the sea ! " She clipped her glossy hair away, That none her rank might know, She took away her gown of silk, And gave her one of tow, And sent her down to Limerick town, And to a seaman sold This daughter of an Irish lord ' For ten good pounds in gold. The lord he smote upon his breast, And tore his beard so gray ; But he was old, and she was young, And so she had her way. Sure that same night the Banshee howled To fright the evil dame, And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, With funeral torches came. She watched them glancing through the trees, And glimmering down the hill ; They crept before the dead-vault door, And there they all stood still ! " Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine ! " " Ye murthering witch," quoth he, " So I 'm rid of your tongue, I little care If they shine for you or me. " O, whoso brings my daughter back, My gold and land shall have! " O, then spake up his handsome page, " No gold nor land I crave ! " But give to me your daughter dear, Give sweet Kathleen to me, Be she on sea or be she on land, I '11 bring her back to thee." " My daughter is a lady born, And you of low degree, But she shall be your bride the day You bring her back to me." He sailed east, he sailed west, And far and long sailed he, Until he came to Boston town, Across the great salt sea. " O, have ye seen the young Kathleen, The flower of Ireland? FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS. 217 Ye '11 know her by her eyes so blue, And by her snow-white hand ! " Out spake an ancient man, " I know The maiden whom ye mean ; I bought her of a Limerick man, And she is called Kathleen. " No skill hath she in household work, Her hands are soft and white, Yet well by loving looks and ways She doth her cost requite." So up they walked through Boston town, And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her arm So snowy-white and bare. "Come hither, child, and say hast thou This young man ever seen?" They wept within each other's arms, The page and young Kathleen. " O give to me this darling child, And take my purse of gold." " Nay, not by me," her master said, " Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. " We loved her in the place of one The Lord hath early ta'en ; But, since her heart 's in Ireland, We give her back again ! " O, for that same the saints in heaven For his poor soul shall pray, And Mary Mother wash with tears His heresies away. Sure now they dwell in Ireland, As you go up Claremore Ye 11 see their castle looking down The pleasant Gal way shore. And the old lord's wife is dead and gone, And a happy man is he, For he sits beside his own Kathleen, With her darling on his knee. FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS. IN calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue Shall utter words ; where never hymn is sung, Nor deep toned organ blown, nor censer swung, Nor dim light falling through the pic- tured pane! There, syllabled by silence, let me hear The still small voice which reached the prophet's ear ; Read in my heart a still diviner law Than Israel's leader on his tables saw ! There let me strive with each beset- ting sin, Recall my wandering fancies, and restrain The sore disquiet of a restless brain ; And, as the path of duty is made plain, May grace be given that I may walk therein, Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain, With backward glances and reluctant tread, Making a merit of his coward dread, But,' cheerful, in the light around me thrown, Walking as one to pleasant service led; Doing God's will as if it were my own, Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone ! 218 MISCELLANEOUS. KOSSUTH. TYPE of two mighty continents! combining The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow Of Asian song and prophecy, the shining Of Orient splendors over Northern snow! Who shall receive him? Who, un- blushing, speak Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off At the same blow the fetters of the serf, .Rearing the altar of his Father-land On the firm base of freedom, and thereby Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand, Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie! Who shall be Freedom's mouth-piece ? Who shall give Her welcoming cheer to the great fugitive ? Not he who, all her sacred trusts be- traying, Is scourging back to slavery's hell of pain The swarthy Kossuths of our land again! Not he whose utterance now from lips designed The bugle-march of Liberty to wind, And call her hosts beneath the break- ing light, The keen reveille of her morn of fight, Is but the hoarse note of the blood- hound's baying, The wolf's long howl behind the bond- man's flight ! O for the tongue of him who lies at rest In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best, To lend a voice to Freedom's sym- pathies, And hail the coming of the noblest guest The Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West ! TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MAN- NER OF HORACE. OLD friend, kind friend ! lightly down Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown ! Never be thy shadow less, Never fail thy cheerfulness ; Care, that kills the cat, may plough Wrinkles in the miser's brow, Deepen envy's spiteful frown, Draw the mouths of bigots down, Plague ambition's dream, and sit Heavy on the hypocrite, Haunt the rich man's door, and ride In the gilded coach of pride ; Let the fiend pass! what can he Find to do with such as thee? Seldom comes that evil guest Where the conscience lies at rest, And brown health and quiet wit Smiling on the threshold sit. I, the urchin unto whom, In that smoked and dingy room. Where the district gave thee rule O'er its ragged winter school, Thou didst teach the mysteries Of those weary A B C's, Where, to fill the every pause Of thy wise and learned saws, Through the cracked and crazy wall Came the cradle-rock and squall, And the goodman's voice, at strife With his shrill and tipsy wife, Luring us by stories old, With a comic unction told, TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 219 More than by the eloquence Of terse birchen arguments (Doubtful gain, I fear), to look With complacence on a book! Where the genial pedagogue Half forgot his rogues to Hog, Citing tale or apologue, W T ise and merry in its drift As old Phaedrus' twofold gift, Had the little rebels known it, Risuin et prudentiam monet I I, the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appears Many a warning fleck of gray, Looking back to that far day, And thy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blend Olden teacher, present friend, Wise with antiquarian search, In the scrolls of State and Church ; Named on history's title-page, Parish-clerk and justice sage ; For the ferule's wholesome awe Wielding now the sword of law. Threshing Time's neglected sheaves, Gathering up the scattered leaves Which the wrinkled sibyl cast Careless from her as she passed, Twofold citizen art thou, Freeman of the past and now. He who bore thy name of old Midway in the heavens did hold Over Gibeon moon and sun ; Thou hast bidden them backward run ; Of to-day the present ray Flinging over yesterday ! Let the busy ones deride What I deem of right thy pride ; Let the fools their tread-mills grind, Look not forward nor behind, Shuffle in and wriggle out, Veer with every breeze about, Turning like a windmill sail, Or a dog that seeks his tail ; Let them laugh to see thee fast Tabernacled in the Past, Working out with eye and lip, Riddles of old penmanship, Patient as Belzoni there Sorting out, with loving care, Mummies of dead questions stripped From their sevenfold manuscript! Dabbling, in their noisy way, In the puddles of to-day, Little know they of that vast Solemn ocean of the past, On whose margin, wreck-JDespread, Thou art walking with the dead, Questioning the stranded years, Waking smiles, by turns, and tears, As thou callest up again Shapes the dust has long o'erlain, Fair-haired woman, bearded man, Cavalier and Puritan ; In an age whose eager view Seeks but present things, and new, Mad for party, sect, and gold, Teaching reverence for the old. On that shore, with fowler's tact, Coolly bagging fact on fact, Naught amiss to thee can float, Tale, or song, or anecdote ; Village gossip, centuries old, Scandals by our grandams told, What the pilgrim's table spread, Where he lived, and whom he wed, Long-drawn bill of wine and beer For his ordination cheer, Or the flip that wellnigh made Glad his funeral cavalcade ; Weary prose, and poet's lines, Flavored by their age, like wines, Eulogistic of some quaint, Doubtful, puritanic saint ; Lays that quickened husking jigs, Jests that shook grave periwigs, When the parson had his jokes And his glass, like other folks ; Sermons that, for mortal hours, Taxed our fathers' vital powers, As the long nineteenthlies poured Downward from the sounding-board, And, for fire of Pentecost, Touched their beards December's frost. 220 MISCELLANEOUS. Time is hastening on, and we What our fathers are shall be, Shadow-shapes of memory! Joined to that vast multitude Where the great are but the good, And the mind of strength shall prove Weaker than the heart of love ; Pride of graybeard wisdom less Than the infant's guilelessness, And his song of sorrow more Than the crown the Psalmist wore! Who shall then, with pious zeal, At our moss-grown thresholds kneel, From a stained and stony page Reading to a careless age. With a patient eye like thine, Prosing tale and limping line, Names and words the hoary rime Of the Past has made sublime? Who shall work for us as well The antiquarian's miracle? Who to seeming life recall Teacher grave and pupil small? Who shall give to thee and me Freeholds in futurity? Well, whatever lot be mine, Long and happy days be thine, Ere thy full and honored age Dates of time its latest page! Squire for master, State for school, Wisely lenient, live and rule ; Over grown-up knave and rogue Play the watchful pedagogue ; Or, while pleasure smiles on duty, At the call of youth and beauty, Speak for them the spell of law Which shall bar and bolt withdraw, And the flaming sword remove From the Paradise of Love Still, with undimmed eyesight, pore Ancient tome and record o'er ; Still thy week-day lyrics croon, Pitch in church the Sunday tune, Showing something, in thy part, Of the old Puritanic art, Singer after Sternhold's heart! In thy pew, for many a year, Homilies from Oldbug hear. Who to wit like that of South, And the Syrian's golden mouth, Doth the homely pathos add Which the pilgrim preachers had ; Breaking, like a child at play, Gilded idols of the day, Cant of knave and pomp of fool Tossing with his ridicule, Yet, in earnest or in jest, Ever keeping truth abreast. And, when thou art called, at last, To thy townsmen of the past, Not as stranger shalt thou come ; Thou shalt find thyself at home! With the little and the big, Woollen cap and periwig, Madam in her high-laced ruff, Goody in her home-made stuff, Wise and simple, rich and poor, Thou hast known them all before ! THE PANORAMA. THE PANORAMA, AND OTHER POEMS, 1856. " A ! fredome is a nobill thing! Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Fredome all solace to man girfis ; He levys at ese that frely levys! A nobil hart may haif nane ese Na ellys nocht that may him plese Gyff Fredome failythe." ARCHDEACON BARBOUR. THROUGH the long hall the shut- tered 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 des- ert bees, Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness show Fantastic outcrops of the rock be- low, 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 un- guessed, 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 green- ness pours ; And, onward still, like islands in that main 222 THE PANORAMA. Loom the rough peaks of many a mountain chain, Whence east and west a thousand waters run From winter lingering under summers 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 isfes of spice, and marts of far Cathay. " Such. 11 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 sur- plus 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 wander- ing 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. 11 Then spake a shrewd on-looker, " Sir, 1 ' 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 1 hori- zon 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 ; THE PANORAMA. 223 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 alterna- tive. 1 ' Then, with a burst of music, touch- ing 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 West- ern 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 out- ward 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 masquer- ade Heard in the distance funeral marches played. Such music, dashing all his smiles with tears, The thoughtful voyager on Ponchar- train 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!" 22 4 THE PANORAMA. A village straggling in loose dis- array Of vulgar newness, premature decay ; A tavern, crazy with its whiskey brawls, With "Slaves at Auction!" garnish- ing 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 gray- beard sin ; Sell all the virtues with his human stock, The Christian graces on his auction- block, And coolly count on shrewdest bar- gains driven In hearts regenerate, and in souls for- given! 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 Veeds unclean, The cracked veranda with a tipsy lean. Without, loose-scattered like a wreck adrift, Signs of misrule and tokens of un- thrift ; 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 im- pure ; 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 ; THE PANORAMA. 225 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 mourn- ful death Is covered from their sight. The Showman stood With drooping brow in sorrow's atti- tude One moment, then with sudden ges- ture 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 ; Q 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 doc- tors 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, 226 THE PANORAMA. And feel their pulses beating with your own. ''The North! the South! no geo- graphic line Can fix the boundary or the point define, Since each with each so closely inter- blends, Where Slavery rises, and where Free- dom ends. Beneath your rocks the roots, far- reaching, hide Of the fell Upas on the Southern side ; The tree whose branches in your north winds wave Dropped its young blossoms on Mount Vernon's grave ; The nursling growth of Monticello's crest Is now the glory of the free North- west ; To the wise maxims of her olden school Virginia listened from thy lips, Ran- toul ; Seward's words of power, and Sum- ner'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, Arid bold as wicked, crashing straight through all That bars his purpose, like a cannon- ball? Or the mean traitor, breathing north- ern air, With nasal speech and puritanic hair, Whose cant the loss of principle sur- vives, As the mud-turtle e'en its head out- lives ; 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, THE PANORAMA. 227 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 Atchi- son, Theiu drunken franchise shift from scene to scene. As tile-beard Jourdan did his guillo- tine! 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 clis- grace, Points to the footmarks of indignant scorn, Shows the deep scars of satire's toss- ing horn ; And passes to his credit side the sum Of all that makes a scoundrel's martyr- dom ! " 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 per- verted 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 Chatter's Bible at his ass's tail ! " Such are the men who, with in- stinctive 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 Cur- tius throw, And test the virtues of cohesive dough ; As tropic monkeys, linking heads and tails, Bridge o'er some torrent of Ecuador's vales ! 228 THE PANORAMA. " Such are the men who in your churches rave To swearing-point, at mention of the slave, When some poor parson, haply un- awares, 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 dis- ease, 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 ped- ler'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 bereave- ment, 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 en- ticed, 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 cara- van, 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 be- hind, 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 ; THE PANORAMA. 229 And, ere your dull eyes open to the cheat, Sell your old homestead underneath* your feet ! While such as these your loftiest out- looks 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 Rea- son's hand The guiding rein and symbol of com- mand. 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 as- signed 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 an- tique mould, Like the grave fathers of your Age of Gold,- Statesmen like those who sought the primal fount 230 THE PANORAMA. 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 pru- dence used, Strong but forbearing, firm but not abused, In kindly keeping with the good of all, The nobler maxims of the past re- call, Her natural home-born right to Free- dom 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 re- volts, 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 glo- rious 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 chil- dren 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, Hes- per-led ; And, gazing downward through his hoar-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 shad- ows go ; And, if no song of idlesse I have sung, Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung, SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE. 231 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. O, 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 griding taunt 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 And sea-brown hamlets, through whose misty gales Flit the dim 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 hold 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. MISCELLANEOUS. SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE. I. NOON. WHITE clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, Light mists, whose soft embraces keep The sunshine on the hills asleep ! O isles of calm ! O dark, still wood ! And stiller skies that overbrood Your rest with deeper quietude ! O shapes and hues, dim beckoning, through Yon mountain gaps, my longing view Beyond the purple and the blue, To stiller sea and greener land, And softer lights and airs more bland, And skies, the hollow of God's hand! Transfused through you, O mountain friends ! With mine your solemn spirit blends, And life no more hath separate ends. I read each misty mountain sign, I know the voice of wave and pine, And I am yours, and ye are mine. Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, I lapse into the glad release Of nature's own exceecjing peace. 232 MISCELLANEOUS. O, welcome calm of heart and mind! As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind To leave a tenderer growth behind, So fall the weary years away ; A child again, my head I lay Upon the lap of this sweet day. This western wind hath Lethean powers, Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers, The lake is white with lotus-flowers! Even Duty's voice is faint and low, And slumberous Conscience, waking slow, Forgets her blotted scroll to show. The Shadow which pursues us all, Whose ever-nearing steps appall, Whose voice we hear behind us call, That Shadow blends with mountain g^y? It speaks but what the light waves say, Death walks apart from Fear to-day ! Rocked on her breast, these pines and I Alike on Nature's love rely ; And equal seems to live or die. Assured that He whose presence fills With light the spaces of these hills No evil to his creatures wills, The simple faith remains, that He Will do, whatever that may be, The best alike for man and tree. What mosses over one shall grow, What light and life the other know, Unanxious, leaving Him to show. II. EVENING. Yon mountain's side is black with night, While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleam- ing crown The moon, slow-rounding into sight, On the hushed inland sea looks down. How start to light the clustering isles, Each silver-hemmed! How sharply show The shadows of their rocky piles, And tree-tops in the wave below ! How far and strange the mountains seem, Dim-looming through the pale, still light! The vague, vast grouping of a dream, They stretch into the solemn night. Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale, Hushed by that presence grand and grave, Are silent, save the cricket's wail, And low response of leaf and wave. Fair scenes! whereto the Day and Night Make rival love, I leave ye soon, What time before the eastern light The pale ghost of the setting moon Shall hide behind yon rocky spines, And the young archer, Morn, shall break His arrows on the mountain pines, And, golden-sandalled, walk the lake! Farewell! around this smiling bay Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom, With lighter steps than mine, may stray In radiant summers yet to come. But none shall more regretful leave These waters and these hills than I: Or, distant, fonder dream how eve Or dawn is painting wave and sky ; THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 233 How rising moons shine sad and mild On wooded isle and silvering bay ; Or setting suns beyond the piled And purple mountains lead the day ; Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy, Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here. Shall add, to life's abounding joy, The charmed repose to sufferi dear. termg Still waits kind Nature to impart Her choicest gifts to such as gain An entrance to her loving heart Through the sharp discipline of pain. Forever from the Hand that takes One blessing from us others fall ; And, soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all! O, watched by Silence and the Night, And folded in the strong embrace Of the great mountains, with the light Of the sweet heavens upon thy face, Lake of the Northland! keep thy dower Of beauty still, and while above Thy solemn mountains speak of power, Be thou the mirror of God's love. THE HERMIT OF THE THE- BAID. O STRONG, up well ing prayers of faith, From inmost founts of life ye start, The spirit's pulse, the vital breath Of soul and heart! From pastoral toil, from traffic's din, Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad, Unheard of man, ye enter in The ear of God. Ye brook no forced and measured tasks, Nor weary rote, nor formal chains ; The simple heart, that freely asks In love, obtains. For man the living temple is : The mercy-seat and cherubim, And all the holy mysteries, He bears with him. And most avails the prayer of love, Which, wordless, shapes itself in deeds, And wearies Heaven for naught above Our common needs. Which brings to God's all-perfect will That trust of his undoubting child Whereby all seeming good and ill Are reconciled. And, seeking not for special signs Of favor, is content to fall Within the providence which shines And rains on all. Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned At noontime o'er the sacred word. Was it an angel or a fiend Whose voice he heard? It broke the desert's hush of awe, A human utterance, sweet and mild ; And, looking up, the hermit saw A little child. A child, with wonder-widened eyes, O'erawed and troubled by the sight Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies, And anchorite. "What dost thou here, poor man? No shade Of cool, green doums, nor grass, nor well, Nor corn, nor vines." The hermit said : " With God I dwell. 234 MISCELLANEOUS. "Alone with Him in this great calm, I live not by the outward sense ; My Nile his love, my sheltering palm His providence." The child gazed round him. " Does God live Here only? where the desert's rim Is green with corn, at morn and eve, We pray to Him. "My brother tills beside the Nile His little field : beneath the leaves My sisters sit and spin the while, My mother weaves. " And when the millet's ripe heads fall, And all the bean-field hangs in pod, My mother smiles, and says that all Are gifts from God. "And when to share our evening meal, She calls the stranger at the door, She says God fills the hands that deal Food to the poor." Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks Glistened the flow of human tears ; "Dear Lord!" he said, u thy angel speaks, Thy servant hears." Within his arms the child he took, And thought of home and life with men ; And all his pilgrim feet forsook Returned again. The palmy shadows cool and long, The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, Home's cradle-hymn and harvest- song, And bleat of flocks. "O child!" he said, "thou teachest me There is no place where God is not ; That love will make, where'er it be, A holy spot." He rose from off the desert sand, And, leaning on his staff of thorn, Went, with the young child, hand-in- hand, Like night with morn. They crossed the desert's burning line, And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, And voice of man. Unquestioning, his childish guide He followed as the small hand led To where a woman, gentle-eyed, Her distaff fed. She rose, she clasped her truant boy, She thanked the stranger with her eyes. The hermit gazed in doubt and joy And dumb surprise. And lo! with sudden warmth and light A tender memory thrilled his frame ; New-born, the world-lost anchorite A man became. " O sister of El Zara's race, Behold me! had we not one mother?" She gazed into the stranger's face ; "Thou art my brother? " "O kin of blood! Thy life of use And patient trust is more than mine ; And wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine. " For, taught of him whom God hath sent, That toil is praise, and love is prayer, BURNS. 235 I come, life's cares and pains content With thee to share." Even as his foot the threshold crossed, The hermit's better life began ; Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, And found a man! BURNS. ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM. No more these simple flowers belong To Scottish maid and lover ; Sown in the common soil of song, They bloom the wide world over. In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, The minstrel and the heather, The deathless singer and the flowers He sang of live together. Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns! The moorland flower and peasant! How, at their mention, memory turns Her pages old and pleasant! The gray sky wears again its gold And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold The dews of boyhood's morning. The dews that washed the dust and soil From off the wings of pleasure, The sky, that flecked the ground of toil With golden threads of leisure. I call to mind the summer day, The early harvest mowing, The sky with sun and clouds at play, And flowers with breezes blowing. I hear the blackbird in the corn, The locust in the haying ; And, like the fabled hunter's horn, Old tunes my heart is playing. How oft that day, with fond delay, I sought the maple's shadow, And sang with Burns the hours away, Forgetful of the meadow! Bees hummed, birds twittered, over- head I heard the squirrels leaping, The good dog listened while 1 read, And wagged his tail in keeping. I watched him while in sportive mood I read " The Two. Dogs' 1 " story, And half believed he understood The poet's allegory. Sweet day, sweet songs! The golden hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-seen Nature beamed, New glory over Woman ; And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Of fact and feeling better Than all the dreams that held my youth A still repining debtor : That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The themes of sweet discoursing ; The tender idyls of the heart In every tongue rehearsing. Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, Of loving knight and lady, When farmer boy and barefoot girl Were wandering there already? I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying ; MISCELLANEOUS. The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even, That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. I matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweet-brier and the clover ; With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, Their wood-hymns chanting over. O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, I saw the Man uprising ; No longer common or unclean, The child of God's baptizing ! With clearer eyes 1 saw the worth Of life among the lowly ; The Bible at his Cotter's hearth Had made my own more holy. And if at times an evil strain, To lawless love appealing, Broke in upon the sweet refrain Of pure and healthful feeling, It died upon the eye and ear, No inward answer gaining ; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget His worth, in vain bewailings ; Sweet Soul of Song ! I own my debt Uncancelled by his failings! Lament who will the ribald line Which tells his lapse from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty ; But think, while falls that shade be- tween The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render, The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, And Milton's starry splendor! But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid To love a tribute dearer? Through all his tuneful art, how strong The human feeling gushes! The very moonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes! Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland MaVy! WILLIAM FORSTER. THE years are many since his hand Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand The serious words he said. Yet often now the good man's look Before me seems to swim, As if some inward feeling took The outward guise of him. As if, in passion's heated war, Or near temptation's charm, Through him the low-voiced monitor Forewarned me of the harm. Stranger and pilgrim ! from that day Of meeting, first and last, Wherever Duty's pathway lay, His reverent steps have passed. The poor to feed, the lost to seek, To proffer life to death, Hope to the erring, to the weak The strength of his own faith. RANTOUL. 237 To plead the captive's right ; remove The sting of hate from Law ; And soften in the fire of love The hardened steel of War. He walked the dark world, in the mild, Still guidance of the Light ; In tearful tenderness a child, A strong man in the right. From what great perils, on his way. He found, in prayer, release ; Through what abysmal shadows lay His pathway unto peace, God knoweth : we could only see The tranquil strength he gained ; The bondage lost in liberty, The fear in love unfeigned. And I, my youthful fancies grown The habit of the man, Whose field of life by angels sown The wilding vines overran, Low bowed in silent gratitude, My manhood's heart enjoys That reverence for the pure and good Which blessed the dreaming boy's. Still shines the light of holy lives Like star-beams over doubt ; Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives Some dark possession out. O friend! O brother! not in vain Thy life so calm and true, The silver dropping of the rain, The fall of summer dew ! How many burdened hearts have prayed Their lives like thine might be! But more shall pray henceforth for aid To lay them down like thee. With weary hand, yet steadfast will, In old age as in youth, Thy Master found thee sowing still The good seed of his truth. As on thy task-field closed the day In golden-skied decline, His angel met thee on the 'way, And lent his arm to thine. Thy latest care for man, thy last Of earthly thought a prayer, O, who thy mantle, backward cast, Is worthy now to wear? Methinks the mound which marks thy bed Might bless our land and save, As rose, of old, to life the dead Who touched the prophet's grave! RANTOUL. ONE day, along the electric wire His manly word for Freedom sped ; We came next morn : that tongue of fire Said only, "He who spake is dead ! " Dead! while his voice was living yet, In echoes round the pillared dome! Dead! while his blotted page lay wet With themes of state and loves of home ! Dead ! in that crowning grace of time, That triumph of life's zenith hour! Dead! while we watched his man- hood's prime Break from the slow bud into flower ! Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise, While the mean thousands yet drew breath ; How deepened, through that dread surprise, The mystery and the awe of death! 233 MISCELLANEOUS. From the high place whereon our votes Had borne him, clear, calm, earn- est, fell His first words, like the prelude notes Of some great anthem yet to swell. We seemed to see our flag unfurled, Our champion waiting in his place For the last battle of the world, The Armageddon of the race. Through him we hoped to speak the word Which wins the freedom of a land ; And lift, for human right, the sword Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand. For he had sat at Sidney's feet, And walked with Pym and Vane apart ; And, through the centuries, felt the beat Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart. He knew the paths the worthies held, Where England's best and wisest trod ; And, lingering, drank the springs that "welled Beneath the touch of Milton's rod. No wild enthusiast of the right, Self-poised and clear, he showed alway The coolness of his northern night, The ripe repose of autumn's day. His steps were slow, yet forward still He pressed where others paused or failed ; The calm star clomb with constant will, The restless meteor flashed and paled! Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew And owned the higher ends of Law ; Still rose majestic on his view The awful Shape the schoolman Her home the heart of God ; her voice The choral harmonies whereby The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice, The rhythmic rule of earth and sky! We saw his great powers misapplied To poor ambitions ; yet, through all, We saw him take the weaker side, And right the wronged, and free the thrall. Now, looking o'er the frozen North For one like him in word and act, To call her old, free spirit forth, And give her faith the life of fact, To break her party bonds of shame, And labor with the zeal of him To make the Democratic name Of Liberty the synonyme, We sweep the land from hill to strand, We seek the strong, the wise, the brave, And, sad of heart, return to stand In silence by a new-made grave! There, where his breezy hills of home Look out upon his sail-white seas, The sounds of winds and waters come, And shape themselves to words like these : "Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power Was lent to Party over-long, Heard the still whisper at the hour He set his foot on Party wrong? "The human life that closed so well No lapse of folly now can stain ; THE DREAM OF FIO NONO. 239 The lips whence Freedom's protest fell No meaner thought can now pro- fane. " Mightier than living voice his grave That lofty protest utters o'er ; Through roaring wind and smiting wave It speaks his hate of wrong once more. " Men of the North ! your weak re- gret Is wasted here ; arise and pay To freedom and to him your debt, By following where he led the way!" 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 Hur 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 bright 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, 240 MISCELLANEOUS. From which, at times, quivered a liv- ing 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! Hearst 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 clear Master's name, and for the love Of his true Church, proclaim thee Anti- christ, 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! 1 ' Thereat the pontiff woke, Trembling, and muttering o'er his fearful dream. "What means he?" cried the Bour- bon. " 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. TAULER. TAULER, the preacher, walked, one autumn day, Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine, Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life; As one who, wandering in a starless night, Feels, momently, the jar of unseen waves, And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, Breaking along an unimagined shore. And as rje walked he prayed. Even the same Old prayer with which, for half a score of years, Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heart Had groaned : " Have pity upon me, Lord! Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. Send me a man who can direct my steps ! " Then, as he mused, he heard along his path A sound as of an old man's staff among The dry, dead linden-leaves ; and, looking up, He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old. "Peace be unto thee, father!" Tauler said, " God give thee a good day ! " The old man raised Slowly his calm blue eyes. " I thank thee, son ; But all my days are good, and none are ill." Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again, TAULER. 241 " God give thee happy life." The old man smiled, " I never am unhappy." Tauler laid His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve : " Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean. Surelv man's days are evil, and his life Sad as the grave it leads to. 1 Nay, my son, Our times are in God's hands, and all our days Are as our needs : for shadow as for sun, , For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alike Our thanks are due, since that is best which is ; And that which is not, sharing not his life, Is evil only as devoid of good. And for the happiness of which I spake, I find it in submission to his will, And calm trust in the holy Trinity Of Knowledge, Goodness, and Al- mighty Power." Silently wondering, for a little space, Stood the great preacher ; then he spake as one Who, suddenly grappling with a haunting thought Which long has followed, whispering through the dark Strange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light : u What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell? " " Then," said the stranger, cheerily, " be it so. What Hell may be I know not ; this I know. I cannot lose the presence of the Lord: One arm, Humility, takes hold upon His dear Humanity ; the other, Love, Clasps his Divinity. So where I go He goes ; and better fire-walled Hell with Him Than golden-gated Paradise with- out." Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light, Like the first ray which fell on chaos, clove Apart the shadow wherein he had walked Darkly at noon. And, as the strange old man Went his slow way, until his silver hair Set like the white moon where the hills of vine Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said : " My prayer is answered. God hath sent the man Long sought, to teach me, by his sim- ple trust Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew." So, entering with a changed and cheerful step The city gates, he saw, far down the street, A mighty shadow break the light of noon, While tracing backward till its airy lines Hardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyes O'er broad facade and lofty pediment, O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche, Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise Erwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to where In the noon-brightness the great Min- ster's tower, Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural 242 MISCELLANEOUS. Rose like a visible prayer. " Be- hold!" he said, " The stranger's faith made plain be- fore mine eyes. As yonder tower outstretches to the earth The dark triangle of its shade alone When the clear day is shining on its top, So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life Is but the shadow of God's providence, By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon ; And what is dark below is light in Heaven. 1 ' LINES, 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 way- side 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 shudder- ing 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. J^i 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 souls of men, Brothers, God's children, Christ's re- deemed, and then, With uprolled eyeballs and on bended knee, Whining a prayer for help to hide the key! / 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 foois who know not ill from good; THE VOICES. 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 heard, methought, a voice re- ply : " 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 chil- dren, 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's! 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 ; 244 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 !" THE HERO. " O FOR a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear ; My light glove on his casque of steel, My love-knot on his spear! " O for the white plume floating Sad Zutphen's field above, The lion heart in battle, The woman's heart in love! " O that man once more were manly, Woman's pride, and not her scorn : That once more the pale young mother Dared to boast ' a man is born ' ! " But, now life's slumberous current No sun-bowed cascade wakes ; No tall, heroic manhood The level dulness breaks. " O for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear! My light glove on his casque of steel, My love-knot on his spear!" Then I said, my own heart throbbing To the time her proud pulse beat, " Life hath its regal natures yet, True, tender, brave, and sweet! " Smile not, fair unbeliever! One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard Or Sidney's plume of snow. " Once, when over purple mountains Died away the Grecian sun, And the far Cyllenian ranges Paled and darkened, one by one, " Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, Cleaving all the quiet sky, And against his sharp steel light- nings Stood the Suliote but to die. "Woe for the weak and halting! The crescent blazed behind A curving line of sabres, Like fire before the wind! " Last to fly and first to rally, Rode he of whom I speak, When, groaning in his bridle-path, Sank down a wounded Greek. "With the rich Albanian costume Wet with many a ghastly stain, Gazing on earth and sky as one Who might not gaze again ! " He looked forward to the mountains, Back on foes that never spare, Then flung him from his saddle, And placed the stranger there. " < Allah ! hu ! ' Through flashing sa- bres, Through a stormy hail of lead, The good Thessalian charger Up the slopes of olives sped. " Hot spurred the turbaned riders ; He almost felt their breath, Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down Between the hills and death. " One brave and manful struggle, He gained the solid land, MY DREAM. 2 45 And the cover of the mountains, And the carbines of his band ! " " It was very great and noble, 1 ' Said the moist-eyed listener then, " But one brave deed makes no hero ; Tell me what he since hath been!" " Still a brave and generous manhood, Still an honor without stain, In the prison of the Kaiser, By the barricades of Seine. " But dream not helm and harness The sign of valor true ; Peace hath higher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew. " Wouldst know him now ? Behold him, The Cadmus of the blind, Giving the dumb lip language, The idiot clay a mind. " Walking his round of duty Serenely day by day. With the strong man's hand of labor And childhood's heart of play. " True as the knights of story, Sir Lancelot and his peers, Brave in his calm endurance As they in tilt of spears. "As waves in stillest waters, As stars in noonday skies, All that wakes to noble action In his noon of calmness lies. " Wherever outraged Nature Asks word or action brave, Wherever struggles labor, Wherever groans a slave, " Wherever rise the peoples, Wherever sink a throne, The throbbing heart of Freedom finds An answer in his own. " Knight of a better era, Without reproach or fear! Said I not well that Bayards And Sidneys still are here?" MY DREAM. IN my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road ; Narrow as Al Sirat's span, High as eagle's flight, it ran. Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed ; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night. Here and there a wild-flower blushed, Now and then a bird-song gushed ; Now and then, through rifts of shade, Stars shone out, and sunbeams played. But the goodly company, Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o'erslid, One by one the darkness hid. Some with wailing and lament, Some with cheerful courage went; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned. Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear, Never hand in token stirred, Never answering voice I heard ! Steeper, darker ! lo ! I felt From my feet the pathway melt. Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air, Past the stony-throated caves, Strangled by the wash of waves, Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank, Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown, 246 MISCELLANEOUS. Whispering, by its open door : u Fear not! He hath gone before!" THE BAREFOOT BOY. BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest. Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing by Trees that propped a golden sky. Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, Old lost faces welcomed me, With whose sweetness of content Still expectant hope was blent. Waking while the dawning gray Slowly brightened into day, Pondering that vision fled, Thus unto myself I said : " Steep, and hung with clouds of strife, Is our narrow path of life ; And our death the dreaded fall Through the dark, awaiting all. " So, with painful steps we climb Up the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread. " Dread of mystery solved alone, Of the untried and unknown ; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my dream. " And this heart-consuming care, All our fears of here or there, Change and absence, loss and death, Prove but simple lack of faith." Thou, O Most Compassionate! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain, Treading in our path of pain, Through the doubt and mystery, Grant to us thy steps to see, And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence. Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit, FLOWERS IN WINTER. 247 Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs 1 orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard. Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! FLOWERS IN WINTER. PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE. How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flowers, These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine and of showers ! How well the conscious wood retains The pictures of its flower-sown home, The lights and shades, the purple stains, And golden hues of bloom ! It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season's frost and rime This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time. Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy's age renews its youth, And dim-remembered fictions take The guise of present truth. A wizard of the Merrimack, So old ancestral legends say, Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray. 248 MISCELLANEOUS. The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves ; The clay-bound swallow, at his call, Played round the icy eaves. The settler saw his oaken flail Take bud, and bloom before his eyes; From frozen pools he saw the pale, Sweet summer lilies rise. To their old homes, by man pro- faned, Came the sad dryads, exiled long, And through their leafy tongues com- plained Of household use and wrong. The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green ; The cradle o'er the sleeping child Became a leafy screen. Haply our gentle friend hath met, While wandering in her sylvan quest, Haunting his native woodlands yet, That Druid of the West ; And, while the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still, Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power, And caught his trick of skill. But welcome, be it new or old, The gift which makes the day more bright, And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light ! Without is neither gold nor green ; Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing; Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring. The one, with bridal blush of rose, And sweetest breath of woodland balm, And one whose matron lips unclose In smiles of saintly calm. Fill soft and deep, O winter snow ! The sweet azalia's oaken dells, And hide the bank where roses blow, And swing the azure bells! Overlay the amber violet's leaves, The purple aster's brookside home, Guard all the flowers her pencil gives A life beyond their bloom. And she, when spring comes round again, By greening slope and singing flood Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, Her darlings of the wood. THE RENDITION. 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 hand-cuffed 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 dis- gust _ And anguish of disgrace. THE FRUIT-GIFT. 249 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 black- ness trod, Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God The blasphemy of wrong. " O Mother, from thy memories proud, Thy old renown, dear Common- wealth, Lend this dead air a breeze of health, And smite with stars this cloud. " Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, Rise awful in th^ strength," I said ; Ah me! I spake but to the dead ; I stood upon her grave! 6th mo., 1854. LINES, ON THE PASSAGE OF THE BILL TO PROTECT THE RIGHTS AND LIBER- TIES 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 FRUIT-GIFT. LAST night, just as the tints of au- tumn's sky Of sunset faded from our hills and streams, 250 MISCELLANEOUS. I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilights dreams, To the leafs rustle, and the cricket's cry. Then, like that basket, flush with sum- mer fruit, Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot, Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness, Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams Of summery suns, and, rounded to completeness By kisses of the south-wind and the dew. Thrilled with a glad surprise, me- thought I knew The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew, When Eschol's clusters on his shoul- ders lay, Dropping their sweetness on his desert way. I said, " This fruit beseems no world of sin. Its parent vine, rooted in Para- dise, O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price Of the great mischief, an ambrosial tree, Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in, To keep the thorns and thistles company." Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste A single vine-slip as she passed the gate, Where the dread sword, alternate paled and burned, And the stern angel, pitying her fate, Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned Aside his face of fire ; and thus the waste And fallen world hath yet its annual taste Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost, And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost. A MEMORY. HERE, while the loom of Winter weaves The shroud of flowers and foun- tains, I think of thee and summer eves Among the Northern mountains. When thunder tolled the twilight's close, And winds the lake were rude on, And thou wert singing, Co 1 the Yowes, The bonny yowts of Cluden! When, close and closer, hushing breath, Our circle narrowed round thee, And smiles and tears made up the wreath Wherewith our silence crowned thee; And, strangers all, we felt the ties Of sisters and of brothers ; Ah ! whose of all those kindly eyes Now smile upon another's? The sport of Time, who still apart The waifs of life is flinging ; O, nevermore shall heart to heart Draw nearer for that singing! Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, And twilight's fire is gleaming, I hear the songs of Scotland's bard Sound softly through my dreaming! A song that lends to winter snows The glow of summer weather, Again I hear thee ca' the yowes To Cluden's hills of heather! THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. TO C. S. IF I have seemed more prompt to censure wrong Than praise the right ; if seldom to thine ear My voice hath mingled with the exultant cheer Borne upon all our Northern winds along ; If I have failed to join the fickle throng In wide-eyed wonder, that thou stand- est strong In victory, surprised in thee to find Brougham's scathing power with Can- ning's grace combined ; That he, for whom the ninefold Muses sang, From their twined arms a giant ath- lete sprang, Barbing the arrows of his native tongue With the spent shafts Latona's archer flung, To smite the Python of our land and time, Fell as the monster born of Crissa's slime, Like the blind bard who in Castalian springs Tempered the steel that clove the crest of kings, And on the shrine of England's free- dom laid The gifts of Cumae and of Delphi's shade, Small need hast thou of words of praise from me. Thou knowest my heart, dear friend, and well canst guess That, even though silent, I have not the less Rejoiced to see thy actual life agree With the large future which I shaped for thee, When, years ago, beside the summer sea, White in the moon, we saw the long waves fall BafHed and broken from the rocky wall, That, to the menace of the brawling flood, Opposed alone its massive quietude, Calm as a fate ; with not a leaf nor vine Nor birch-spray trembling in the still moonshine, Crowning it like God's peace. I sometimes think That night-scene by the sea pro- phetical, (For Nature speaks in symbols and in signs, And through her pictures human fate divines). That rock, wherefrom we saw the bil- lows sink In murmuring rout, uprising clear and tall In the white light of heaven, the type of one Who, momently by Error's host as- sailed, Stands strong as Truth, in greaves of granite mailed ; And, tranquil-fronted, listening over all The tumult, hears the angels say, Well done! THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. 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. 2 5 2 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 '11 tread the prairie as of old Our fathers sailed the sea, And make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free ! SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT. WHERE are we going? where are we going, W T here 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 Ghibltee wind is blowing, Strange and large the world is grow- ing! 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, W T e were many, we are few ; Life has one, and death has two : Whitened bones our path are show- ing? 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 know- ing Through the strange world round us growing, Hear us, tell us where are we going, Where are we going, Rubee? LINES, INSCRIBED TO FRIENDS UNDER AR- REST 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. THE NEW EXODUS. 253 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 re- peat ; 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! THE NEW EXODUS. BY fire and cloud, across the desert sand, And through the parted waves, om their long bondage, with an From outstretched hand, God led the Hebrew slaves ! Dead as the letter of the Penta- teuch, As Egypt's statues cold, In the adytum of the sacred book Now stands that marvel old. " Lo, God is great ! " the simple Mos- lem 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 Pyra- mids Stretches once more that hand, And tranced Egypt, from her stony lids, Flings back her veil of sand. And morning-smitten Meranon, sing- ing, 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 ! 254 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 Sua- bian ; The wizard lights and demon play Of nights Walpurgis and Arabian ! The Mollah and the Christian dog Change place in mad metempsycho- sis ; 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 quar- ters. 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 ap- pears His Bible in a new translation ; Its angels negro overseers, And Heaven itself a snug planta- tion! 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 black- guard ; 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 ! MARY GARVIN. 255 BALLADS. MARY GARVIN. FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales ; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow, As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago. But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom of the hills, Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon Heard on its banks the gray wolfs howl, the trumpet of the loon! With smoking axle hot with speed, with steads of fire and steam, Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream. Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fast The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past. But human hearts remain unchanged : the sorrow and the sin, The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own akin ; And, in the tales our fathers told, the songs our mothers sung, Tradition, snowy-bearded, leans on Romance, ever young. O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks to-day! O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's restless play! Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand beguile, And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or smile ! The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort Mary's walls ; Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and plunged the Saco's falls. And westward on the sea-wind, that clamp and gusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwink blew. On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crackling walnut log ; Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between them lay the dog, Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her mat, Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred the mottled cat. " Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under breath, And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death. The goodwife dropped her needles : "It is twenty years, to-day, Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away." 256 BALLADS. Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's thought, Of a great and common sorrow, and words were needed not. " Who knocks? " cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open thrown ; On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, the fire-light shone. One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his head ; " Lives here Elkanah Garvin? " " I am he," the goodman said. " Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain." And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain. The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire-light glistened fair In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair. Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's self I see! Dear heart! " she cried, " now tell me, has my child come back to me? " " My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger, sobbing wild ; " Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child! " She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying day She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far away. " And when the priest besought her to do me no such wrong, She said, l May God forgive me! I have closed my heart too long. " ; When I hid me from my father, and shut out my mother's call, I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father of us all. " l Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no tie of kin apart ; Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart. " i Tell me not the Church must censure : she who wept the Cross beside Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims of blood denied ; " ' And if she who wronged her parents, with her child atones to them, Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother! thou at least wilt not condemn!' " So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother spake ; As we come to do her bidding, so receive us for her sake." " God be praised! " said Goodwife Garvin, " He taketh, and he gives ; He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child our daughter lives! " " Amen! " the old man answered, as he brushed a tear away, And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said, with reverence, " Let us pray. 11 MARY GARVIN. 257 All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew paraphrase, Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer of love and praise. But he started at beholding, as he rose from off his knee, The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of Papistrie. "What is this?" cried Farmer Garvin. " Is an English Christian's home A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign of Rome ? " Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his trembling hand, and cried : " O, forbear to chide my father; in that faith my mother died! " On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews and sunshine fall, As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard ; and the dear God watches all! " The old man stroked the fair head that rested on his knee ; " Your words, dear child," he answered, " are God's rebuke to me. " Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our faith and hope be one. Let me be your fathers father, let him be to me a son. 1 ' When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the still and frosty air, From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to sermon and to prayer, To the goodly house of worship, where, in order due and fit, As by public vote directed, classed and ranked the people sit ; Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire before the clown, From the brave coat, lace embroidered, to the gray frock, shading down ; From the pulpit read the preacher, " Goodman Garvin and his wife Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness has followed them through life, " For the great and crowning mercy, that their daughter, from the wild, Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has sent to them her child ; " And the prayers of all God's people they ask, that they may prove Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such special proof of love." As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple stood, And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maidenhood. Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She is Papist born and bred"; Thought the young men, "Tis an angel in Mary Garvin's stead! " 2 5 8 BALLADS. MAUD MULLER. MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town. White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague un- rest And a nameless longing filled her breast, A wish, that she hardly dared to For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. " Thanks ! " said the Judge ; " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the hum- ming bees ; Then talked of the haying, and won- dered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; My brother should sail a painted boat. " I 'd dress my mother so grand and g a y> And the baby should have a new toy each day. " And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. MAUD MULLER. 259 " A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and grace- ful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay : " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words. 1 ' But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that after- noon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go ; And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent sur- prise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well in- stead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover- blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again! " Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein. And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned, 260 BALLADS. And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these : " It might have been!" Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! THE RANGER. ROBERT RAWLIN ! Frosts were fall- ing When the ranger's horn was calling Through the woods to Canada. Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, Gone the spring-time's bud and blow- ing? Gone the summer's harvest mowing, And again the fields are gray. Yet away, he 's away ! Faint and fainter hope is growing In the hearts that mourn his stay. Where the lion, crouching high on Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, Glares o'er wood and wave away, Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, Or as thunder spent and dying, Come the challenge and replying, Come the sounds of flight and fray. Well-a-day! Hope and pray! Some are living, some are lying In their red graves far away. Straggling rangers, worn with clangers, Homeward faring, weary strangers Pass the farm-gate on their way ; Tidings of the dead and living, Forest march and ambush, giving, Till the maidens leave their weaving, And the lads forget their play. " Still away, still away ! " Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, " Why does Robert still delay ! " Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer Through his painted woodlands stray, Than where hillside oaks and beeches Overlook the long, blue reaches, Silver coves and pebbled beaches, And green isles of Casco Bay ; Nowhere day, for delay, With a tenderer look beseeches, " Let me with my charmed earth stay." On the grain-lands of the mainlands Stands the serried corn like train- bands, Plume and pennon rustling gay ; Out at sea, the islands wooded, Silver birches, golden-hooded, Set with maples, crimson-blooded, White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, Stretch away, far away, Dim and dreamy, over-brooded By the hazy autumn day. Gayly chattering to the clattering Of the brown nuts downward patter- ing? Leap the squirrels, red and gray. On the grass-land, on the fallow, Drop the apples, red and yellow ; THE RANGER. 261 Drop the russet pears and mellow, Drop the red leaves all the day. And away, swift away, Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow Chasing, weave their web of play. " Martha Mason, Martha Mason, Prithee tell us of the reason Why you mope at home to-day : Surely smiling is not sinning ; Leave your quilling, leave your spin- ning; What is all your store of linen, If your heart is never gay? Come away, come away ! Never yet did sad beginning Make the task of life a play." Overbending, till she's blending With the flaxen skein she 's tending Pale brown tresses smoothed away From her face of patient sorrow, Sits she, seeking but to borrow, From the trembling hope of morrow, Solace for the weary day. u Go your way, laugh and play ; Unto Him who heeds the sparrow And the lily, let me pray." " With our rail}', rings the valley, Join us!" cried the blue-eyed Nelly; " Join us ! " cried the laughing May : " To the beach we all are going, And, to save the task of rowing, West by north the wind is blowing, Blowing briskly down the bay! Come away, come away ! Time and tide are swiftly flowing, Let us take them while we may ! " Never tell us that you '11 fail us, Where the purple beach-plum mellows On the bluffs so wild and gray. Hasten, for the oars are falling ; Hark, our merry mates are calling : Time it is that we were all in, Singing tideward down the bay ! " " Nay, nay, let me stay ; Sore and sad for Robert Rawlin Is my heart," she said, " to-day." " Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin ! Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, Or some French lass, singing gay ; Just forget as he's forgetting; What avails a life of fretting? If some stars must needs be setting, Others rise as good as they." " Cease, I pray ; go your way ! " Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; u Foul and false the words you say! " " Martha Mason, hear to reason ! Prithee, put a kinder face on ! " " Cease to vex me," did she say ; " Better at his side be lying, With the mournful pine-trees sighing, And the wild birds o'er us crying, Than to doubt like mine a prey ; While away, far away, Turns my heart, forever trying Some new hope for each new day. " When the shadows veil the mead- ows, And the sunset's golden ladders Sink from twilight's walls of gray, From the window of my dreaming, I can see his sickle gleaming, Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming Down the locust-shaded way ; But away, swift away, Fades the fond, delusive seeming, And I kneel again to pray. " When the growing dawn is showing, And the barn-yard cock is crowing, And the horned moon pales away : From a dream of him awaking, Every sound my heart is making Seems a footstep of his taking; Then I hush the thought, and say, ' Nay, nay, he's away! ' Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking For the dear one far away." Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy, Glows a face of manhood worthy : " Robert ! " "Martha ! " all they say. 262 LATER POEMS. O'er went wheel and reel together, Little cared the owner whither ; Heart of lead is heart of feather, Noon of night is noon of day! Come away, come away! When such lovers meet each other, Why should prying idlers stay ? Quench the timber's fallen em- bers, Quench the red leaves in Decem- bers Hoary rime and chilly spray. But the hearth shall kindle clearer, Household welcomes sound sincerer, Heart to loving heart draw nearer, When the bridal bells shall say : " Hope and pray, trust alway ; Life is sweeter, love is dearer, For the trial and delay ! " LATER POEMS, 1856-1857. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. O'ER the bare woods, whose out- stretched hands Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, I see, beyond the valley lands, The sea's long level dim with rain. Around me all things, stark and dumb, Seem praying for the snows to come, And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, With winter's sunset lights and daz- zling morn atone. Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod ; And trembles on its arid stalk The hoar plume of the golden- rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose ! in. With mingled sound of horns and bells, A far-heard clang, the wild geese %? Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells, Like a great arrow through the sky, Two dusky lines converged in one, Chasing the southward-flying sun ; While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay. IV. I passed this way a year ago : The wind blew south ; the noon of day Was warm as June's ; and save that snow Flecked the low mountains far away, And that the vernal-seeming breeze Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 263 Since then, the winter blasts have piled The white pagodas of the snow On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild. Yon river, in its overflow Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, Crashed with its ices to the sea ; And over these gray fields, then green and gold, The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled. Rich gift of God! A year of time! What pomp of rise and shut of day, What hues wherewith our Northern clime Makes autumn's dropping wood- lands gay, What airs outblown from ferny dells, And clover-bloom and sweetbrier smells, What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers, Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours ! VII. I know not how, in other lands, The changing seasons come and go ; WTiat splendors foil on Syrian sands, What purple lights on Alpine snow ! Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits On Venice at her watery gates ; A dream alone to me is Arno's vale, And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale. VIII. Yet, on life's current, he who drifts Is one with him who rows or sails ; And he who wanders widest lifts No more of beauty's jealous veils Than he who from his doorway sees The miracle of flowers and trees, Feels the warm Orient in the noon- day air. And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer ! IX. The eye may well be glad, that looks Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall ; But he who sees his native brooks Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. The marble palaces of Ind Rise round him in the snow and wind ; From his lone sweetbrier Persian Ha- fiz smiles, And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles. x. And thus it is my fancy blends The near at hand and far and rare ; And while the same horizon bends Above the silver-sprinkled hair Which flashed the light of morning skies On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes. Within its round of sea and sky and field, Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed. XI. And thus the sick man on his bed, The toiler to his task-work bound, Behold their prison-walls outspread, Their clipped horizon widen round! 26 4 LATER POEMS. While freedom-giving fancy waits, Like Peter's angel at the gates, The power is theirs to baffle care and pain, To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again ! XII. What lack of goodly company, When masters of the ancient lyre Obey my call, and trace for me Their words of mingled tears and fire! I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, I read the world with Pascal's eyes; And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere, And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near. xm. Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say, " In vain the human heart we mock; Bring living guests who love the day, Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock! The herbs we share with flesh and blood, Are better than ambrosial food, With laurelled shades." I grant it, nothing loath, But doubly blest is he who can par- take of both. XIV. He who might Plato's banquet grace, Have I not seen before me sit, And watched his puritanic face, With more than Eastern wisdom lit? Shrewd mystic! who, upon the- back Of his Poor Richard's Almanack, Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's dream, Links Menu's age of thought to Ful- ton's age of steam ! Here too, of answering love secure, Have I not welcomed to my hearth The gentle pilgrim troubadour, Whose songs have girdled half the earth ; Whose pages, like the magic mat Whereon the Eastern lover sat, Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple vines, And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phry- gia's mountain pines ! XVI. And he, who to the lettered wealth Of ages adds the lore unpriced, The wisdom and the moral health, The ethics of the school of Christ ; The statesman to his holy trust, As the Athenian archon, just. Struck down, exiled like him for truth alone, Has he not graced my home with beauty all his own? XVII. What greetings smile, what fare- wells wave, What loved ones enter and de- part! The good, the beautiful, the brave, The Heaven-lent treasures of the heart! How conscious seems the frozen sod And beechen slope whereon they trod! The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent friends. THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 265 XVIII. Then ask not why to these bleak hills I cling, as clings the tufted moss, To bear the winter's lingering chills. The mocking spring's perpetual loss. I dream of lands where summer smiles, And soft winds blow from spicy isles, But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be sweet, Could I not feel thy soil, New Eng- land, at my feet ! XIX. At times I long for gentler skies, And bathe in dreams of softer air, But homesick tears would fill the eyes That saw the Cross without the Bear. The pine must whisper to the palm, The north-wind break the tropic calm ; And with the dreamy languor of the Line, The North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join. xx. Better to stem with heart and hand The roaring tide of life, than lie. Unmindful, on its flowery strand, Of God's occasions drifting by ! Better with naked nerve to bear The needles of this goading air, Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know. XXI. Home of my heart ! to me more fair Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls, The painted, shingly town-house where The freeman's vote for Freedom falls! The simple roof where prayer is made, Than Gothic groin and colonnade ; The living temple of the heart of man, Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan! xxn. More dear thy equal village schools, Where rich and poor the Bible read, Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules, And Learning wears the chains of Creed ; Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in The scattered sheaves of home and kin, Than the mad license following Len- ten pains, Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains. XXIII. And sweet homes nestle in these dales, And perch along these wooded swells ; And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, They hear the sound of Sabbath bells! Here dwells no perfect man sub- lime, Nor woman winged before her time, But with the faults and follies of th^ race, Old home-bred virtues held their not unhonored place. 266 LATER POEMS. XXIV. Here manhood struggles for the sake Of mother, sister, daughter, wife, The graces and the loves which make The music of the march of life ; And woman, in her daily round Of duty, walks on holy ground. No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here Is the bad lesson learned it human rights to sneer. XXV. Then let the icy north-wind blow The trumpets of the coming storm, To arrowy sleet and blinding snow Yon slanting lines of rain trans- form. Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, As gayly as I did of old ; And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again. XXVI. And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine ; Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star! XXVII. I have not seen, I may not see, My hopes for man take form in fact, But God will give the victory In due time ; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure, The baffling present may endure, And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halt- ing step of deeds. XXVIII. And thou, my song, I send thee forth, Where harsher songs of mine have flown ; Go, find a place at home and hearth Where'er thy singer's name is known ; Revive for him the kindly thought Of friends ; and they who love him not, Touched by some strain of thine, per- chance may take The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake. THE MAYFLOWERS. The trailing arbutus, or mayfiower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter. SAD Mayflower! watched by winter stars, And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars, And leaves of frozen sails ! What had she in those dreary hours, Within her ice-rimmed bay. In common with the wild-wood flowers, The first sweet smiles of May? Yet, God be praised!" the 'Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, " Behold our Mayflower here ! " BURIAL OF BARBOUR, 267 " God wills it : here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er, For us the Mayflower of the sea, Shall spread her sails no more. 1 ' O sacred flowers of faith and hope, As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, In many a pine-dark glen. Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Unchanged, your leaves unfold, Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old. So live the fathers in their sons, Their sturdy faith be ours, And ours the love that overruns Its rocky strength with flowers. The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day Its shadow round us draws ; The Mayflower of his stormy bay, Our Freedom's struggling cause. But warmer suns erelong shall bring To life the frozen sod ; And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring Afresh the flowers of God! BURIAL OF BARBOUR. 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, W T hat 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 ; 268 LATER POEMS. 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 ; And let martyr mound and tree Be our pledge and guaranty Of the freedom of the West! 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. \Qth mo., 1856. 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 '11 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 barrled wing, THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND. 269 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! 1856. THE CONQUEST OF FIN- LAND. 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 main-land 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 ! ' 270 LATER POEMS. " 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! " A LAY OF OLD TIME. WRITTEN FOR THE ESSEX COUNTY AGRICULTURAL FAIR. ONE morning of the first sad Fall, Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall But on the outer side. She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit For the chaste garb of old ; He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit For Eden's drupes of gold. Behind them, smiling in the morn, Their forfeit garden lay, Before them, wild with rock and thorn, The desert stretched away. They heard the air above them fanned, A light step on the sward, And lo ! they saw before them stand The angel of the Lord ! "Arise," he said, "why look behind, When hope is all before, And patient hand and willing mind, Your loss may yet restore ? " I leave with you a spell whose power Can make the desert glad, And call around you fruit and flower As fair as Eden had. " I clothe your hands with power to lift The curse from off your soil ; Your very doom shall seem a gift, Your loss a gain through Toil. " Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, To labor as to play." White glimmering over Eden's trees The angel passed away. The pilgrims of the world went forth Obedient to the word, And found where'er they tilled the earth A garden of the Lord ! The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit And blushed with plum and pear, And seeded grass and trodden root Grew sweet beneath their care. We share our primal parents 1 fate, And in our turn and clay, Look back on Eden's sworded gate As sad and lost as they. But still for us his native skies The pitying Angel leaves, And leads through Toil to Paradise New Adams and new Eves ! WHAT OF THE DAY? A SOUND of tumult troubles all the air, Like the low thunders of a sultry sky Far-rolling ere the downright light- nings 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, THE FIRST FLOWERS. 271 Dusk with the wings of eagles wheeling o'er. Day of the Lord, of darkness and not light! It breaks in thunder and the whirl- wind's roar! Even so, Father! Let thy will be done, Turn and o'erturn, end what thou hast begun In judgment or in mercy : as for me, If but the least and frailest, let me be Ever more numbered with the truly free Who find thy service perfect liberty! I fain would thank Thee that my mor- tal life Has reached the hour (albeit through care and pain) When Good and Evil, as for final strife, Close dim and vast on Armaged- don's plain ; And Michael and his angels once again Drive howling back the Spirits of the Night. O 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 thy thunder, heaped with chaffless grain ! 1857- THE FIRST FLOWERS. FOR ages on our river borders, These tassels in their tawny bloom, And willowy studs of downy silver, Have prophesied of Spring to come. For ages have the unbound waters Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, And the clear carol of the robin And song of bluebird welcomed them. But never yet from smiling river, Or song of early bird, have they Been greeted with a gladder welcome Than whispers from my heart to- day They break the spell of cold and darkness, The weary watch of sleepless pain ; And from my heart, as from the river, The ice of winter melts again. Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token Of Freya's footsteps drawing near ; Almost, as in the rune of Asgard, The growing of the grass 1 hear. It is as if the pine-trees called me From ceiled room and silent books, To see the dance of woodland shad- ows, And hear the song of April brooks ! As in the old Teutonic ballad Live singing bird and flowering tree, Together live in bloom and music, I blend in song thy flowers and thee. Earth's rocky tablets bear forever The dint of rain and small bird's track : Who knows but that my idle verses May leave some trace by Merrimack ! The bird that trod the mellow layers Of the young earth is sought in vain ; The cloud is gone that wove the sand- stone, From God's design, with threads of rain ! 2 7 2 LATER POEMS. So, when this fluid age we live in Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme, Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle The savans of the coming time : And, following out their dim sugges- tions, Some idly-curious hand may draw My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier Drew fish and bird from fin and claw. And maidens in the far-off twilights, Singing my words to breeze and stream, Shall wonder if the old-time Mary Were real, or the rhymer's dream ! 1st $d mo., 1857. MY NAMESAKE. You scarcely need my tardy thanks, Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend A green leaf on your own Green Banks The memory of your friend. For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides The sobered brow and lessening hair: For aught I know, the myrtled sides Of Helicon are bare. Their scallop-shells so many bring The fabled founts of song to try, They Ve drained, for aught I know, the spring Of Aganippe dry. Ah well! The wreath the Muses braid Proves often Folly's cap and bell ; Methinks, my ample beaver's shade May serve my turn as well. Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt Be paid by those I love in life. Why should the unborn critic whet For me his scalping-knife ? Why should the stranger peer and pry One's vacant house of life about, And drag for curious ear and eye His faults and follies out? Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon, With chaff of words, the garb he wore, As corn-husks when the ear is gone Are rustled all the more? Let kindly Silence close again, The picture vanish from the eye, And on the dim and misty main Let the small ripple die. Yet not the less I own your claim To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine. Hang, if it please you so, my name Upon your household line. Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide Her chosen names, I envy none : A mother's love, a father's pride, Shall keep alive my own! Still shall that name as now recall The young leaf wet with morning dew, The glory where the sunbeams fall The breezy woodlands through. That name shall be a household word, A spell to waken smile or sigh ; In many an evening prayer be heard And cradle lullaby. And thou, dear child, in riper days When asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer : " One 't were vain to praise Or censure bore the same. MY NAMESAKE. 273 " Some blamed him, some believed him good, The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two, He reconciled as best he could Old faith and fancies new. " In him the grave and playful mixed, And wisdom held with folly truce, And Nature compromised betwixt Good fellow and recluse. " He loved his friends, forgave his foes ; And, if his words were harsh at times, He spared his fellow-men, his blows Fell only on their crimes. " He loved the good and wise, but found His human heart to all akin Who met him on the common ground Of suffering and of sin. " Whate'er his neighbors might endure Of pain or grief his own became ; For all the ills he could not cure He held himself to blame. " His good was mainly an intent, His evil not of forethought done ; The work he wrought was rarely meant Or finished as begun. " 111 served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common mills of use ; And, over restless wings of song, His birthright garb hung loose! " His eye was beauty's powerless slave. And his the ear which discord pains : Few guessed beneath his aspect grave What passions strove in chains. " He had his share of care and pain, No holiday was life to him ; Still in the heirloom cup we drain The bitter drop will swim. "Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird And there a flower beguiled his way; And, cool, in summer noons, he heard The fountains plash and play. " On all his sad or restless moods The patient peace of Nature stole ; The quiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul. " He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish days, And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, He loved the good old ways. " The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech, The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach. " The cant of party, school, and sect, Provoked at times his honest scorn, And Folly, in its gray respect, He tossed on satire's horn. " But still his heart was full of awe And reverence for all sacred things ; And, brooding over form and law, He saw the Spirit's wings! " Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud ; He heard far voices mock his own, The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, Long roll of waves unknown. "The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness ; priest and sage, Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age. "Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell. 274 LATER POEMS. " So, scattering flowers with pious pains On old beliefs, of later creeds, Which claimed a place in Truth's domains, He asked the title-deeds. " He saw the old-time's groves and shrines In the long distance fair and dim ; And heard, like sound of far-off pines, The century-mellowed hymn! "He dared not mock the Dervish whirl, The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell ; God knew the heart : Devotion's pearl Might sanctify the shell. " While others trod the altar stairs He faltered like the publican ; And, while they praised as saints, his prayers Were those of sinful man. " For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law, The trembling faith alone sufficed, That, through its cloud and flame, he saw The sweet, sad face of Christ! "And listening, with his forehead bowed, Heard the Divine compassion fill The pauses of the trump and cloud With whispers small and still. "The words he spake, the thoughts he penned, Are mortal as his hand and brain, But, if they served the Master's end, He has not lived in vain !" Heaven make thee better than thy name, Child of my friends ! For thee I crave What riches never bought, nor fame To mortal longing gave. I pray the prayer of Plato old : God make thee beautiful within, And let thine eyes the good behold In everything save sin! Imagination held in check To serve not rule thy poise'd mind ; Thy Reason, at the frown or beck Of Conscience, loose or bind. No dreamer thou, but real all, Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth ; Life made by duty epical And rhythmic with the truth. So shall that life the fruitage yield Which trees of healing only give, And green-leafed in the Eternal field Of God, forever live! THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 275 HOME BALLADS, 1860. I CALL the old time back : I bring these lays To thee, in memory of the summer days When, by our native streams and forest ways, We dreamed them over ; while the rivulets made Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid On warm noon-lights the masses of their shade. And she was with us, living o'er again Her life in ours, despite of years and pain, The autumn's brightness after latter rain. Beautiful in her holy peace as one Who stands, at evening, when the work is done, Glorified in the setting of the sun ! Her memory makes our common landscape seem Fairer than any of which painters dream, Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream ; For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told, And loved with us the beautiful and old. THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. IT was the pleasant harvest time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load, And the old swallow-haunted barns Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams, And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, From their low scaffolds to their On Esek Harden's oaken floor, With many an autumn threshing worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. And thither came young men and maids, Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago. They took their places ; some by chance, And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guicled to their choice. 2 7 6 HOME BALLADS. How pleasantly the rising moon, Between the shadows of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! On sturdy boyhood sun-embrowned, On girlhood with its solid curves Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! And jests went round, and laughs that made The house-dog answer with his howl. And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; And quaint old songs their fathers sung, In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their shores ; And tales, whose merry license shook The fat sides of the Saxon thane, Forgetful of the hovering Dane! But still the sweetest voice was mute That river-valley ever heard From lip of maid or throat of bird ; For Mabel Martin sat apart. And let the hay-mow's shadow fall Upon the loveliest face of all. She sat apart, as one forbid, Who knew that none would con- descend To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. The seasons scarce had gone their round, Since curious thousands thronged to see Her mother on the gallows-tree ; And mocked the palsied limbs of age, That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! Few questioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die, Dreamed of the daughter's agony. They went up to their homes that day, As men and Christians justified : God willed it, and the wretch had died! Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies, Forgive the blindness that denies! Forgive thy creature when he takes, For the all-perfect love thou art, Some grim creation of his heart. Cast down our idols, overturn Our bloody altars ; let us see Thyself in thy humanity! Poor Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, And wrestled with her fate alone ; With love, and anger, and despair, The phantoms of disordered sense, The awful doubts of Providence! The school-boys jeered her as they passed, And. when she sought the house of prayer, Her mother's curse pursued her there. And still o'er many a neighboring door She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, To guard against her mother's harm ; That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, Who daily, by the old arm-chair, Folded her withered hands in prayer ; THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 277 Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, When her dim eyes could read no more ! Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept Her faith, and trusted that her way, So dark, would somewhere meet the day. And still her weary wheel went round Day after day, with no relief; Small leisure have the poor for grief. So in the shadow Mabel sits ; Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears. But cruel eyes have found her out, And cruel lips repeat her name, And taunt her with her mother's shame. She answered not with railing words, But drew*her apron o'er her face, And, sobbing, glided from the place. And only pausing at the door, Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one who, in her better days, Had been her warm and steady friend, Ere yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid. He felt that mute appeal of tears, And, starting, with an angry frown Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. " Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, " This passes harmless mirth or jest ; I brook no insult to my guest. " She is indeed her mother's child ; But God's sweet pity ministers Unto no whiter soul than hers. " Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; I never knew her harm a fly, And witch or not, God knows, not I. " I know who swore her life away ; And, as God lives, I 'd not con- demn An Indian dog on word of them." The broadest lands in all the town, The skill to guide, the power to awe, Were Harden's ; and his word was law. . None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside : " The little witch is evil-eyed ! " Her mother only killed a cow, Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; But she, forsooth, must charm a man ! " Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, Sat by the window's narrow pane, White in the moonlight's silver rain. The river, on its pebbled rim, Made music such as childhood knew ; The door-yard tree was whispered through By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago; And through the willow-boughs below She saw the rippled waters shine ; Beyond, in waves of shade and light The hills rolled off into the night. 2 7 8 HOME BALLADS. Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so The sadness of her human lot, She saw and heard, but heeded not. She strove to drown her sense of wrong, And, in her old and simple way, To teach her bitter heart to pray. Poor child ! the prayer, begun in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery : " Let me die ! " Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach ! " I dare not breathe my mother's name : A daughter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave ! " Let me not live until my heart. With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone. "O God! have mercy on thy child, Whose faith in thee grows weak and small, And take me ere I lose it all ! " A shadow on the moonlight fell, And murmuring wind and wave be- came A voice whose burden was her name. Had then God heard her? Had he sent His angel down? In flesh and blood, Before her Esek Harden stood! He laid his hand upon her arm : " Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. " You know rough Esek Harden well ; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is touched with gray, "The maiden grown shall never find His heart less warm than when she smiled, Upon his knees, a little child ! " Her tears of grief were tears of joy? As, folded in his strong embrace, She looked in Esek Harden's face. " O truest friend of all ! " she said, " God bless you for your kindly thought, And make me worthy of my lot! " He led her through his dewy fields, To where the swinging lanterns glowed, And through the doors the buskers showed. " Good friends and neighbors ! " Esek said, " I 'in weary of this lonely life ; In Mabel see my chosen wife! " She greets you kindly, one and all ; The past is past, and all offence Falls harmless from her innocence. " Henceforth she stands no more alone ; You know what Esek Harden is : He brooks no wrong to him or his." Now let the merriest tales be told, And let the sweetest songs be sung That ever made the old heart young! For now the lost has found a home ; And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, As all the household joys return ! THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN. 279 O, pleasantly the harvest-moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! On Mabel's curls of golden hair, On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; And the wind whispered, " It is well ! " THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN. FROM the hills of home forth looking, far beneath the tent-like span Of the sky, I see the white gleam of the headland of Cape Ann. Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tide glimmering down, And the white-walled hamlet children of its ancient fishing-town. Long has passed the summer morning, and its memory waxes old, When along yon breezy headlands with a pleasant friend I strolled. Ah ! the autumn sun is shining, and the ocean wind blows cool, And the golden-rod and aster bloom around thy grave, Rantoul! With the memory of that morning by the summer sea I blend A wild and wondrous story, by the younger Mather penned, In that quaint Magnalia Christi, with all strange and marvellous things, Heaped up huge and undigested, like the chaos Ovid sings. Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of the dual life of old, Inward, grand with awe and reverence ; outward, mean and coarse and cold ; Gleams of mystic beauty playing over dull and vulgar clay, Golden threads of romance weaving in a web of hodden gray. The great eventful Present hides the Past ; but through the din Of its loud life hints and echoes from the life behind steal in ; And the lore of home and fireside, and the legendary rhyme, Make the task of duty lighter which the true man owes his time. So, with something of the feeling which the Covenanter knew, When with pious chisel wandering Scotland's moorland graveyards through, From the graves of old traditions I part the blackberry-vines, Wipe the moss from off the headstones, and retouch the faded lines. Where the sea-waves back and forward, hoarse with rolling pebbles, ran, The garrison-house stood watching on the gray rocks of Cape Ann ; On its windy site uplifting gabled roof and palisade, And rough walls of unhewn timber with the moonlight overlaid. On his slow round walked the sentry, south and eastward looking forth O'er a rude and broken coast-line, white with breakers stretching north, Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, jagged capes, with bush and tree, Leaning inland from the smiting of the wild and gusty sea. 280 HOME BALLADS. Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly lit by dying brands, Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their muskets in their hands ; On the rough-hewn oaken table the venison haunch was shared, And the pewter tankard circled slowly round from beard to beard. Long they sat and talked together, talked of wizards Satan-sold ; . Of all ghostly sights and noises, signs and wonders manifold; Of the spectre-ship of Salem, with the dead men in her shrouds, Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom of morning clouds ; Of the marvellous valley hidden in the depths of Gloucester woods, Full of plants that love the summer, blooms of warmer latitudes ; Where the Arctic birch is braided by the tropic's flowery vines, And the white magnolia-blossoms star the twilight of the pines ! But their voices sank yet lower, sank to husky tones of fear, As they spake of present tokens of the powers of evil near ; Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel and aim of gun; Never yet was ball to slay them in the mould of mortals run! Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp-locks, from the midnight wood they came, Thrice around the block-house marching, met, unharmed, its volleyed flame; Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, sunk in earth or lost in air, All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the moonlit sands lay bare. Midnight came ; from out the forest moved a dusky mass that soon Grew to warriors, plumed and painted, grimly marching in the moon. "Ghosts or witches," said the captain, "thus I foil the Evil One!" And he rammed a silver button, from his doublet, down his gun. Once again the spectral horror moved the guarded wall about ; Once again the levelled muskets through the palisades flashed out, With -that deadly aim the squirrel on his tree-top might not shun, Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with his slant wing to the sun. Like the idle rain of summer sped the harmless shower of lead. With a laugh of fierce derision, once again the phantoms fled ; Once again, without a shadow on the sands the moonlight lay, And the white smoke curling through it drifted slowly down the bay ! " God preserve us! " said the captain ; " never mortal foes were there ; They have vanished with their leader, Prince and Power of the air! Lay aside your useless weapons ; skill and prowess naught avail ; They who do the Devil's service wear their master's coat of mail ! " So the night grew near to cock-crow, when again a warning call Roused the score of weary soldiers watching round the dusky hall : And they looked to flint and priming, and they longed for break of day ; But the captain closed his Bible : " Let us cease from man, and pray ! " THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 281 To the men who went before us, all the unseen powers seemed near, And their steadfast strength of courage struck its roots in holy fear. Every hand forsook the musket, every head was bowed and bare, Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, as the captain led in prayer. Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the spectres round the wall, But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote the ears and hearts of all, Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish ! Never after mortal man Saw the ghostly leaguers marching round the block-house of Cape Ann. So to us who walk in summer through the cool and sea-blown town, From the childhood of its people comes the solemn legend down. Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose moral lives the youth And the fitness and the freshness of an undecaying truth. Soon or late to all our dwellings come the spectres of the mind, Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in the darkness undefined ; Round us throng the grim projections of the heart and of the brain, And our pride of strength is weakness, and the cunning hand is vain. In the dark we cry like children ; and no answer from on high Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no white wings downward fly; But the heavenly help we pray for comes to faith, and not to sight, And our prayers themselves drive backward all the spirits of the night! THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 1697. UP and down the village streets Strange are the forms my fancy meets, For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, And through the veil of a closed lid The ancient worthies I see again : I hear the tap of the elder's cane, And his awful periwig I see, And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, His black cap hiding his whitened hair, Walks the Judge of the great Assize, Samuel Sewall the good and wise. His face with lines of firmness wrought, He wears the look of a man unbought, Who swears to his hurt and changes not ; Yet, touched and softened nevertheless With the grace of Christian gentleness, The face that a child would climb to kiss! True and tender and brave and just, That man might honor and woman trust. Touching and sad, a tale is told, Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, Of the fast which the good man life- long kept With a haunting sorrow that never slept, As the circling year brought round the time Of an error that left the sting of crime, When he sat on the bench of the witchcraft courts, 282 HOME BALLADS. With the laws of Moses and Kale's Reports, And spake, in the name of both, the word That gave the witch's neck to the cord, And piled the oaken planks that pressed The feeble life from the warlock's breast ! All the day long, from dawn to dawn, His door was bolted, his curtain drawn ; No foot on his silent threshold trod, No eye looked on him save that of God, As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms, And, with precious proofs from the sacred word Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, His faith confirmed and his trust re- newed That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, Might be washed away in the mingled flood Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood ! Green forever the memory be Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, Whom even his errors glorified, Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! Honor and praise to the Puritan Who the halting step of his age out- ran, And, seeing the infinite worth of man In the priceless gift the Father gave, In the infinite love that stooped to save, Dared not brand his brother a slave! "Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, In his own quaint, picture-loving way, " Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade Which God shall cast down upon his head!" Widely as heaven and hell, contrast That brave old jurist of the past And the cunning trickster and knave of courts Who the holy features of Truth dis- torts, Ruling as right the will of the strong, Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong ; Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek ; Scoffing aside at party's nod Order of nature and law of God ; For whose dabbled ermine respect were waste, Reverence folly, and awe misplaced ; Justice of whom 't were vain to seek As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik! O, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins ; Let him rot in the web of lies he spins ! To the saintly soul of the early day, To the Christian judge, let us turn and say : " Praise and thanks for an honest man! Glory to God for the Puritan!" I see, far southward, this quiet day, The hills of Newbury rolling away, With the many tints of the season g a 7 Dreamily blending in autumn mist Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned, Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, A stone's toss over the narrow sound. Inland, as far as the eye can go, The hills curve round like a bended bow; A silver arrow from out them sprung, I see the shine of the Quasycung ; THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 283 And, round and round, over valley and hill, Old roads winding, as old roads will, Here to a ferry, and there to a mill ; And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves, Through green elm arches and maple leaves, Old homesteads sacred to all that can Gladden or sadden the heart of man, Over whose thresholds of oak and stone Life and Death have come and gone! There pictured tiles in the fireplace show, Great beams sag from the ceiling low, The dresser glitters with polished wares, The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, And the low, broad chimney shows the crack By the earthquake made a century back. Up from their midst springs the vil- lage spire With the crest of its cock in the sun afire ; Beyond are orchards and planting lands, And great salt marshes and glimmer- ing sands, And, where north and south the coast- lines run, The blink of the sea in breeze and sun ! I see it all like a chart unrolled, Bat my thoughts are full of the past and old, I hear the tales of my boyhood told ; And the shadows and shapes of early days Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, With measured movement and rhyth- mic chime Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. I think of the old man wise and good Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, A poet who never measured rhyme, seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, With his boyhood's love, on his native town, Where, written, as if on its hills and plains, His burden of prophecy yet remains, For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind To read in the ear of the musing mind : " As long as Plum Island, to guard the coast As God appointed, shall keep its post; As long as a salmon shall haunt the deep Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap ; As long as pickerel swift and slim, Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim ; As long as the annual sea-fowl know Their time to come and their time to As long as cattle shall roam at will The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill; As long as sheep shall look from the side Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, And Parker River, and salt-sea tide ; As long as a wandering pigeon shall search The fields below from his white-oak perch, When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn, And the dry husks fall from the stand- ing corn ; As long as Nature shall not grow old, Nor drop her work from her doting hold, And her care for the Indian corn for- get, 28 4 HOME BALLADS. And the yellow rows in pairs to set; So long shall Christians here be born, Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn ! By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost Shall never a holy ear be lost, But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, Be sown again in the fields of light ! " The Island still is purple with plums, Up the river the salmon comes, The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds On hillside berries and marish seeds, All the beautiful signs remain, From spring-time sowing to autumn rain The, good man's vision returns again! And let us hope, as well we can, That the Silent Angel who garners man May find some grain as of old he found In the human cornfield ripe and sound, And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own The precious seed by the fathers sown! SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. OF all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human hack, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and rufHed in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill re- frain : " Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherrd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish- horns' twang, Over and over the Maenads sang : " Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! " Small pity for him ! He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,- Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own townVpeople on her deck! " Lay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. Back he answered, " Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again ! " And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, TELLING THE BEES. 285 Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, Looked for the coming that might not be! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side. Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist,' and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : "Here's 'Find Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an 1 futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim. Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near : " Here 's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead ! " " Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, < k What to me is this noisy ride ? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! Hate me and curse me, I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, " God has touched him ! why should we ? " Said an old wife mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether and let him run! 1 ' So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! TELLING THE BEES. HERE is the place ; right over the hill Runs the path I took ; You can see the gap in the old wall still. And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red- barred, And the poplars tall ; 286 HOME BALLADS. And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow ; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze ; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed, To love, a year ; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well- sweep near. I can see it all now, the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window- pane, The bloom of her roses under the Just the same as a month before, The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, Nothing changed but the hives of bees. Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. Trembling, I listened : the summer sun Had the chill of snow ; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go ! Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day : Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low ; on the door- way sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat ; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on : " Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" THE SYCAMORES. IN the outskirts of the village, On the river's winding shores, Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores. One long century hath been numbered, And another half-way told, THE SYCAMORES. 287 Since the rustic Irish gleeman Broke for them the virgin mould. Deftly set to Celtic music, At his violin's sound they grew, Through the moonlit eves of summer, Making Amphion's fable true. Rise again, thou poor Hugh Tallant ! Pass in jerkin green along, With thy eyes brimful of laughter, And thy mouth as full of song. Pioneer of Erin's outcasts, With his fiddle and his pack ; Little dreamed the village Saxons Of the myriads at his back. How he wrought with spade and fiddle, Delved by day and sang by night, With a hand that never wearied, And a heart forever light, Still the gay tradition mingles With a record grave and drear, Like the rolic air of Cluny, With the solemn march of Mear. When the box-tree, white with blos- soms, Made the sweet May woodlands glad, And the Aronia by the river Lighted up the swarming shad, And the bulging nets swept shore- ward, With their silver-sided haul, Midst the shouts of dripping fishers, He was merriest of them all. When, among the jovial huskers, Love stole in at Labor's side With the lusty airs of England, Soft his Celtic measures vied. Songs of love and wailing lyke-wake, And the merry fair's carouse ; Of the wild Red Fox of Erin And the Woman of Three Cows, By the blazing hearths of winter, Pleasant seemed his simple tales, Midst the grimmer Yorkshire legends And the mountain myths of Wales. How the souls in Purgatory Scrambled up from fate forlorn, On St. Keven's sackcloth ladder, Slyly hitched to Satan's horn. Of the fiddler who at Tara Played all night to ghosts of kings ; Of the brown dwarfs, and the fairies Dancing in their Moorland rings ! Jolliest of our birds of singing, Best he loved the Bob-o-link. " Hush ! " he 'd say, " the tipsy fairies ! Hear the little folks in drink!" Merry-faced, with spade and fiddle, Singing through the ancient town, Only this, of poor Hugh Tallant, Hath Tradition handed down. Not a stone his grave discloses ; But if yet his spirit walks, 'T is beneath the trees he planted, And when Bob-o-Lincoln talks ; Green memorials of the gleeman! Linking still the river-shores, With their shadows cast by sunset, Stand. Hugh Tallant's sycamores! When the Father of his Country Through the north-land riding came, And the roofs were starred with banners, And the steeples rang acclaim, When each war-scarred Continental, Leaving smithy, mill, and farm, Waved his rusted sword in welcome, And shot off his old king's arm, Slowly passed that august Presence Down the thronged and shouting street ; 288 HOME BALLADS. Village girls as white as angels, Scattering flowers around his feet. Midway, where the plane-tree's shadow Deepest fell, his rein he drew ; On his stately head, uncovered. Cool and soft the west-wind blew. And he stood up in his stirrups, Looking up and looking down On the hills of Gold and Silver Rimming round the little town, On the river, full of sunshine, To the lap of greenest vales Winding down from wooded head- lands, Willow-skirted, white with sails. And he said, the landscape sweep- ing Slowly with his ungloved hand, " I have seen no prospect fairer In this goodly Eastern land. " Then the bugles of his escort Stirred to life the cavalcade : And that head, so bare and stately, Vanished down the depths of shade. Ever since, in town and farm-house, Life has had its ebb and flow ; Thrice hath passed the human har- vest To its garner green and low. But the trees the gleeman planted, Through the changes, changeless stand ; As the marble calm of Tadmor Marks the desert's shifting sand. Still the level moon at rising Silvers o'er each stately shaft ; Still beneath them, half in shadow, Singing, glides the pleasure craft. Still beneath them, arm-enfolded, Love and Youth together stray ; While, as heart to heart beats faster, More and more their feet delay. Where the ancient cobbler, Keezar, On the open hillside wrought, Singing, as he drew his stitches, Songs his German masters taught, Singing, with his gray hair floating Round his rosy ample face, Now a thousand Saxon craftsmen Stitch and hammer in his place. All the pastoral lanes so grassy Now are Traffic's dusty streets ; From the village, grown a city, Fast the rural grace retreats. But, still green, and tall, and stately, On the river's winding shores, Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand Hugh Tallant's sycamores. THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY. " Concerning y e Amphisbsena, as soon as I received your commands, I made diligent inquiry: . . . . he assures me yt it had really two heads, one at each end ; two mouths, two stings or tongues." REV. CHRISTO- PHER TOPPAN to COTTON MATHER. FAR away in the twilight time Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, Born of water, and air, and fire, Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, Through dusk tradition and ballad age. So from the childhood of Newbury town And its time of fable the tale comes down THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF NEWBURY. 289 Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake! Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, Consider that strip of Christian earth On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, Full of terror and mystery, Half-redeemed from the evil hold Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old, Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew When Time was young, and the world was new, And wove its shadows with sun and moon, Ere the stones of Cheops were squared and hewn. Think of the sea's dread monotone, Of the mournful wail from the pine- wood blown, Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the North, Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth, And the dismal tales the Indian told, Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew cold. And he shrank from the tawny wizard's boasts, And the hovering shadows seemed full of ghosts, And above, below, and on every side, The fear of his creed seemed veri- fied ;- And think, if his lot were now thine own, To grope with terrors nor named nor known, How laxer muscle and weaker nerve And a feebler faith thy need might serve ; And own to thyself the wonder more That the snake had two heads, and not a score ! Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's Den, Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, Or coiled by the Northman's Written Rock, Nothing on record is left to show ; Only the fact that he lived, we know, And left the cast of a double head In the scaly mask which he yearly shed. For he carried a head where his tail should be, And the two, of course, could never agree, But wriggled about with main and might, Now to the left and now to the right ; Pulling and twisting this way and that, Neither knew what the other was at. A snake with two heads, lurking so near ! Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear! Think what ancient gossips might say, Shaking their heads in their dreary way, Between the meetings on Sabbath- day! How urchins, searching at day's de- cline The Common Pasture for sheep or kine, The terrible double-ganger heard In leafy rustle or whir of bird ! Think what a zest it gave to the sport, In berry-time, of the younger sort, As over pastures blackberry-twined, Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind, And closer and closer, for fear of harm, The maiden clung to her lover's arm ; And how the spark, who was forced to stay, By his sweetheart's fears, till the break of day, Thanked the snake for the fond delay! Far and wide the tale was told, Like a snowball growing while it rolled. 290 HOME BALLADS. The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; And it served, in the worthy minister's eye, To paint the primitive serpent by. Cotton Mather came galloping down All the way to Newbury town, With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; Stirring the while in the shallow pool Of his brains for the lore he learned at school, To garnish the story, with here a streak Of Latin, and there another of Greek : And the tales he heard and the notes he took, Behold ! are they not in his Wonder- Book? Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. If the snake does not, the tale runs still In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. And still, whenever husband and wife Publish the shame of their daily strife, And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and strain At either end of the marriage-chain, The gossips say, with a knowing shake Of their gray heads, " Look at the Double Snake! One in body and two in will, The Amphisbaena is living still ! " THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY. WHEN the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late, Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife and children eight, Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop " Watch and Wait." Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer-morn, With the newly planted orchards drc And the homesteads like green islan With the newly planted orchards dropping their fruits first-born, lands amid a sea of corn. Broad meadows reached out seaward the tided creeks between, And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks and walnuts green ; A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eyes had never seen. Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led, And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the living bread To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of Marblehead. All day they sailed : at nightfall the pleasant land-breeze died, The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lights denied, And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied ! Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock, and wood, and sand ; Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the rudder in his hand, And questioned of the darkness what was sea and what was land. And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round him, weeping sore : "Never heed, my little children! Christ is walking on before To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shall be no more." THE TRUCE OF PlSCATAQUA. 291 All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain drawn aside, To let down the torch of lightning on the terror far and wide ; And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote the tide. There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail and man's despair, A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp and bare, And, through it all, the murmur of Father Averts prayer. From his struggle in the darkness with the wild waves and the blast, On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it passed, Alone, of all his household, the man of God was cast. There a comrade heard him praying, in the pause of wave and wind : " All my own have gone before me, and I linger just behind ; Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ransomed find! " In this night of death I challenge the promise of thy word! Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears have heard! Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the grace of Christ, our Lord! " In the baptism of these waters wash white my every sin, And let me follow up to thee my household and my kin! Open the sea-gate of thy heaven, and let me enter in! " When the Christian sings his death-song, all the listening heavens draw near, And the angels, leaning over the walls of crystal, hear How the notes so faint and broken swell to music in God's ear. The ear of God was open to his servant's last request ; As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet hymn upward pressed, And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, to its rest. There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocks of Marblehead ; In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of prayer were read; And long, by board and hearthstone, the living mourned the dead. And still the fishers outbound, or scudding from the squall, With grave and reverent faces, the ancient tale recall, When they see the white waves breaking on the Rock of Avery's Fall! THE TRUCE OF PlSCATAQUA. 1675. RAZE these long blocks of brick and stone, These huge mill-monsters overgrown ; Blot out the humbler piles as well, Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell The weaving genii of the bell ; Tear from the wild Cocheco's track The dams that hold its torrents back ; And let the loud-rejoicing fall Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall; And let the Indian's paddle play 292 HOME BALLADS. On the unbridged Piscataqua! Wide over hill and valley spread Once more the forest, dusk and dread, With here and there a clearing cut From the walled shadows round it shut ; Each with its farm-house builded rude, By English yeoman squared and hewed, And the grim, flankered block-house bound With bristling palisades around. So, haply, shall before thine eyes The dusty veil of centuries rise, The old, strange scenery overlay The tamer pictures of to-day, While, like the actors in a play, Pass in their ancient guise along ' The figures of my border song : What time beside Cocheco's flood The white man and the red man stood. With words of peace and brother- hood ; When passed the sacred calumet From lip to lip with fire-draught wet, And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke Through the gray beard of Waldron broke, And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea For mercy, struck the haughty key Of one who held, in any fate, His native pride inviolate! " Let your ears be opened wide ! He who speaks has never lied. Waldron of Piscataqua, Hear what Squando has to say! " Squando shuts his eyes and sees, Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees. In his wigwam, still as stone, Sits a woman all alone, " Wampum beads and birchen strands Dropping from her careless hands, Listening ever for the fleet Patter of a dead child's feet ! " When the moon a year ago Told the flowers the time to blow, In that lonely wigwam smiled Menewee, our little child. " Ere that moon grew thin and old, He was lying still and cold ; Sent before us, weak and small, When the Master did not call! "On his little grave I lay ; Three times went and came the day; Thrice above me blazed the noon, Thrice upon me wept the moon. " In the third night-watch I heard, Far and low, a spirit-bird ; Very mournful, very wild. Sang the totem of my child. " ' Menewee, poor Menewee, Walks a path he cannot see : Let the white man's wigwam light With its blaze his steps aright. " ( All un-called, he dares not show Empty hands to Manito : Better gifts he cannot bear Than the scalps his slayers wear.' " All the while the totem sang, Lightning blazed and thunder rang ; And a black cloud, reaching high, Pulled the white moon from the sky. " I, the medicine-man, whose ear All that spirits hear can hear, I, whose eyes are wide to see All the things that are to be, " Well I knew the dreadful signs In the whispers of the pines, In the river roaring loud, In the mutter of the cloud. " At the breaking of the day, From the grave 1 passed away ; THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA. 293 Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad. But my heart was hot and mad. " There is rust on Squando's knife, From the warm, red springs of life ; On the funeral hemlock-trees Many a scalp the totem sees. " Blood for blood! But evermore Squando's heart is sad and sore ; And his poor squaw waits at home For the feet that never come! "Waldron of Cocheco, hear! Squando speaks, who laughs at fear ; Take the captives he has ta'en ; Let the land have peace again!" As the words died on his tongue, Wide apart his warriors swung ; Parted, at the sign he gave, Right and left, like Egypt's wave. And, like Israel passing free Through the prophet-charmed sea, Captive mother, wife, and child Through the dusky terror filed. One alone, a little maid, Middleway her steps delayed, Glancing, with quick, troubled sight, Round about from red to white. Then his hand the Indian laid On the little maiden's head, Lightly from her forehead fair Smoothing back her yellow hair. " Gift or favor ask I none ; What I have is all my own : Never yet the birds have sung. i Squando hath a beggar's tongue.' " Yet for her who waits at home, For the dead who cannot come, Let the little Gold-hair be In the place of Menewee! " Mishanock, my little star! Come to Saco's pines afar ; Where the sad one waits at home 1 , Wequashim, my moonlight, come ! " "What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child Christian-born to heathens wild? As God lives, from Satan's hand I will pluck her as a brand! " "Hear me, white man!" Squando cried ; " Let the little one decide. Wequashim, my moonlight, say, Wilt thou go with me, or stay?" Slowly, sadly, half afraid, Half regretfully, the maid Owned the ties of blood and race, Turned from Squando's pleading face. Not a word the Indian spoke, But his wampum chain he broke, And the beaded wonder hung On that neck so fair and young. Silence-shod, as phantoms seem In the marches of a dream, Single-filed, the grim array Through the pine-trees wound away. Doubting, trembling, sore amazed, Through her tears the young child gazed. " God preserve her! " Waldron said ; " Satan hath bewitched the maid ! " Years went and came. At close of day Singing came a child from play, Tossing from her loose-locked head Gold in sunshine, brown in shade. Pride was in the mother's look, But her head she gravely shook, And with lips that fondly smiled Feigned to chide her truant child. 294 HOME BALLADS. Unabashed, the maid began : " Up and down the brook I ran, Where, beneath the bank so steep, Lie the spotted trout asleep. " ' Chip ! ' went squirrel on the wall, After me I heard him call, And the cat-bird on the tree Tried his best to mimic me. " Where the hemlocks grew so dark That I stopped to look and hark, On a log, with feather-hat, By the path, an Indian sat. " Then I cried, and ran away ; But he called, and bade me stay ; And his voice was good and mild As my mother's to her child. " And he took my wampum chain, Looked and looked it o'er again ; Gave me berries, and, beside, On my neck a plaything tied." Straight the mother stooped to see What the Indian's gift might be. On the braid of Wampum hung, Lo ! a cross of silver swung. Well she knew its graven sign, Squando's bird and totem pine ; And, a mirage of the brain, Flowed her childhood back again. Flashed the roof the sunshine through, Into space the walls outgrew; On the Indian's wigwam-mat, Blossom-crowned, again she sat. Cool she felt the west-wind blow, In her ear the pines sang low, And, like links from out a chain, Dropped the years of care and pain. From the outward toil and din, From the griefs that gnaw within, To the freedom of the w*oods Called the birds, and winds, and floods. Well, O painful minister! Watch thy flock, but blame not her, If her ear grew sharp to hear All their voices whispering near. Blame her not, as to her soul All the desert's glamour stole, That a tear for childhood's loss Dropped upon the Indian's cross. When, that night, the Book was read, And she bowed her widowed head, And a prayer for each loved name Rose like incense from a flame, To the listening ear of Heaven, Lo! another name was given : kk P^ather, give the Indian rest! Bless him! for his love has blest! " MY PLAYMATE. THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low ; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear ; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine? She left us in the bloom of May The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet morns, But she came back no more. May THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT. 295 I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years ; Still o'er and o 1 er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow ; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown, No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice : Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine? What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers ? O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean. The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow ; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee ! POEMS AND LYRICS. THE SHADOW AND THE LIGHT. " And I sought, whence is Evil : I set be- fore the eye of my spirit the whole creation ; whatsoever we see therein, sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures, yea, whatso- ever there is we do not see, angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almighti- ness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." " And, admon- ished to return to mvself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! O Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love ! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me ! how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest ! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." Augustine's Soliloquies, Book VII. THE fourteen centuries fall away Between us and the Afric saint, 296 POEMS AND LYRICS. And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old com- plaint. No outward sign to us is given, From sea or earth comes no reply ; Hushed as the warm Numidian heaven He vainly questioned bends our frozen sky. No victory comes of all our strife, From all we grasp the meaning slips ; The Sphinx sits at the gate of life. With the old question on her awful lips. In paths unknown w r e hear the feet Of fear before, and guilt behind ; We pluck the wayside fruit, and eat Ashes and dust beneath its golden rind. From age to age descends unchecked The sad bequest of sire to son, The body's taint, the mind's de- fect, Through every web of life the dark threads run. O, why and whither? God knows all; I only know that he is good, And that whatever may befall Or here or there, must be the best that could. Between the dreadful cherubim A Fathers face I still discern, As Moses looked of old on him, And saw his glory into goodness turn! For he is merciful as just ; And so, by faith correcting sight, I bow before his will, and trust Howe'er they seem he doeth all things right. And dare to hope that he will make The rugged smooth, the doubtful plain ; His mercy never quite forsake ; His healing visit every realm of pain ; That suffering is not his revenge Upon his creatures weak and frail, Sent on a path way new and strange With feet that wander and with eyes that fail ; That, o'er the crucible of pain, Watches the tender eye of Love The slow transmuting of the chain Whose links are iron below to gold above ! Ah me! we doubt the shining skies, Seen through our shadows of offence, And drown with our poor childish cries The cradle-hymnof kindly Providence. And still we love the evil cause, And of the just effect complain ; We tread upon life's broken laws, And murmur at our self-inflicted pain ; We turn us from the light, and find Our spectral shapes before us thrown, As they who leave the sun behind Walk in the shadows of themselves alone. And scarce by will or strength of ours We set our faces to the day ; Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal Powers Alone can turn us from ourselves away. Ourweakness is the strength of sin, But love must needs be stronger far, ^ Outreaching all and gathering in The erring spirit and the wandering star. THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. 297 A Voice grows with the growing years ; Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, Looks upward from her graves, and hears, " The Resurrection and the Life ami." O Love Divine! whose constant beam Shines on the eyes that will not see, And waits to bless us, while we dream Thouleavest us because we turn from thee! All souls that struggle and aspire, All hearts of prayer by thee are lit ; And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit. Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st, Wide as our need thy favors fall ; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all. O Beauty, old yet ever new ! Eternal Voice, and Inward Word, The Logos of the Greek and Jew, The old sphere-music which the Samian heard! Truth which the sage and prophet saw, Long sought without, but found within, The Law of Love beyond all law, The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin! Shine on us with the light which glowed Upon the trance-bound shep- herd's way, Who saw the Darkness overflowed And drowned by tides of everlasting Day. Shine, light of God! make broad thy scope To all who sin and suffer ; more And better than we dare to hope With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor! THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. TRITEMIUS OF HERBIPOLIS, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from without a miserable voice, A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. Thereat the Abbot paused ; the chain whereby His thoughts went upward broken by that cry ; And, looking from the casement, saw below A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied. She cried, " For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bond- age save, My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves In the Moor's galley, where the sun- smit waves Lap the white walls of Tunis ! " " What I can I give," Tritemius said : " My prayers." " O man Of God ! " she cried, for grief had made her bold, 298 POEMS AND LYRICS. u Mock me not thus ; I ask not prayers, but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice ; Even while I speak perchance my first- born dies." " Woman ! " Tritemius answered, u from our door None go unfed ; hence are we always poor: A single soldo is our only store. Thou hast our prayers ; what can we give thee more ? " " Give me," she said, " the silver can- dlesticks On either side of the great crucifix. God well may spare them on his errands sped, Or he can give you golden ones in- stead." Then spake Tritemius, " Even as thy word, Woman, so be it ! (Our most gracious Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacri- fice, Pardon me if a human soul I prize Above the gifts upon his altar piled !) Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." But his hand trembled as the holy alms He placed within the beggar's eager palms ; And as she vanished down the linden shade, He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. So the day passed, and when the twi- light came He woke to find the chapel all aflame, And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold Upon the altar candlesticks of gold! 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 THE OVER-HEART. 299 May blast the hope of Freedom's year. O, 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 Aright 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! THE OVER-HEART. " For of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things, to whom be glory for- ever! " PAUL. ABOVE, below, in sky and sod, In leaf and spar, in star and man, Well might the wise Athenian scan The geometric signs of God, The measured order of his plan. And India's mystics sang aright Of the One Life pervading all, One Being's tidal rise and fall In soul and form, in sound and sight, Eternal outflow and recall. God is : and man in guilt and fear The central fact of Nature owns ; Kneels, trembling, by his altar- stones, And darkly dreams the ghastly smear Of blood appeases and atones. Guilt shapes the Terror : deep within The human heart the secret lies 100 POEMS AND LYRICS. Of all the hideous deities ; And, painted on a ground of sin, The fabled gods of torment rise! And what is He? The ripe grain nods, The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers blow; But darker signs his presence show : The earthquake and the storm are God's, And good and evil interflow. O hearts of love! O souls that turn Like sunflowers to the pure and best! To you the truth is manifest : For they the mind of Christ discern Who lean like John upon his breast ! In him of whom the sibyl told, For whom the prophet's harp was toned, Whose need the sage and magian owned, The loving heart of God behold, The hope for which the ages groaned ! Fade, pomp of dreadful imagery Wherewith mankind have deified Their hate, and selfishness, and pride ! Let the scared dreamer wake to see The Christ of Nazareth at his side ! What doth that holy Guide re- quire ? No rite of pain, nor gift of blood, But man a kindly brotherhood, Looking, where duty is desire, To him, the beautiful and good. Gone be the faithlessness of fear, And let the pitying heaven's sweet rain Wash out the altar's bloody stain ; The law of Hatred disappear, The law of Love alone remain. How fall the idols false and grim! - And lo! their hideous wreck above The emblems of the Lamb and Dove! Man turns from God, not God from him; And guilt, in suffering, whispers Love! The world sits at the feet of Christ, Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled ; It yet shall touch his garment's fold, And feel the heavenly Alchemist Transform its very dust to gold. The theme befitting angel tongues Beyond a mortal's scope has grown. O heart of mine ! with reverence own The fulness which to it belongs, And trust the unknown for the known. IN REMEMBRANCE OF JO- SEPH STURGE. IN the fair land o'erwatched by Is- chia's mountains, Across the charmed bay Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver fountains Perpetual holiday, A king lies dead, his wafer duly eaten, His gold-bought masses given ; And Rome's great altar smokes with gums to sweeten Her foulest gift to Heaven. And while all Naples thrills with mute thanksgiving, The court of England's queen IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGE. 301 For the dead monster so abhorred while living In mourning garb is seen. With a true sorrow God rebukes that feigning ; By lone Edgbaston's side Stands a great city -in the sky's sad raining, Bare-headed and wet-eyed ! Silent for once the restless hive of labor, Save the low funeral tread, Or voice of craftsman whispering to his neighbor The good deeds of the dead. For him no minster's chant of the immortals Rose from the lips of sin ; No mitred priest swung back the heavenly portals To let the white soul in. But Age and Sickness framed their tearful faces In the low hovel's door, And prayers went up from all the dark by-places And Ghettos of the poor. The pallid toiler and the negro chattel, The vagrant of the street, The human dice wherewith in games of battle The lords of earth compete, Touched with a grief that needs no outward draping, All swelled the long lament, Of grateful hearts, instead of marble, shaping His viewless monument ! For never yet, with ritual pomp and splendor, In the long heretofore, A heart more loyal, warm, and true, and tender, Has England's turf closed o'er. And if there fell from out her grand old steeples No crash of brazen wail, The murmurous woe of kindreds, tongues, and peoples Swept in on every gale. It came from Holstein's birchen- belted meadows, And from the tropic calms Of Indian islands in the sun-smit shadows Of Occidental palms ; From the locked roadsteads of the Bothnian peasants, And harbors of the Finn, Where war's worn victims saw his gentle presence Come sailing, Christ-like, in, To seek the lost, to build the old waste places, To link the hostile shores Of severing seas, and sow with Eng- land's daisies The moss of Finland's moors. Thanks for the good man's beautiful example, Who in the vilest saw Some sacred crypt or altar of a temple Still vocal with God's law ; And heard with tender ear the spirit sighing As from its prison cell, Praying for pity, like the mournful cry- ing Of Jonah out of hell. Not his the golden pen's or lip's per- suasion, But a fine sense of right, 302 POEMS AND LYRICS. And Truth's directness, meeting each occasion Straight as a line of light. His faith and works, like streams that intermingle, In the same channel ran : The crystal clearness of an eye kept single Shamed all the frauds of man. The very gentlest of all human na- tures He joined to courage strong, And love outreaching unto all God's creatures With sturdy hate of wrong. Tender as woman ; manliness and meekness In him were so allied That they who judged him by his strength or weakness Saw but a single side. Men failed, betrayed him, but his zeal seemed nourished ~&y failure and by fall ; Still a large faith in human-kind he cherished, And in God's love for all. And now he rests : his greatness and his sweetness No more shall seem at strife ; And death has moulded into calm completeness The statue of his life. Where the dews glisten and the song- birds warble, His dust to dust is laid, In Nature's keeping, with no pomp of marble To shame his modest shade. The forges glow, the hammers all are ringing ; Beneath its smoky vale, Hard by, the city of his love is swing- ing Its clamorous iron flail. But round his grave are quietude and beauty, And the sweet heaven above, The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love! TRINITAS. AT morn I prayed, " I fain would see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Read the dark riddle unto me." I wandered forth, the sun and air I saw bestowed with equal care On good and evil, foul and fair. No partial favor dropped the rain ; Alike the righteous and profane Rejoiced above their heading grain. And my heart murmured, " Is it meet That blindfold Nature thus should treat With equal hand the tares and wheat?" A presence melted through my mood, A warmth, a light, a sense of good, Like sunshine through a winter wood. I saw that presence, mailed complete In her white innocence, pause to greet A fallen sister of the street. Upon her bosom snowy pure The lost one clung, as if secure From inward guilt or outward lure. " Beware! " I said ; " in this I see No gain to her, but loss to thee : Who touches pitch defiled must be." THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. 303 I passed the haunts of shame and sin, And a voice whispered, ' Who therein Shall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win? "Who there shall hope and health dispense, And lift the ladder up from thence Whose rounds are prayers of peni- tence?" I said, u No higher life they know ; These earth-worms love to have it so. Who stoops to raise them sinks as low." That night with painful care I read What Hippo's saint and Calvin said, The living seeking to the dead! In vain I turned, in weary quest, Old pages, where (God give them rest!) The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed. And still I prayed, " Lord, let me see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Read the dark riddle unto me! " Then something whispered, " Dost thou pray For what thou hast? This very day The Holy Three have crossed thy way. "Did not the gifts of sun and air To good and ill alike declare The all-compassionate Father's care? " In the white soul that stooped to raise The lost one from her evil ways, Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels praise! u A bodiless Divinity, The still small Voice that spake to thee Was the Holy Spirit's mystery! " O blind of sight, of faith how small! Father, and Son, and Holy Call ; This day thou hast denied them all! " Revealed in love and sacrifice, The Holiest passed before thine eyes, One and the same, in threefold guise. " The equal Father in rain and sun, His Christ in the good to evil done, His Voice in thy soul ; and theThree are One! " I shut my grave Aquinas fast ; The monkish gloss of ages past, The schoolman's creed aside I cast. And my heart answered, " Lord, I see How Three are One, and One is Three ; Thy riddle hath been read to me ! " THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. OUR vales are sweet with fern and rose, Our hills are maple-crowned ; But not from them our fathers chose The village burying-ground. The dreariest spot in all the land To Death they set apart ; With scanty grace from Nature's hand, And none from that of Art. A winding wall of mossy stone, Frost-flung and broken, lines A lonesome acre thinly grown With grass and wandering vines. Without the wall a birch-tree shows Its drooped and tasselled head ; Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, Fern-leafed, with spikes of red. There, sheep that graze the neighbor- ing plain Like white ghosts come and go. The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain, The cow-bell tinkles slow. 304 POEMS AND LYRICS. Low moans the river from its bed, The distant pines reply ; Like mourners shrinking from the dead, They stand apart and sigh. Unshaded smites the summer sun, Unchecked the winter blast ; The school-girl learns the place to shun, With glances backward cast. For thus our fathers testified, That he might read who ran, The emptiness of human pride, The nothingness of man. They dared not plant the grave with flowers, Nor dress the funeral sod, Where, with a love as deep as ours, They left their dead with God. The hard and thorny path they kept From beauty turned aside ; Nor missed they over those who slept The grace to life denied. Yet still the wilding flowers would blow, The golden leaves would fall, The seasons come, the seasons go, And God be good to all. Above the graves the blackberry hung In bloom and green its wreath, And harebells swung as if they rung The chimes of peace beneath. The beauty Nature loves to share, The gifts she hath for all, The common light, the common air, O'ercrept the graveyard's wall. It knew the glow 'of eventide, The sunrise and the noon, And glorified and sanctified It slept beneath the moon. With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod, Around the seasons ran, And evermore the love of God Rebuked the fear of man. We dwell with fears on either hand, Within a daily strife, And spectral problems waiting stand Before the gates of life. The doubts we vainly seek to solve, The truths we know, are one ; The known and nameless stars re- volve Around the Central Sun. And if we reap as we have sown, And take the dole we deal, The law of pain is love alone, The wounding is to heal. Unharmed from change to change we glide, We fall as in our dreams ; The far-off terror at our side A smiling angel seems. Secure on God's all-tender heart Alike rest great and small ; Why fear to lose our little part, When he is pledged for all? O fearful heart and troubled brain ! Take hope and strength from this, That Nature never hints in vain, Nor prophesies amiss. Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave, Her lights and airs are given Alike to playground and the grave ; And over both is Heaven. THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW. PIPES of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills ; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills ! MY PSALM. 305 Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bovver, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain ! Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer, To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear ; Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade ; But the sweetest of all music The Pipes at Lucknow played. Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept ; Round and round the jungle-serpent Near and nearer circles swept. " Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, Pray to-day! " the soldier said ; "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread." O, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair ; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground : "Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound ! " Hushed the wounded man his groan- ing ; Hushed the wife her little ones ; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true ; As her mother's cradle-crooning The mountain pipes she knew. Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call : " Hark ! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all! " O, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last ; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the pipers blast ! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; " God be praised ! the March of Havelock ! The piping of the clans! " Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust-cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew! Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain ; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer, To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade ; But the sweetest of all music The Pipes at Lucknow played! MY PSALM. I MOURN no more my vanished years : Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. POEMS AND LYRICS. The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run ; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear ; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here. I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare ; The manna dropping from God ? s hand Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar ; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn ; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringe'd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong ; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal, To build as to destroy ; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy. All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told ! Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track ; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His back ; chastening turned That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ; That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight ; That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. . And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play ; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. LE MARAIS DU CYGNE. 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 ! ; THE ROCK" IN EL GHOR. 307 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 men 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 ROCK" IN EL GHOR. DEAD Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps, Her stones of emptiness remain ; Around her sculptured mystery sweeps The lonely waste of Edom's plain. From the doomed dwellers in the cleft The bow of vengeance turns not back; Of all her myriads none are left Along the Wady Mousa's track. Clear in the hot Arabian day Her arches spring, her statues climb ; Unchanged, the graven wonders pay No tribute to the spoiler, Time ! Unchanged the awful lithograph Of power and glory undertrod, Of nations scattered like the chaff Blown from the threshing-floor of God. Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turn From Petra ""s gates, with deeper awe 3o8 POEMS AND LYRICS. To mark afar the burial urn Of Aaron on the cliffs of Hor ; And where upon its ancient guard Thy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet, - Looks from its turrets desertward, And keeps the watch that God has set. The same as when in thunders loud It heard the voice of God to man, As when it saw in fire and cloud The angels walk in Israel's van! Or when from Ezion-Geber's way It saw the long procession file, And heard the Hebrew timbrels play The music of the lordly Nile ; Or saw the tabernacle pause, Cloud-bound, by Kadesh Barnea's wells, While Moses graved the sacred laws, And Aaron swung his golden bells. Rock of the desert, prophet-sung ! How grew its shadowing pile at length, A symbol, in the Hebrew tongue, Of God's eternal love and strength. On lip of bard and scroll of seer, From age to age went down the name, Until the Shiloh's promised year, And Christ, the Rock of Ages, came ! The path of life we walk to-day Is strange as that the Hebrews trod ; We need the shadowing rock, as they, We need, like them, the guides of God. God send his angels, Cloud and Fire, To lead us o'er the desert sand ! God give our hearts their long desire, His shadow in a weary land! ON A PRAYER-BOOK, WITH ITS FRONTISPIECE, ARY SCHEF- FER'S " CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR," AMERICANIZED BY THE OMISSION OF THE BLACK MAN. 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 de- vout 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 Thibetan 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 thequaint- carved Gothic door Looks forth, a Church without hu- manity ! Patron of pride, and prejudice, and wrong, ON A PRAYER-BOOK. 39 The rich man's charm and fetish 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 unc- tion 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 Assyri- an'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-smoth- ered, anthem-drowned! O heart of mine, keep patience ! Looking forth, As from the Mount of Vision, I be- hold, 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 fellow- ship ; And over ail the songs of angels hear, Songs of the love that casteth out all fear, Songs of the Gospel of Human- ity! 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 hands and the white, Stands the Consoler, soothing every pain, Making all burdens light, and break- ing every chain. 3io POEMS AND LYRICS. TO J. T. F. ON A BLANK LEAF OF " POEMS PRINTED, NOT PUBLISHED." WELL thought! who would not rather hear The songs to Love and Friendship sung Than those which move the stranger's tongue, And feed his unselected ear? Our social joys are more than fame ; Life withers in the public look. Why mount the pillory of a book, Or barter comfort for a name? Who in a house of glass would dwell, With curious eyes at every pane ? To ring him in and out again, Who wants the public crier's bell? To see the angel in one's way, Who waits to play the ass's part, Bear on his back the wizard Art, And in his service speak or bray? And who his manly locks would shave, And quench the eyes of common sense, To share the noisy recompense That mocked the shorn and blinded slave? The heart has needs beyond the head, And, starving in the plenitude Of strange gifts, craves its common food, Our human nature's daily bread. We are but men : no gods are we, To sit in mid-heaven, cold and bleak, Each separate, on his painful peak, Thin-cloaked in self-complacency! Better his lot whose axe is swung In Wartburg woods, or that poor ghTs Who by the Ilm her spindle whirls And sings the songs that Luther sung, Than his who, old, and cold, and vain, At Weimar sat, a demigod, And bowed with Jove's imperial nod His votaries in and out again! Ply, Vanity, thy winged feet ! Ambition, hew thy rocky stair! Who envies him who feeds on air The icy splendor of his seat? I see your Alps, above me, cut The dark, cold sky ; and dim and lone I see ye sitting, stone on stone, With human senses dulled and shut. I could not reach you, if I would, Nor sit among your cloudy shapes ; And (spare the fable of the grapes And fox) I would not if I could. Keep to your lofty pedestals ! The safer plain below I choose : Who never wins can rarely lose, Who never climbs as rarely falls. Let such as love the eagle's scream Divide with him his home of ice : For me shall gentler notes suffice, The valley-song of bird and stream ; The pastoral bleat, the drone of bees, The flail-beat chiming far away, The cattle-low, at shut of day, The voice of God in leaf and breeze ! Then lend thy hand, my wiser friend, And help me to the vales below, (In truth, I have not far to go,) Where sweet with flowers the fields extend. THE PALM-TREE. Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm? Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm? LINES. A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath, And a rudder of palm it steereth with. Branches of palm are its spars and rails, Fibres of palm are its woven sails. And the rope is of palm that idly trails! What does the good ship bear so well? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell, And the milky sap of its inner cell. What are its jars, so smooth and fine, But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine, And the cabbage that ripens under the Line? Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm ? The master, whose cunning and skill could charm Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm. In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft, From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed, And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft ! His dress is woven of palmy strands, And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands, Traced with the Prophet's wise com- mands ! The turban folded about his head Was daintily wrought of the palm- leaf braid, And the fan that cools him of palm was made. Of threads of palm was the carpet spun Whereon he kneels when the day is done, And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one! To him the palm is a gift divine, Wherein all uses of man combine, House, and raiment, and food, and And, in the hour of his great release, His need of the palm shall only cease With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace. "Allah il Allah! " he sings his psalm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ; " Thanks to Allah who, gives the palm! " LINES, READ AT THE BOSTON CELEBRA- TION OF THE HUNDREDTH AN- NIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH OF ROBERT BURNS, 25TH 1ST MO., I8 59 . How sweetly come the holy psalms From saints and martyrs down. The waving of triumphal palms Above the thorny crown ! The choral praise, the chanted prayers From harps by angels strung, The hunted Cameron's mountain airs, The hymns that Luther sung! Yet, jarring not the heavenly notes, The sounds of earth are heard, As through the open minster floats The song of breeze and bird! Not less the wonder of the sky That daisies bloom below ; The brook sings on, though loud and high The cloudy organs blow! 312 POEMS AND LYRICS. And, if the tender ear be jarred That, haply, hears by turns The saintly harp of Olney's bard, The pastoral pipe of Burns, No discord mars His perfect plan Who gave them both a tongue ; For he who sings the love of man The love of God hath sung! To-day be every fault forgiven Of him in whom we joy ! We take, with thanks, the gold of Heaven And leave the earth's alloy. Be ours his music as of spring, His sweetness as of flowers, The songs the bard himself might sing In holier ears than ours. Sweet airs of love and home, the hum Of household melodies, Come singing, as the robins come To sing in door-yard trees. And, heart to heart, two nations lean, No rival wreaths to twine, But blending in eternal green The holly and the pine! THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR. OUT and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain. Only, at times, a smoke-wreath With the drifting cloud-rack joins, The smoke of the hunting-lodges Of the wild Assiniboins ! Drearily blows the north-wind From the land of ice and snow ; The eyes that look are weary, And heavy the hands that row. And with one foot on the water, And one upon the shore, The Angel of Shadow gives warning That day shall be no more. Is it the clang of wild-geese? Is it the Indian's yell, That lends to the voice of the north- wind The tones of a far-off bell ? The voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace ; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface. The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain, To the boatman on the river, To the hunter on the plain! Even so in our mortal journey The bitter north-winds blow, And thus upon life's Red River Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. And when the Angel of Shadow Rests his feet on wave and shore, And our eyes grow dim with watch- ing And our hearts faint at the oar, Happy is he who heareth The signal of his release In the bells of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace! KENOZA LAKE. As Adam did in Paradise, To-day the primal right we claim : Fair mirror of the woods and skies, We give to thee a name. Lake of the pickerel ! let no more The echoes answer back, " Great Pond," But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore And watching hills beyond, TO G. B. C. 313 Let Indian ghosts, if such there be Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, Call back the ancient name to thee, As with the voice of pines. The shores we trod as barefoot boys, The nutted woods we wandered through, To friendship, love, and social joys We consecrate anew. Here shall the tender song be sung, And memory's dirges soft and low, And wit shall sparkle on the tongue, And mirth shall overflow, Harmless as summer lightning plays From a low, hidden cloud by night, A light to set the hills ablaze, But not a bolt to smite. In sunny South and prairied West Are exiled hearts remembering still, As bees their hive, as birds their nest, The homes of Haver hill. They join us in our rites to-day ; And, listening, we may hear, ere- long, From inland lake and ocean bay, The echoes of our song. Kenoza! o'er no sweeter lake Shall morning break or noon-cloud sail, No fairer face than thine shall take The sunset's golden veil. Long be it ere the tide of trade Shall break with harsh-resounding din The quiet of thy banks of shade, And hills that fold thee in. Still let thy woodlands hide the hare, The shy loon sound his trumpet- note ; Wing-weary from his fields of air, The wild-goose on thee float. Thy peace rebuke our feverish stir, Thy beauty our deforming strife ; Thy woods and waters minister The healing of their life. And sinless Mirth, from care re- leased, Behold, unawed, thy mirrored sky, Smiling as smiled on Cana's feast The Master's loving eye. And when the summer day grows dim, And light mists walk thy mimic ^sea. Revive in us the thought of Him Who walked on Galilee ! TO G. B. C. So ^pake Esaias : so, in words of flame, Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame, All earth and heaven before, The sacerdotal robbers of the poor. All the dread Scripture lives for thee again, To smite with lightning on the hands profane Lifted to bless the slave-whip and the chain. Once more th 1 old Hebrew tongue Bends with the shafts of God a bow new-strung! Take up the mantle which the proph- ets wore ; Warn with their warnings, show the Christ once more Bound, scourged, and crucified in his blameless poor ; And shake above our land POEMS AND LYRICS. The unquenched bolts that blazed in Hosea's hand ! Not vainly shalt thou cast upon our years The solemn burdens of the Orient seers, And smite with truth a guilty nation's ears. Mightier was Luther's word Than Seckingen's mailed arm or Hut- ton's sword! THE SISTERS. A PICTURE BY BARRY. THE shade for me, but over thee The lingering sunshine still ; As, smiling, to the silent stream Comes down the singing rill. So come to me, my little one, My years with thee I share, And mingle with a sister's love A mother's tender care. But keep the smile upon thy lip, The trust upon thy brow ; Since for the dear one God hath called We have an angel now. Our mother from the fields of heaven Shall still her ear incline ; Nor need we fear her human love Is less for love divine. The songs are sweet they sing beneath The trees of life so fair, But sweetest of the songs of heaven Shall be her children's prayer. Then, darling, rest upon my breast, And teach my heart to lean With thy sweet trust upon the arm Which folds us both unseen! LINES, FOR THE AGRICULTURAL AND HORTI- CULTURAL EXHIBITION AT AMES- BURY AND SALISBURY, SEPT. 28, 1858. THIS day, two hundred years ago, The wild grape by the river's side, And tasteless groundnut trailing low, The table of the woods supplied. Unknown the apple's red and gold, The blushing tint of peach and pear ; The mirror of the Powow told No tale of orchards ripe and rare. Wild as the fruits he scorned to till, These vales the idle Indian trod ; Nor knew the glad, creative skill, The joy of him who toils with God. O Painter of the fruits and flowers ! We thank thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with thine. And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born ; That he who smites the summer weed, May trust thee for the autumn corn. Give fools their gold, and knaves their power ; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall ; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all. For he who blesses most is blest ; And God and man shall own his worth Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth. And, soon or late, to all that sow, The time of harvest shall be given ; The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven! THE PREACHER. 315 THE PREACHER. ITS windows flashing to the sky, Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, Far down the vale, my friend and I Beheld the old and quiet town ; The ghostly sails that out at sea Flapped their white wings of mystery ; The beaches glimmering in the sun, And the low wooded capes that run Into the sea-mist north and south ; The sand-bluffs at the river's mouth ; The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar, The foam-line of the harbor-bar. Over the woods and meadow-lands A crimson-tinted shadow lay Of clouds through which the set- ting day Flung a slant glory far away. It glittered on the wet sea-sands, It flamed upon the city's panes, Smote the white sails of ships that wore Outward or in, and glided o'er The steeples with their veering Awhile my friend with rapid search O'erran the landscape. " Yonder spire Over gray roofs, a shaft of fire ; What is it, pray?" ''The White- field Church ! Walled about by its basement stones, There rest the marvellous prophet's bones." Then as our homeward way we walked, Of the great preacher's life we talked ; And through the mystery of our theme The outward glory seemed to stream, And Nature's self interpreted The doubtful record of the dead ; And every level beam that smote The sails upon the dark afloat A symbol of the light became Which touched the shadows of our blame With tongues of Pentecostal flame. Over the roofs of the pioneers Gathers the moss of a hundred years ; On man and his works has passed the change Which needs must be in a century's range. The land lies open and warm in the sun, Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run, Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the plain, The wilderness gladdened with fruit and grain! But the living faith of the settlers old A dead profession their children hold ; To the lust of office and greed of trade A stepping-stone is the altar made. The Church, to place and power the door, Rebukes the sin of the world no more, Nor sees its Lord in the homeless poor. Everywhere is the grasping hand, And eager adding of land to land ; And earth, which seemed to the fathers meant But as a pilgrim's wayside tent, A nightly shelter to fold away When the Lord should call at the break of day, Solid and steadfast seems to be, And Time has forgotten Eternity! But fresh and green from the rotting roots Of primal forests the young growth shoots ; From the death of the old the new proceeds, And the life of truth from the rot of creeds : On the ladder of God, which upward leads, The steps of progress are human needs. For his judgments still are a mighty deep, 3 i6 POEMS AND LYRICS. And the eyes of his providence never sleep : When the night is darkest he gives the morn ; When the famine is sorest, the wine and corn! In the church of the wilderness Ed- wards wrought. Shaping his creed at the forge of thought ; And with Thor's own hammer welded and bent The iron links of his argument, Which strove to grasp in its mighty span The purpose of God and the fate of man! Yet faithful still, in his daily round To the weak, and the poor, and sin- sick found. The schoolman's lore and the casuist's art Drew warmth and life from his fervent heart. Had he not seen in the solitudes Of his deep and dark Northampton woods A vision of love about him fall ? Not the blinding splendor which fell on Saul, But the tenderer glory that rests on them Who walk in the New Jerusalem, Where never the sun nor moon are known, But the Lord and his love are the light alone! And watching the sweet, still counte- nance Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance, Had he not treasured each broken word Of the mystical wonder seen and heard ; And loved the beautiful dreamer more That thus to the desert of earth she bore Clusters of Eschol from Canaan's shore? As the barley-winnower, holding with pain Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain, Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze Sounding the pine-tree's slender keys, So he who had waited long to hear The sound of the Spirit drawing near, Like that wh'ich the son of Iddo heard When the feet of angels the myrtles stirred, Felt the answer of prayer, at last, As over his church the afflatus passed, Breaking its sleep as breezes break To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake. At first a tremor of silent fear, The creep of the flesh at danger near, A vague foreboding and discontent, Over the hearts of the people went. All nature warned in sounds and signs : The wind in the tops of the forest pines In the name of the Highest called to prayer, As the muezzin calls from the minaret stair. Through ceiled chambers of secret sin Sudden and strong the light shone in ; A guilty sense of his neighbor's needs Startled the man of title-deeds ; The trembling hand of the worldling shook The dust of years from the Holy Book ; And the psalms of David, forgotten long, Took the place of the scoffer's song. The impulse spread like the outward course Of waters moved by a central force : The tide of spiritual life rolled down From inland mountains to seaboard town. Prepared and ready the altar stands Waiting the prophet's outstretched hands THE PREACHER. 317 And prayer availing, to downward call The fiery answer in view of all. Hearts are like wax in the furnace, who Shall mould, and shape, and cast them anew ? Lo! by the Merrimack WHITEFIELD stands In. the temple that never was made by hands, Curtains of azure, and crystal wall, And dome of the sunshine over all ! A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name Blown about on the winds of fame ; Now as an angel of blessing classed. And no\v as a mad enthusiast. Called in his youth to sound and gauge The moral lapse of his race and age, And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw Of human frailty and perfect law ; Possessed by the one dread thought that lent Its goad to his fiery temperament, Up and down the world he went, A John the Baptist crying, Repent! No perfect whole can our nature make ; Here or there the circle will break ; The orb of life as it takes the light On one side leaves the other in night. Never was saint so good and great As to give no chance at St. Peter's gate For the plea of the Devil's advocate. So, incomplete by his being's law, The marvellous preacher had his flaw: With step unequal, and lame with faults, His shade on the path of History halts. Wisely and well said the Eastern bard; Fear is easy, but love is hard, Easy to glow with the Santon's rage, And walk on the Meccan pilgrimage ; But he is greatest and best who can Worship Allah by loving man. Thus he, to whom, in the painful stress Of zeal on fire from its own excess, Heaven seemed so vast and earth so small That man was nothing, since God was all, Forgot, as the best at times have done, That the love of the Lord and of man are one. Little to him whose feet unshod The thorny path of the desert trod, Careless of pain, so it led to God, Seemed the hunger-pang and the poor man's wrong, The weak ones trodden beneath the strong. Should the worm be chooser? the clay withstand The shaping will of the potter's hand ? In the Indian fable Arjoon hears The scorn of a god rebuke his fears : " Spare thy pity! " Krishna saith ; "Not in thy sword is the power of death ! All is illusion, loss but seems ; Pleasure and pain are only dreams ; Who deems he slayeth doth not kill ; Who counts as slain is living still. Strike, nor fear thy blow is crime ; Nothing dies but the cheats of time ; Slain or slayer, small the odds To each, immortal as Indra's gods! " So by Savannah's banks of shade, The stones of his mission the preacher laid On the heart of the negro crushed and rent, And made of his blood the wall's ce- ment ; Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to coast POEMS AND LYRICS. Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost ; And begged, for the love of Christ, the f gold Coined from the hearts in its groaning hold. What could it matter, more or less Of stripes, and hunger, and weari- ness? Living or dying, bond or free, What was time to eternity ? Alas for the preacher's cherished schemes! Mission and church are now but dreams ; Nor prayer nor fasting availed the plan To honor God through the wrong of man. Of all his labors no trace remains Save the bondman lifting his hands in chains. The woof he wove in the righteous warp Of freedom-loving Oglethorpe, Clothes with curses the goodly land. Changes its greenness and bloom to sand ; And a century's lapse reveals once more The slave-ship stealing to Georgia's shore. Father of Light ! how blind is he Who sprinkles "the altar he rears to Thee With the blood and tears of humanity ! He erred : Shall we count his gifts as naught ? Was the work of God in him un- wrought ? The servant may through his deafness err, And blind may be God's messenger ; But the errand is sure they go upon, The word is spoken, the deed is done. Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good That Solomon bowed to gods of wood ? For his tempted heart and wandering feet, Were the songs of David less pure and sweet? So in light and shadow the preacher went, God's erring and human instrument ; And the hearts of the people where he passed Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, Under the spell of a voice which took In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook, And the mystical chime of the bells of gold On the ephod's hem of the priest of old, Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of Law. A solemn fear on the listening crowd Fell like the shadow of a cloud. The sailor reeling from out the ships Whose masts stood thick in the river- slips Felt the jest and the curse die on his lips. Listened the fisherman rude and hard, The calker rough from the builder's yard, The man of the market left his load, The teamster leaned on his bending goad, The maiden, and youth beside her, felt Their hearts in a closer union melt, And saw the flowers of their love in bloom Down the endless vistas of life to come. Old age sat feebly brushing away From his ears the scanty locks of gray ; And careless boyhood, living the free Unconscious life of bird and tree, Suddenly wakened to a sense Of sin and its guilty consequence. It was as if an angel's voice THE PREACHER. 319 Called the listeners up for their final choice ; As if a strong hand rent apart The veils of sense from soul and heart, Showing in light ineffable The joys of heaven and woes of hell ! All about in the misty air The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer ; The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge The water's lap on its gravelled edge, The wailing pines, and, far and faint, The wood-dove's note of sad coni- plaint, To the solemn voice of the preacher lent An undertone as of low lament ; And the rote of the sea from its sandy coast, On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost, Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host. Yet wise men doubted, and good men wept, As that storm of passion above them swept, And, comet-like, adding flame to flame, The priests of the new Evangel came, Davenport, flashing upon the crowd, Charged like summers electric cloud, Now holding the listener still as death With terrible warnings under breath. Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed The vision of Heaven's beatitude! And Celtic Tennant, his long coat bound Like a monk's with leathern girdle round, Wild with the toss of unshorn hair, And wringing of hands, and eyes aglare, Groaning under the world's despair! Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to lose, Prophesied to the empty pews That gourds would wither, and mush- rooms die, And noisiest fountains run soonest dry, Like the spring that gushed in New- bury Street, Under the tramp of the earthquake's feet, A silver shaft in the air and light, For a single day, then lost in night, Leaving only, its place to tell, Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell. With zeal wing-clipped and white- heat cool, Moved by the spirit in grooves of rule, No longer harried, and cropped, and fleeced, Flogged by sheriff and cursed by priest, But by wiser counsels left at ease To settle quietly on his lees, And, self-concentred, to count as done The work which his fathers scarce begun, In silent protest of letting alone, The Quaker kept the way of his own, A non-conductor among the wires, With coat of asbestos proof to fires. And quite unable to mend his pace To catch the falling manna of grace, He hugged the closer his little store Of faith, and silently prayed for more. And vague of creed and barren of rite, But holding, as in his Master's sight, Act and thought to the inner light, The round of his simple duties walked, And strove to live what the others talked. And who shall marvel if evil went Step by step with the good intent, And with love and meekness, side by side, Lust of the flesh and spiritual pride? That passionate longings and fancies vain Set the heart on fire and crazed the brain ? That over the holy oracles Folly sported with cap and bells ? That goodly women and learned men Marvelling told with tongue and pen 3 20 POEMS AND LYRICS. How unweaned*children chirped like birds Texts of Scripture and solemn words, Like the infant seers of the rocky glens In the Puy de Dome of wild Cevennes : Or baby Lamas who pray and preach From Tartar cradles in Buddha's speech ? In the war which Truth or Freedom wages With impious fraud and the wrong of ages Hate and malice and self-love mar The notes of triumph with painful jar, And the helping angels turn aside Their sorrowing faces the shame to hide. Never on custom's oile'd grooves The world to a higher level moves, But grates and grinds with friction hard On granite boulder and flinty shard. The heart must bleed before it feels, The pool be troubled before it heals ; Ever by losses the right must gain, Every good have its birth of pain ; The active Virtues blush to find The Vices wearing their badge be- hind, And Graces and Charities feel the fire Wherein the sins of the age' expire; The fiend still rends as of old he rent The tortured body from which he went. But Time tests all. In the over-drift And flow of the Nile, with its annual gift, Who cares for the Hadji's relics sunk? Who thinks of the drowned-out Coptic monk? The tide that loosens the temple's stones, And scatters the sacred ibis-bones, Drives away from the valley-land That Arab robber, the wandering sand, Moistens the fields that know no rain, Fringes the desert with belts of grain, And bread to the sower brings again. So the flood of emotion deep and strong Troubled the land as it swept along, But left a result of holier lives, Tenderer mothers and worthier wives. The husband and father whose chil- dren fled And sad wife wept when his drunken tread Frightened peace from his roof-tree's shade, And a rock of offence his hearthstone made, In a strength that was not his own, began To rise from the brute's to the plane of man. Old friends embraced, long held apart By evil counsel and pride of heart ; And penitence saw through misty tears, In the bow of hope on its cloud of fears, The promise of Heaven's eternal years, The peace of God for the world's an- noy, Beauty for ashes, and oil of joy! Under the church of Federal Street, Under the tread of its Sabbath feet, Walled about by its basement stones, Lie the marvellous preacher's bones. No saintly honors to them are shown, No sign nor miracle have they known ; But he who passes the ancient church Stops in the shade of its belfry-porch, And ponders the wonderful life of him Who lies at rest in that charnel dim. Long shall the traveller strain his eye From the railroad car, as it plunges by, And the vanishing town behind him search For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church ; And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade, THE QUAKER ALUMNI. 321 And fashion, and folly, and pleasure laid, By the thought of that life of pure in- tent, That voice of warning yet eloquent, Of one on the errands of angels sent. And if where he labored the flood of sin Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in, And over a life of time and sense The church-spires lift their vain de- fence, As if to scatter the bolts of God With the points of Calvin's thunder- rod, Still, as the gem of its civic crown, Precious beyond the world's renown, His memory hallows the ancient town ! THE QUAKER ALUMNI. FROM the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine, Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again ; A.nd, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool. Play over the old game of going to school. All your strifes and vexations, your whims and complaints, (You were not saints yourselves, if the children of saints ! ) All your petty self-seekings and rival- ries done, Round the dear Alma Mater your hearts beat as one! How widely soe'er you have strayed from the fold, Though your " thee " has grown " you," and your drab blue and gold, To the old friendly speech and the garb's sober form, Y Like the heart of Argyle to the tartan, you warm. But, the first greetings over, you glance round the hall ; Your hearts call the roll, but they an- swer not all : Through the turf green above them the dead cannot hear; Name by name, in the silence, falls sad as a tear ! In love, let us trust, they were sum- moned so soon From the morning of life, while we toil through its noon ; They were frail like ourselves, they had needs like our own, And they rest as we rest in God's mercy alone. Unchanged by our changes of spirit and frame, Past, now, and henceforward the Lord is the same ; Though we sink in the darkness, his arms break our fall, And in death as in life, he is Father of all! We are older: our footsteps, so light in the play Of the far-away school-time, move slower to-day ; Here a beard touched with frost, there a bald, shining crown, And beneath the cap's border gray mingles with brown. But faith should be cheerful, and trust should be glad, And our follies and sins, not our years, make us sad. Should the heart closer shut as the bonnet grows prim, And the face grow in length as the hat grows in brim ? Life is brief, duty grave; but, with rainfolded wings, 3 22 POEMS AND LYRICS. Of yesterday's sunshine the grateful heart sings ; And we, of all others, have reason to pay The tribute of thanks, and rejoice on our way ; For the counsels that turned from the follies of youth ; For the beauty of patience, the white- ness of truth ; For the wounds of rebuke, when love tempered its edge ; For the household's restraint, and the discipline's hedge ; For the lessons of kindness vouch- safed to the least Of the creatures of God, whether hu- man or beast, Bringing hope to the poor, lending strength to the frail, In the lanes of the city, the slave-hut, and jail ; For a womanhood higher and holier. by all Her knowledge of good, than was Eve ere her fall, Whose" task-work of duty moves lightly as play, Serene as the moonlight and warm as the day ; And, yet more, for the faith which embraces the whole, Of the creeds of the ages the life and the soul, Wherein letter and spirit the same channel run, And man has not severed what God has made one! For a sense of the Goodness revealed everywhere, As sunshine impartial, and free as the air ; For a trust in humanity, Heathen or Jew, And a hope for all darkness The Light shineth through. Who scoffs at our birthright? the words of the seers, And the songs of the bards in the twi- light of years, All the foregleams of wisdom in san- ton and sage, In prophet and priest, are our true heritage. The Word which the reason of Plato discerned ; The truth, as whose symbol the Mithra-fire burned ; The soul of the world which the Stoic but guessed, In the Light Universal the Quaker confessed ! No honors of war to our worthies be- long; Their plain stem of life never flowered into song ; But the fountains they opened still gush by the way, And the world for their healing is bet- ter to-day. He who lies where the minster's groined arches curve down To the tomb-crowded transept of England's renown, The glorious essayist, by genius en- throned, Whose pen as a sceptre the Muses all owned, Who through the world's pantheon walked in his pride, Setting new statues up, thrusting old ones aside, And in fiction the pencils of history clipped, To gild o'er or blacken each saint in his crypt, How vainly he labored to sully with blame THE QUAKER ALUMNI. 323 The white bust of Penn, in the niche of his fame ! Self-will is self-wounding, perversity blind : On himself fell the stain for the Quaker designed! For the sake of his true-hearted father before him ; For the sake of the dear Quaker mother that bore him ; For the sake of his gifts, and the works that outlive him, And his brave words for freedom, we freely forgive him ! There are those who take note that our numbers are small, New Gibbons who write our decline and our fall ; But the Lord of the seed-field takes care of his own, And the world shall yet reap what our sowers have sown. The last of the sect to his fathers may l Leaving only his coat for some Bar- num to show ; But the truth will outlive him, and broaden with years, Till the false dies away, and the wrong disappears. Nothing fails of its end. Out of sight sinks the stone, In the deep sea of time, but the circles sweep on, Till the low-rippled murmurs along the shores run, And the dark and dead waters leap glad in the sun. Meanwhile shall we learn, in our ease, to forget To the martyrs of Truth and of Free- dom our debt? Hide their words out of sight, like the garb that they wore, And for Barclay's Apology offer one more ? Shall we fawn round the priestcraft that glutted the shears, And festooned the stocks with our grandfathers 1 ears? Talk of Woolman's unsoundness? count Penn heterodox? And take Cotton Mather in place of George Fox? Make our preachers war-chaplains? quote Scripture to take The hunted slave back, for Onesimus' sake?- Go to burning church-candles, and chanting in choir, And on the old meeting-house stick up a spire ? No! the old paths we '11 keep until better are shown, Credit good where we find it, abroad or our own ; And while " Lo here " and " Lo there" the multitude call, Be true to ourselves, and do justice to all. The good round about us we need not refuse, Nor talk of our Zion as if we were Jews ; But why shirk the badge which our fathers have worn, Or beg the world's pardon for having been born? We need not pray over the Pharisee's prayer, Nor claim that our wisdom is Benja- min's share. Truth to us and to others is equal and one: Shall we bottle the free air, or hoard up the sun ? Well know we our birthright may serve but to show 324 POEMS AND LYRICS. How the meanest of weeds in the richest soil grow ; But we need not disparage the good which we hold ; Though the vessels be earthen, the treasure is gold ! Enough and too much of the sect and the name. What matters our label, so truth be our aim ? The creed may be wrong, but the life may be true, And hearts beat the same under drab coats or blue. So the man be a man, let him worship, at will, In Jerusalem's courts, or on Gerizim's hill. When she makes up her jewels, what cares the good town For the Baptist of WAYLAND, the Quaker of BROWN ? And this green, favored island, so fresh and sea-blown, When she counts up the worthies her annals have known, Never waits for the pitiful gaugers of sect To measure her love, and mete out her respect. Three shades at this moment seem walking her strand, Each with head halo-crowned, and with palms in his hand, Wise Berkeley, grave Hopkins, and, smiling serene On prelate and puritan, Channing is seen. One holy name bearing, no longer they need Credentials of party, and pass-words of creed : The new song they sing hath a three- fold accord, light measure whose And they own one baptism, one faith and one Lord ! But the golden sands run out : occa- sions like these Glide swift into shadow, like sails on the seas : While we sport with the mosses and pebbles ashore, They lessen and fade, and we see them no more. Forgive me, dear friends, if my va- grant thoughts seem Like a school-boy's who idles and plays with his theme. Forgive the changes display The sunshine and rain of our brief April day. There are moments in life when the lip and the eye Try the question of whether to smile or to cry ; And scenes and reunions that prompt like our own The tender in feeling, the playful in tone. I, who never sat down with the boys and the girls At the feet of your Slocums, and Cartlands, and Earles, By courtesy only permitted to lay On your festival's altar my poor gift, to-day, I would joy in your joy : let me have a friend's part In the warmth of your welcome of hand and of heart, On your play-ground of boyhood un- bend the brow's care, And shift the old burdens our shoul- ders must bear. Long live the good School! giving out year by year Recruits to true manhood and woman- hood dear : BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE. 325 Brave boys, modest maidens, in beauty sept forth, The living epistles and proof of its worth ! In and out let the young life as steadily flow As in broad Narragansett the tides come and go ; And its sons and its daughters in prairie and town Remember its honor, and guard its renown. Not vainly the gift of its founder was made; Not prayerless the stones of its cor- ner were laid : The blessing of Him whom in secret they sought Has owned the good work which the fathers have wrought. To Him be the glory forever! We bear To the Lord of the Harvest our wheat with the tare. What \ve lack in our work may He find in our will, And winnow in mercy our good from the ill! BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE. JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE spake on his dying day : " I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me ! " John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die ; And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child! The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart ; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent! Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good ! Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies ; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice. Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear, Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail! So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array ; In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove ; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love! 326 POEMS AND LYRICS. FROM PERUGIA. " The thing which has the most dissev- ered 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!' 1 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 y 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 right- eousness 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 crozier 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 slip- per to kiss. Short shrift will suffice him, he's blessed beyond doubt ; But there 's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash" out, FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL. 327 Though Peter himself held the bap- tismal spout ! Make way for the next! Here's an- other 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 car- dinal'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 pil- fers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence! Who doubts Antonelli? Have mira- cles ceased When robbers say mass, and Barab- bas 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 neigh- bor instead ! There ! the bells jow and jangle the 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 hor- ror of noise. Te Deuni laudamusl 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 ! FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL. THE Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more ; The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along the Isthmian shore. But beauty hath its homage still, And nature holds us still in debt ; And woman's grace and household skill, And manhood's toil, are honored yet. And we, to-day, amidst our flowers And fruits, have come to own again The blessings of the summer hours, The early and the latter rain ; 328 POEMS AND LYRICS. To see our Father's hand once more Reverse for us the plenteous horn Of autumn, filled and running o'er With fruit, and flower, and golden corn! Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold; Once more with harvest-song and shout Is Nature's bloodless triumph told. Our common mother rests and sings, Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves ; Her lap is full of goodly things, Her brow is bright with autumn leaves. O favors every year made new ! O gifts with rain and sunshine sent! The bounty overruns our due, The fulness shames our discontent. We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on; We murmur, but the corn-ears fill ; We choose the shadow, but the sun That casts it shines behind us still. God gives us with our rugged soil The power to make it Eden-fair, And richer fruits to crown our toil Than summer-wedded islands bear. Who murmurs at his lot to-day? Who scorns his native fruit and bloom? Or sighs for dainties far away, Beside the bounteous board of home ? Thank Heaven, instead, that Free- dom's arm Can change a rocky soil to gold, That brave and generous lives can warm A clime with northern ices cold. And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for the golden hours, The early and the latter rain! THE EXILE'S DEPARTURE. 329 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. THE EXILE'S DEPARTURE. 1 FOND scenes, which delighted my youthful existence, With feelings of sorrow I bid ye adieu A lasting adieu! for now, dim in the distance, The shores of Hibernia recede from my view. Farewell to the cliffs, tempest-beaten and gray, Which guard the lov'd shores of my own native land ; Farewell to the village and sail- shadow'd bay, The forest-crown'd hill and the water-wash'd strand. I've fought for my country I've braved all the dangers That throng round the path of the warrior in strife ; I now must depart to a nation of strangers, And pass in seclusion the remnant of life ; Far, far, from the friends to my bosom most dear, With none to support me in peril and pain, And none but the stranger to drop the sad tear, On the grave where the heart-broken Exile is lain. Friends of my youth ! I must leave you forever, And hasten to dwell in a region unknown : 1 Whittier's first printed poem, published in the Newburyport Free Press, June 8, 1826. Yet time cannot change, nor the broad ocean sever, Hearts firmly united and tried as our own. Ah, no ! though I wander, all sad and forlorn, In a far distant land, yet shall memory trace, When far o'er the ocean's white surges I 'm borne, The scene of past pleasures, my own native place. Farewell, shores of Erin, green land of my fathers Once more, and forever, a mournful adieu! For round thy dim headlands the ocean-mist gathers, And shrouds the fair isle I no longer can view. I go but wherever my footsteps I bend, For freedom and peace to my own native isle, And contentment and joy to each warm-hearted friend, Shall be the heart's prayer of the lonely Exile ! HAVERHILL, June i, 1826. THE DEITY. 2 i KINGS xix. ii. THE prophet stood On the dark mount, and saw the tempest cloud Pour the fierce whirlwind from its dark reservoir 2 Whittier's second printed poem, pub- lished in the Newburyport Free Press, June 22, 1826. 330 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. Of congregated gloom. The moun- tain oak, Torn from the earth, heav'd high its roots where once Its branches wav'd. The fir-tree's shapely form, Smote by the tempest, lash'd the mountain's side. Yet, calm in conscious purity, the seer Beheld the scene of desolation for Th 1 Eternal Spirit mov'd not in the storm ! The tempest ceas'd! the cavern' d earthquake burst Forth from its prison, and the moun- tain rock'd E'en to its base : the topmost crags were thrown, With fearful crashing, down its shud- dering sides. Unaw'd, the prophet saw and heard he felt Not in the earthquake mov'd the God of Heaven ! The murmurs died away! and from the height (Rent by the storm, and shattered by the shock), Rose far and clear a pyramid of flame, Mighty and vast! the startled moun- tain deer Shrunk from its glare and cower'd within the shade. The wild fowl shriek'd! Yet, even then, the seer Untrembling stood, and mark'd the fearful glow For Israel's God came not within the flame! The fiery beacon sunk! a still small voice Now caught the prophet's ear. Its awful tones, Unlike to human sounds, at once con- veyed Deep awe and reverence to his pious heart. Then bow'd the holy man! his face he veird Within his mantle, and in meekness owned The presence of his God discern'd not in The storm, the earthquake, or the mighty flame, But in the still small voice ! HAVERHILL, nth of 6th month, 1826. TO THE "RUSTIC BARD." [The following poem, which was written by Whittier in January, 1828, is not to be found in any of his published works. The " Rustic Bard " was Robert Dinsmoor of Windham, N.H., of whom a sketch may be found in Whittier's prose works (" Old Por- traits and Modern Sketches "). The poem is in imitation of the Scottish dialect, in which the " Rustic Bard " wrote.] HEALTH to the hale auld "Rustic Bard " ! Gin ye a poet wad regard Who deems it honor to be ca'd Yere rhymin' brither, 'T would gie his muse a rich reward He asks nae ither. My muse, an inexperienced hizzie, Wi' pride an' self-importance dizzy, O' skill to rhyme it free an' easy Is na possessor ; But yours has been a lang time busy An auld transgressor. Yes, lang an' weel ye've held your way, An', spite o' a' that critics say, The memory of your rustic lay Shall still be dear, An' wi' yere name to latest day Be cherish'd here. An' though the cauld an' heartless sneer, THE ALBUM. 331 An' critics urge their wordy weir, An 1 graceless scoundrels taunt an 1 jeer, E'en let them do it ; They canna mak' the muse less dear To ony poet. But why should poets "fash their thumb " ? E'en let the storms o' fortune come ; Maun they alane be left in gloom, To grope an' stumble, An' wear the garb fate's partial loom Has wove maist humble? No ! up \vi' pride wha cares a feather What fools may chance to say, or whether They praise or spurn our rhymin' blether, Laud or abuse us, While conscience keeps within fair weather, An 1 wise men roose us ? Then let us smile when fools assail us, To answer them will not avail us ; Contempt alane should meet the rail- ers, It deals a blow, When weapons like their ain wad fail us, To cower the foe. But whyles they need a castigation, Shall either name or rank or station Protect them frae the flagellation Sae muckle needed? Shall vice an' crimes that "taint the nation " Pass on unheeded? No! let the muse her trumpet take, Till auld offenders learn to shake An' tremble when they hear her wake Her tones o' thunder; Till pride an' bloated ignorance quake, An' gawkies wonder. For ye, auld bard, though long years ye Ve been An actor in life's weary scene, WT saul erect an' fearless mien Ye 've held your way ; An' O! may Heaven preserve serene Your closin' day. Farewell! the poet's hopes an' fears May vanish frae this vale o' tears, An' curtain'd wi' forgotten years His muse may lie ; But virtue's form unscaith'd appears It canna die! THE ALBUM. THE dark-eyed daughters of the Sun, At morn and evening hours, O'erhung their graceful shrines alone With wreaths of dewy flowers. Not vainly did those fair ones cull Their gifts by stream and wood ; The Good is always beautiful, The Beautiful is good! We live not in their simple day, Our Northern blood is cold, And few the offerings which we lay On other shrines than Gold. With Scripture texts to chill and ban The heart's fresh morning hours, The heavy-footed Puritan Goes trampling down the flowers ; Nor thinks of Him who sat of old Where Syrian lilies grew, And from their mingling shade and gold A holy lesson drew. Yet lady, shall this book of thine, Wliere Love his gifts has brought, Become to thee a Persian shrine, O'erhung with flow.ers of thought. 332 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. MOUNT AGIOCHOOK. GRAY searcher of the upper air! There 's sunshine on thy ancient walls A crown upon thy forehead bare A flashing on thy water-falls A rainbow glory in the cloud, Upon thine awful summit bowed, Dim relic of the recent storm ! And music, from the leafy shroud Which wraps in green thy giant form, Mellowed and softened from above, Steals down upon the listening ear, Sweet as the maiden's dream of love, With soft tones melting on her ear. The time has been, gray mountain, when Thy shadows veiled the red man's home ; And over crag and serpent den, And wild gorge, where the steps of men In chase or battle might not come, The mountain eagle bore on high The emblem of the free of soul ; And midway in the fearful sky Sent back the Indian's battle-cry, Or answered to the thunder's roll. The wigwam fires have all burned out The moccasin hath left no track Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about The Saco or the Merrimack. And thou that liftest up on high Thine awful barriers to the sky, Art not the haunted mount of old, When on each crag of blasted stone Some/nountain-spirit found a throne, And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold, And answered to the Thunderer's cry When rolled the cloud of tempest by, And jutting rock and riven branch Went down before the avalanche. The Father of our people then Upon thy awful summit trocl, And the red dwellers of the glen Bowed down before the Indian's God. There, when His shadow veiled the sky, The Thunderer's voice was long and loud, And the red flashes of His eye Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud. The Spirit moveth there no more, The dwellers of the hill have gone, The sacred groves are trampled o'er, And footprints mar the altar-stone. The white man climbs thy tallest rock And hangs him from the mossy steep, Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock, Thy ancient prison-walls unlock, And captive waters leap to light, And dancing down from height to height, Pass onward to the far-off deep. Oh, sacred to the Indian seer, Gray altar of the days of old ! Still are thy rugged features dear, As when unto my infant ear The legends of the past were told. Tales of the downward sweeping flood, When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood, Of armed hand and spectral form, Of giants in their misty shroud, And voices calling long and loud In the drear pauses of the storm ! Farewell! The red man's face is turned Toward another hunting-ground ; For where the council-fire has burned, And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound Another fire is kindled now : Its light is on the white man's brow! METACOM. 333 The hunter race have passed away Ay, vanished like the morning mist, Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed, And wherefore should the red man stay? 1829. METACOM. RED as the banner which enshrouds The warrior-dead when strife is done, A broken mass of crimson clouds Hung over the departed sun. The shadow of the western hill Crept swiftly down, and darkly still, As if a sullen wave of night Were rushing on the pale twilight, The forest-openings grew more dim, As glimpses of the arching blue And waking stars came softly through The rifts of many*a giant limb. Above the wet and tangled swamp White vapors gathered thick and damp, And through their cloudy curtaining Flapped many a brown and dusky wing Pinions that fan the moonless dun, But fold them at the rising sun ! Beneath the closing veil of night, And leafy bough and curling fog, With his few warriors ranged in sight Scarred relics of his latest fight Rested the fiery Wampanoag. He leaned upon his loaded gun, Warm with its recent work of death, And, save the struggling of his breath That, slow and hard, and long-sup- pressed, Shook the damp folds around his breast, An eye, that was unused to scan The sterner moods of that dark man, Had deemed his tall and silent form With hidden passion fierce and warm, With that fixed eye, as still and dark As clouds which veil their lightning- spark That of some forest-champion Whom sudden death had passed upon A giant frozen into stone. Son of the throned Sachem, thou, The sternest of the forest kings, Shall the scorned pale-one trample now, Unambushed, on thy mountain's brow Yea, drive his vile and hated plough Among thy nation's holy things, Crushing the warrior-skeleton In scorn beneath his armed heel, And not a hand be left to deal A kindred vengeance fiercely back, And cross in blood the Spoiler's track ? He started, for a sudden shot Came booming through the forest- trees The thunder of the fierce Yengeese : It passed away, and injured not ; But, to the Sachem's brow it brought The token of his lion thought. He stood erect his dark eye burned, As if to meteor-brightness turned ; And o'er his forehead passed the frown Of an archangel stricken down, Ruined and lost, yet chainless still Weakened of power but strong of will! It passed a sudden tremor came Like ague o'er his giant frame, It was not terror he had stood For hours, with death in grim at- tendance, When moccasins grew stiff with blood. And through the clearing's midnight flame, Dark, as a storm, the Pequod came, His red right arm their strong de- pendence When thrilling through the forest gloom The onset cry of " Metacom ! " Rang on the red and smoky air! 334 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. No it was agony which passed Upon his soul the strong man's last And fearful struggle with despair. He turned him to his trustiest one The old and war-tried Annawon " Brother" the favored warrior stood In hushed and listening attitude " This night the Vision-Spirit hath Unrolled the scroll of fate before me ; And ere the sunrise cometh, Death Will wave his dusky pinion o'er me! Nay, start not well I know thy faith: Thy weapon now may keep its sheath ; But when the bodeful morning breaks, And the green forest widely wakes Unto the roar of Yengeese thunder, Then, trusted brother, be it thine To burst upon the foeman-'s line And rend his serried strength asunder. Perchance thyself and yet a few Of faithful ones may struggle through, And, rallying on the wooded plain, Offer up in Yengeese blood An offering to the Indian's God." Another shot a sharp, quick yell. And then the stifled groan of pain, Told that another red man fell, And blazed a sudden light again Across that kingly brow and eye, Like lightning on a clouded sky, And a low growl, like that which thrills The hunter of the Eastern hills, Burst through clenched teeth and rigid lip And when the Monarch spoke again, His deep voice shook beneath its rein, And wrath and grief held fellow- ship. "Brother! methought when as but now I pondered on my nation's wrong, With sadness on his shadowy brow My father's spirit passed along! He pointed to the far southwest, Where sunset's gold was growing dim, And seemed to beckon me to him, And to the forests of the blest! My father loved the Yengeese, when They were but children, shelterless ; For his great spirit at distress Melted to woman's tenderness Nor was it given him to know That children whom he cherished then Would rise at length, like armdd men, To work his people's overthrow. Yet thus it is ; the God before Whose awful shrine the pale ones bow Hath frowned upon and given o'er The red man to the stranger now! A few more moons, and there will be No gathering to the council-tree ; The scorched earth, the blackened log, The naked bones of warriors slain, Be the sole relics which remain Of the once mighty Wampanoag ! The forests of our hunting-land, With all their old and solemn green, Will bow before the Spoiler's axe, The plough displace the hunter's tracks, And the tall Yengeese altar stand Where the Great Spirit's shrine hath been! "Yet, brother, from this awful hour The dying curse of Metacom Shall linger with abiding power Upon the spoilers of my home. The fearful veil of things to come By Kitchtan's hand is lifted from The shadows of the embryo years ; And I can see more clearly through Than ever visioned Powwow did, For all the future comes unbid Yet welcome to my trance'd view, As battle-yell to warrior-ears ! From stream and lake and hunting- hill Our tribes may vanish like a dream, THE FRATRICIDE. 335 And even my dark curse may seem Like idle winds when Heaven is still No bodefiil harbinger of ill, But fiercer than the downright thun- der When yawns the mountain-rock asun- der, And riven pine and knotted oak Are reeling to the fearful stroke, That curse shall work its master's will! The bed of yon blue mountain stream Shall pour a darker tide than rain The sea shall catch its blood-red stain, And broadly on its banks shall gleam The steel of those who should be brothers Yea, those whom one fond parent nursed Shall meet in strife, like fiends ac- cursed, And trample down the once loved form, While yet with breathing passion warm, As fiercely as they would another's ! " The morning star sat dimly on The lighted eastern horizon The deadly glare of levelled gun Came streaking through the twi- light haze, And naked to its reddest blaze A hundred warriors sprang in view : One dark red arm was tossed on high One giant shout came hoarsely through The clangor and the charging cry, Just as across the scattering gloom, Red as the naked hand of Doom, The Yengeese volley hurtled by The arm the voice of Metacom! One piercing shriek one vengeful yell, Sent like an arrow to the sky, Told when the hunter-monarch fell! 1829. THE FRATRICIDE. [In the recently published "History of Wyoming," a valley rendered classic ground by the poetry of Campbell, in an account of the attack of Brandt and Butler on the settlements in 1778, a fear- ful circumstance is mentioned. A Tory, who had joined the Indians and British, discovered his own brother, whilst pursu- ing the Americans, and, deaf to his en- treaties, deliberately presented his rifle and shot him dead on the spot. The murderer fled to Canada.] HE stood on the brow of the well- known hill, Its few gray oaks moan'd over him still The last of that forest which cast the gloom Of its shadow at eve o'er his child- hood's home ; And the beautiful valley beneath him lay With its quivering leaves, and its streams at play, And the sunshine over it all the while Like the golden shower of the Eastern isle. He knew the rock with its fingering vine, And its gray top touch'd by the slant sunshine, And the delicate stream which crept beneath Soft as the flow of an infant's breath ; And the flowers which lean'd to the West wind's sigh, Kissing each ripple which glided by ; And he knew every valley and wooded swell, For the visions of childhood are treas- ured well. Why shook the old man as his eye glanced down That narrow ravine where the rude cliffs frown. 336 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. With their shaggy brows and their teeth of stone, And their grim shade back from the sunlight thrown? What saw he there save the dreary glen, Where the shy fox crept from the eye of men, And the great owl sat in the leafy limb That the hateful sun might not look on him? Fix'd, glassy, and strange was that old man's eye. As if a spectre were stealing by, And glared it still on that narrow dell Where thicker and browner the twi- light fell ; Yet at every sigh of the fitful wind, Or stirring of leaves in the wood behind, His wild glance wander 1 d the land- scape o'er, Then fix'd on that desolate dell once more. Oh, who shall tell of the thoughts which ran Through the dizzied brain of that gray old man ? His childhood's home and his father's toil And his sister's kiss and his mother's smile And his brother's laughter and game- some mirth, At the village school and the winter hearth The beautiful thoughts of his early time, Ere his heart grew dark with its later crime. And darker and wilder his visions came Of the deadly feud and the midnight flame, Of the Indian's knife with its slaughter red, Of the ghastly forms of the scalpless dead, Of his own fierce deeds in that fearful hour When the terrible Brandt was forth in power, And he clasp'd his hands o'er his burning eye To shadow the vision which glided by. It came with the rush of the battle- storm With a brother's shaken and kneeling form, And his prayer for life when a brother's arm Was lifted above him for mortal harm, And the fiendish curse, and the groan of death, And the welling of blood, and the gurgling breath, And the scalp torn off while each nerve could feel The wrenching hand and the jagged steel ! And the old man groan'd for he saw, again, The mangled corse of his kinsman slain, As it lay where his hand had hurl'd it then, At the shadow'd foot of that fearful glen! And it rose erect, with the death-pang grim, And pointed its bloodied finger at him ! And his heart grew cold and the curse of Cain Burn'd like a fire in the old man's brain. Oh, had he not seen that spectre rise On the blue of the cold Canadian skies? From the lakes which sleep in the ancient wood, ETERNITY. 337 It had risen to whisper its tale of blood, And followed his bark to the sombre shore, And glared by night through the wig- wam door ; And here on his own familiar hill It rose on his haunted vision still! Whose corse was that which the morrow's sun, Through the opening boughs, look'd calmly on? There where those who bent o'er that rigid face Who well in its darkened lines might trace The features of him who, a traitor, fled From a brother whose blood himself had shed, And there on the spot where he strangely died They made the grave of the Fratricide ! 1831. ETERNITY. [This poem was written by Mr. Whittier in 1831, and was printed in the New England Review, which paper he was then editing. It was signed " Adrian," as were many of his early poems.] BOUNDLESS Eternity! the winged sands That mark the silent lapse of flitting time Are not for thee ; thine awful empire stands From age to age, unchangeable, sublime : Thy domes are spread where thought can never climb, In clouds and darkness, where vast pillars rest. I may not fathom thee: 'twould seem a crime Thy being of its mystery to divest, Or boldly lift thine awful veil with hands unblest. Thy ruins are the wrecks of systems ; suns Blaze a brief space of ages, and are not; Worlds crumble and decay, creation runs To waste then perishes and is forgot ; Yet thou, all changeless, heedest not the blot. Heaven speaks once more in thunder; empty space Trembles and wakes ; new worlds in ether flit, Teeming with new creative life, and trace Their mighty circles, such as others shall displace. Thine age is youth, thy youth is hoary age, Ever beginning, never ending, thou Bearest inscribed upon thy ample page, Yesterday, forever, but as now Thou art, thou hast been, shalt be : though I feel myself immortal, when on thee I muse, I shrink to nothingness, and bow Myself before thee, dread Eternity, With God coeval, coexisting, still to be. I go with thee till Time shall be no more, I stand with thee on Time's re- motest verge, Ten thousand years, ten thousand times told o'er ; Still, still with thee my onward course I urge ; And now no longer hear the end- less surge Of Time's light billows breaking on the shore Of distant earth ; no more the solemn dirge Requiem of worlds, when such are numbered o'er 338 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. Steals by: still thou art moving on forevermore. From that dim distance would I turn to gaze With fondly searching glance, upon the spot Of brief existence, where I met the blaze Of morning, bursting on my humble cot, And gladness whispered of my happy lot ; And now 't is dwindled to a point a speck And now 'tis nothing, and my eye may not Longer distinguish it amid the wreck Of worlds in ruins, crushed at the Almighty's beck. Time what is Time to thee ? a pass- ing thought To twice ten thousand ages a faint spark To twice ten thousand suns ; a fibre wrought Into the web of infinite a cork Balanced against a world: we hardly mark Its being even its name hath ceased to be; Thy wave hath swept it from us, and thy dark Mantle of years, in dim obscurity Hath shrouded it around: Time what is Time to thee! ISABELLA OF AUSTRIA. [" Isabella, Infanta of Parma, and consort of Joseph of Austria, predicted her own death, immediately after her marriage with the Emperor. Amidst the gayety and splendor of Vienna and Presburg, she was reserved and melancholy ; she believed that Heaven had given her a view of the future, and that her child, the namesake of the great Maria Theresa, would perish with her. Her prediction was fulfilled."] MIDST the palace-bowers of Hungary, imperial Presburg's pride, With the noble-born and beautiful assembled at her side, She stood, beneath the summer heaven, the soft winds sighing on, Stirring the green and arching boughs, like dancers in the sun. The beautiful pomegranate's gold, the snowy orange-bloom, The lotus and the creeping vine, the rose's meek perfume, The willow crossing with its green some statue's marble hair, All that might charm th' exquisite sense, or light the soul, was there. But she a monarch's treasured one lean'd gloomily apart, With her dark eye tearfully cast down and a shadow on her heart. Young, beautiful, and dearly loved, what sorrow hath she known? Are not the hearts and swords of all held sacred as her own? Is not her lord the kingliest in battle- field or bovver? The foremost in the council-hall, or at the banquet hour? Is not his love as pure and deep as his own Danube's tide? And wherefore in her princely home weeps Isabel, his bride? She raised her jewell'd hand and flung her veiling tresses back, Bathing its snowy tapering within their glossy black. A tear fell on the orange leaves; rich gem and mimic blossom, And fringed robe shook fearfully upon her sighing bosom : " Smile on, smile on," she murmur'd low, " for all is joy around, Shadow and sunshine, stainless sky, soft airs, and blossom'd ground ; 'T is meet the light of heart should smile when nature's brow is fair. And melody and fragrance meet, twin sisters of the air! ISABELLA OF AUSTRIA. 339 ' But ask not me to share with you the beauty of the scene The fountain-fall, mosaic walk, and tessellated green ; And point not to the mild blue sky, or glorious summer sun : I know how very fair is all the hand of God hath done The hills, the sky, the sun-lit cloud, the fountain leaping forth, The swaying trees, the scented flow- ers, the dark green robes of earth I love them still ; yet I have learn'd to turn aside from all, And never more my heart must own their sweet but fatal thrall ! whose mighty name I bear, And closer to my bursting heart his hallow'd image wear ; And I could watch our sweet young flower, unfolding day by day, And taste of that unearthly bliss which mothers only may ; But no, I may not cling to earth that voice is in my ear, That shadow lingers by my side the death-wail and the bier, The cold and starless night of death where day may never beam, The silence and the loathsomeness, the sleep which hath no dream ! "O God! to leave this fair bright world, and, more than all, to know The moment when the Spectral One shall deal his fearful blow ; To know the day, the very hour ; to feel the tide roll on ; To shudder at the gloom before, and weep the sunshine gone ; To count the days, the few short days, of light and life and breath, Between me and the noisome grave the voiceless home of death, Alas! if, knowing, feeling this, I murmur at my doom, Let not thy frowning, O my God ! lend darkness to the tomb. " Oh, I have borne my spirit up, and smiled amid the chill Remembrance of my certain doom, which lingers with me still : I would not cloud our fair child's brow, nor let a tear-drop dim The eye that met my wedded lord's, lest it should sadden him. But there are moments when the gush of feeling hath its way ; That hidden tide of unnamed woe nor fear nor love may stay. Smile on, smile on, light-hearted ones, your sun of joy is high ; Smile on, and leave the doom'd of Heaven alone to weep and die." A funeral chant was wailing through Vienna's holy pile ; A coffin with its gorgeous pall was borne along the aisle ; The banners of a kingly race waved high above the dead ; A mighty band of mourners came a king was at its head, A youthful king, with mournful tread and dim and tearful eye He had not dream'd that one so pure as his fair bride could die ; And sad and wild above the throng the funeral anthem rung : " Mourn for the hope of Austria ! Mourn for the loved and young! " The wail went up from other lands the valleys of the Hun, Fair Parma with its orange bowers and hills of vine and sun ; The lilies of imperial France droop'd as the sound went by, The long lament of cloister d Spain was mingled with the cry ; The dwellers in Colorno's halls, the Slowak at his cave, The bow'd at the Escurial, the Mag- yar sternly brave 340 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. All wept the early-stricken flower, and burst from every tongue : " Mourn for the dark-eyed Isabel ! Mourn for the loved and young ! " 1831. STANZAS. [" Art thou beautiful ? Live, then, in ac- cordance with the curious make and frame of thy creation ; and let the beauty of thy person teach thee to beautify thy mind with holiness, the ornament of the beloved of God." WILLIAM PENN.] BIND up thy tresses, thou beautiful one, Of brown in the shadow and gold in the sun ! Free should their delicate lustre be thrown O'er a forehead more pure than the Parian stone Shaming the light of those Orient pearls Which bind o'er its whiteness thy soft wreathing curls. Smile for thy glance on the mirror is thrown, And the face of an angel is meeting thine own! Beautiful creature I marvel not That thy cheek a lovelier tint hath caught ; And the kindling light of thine eye hath told Of a dearer wealth than the miser's gold. Away, away there is danger here A terrible phantom is bending near ; Ghastly and sunken, his rayless eye Scowls on thy loveliness scornfully With no human look with no human breath, He stands beside thee, the haunter, DEATH ! Fly ! but, alas ! he will follow still, Like a moonlight shadow, beyond thy will; In thy noon-day walk in thy mid- night sleep, Close at thy hand will that phantom keep Still in thine ear shall his whispers Woe, that such phantom should fol- low thee! In the lighted hall where the dancers go> Like beautiful spirits, to and fro ; When thy fair arms glance in their stainless white, Like ivory bathed in still moonlight ; And not one star in the holy sky Hath a clearer light than thine own blue eye ! Oh, then even then he will follow thee, As the ripple follows the bark at sea ; In the soften'd light in the turning dance He will fix on thine his dead, cold glance The chill of his breath on thy cheek shall linger, And thy warm blood shrink from his icy finger! And yet there is hope. Embrace it now, While thy soul is open as thy brow ; While thy heart is fresh 'while its feelings still Gush clear as the unsoil'd mountain- rill And thy smiles are free as the airs of spring, Greeting and blessing each breathing thing. When the after cares of thy life shall come, When the bud shall wither before its bloom ; When thy soul is sick of the empti- ness And changeful fashion of human bliss ; THE MISSIONARY. 341 And the weary torpor of blighted feeling Over thy heart as ice is stealing Then, when thy spirit is turn'd above, By the mild rebuke of the Chastene^s love ; When the hope of that joy in thy heart is stirr'd, Which eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard, THEN will that phantom of darkness be Gladness, and Promise, and Bliss to thee. 1832. THE MISSIONARY. [" It is an awful, an arduous thing to root out every affection for earthly things, so as to live only for another world. I am now- far, very far, from you all ; and as often as I look around and see the Indian scenery, I sigh to think of the distance which sepa- rates us." Letters of Henry Marty n from India.] " SAY, whose is this fair picture, which the light From the unshutter'd window rests upon Even as a lingering halo ? Beautiful ! The keen, fine eye of manhood, and a lip Lovely as that of Hylas, and impressed With the bright signet of some bril- liant thought That broad expanse of forehead, clear and high, Mark'd visibly with the characters of mind, And the free locks around it, raven black, Luxuriant and unsilver'd who was he?" A friend, a more than brother. In the spring And glory of his being he went forth From the embraces of devoted friends, From ease and quiet happiness, from more From the warm heart that loved him with a love Holier than earthly passion, and to whom The beauty of his spirit shone above The charms of perishing nature. He went forth Strengthen'd to suffer gifted to subdue The might of human passion to pass on Quietly to the sacrifice of all The lofty hopes of boyhood, and to turn The high ambition written on that brow, From its first dream of power and human fame, Unto a task of seeming lowliness Yet God-like in its purpose. He went forth To bind the broken spirit to pluck back The heathen from the wheel of Jug- gernaut To place the spiritual image of a God Holy and just and true, before the eye Of the dark-minded Brahmin and unseal The holy pages of the Book of Life, Fraught with sublimer mysteries than all The sacred tomes of Vedas to un- bind The widow from her sacrifice and save The perishing infant from the wor- shipp'd river! " And, lady, where is he ? " He slum- bers well Beneath the shadow of an Indian palm. There is no stone above his grave. The wind, Hot from the desert, as it stirs the leaves 342 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. Of neighboring bananas, sighs alone Over his place of slumber. God forbid That he should die alone!" Nay, not alone. His God was with him in that last dread hour His great arm underneath him, and His smile Melting into a spirit full of peace. And one kind friend, a human friend, was near One whom his teachings and his ear- nest prayers Had snatch'd as from the burning. He alone Felt the last pressure of his failing hand, Caught the last glimpses of his closing eye, And laid the green turf over him with tears, And left him with his God. " And was it well, Dear lady, that this noble mind should cast Its rich gifts on the waters? That a heart Full of all gentleness and truth and love Should wither on the suicidal shrine Of a mistaken duty? If I read Aright the fine intelligence which fills That amplitude of brow, and gazes out Like an indwelling spirit from that eye, He might have borne him loftily among The proudest of his land, and with a step Unfaltering ever, steadfast and secure, Gone up the paths of greatness, bearing still A sister spirit with him, as some star, Pre-eminent in Heaven, leads steadily up A kindred watcher, with its fainter beams Baptized in its great glory. Was it well That all this promise of the heart and mind Should perish from the earth, and leave no trace. Unfolding like the Cereus of the clime Which hath its sepulchre, but in the night Of pagan desolation was it well ? " Thy will be done, O Father! it was well. What are the honors of a perishing world GraspM by a palsied finger? the applause Of the unthoughtful multitude which greets The dull ear of decay? the wealth that loads The bier with costly drapery, and shines In tinsel on the coffin, and builds up The cold substantial monument? Can these Bear up the sinking spirit in that hour When heart and flesh are failing, and the grave Is opening under us? Oh, dearer then The memory of a kind deed done to him Who was our enemy, one grateful tear In the meek eye of virtuous suffering, One smile call'd up by unseen charity On the wan cheek of hunger, or one prayer Breathed from the bosom of the peni- tent The stain ? d with crime and outcast, unto whom Our mild rebuke and tenderness of love A merciful God hath blessed. THE MISSIONARY. 343 " But, lady, say, Did he not sometimes almost sink beneath The burden of his toil, and turn aside To weep above his sacrifice, and cast A sorrowing glance upon his child- hood^ home Still green in memory? Clung not to his heart Something of earthly hope uncruci- fied, Of earthly thought unchasten'd ? Did he bring Life's warm affections to the sacri- fice- Its loves, hopes, sorrows and be- come as one Knowing no kindred but a perishing world, No love but of the sin-endangered soul, No hope but of the winning back to life Of the dead nations, and no passing thought Save of the errand wherewith he was sent As to a martyrdom?" Nay, though the heart Be consecrated to the holiest work Vouchsafed to mortal effort, there will be Ties of the earth around it, and, through all Its perilous devotion, it must keep Its own humanity. And it is well. Else why wept He, who with our na- ture veil'd The spirit of a God, o'er lost Jeru- salem, And the cold grave of Lazarus? And why In the dim garden rose his earnest prayer, That from his lips the cup of suffering Might pass, if it were possible? My friend Was of a gentle nature, and his heart Gush'd like a river-fountain of the hills, Ceaseless and lavish, at a kindly smile, A word of welcome, or a tone of love. Freely his letters to his friends dis- closed His yearnings for the quiet haunts of home For love and its companionship, and all The blessings left behind him; yet above Its sorrows and its clouds his spirit rose, Tearful and yet triumphant, taking hold Of the eternal promises of God, And steadfast in its faith. Here are some lines Penn'd in his lonely mission-house, and sent To a dear friend of his who even now Lingers above them with a mournful Holding them well nigh sacred as a leaf Pluck'd from the record of a breaking heart. AN EVENING IN BURMAH. A night of wonder! piled afar With ebon feet and crests of snow, Like Himalayah's peaks, which bar The sunset and the sunset's star From half the shadow'd vale below, Volumed and vast the dense clouds lie, And over them, and down the sky, Broadly and pale the lightnings go. Above, the pleasant moon is seen, Pale journeyer to her own loved West! Like some bright spirit sent between The earth and heaven, she seems to lean Wearily on the cloud and rest ; And light from her unsullied brow 344 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. That gloomy cloud is gathering now Along each wreathed and whitening crest. And what a strength of light and shade Is checkering all the earth below! And through the jungle's verdant braid Of tangled vine and wild reed made, What blossoms in the moonlight glow! The Indian rose's loveliness, The ceiba with its crimson dress, The myrtle with its bloom of snow. .And flitting in the fragrant air, Or nestling in the shadowy trees, A thousand bright-hued birds are there Strange plumage quivering, wild and rare, With every faintly-breathing breeze ; And, wet with dew from roses shed, The Bulbul droops her weary head, Forgetful of her melodies. Uprising from the orange leaves The tall pagoda's turrets glow ; O'er graceful shaft and fretted eaves Its verdant web the myrtle weaves. And hangs in flowering wreaths below ; And where the cluster'd palms eclipse The moonbeams, from its marble lips The fountain's silver waters flow. Yes, all is lovely earth and air As aught beneath the sky may be ; And yet my thoughts are wandering where My native rocks lie bleak and bare A weary way beyond the sea. The yearning spirit is not here ; It lingers on a spot more dear Than India's brightest bowers to me. Methinks I tread the well-known street The tree my childhood loved is there, Its bare-worn roots are at my feet, And through its open boughs I meet White glimpses of the place of prayer And unforgotten eyes again Are glancing through the cottage pane, Than Asia's lustrous eyes more fair. What though, with every fitful gush Of night-wind, spicy odors come ; And hues of beauty glow and flush From matted vine and wild rose-bush ; And music's sweetest, faintest hum Steals through the moonlight, as in dreams, Afar from all my spirit seems Amid the dearer scenes of HOME! A holy name the name of home! Yet where, O wandering heart, is thine? Here where the dusky heathen come To bow before the deaf and dumb, Dead idols of their own design, Where deep in Ganges' worshipped tide The infant sinks and on its side The widow's funeral altars shine! Here, where 'mid light and song and flowers The priceless soul in ruin lies Lost dead to all those better powers Which link a fallen world like ours To God's own holy Paradise ; Where open sin and hideous crime Are like the foliage of their clime The unshorn growth of centuries ! Turn, then, my heart thy home r s here; No other now remains for thee : The smile of love, and friendship's tear, The tones that melted on thine ear, The mutual thrill of sympathy, The welcome of the household band, MASSACHUSETTS. 345 The pressure of the lip and hand, Thou mayest not hear, nor feel, nor see. God of my spirit ! Thou, alone, Who watchest o'er my pillowed head, Whose ear is open to the moan And sorrowing of thy child, hast known The grief which at my heart has fed,- The struggle of my soul to rise Above its earth-born sympathies, The tears of many a sleepless bed ! Oh, be Thine arm, as it hath been, In every test of heart and faith The Tempter's doubt the wiles of men The heathen's scoff the bosom sin A helper and a stay beneath, A strength in weakness 'mid the strife And anguish of my wasting life My solace and my hope in death ! 1833- MASSACHUSETTS. [Written on hearing that the Resolutions of the Legislature of Massachusetts on the subject of Slavery, presented by Hon. C. GUSHING to the House of Representatives of the United States, have been laid on the table unread and unreferred, under the in- famous rule of" PATTON'S RESOLUTION."] AND have they spurn'd thy word, Thou of the old THIRTEEN! Whose soil, where Freedom's blood first pour'd Hath yet a darker green? Tread the weak Southron's pride and lust Thy name and councils in the dust? And have they closed thy mouth, And fix'd the padlock fast? Slave of the mean and tyrant South! Is this thy fate at last? Old Massachusetts! can it be That thus thy sons must speak of thee? Call from the Capitol Thy chosen ones again Unmeet for them the base control Of Slavery's curbing rein ! Unmeet for necks like theirs to feel The chafing of the despot's heel! Call back to Quincy's shade That steadfast son of thine ; Go if thy homage must be paid To Slavery's pagod-shrine, Seek out some meaner offering than The free-born soul of that old man. Call that true spirit back, So eloquent and young ; In his own vale of Merrimack No chains are on his tongue! Better to breathe its cold, keen air, Than wear the Southron's shackle there. Ay, let them hasten home, And render up their trust ; Through them the Pilgrim-state is dumb, Her proud lip in the dust! Her counsels and her gentlest word Of warning spurn'd aside, unheard! Let them come back, and shake The base dust from their feet ; And with their tale of outrage wake The free hearts whom 'they meet ; And show before indignant men The scars where Slavery's chain has been. Back from the Capitol It is no place for thee! Beneath the arch of Heaven's blue wall Thy voice may still be free! What power shall chain thy spirit there, In God's free sun and freer air ? 346 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. A voice is calling thee, From all the martyr-graves Of those stern men, in death made free, Who could not live as slaves. The slumberings of thy honor'd dead Are for thy sake disquieted! The curse of Slavery comes Still nearer, day by day ; Shall thy pure altars and thy homes Become the Spoiler's prey? Shall the dull tread of fetter'd slaves Sound o'er thy old and holy graves? Pride of the old THIRTEEN! That curse may yet be stay'd Stand thou, in Freedom's strength, between The living and the dead ; Stand forth, for God and Liberty In one strong effort worthy thee ! Once more let Faneuil Hall By freemen's feet be trod, And give the echoes of its wall Once more to Freedom's God! And in the midst, unseen, shall stand The mighty fathers of thy land. Thy gather'd sons shall feel The soul of Adams near, And Otis with his fiery zeal, And Warren's onward cheer ; And heart to heart shall thrill as when They moved and spake as living men. Fling, from thy Capitol, Thy banner to the light, And, o'er thy Charter's sacred scroll, For Freedom and the Right, Breathe once again thy vows, un- broken Speak once again as thou hast spoken. On thy bleak hills, speak out! A WORLD thy words shall hear ; And they who listen round about, In friendship, or in fear, Shall know thee still, when sorest tried, " Unshaken and unterrified ! " l 1837- ADDRESS. [Written for the opening of " PENNSYL- VANIA HALT,," dedicated to Free Discus- sion, Virtue, Liberty, and Independence, on the I5th of the 5th month, 1838.] 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 float- ing 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! 1<( Massachusetts has held her way right onward, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified." Speech of C, disking in the House of Representatives of the United States, 1836. ADDRESS. 347 Oh ! loftier halls, 'neath brighter skies than these, Stood darkly mirrored in the ./Egean seas, Pillar and shrine and lifelike stat- ues 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 Coli- seum'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 shadows 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 him the chained and stricken slave By Tiber's shore, or blue /Egina'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 Free- dom 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 Propylaea 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 op- pressor's wrong Shall strong rebukings thrill on Free- dom's tongue No partial justice hold the 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 chain! ess wind; Where the high trust is fixed on Truth alone, 348 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. 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 amaze- ment 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 West- ern 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 far 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 " FATHERLAND," 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 out- cast 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. THE RESPONSE. 349 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 Sa- bine; When unto angel-lips at last is given The silver trump of Jubilee to Heaven ; And from Virginia's plains Ken- tucky V shades, And through the dim Floridian ever- glades, 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 those 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 work 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! 1838. THE RESPONSE. [" To agitate the question (Slavery) anew, is not only impolitic, but it is a virtual breach of good faith to our brethren of the South ; an unwarrantable interference with their domestic relations and institutions." " I can never, in the official station which I occupy, consent to- countenance a course which may jeopard the peace and harmony of the Union." Governor Porter s Inau- gural Message, 1838.] No " countenance " of his, forsooth ! Who asked it at his vassal hands? Who looked for homage done to Truth, By party's vile and hateful bands? Who dreamed that one by them pos- sessed, Would lay for her his spear in rest? His "countenance"! well, let it light The human robber to his spoil ! Let those who track the bondman's flight, Like bloodhounds o'er our once free soil, Bask in its sunshine while they may, And howl its praises on their way ; We ask no boon : our rights we claim Free press and thought free tongue and pen The right to speak in Freedom's name, As Pennsylvanians and as men ; To do, by Lynch law unforbid, What our own Rush and Franklin did. Ay, there we stand, with planted feet, Steadfast, where. those old worthies stood : 350 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. Upon us let the tempest beat, Around us swell and surge the flood: We fail or triumph on that spot ; God helping us, we falter not. " A breach of plighted faith ? " For shame ! Who voted for that " breach"? Who gave In the state councils, vote and name For freedom for the District slave? Consistent patriot! go, forswear, Blot out, u expunge " the record there ! l Go, eat thy words. Shall H C Turn round a moral harlequin ? And arch V B wipe away The stains of his Missouri sin? And shall that one unlucky vote Stick, burr-like, in thy honest throat? No do thy part in "putting down " 2 The friends of Freedom : sum- mon out The parson in his saintly gown, To curse the outlawed roundabout, In concert with the Belial brood The Balaam of " the brotherhood "! Quench every free discussion light Clap on the legislative snuffers, And caulk with " resolutions " tight The ghastly rents the Union suf- fers! Let church and state brand Abolition As heresy and rank sedition. Choke down, at once, each breathing thing, 1 It ought to be borne in mind that DAVID R. PORTER voted in the Legislature to instruct the congressional delegation of Pennsylvania to use their influence for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia. 2 "He [Martin Van Buren] thinks the abolitionists may be put down." Rich- mond ( Va.) Enquirer. That whispers of the Rights of Man : Gag the free girl who dares to sing Of freedom o'er her dairy pan : Dog the old farmer's steps about, And hunt his cherished treason out. Go, hunt sedition. Search for that In every pedler's cart of rags ; Pry into every Quaker's hat, And DOCTOR FUSSELL'S saddle bags ! Lest treason wrap, with all its ills, Around his powders and his pills. Where Chester's oak and walnut shades With slavery-laden breezes stir, And on the hills, and in the glades Of Bucks and honest Lancaster, Are heads which think and hearts which feel Flints to the Abolition steel! Ho! send ye down a corporal's guard With flow of flag and beat of drum Storm LINDLEY COATES'S poultry yard, Beleaguer THOMAS WHITSON'S home ! Beat up the Quaker quarters show Your valor to an unarmed foe! Do more. Fill up your loathsome jails With faithful men and women set The scaffold up in these green vales, And let their verdant turf be wet With blood of unresisting men Ay, do all this, and more, WHAT THEN? Think ye, one heart of man and child Will falter from his lofty faith, At the mob's tumult, fierce and wild The prison cell the shameful death ? STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 351 No ! nursed in storm and trial long, The weakest of our band is strong ! Oh! while before us visions come Of slave ships on Virginia's coast Of mothers in their childless home, Like Rachel, sorrowing o'er the lost The slave-gang scourged upon its way The bloodhound and his human prey- We cannot falter! Did we so, The stones beneath would murmur out, And all the winds that round us blow Would whisper of our shame about. No! let the tempest rock the land, Our faith shall live our truth shall stand. True as the Vaudois hemmed around With Papal fire and Roman steel Firm as the Christian heroine bound Upon Domitian's torturing wheel, We 'bate no breath we curb no thought Come what may come, WE FALTER NOT! STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1844. [Written on reading the sentence of JOHN L. BROWN, of South Carolina, to be executed on the 25th of 4th month, 1844, for the crime of assisting a female slave to escape from bondage. The sentence was afterwards commuted.] Ho! thou who seekest late and long A license from the Holy Book For brutal lust and hell's red 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 ; l 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! Ho ! champion of the people's cause Suspend thy loud and vain rebuke Of foreign wrong and Old World 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 ; And all that kindled heart can feel 1 Three new publications, from the pens of Dr. Junkin, President of Miami College, Alexander McCaine of the Methodist Prot- estant church, and of a clergyman of the Cincinnati Synod, defending Slavery -on Scriptural ground, have recently made their appearance. 352 EARLY AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS. Speak out in earnest 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 pur- chased lips, And tell us that our fathers gave For Freedom's pedestal, a slave, For frieze and moulding, chains and whips ! But ye who own that higher law Whose tables 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 proph- et'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 Dryad and the woodland Fay, O'erlooked 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 tyrant's sneer, Borne to us from the Old World's thrones, And by their grief, who pining hear, In sunless mines and dungeons drear, How Freedom's land her faith dis- owns ; Speak out in acts: the time for words Has passed, and deeds alone suffice ; In the loud clang of meeting swords The softer music dies! 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. NOTES. Page I. Mogg Megone. MOGG MEGONE, or Hegone, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and cap- tured the garrison at Black Point, October I2th of that year ; and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco River. From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably selected by the principal sachems as their agent in the treaty signed in November, 1676. Page 2. Castine. Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1644. Leaving his civilized compan- ions, he plunged into the great wilder- ness and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the great Modocawando, the most powerful sachem of the East. His castle was plundered by Governor An- dros, during his reckless administration; and the enraged Baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English. Page 2. Jocelyn. The owner and commander of the garri- son at Black Point, which Mogg attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates. Page 2. Phillips. Major Phillips, one of the principal men of the Colony. His garrison sustained a long and terrible siege by the savages. As a magistrate and a gentleman, he exacted of his plebeian neighbors a remarkable de- gree of deference. The Court Records of the settlement inform us that an individual was fined for the heinous offence of saying 2A that " Major Phillips's mare was as lean as an Indian dog." Page 2. Harmon. Captain Harmon, of Georgiana, now York, was, for many years, the terror of the Eastern Indians. In one of his ex- peditions up the Kennebec River, at the head of a party of rangers, he discovered twenty of the savages asleep by a large fire. Cautiously creeping towards them until he was certain of his aim, he ordered his men to single out their objects. The first dis- charge killed or mortally wounded the whole number of the unconscious sleepers. Page 2. Vine-hung isle. Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur de Monts and Champlain, in 1603. The fol- lowing extract, from the journal of the latter, relates to it : " Having left the Kennebec, we ran along the coast to the westward, and cast anchor under a small island, near the mainland, where we saw twenty or more natives. I here visited an island, beautifully clothed with a fine growth of forest trees, particularly of the oak and walnut; and overspread with vines, that, in their season, produce excellent grapes. We named it the island of Bacchus." Les Voyages de Sieur Champlain, Liv. 2, c. 8. Page 2. Bonython. John Bonython was the son of Richard Bonython, Gent., one of the most efficient and able magistrates of the Colony. John proved to be "a degenerate plant." In 1635, we find, by the Court Records, that, for some offence, he was fined 405. In ' 1640, he was fined for abuse toward R. Gib- son, the minister, and Mary his wife. Soon after he was fined for disorderly conduct in the house of his father. In 1645, * ne " Great and General Court " adjudged " John Bony- 353 354 NOTES. thon outlawed, and incapable of any of his Majesty's laws, and proclaimed him a rebel." (Court Records of the Province, 1645.) In 1651, he bade defiance to the laws of Mass- achusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of ''all law and author- ity; and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of "The Sagamore of Saco," which has come down to the present generation in the following epitaph : " Here lies Bonython ; the Sagamore of Saco, He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomoko." By some means or other, he obtained a large estate. In this poem, I have taken some liberties with him, not strictly war- ranted by historical facts, although the con- duct imputed to him is in keeping with his general character. Over the last years of his life lingers a deep obscurity. Even the manner of his death is uncertain. He was supposed to have been killed by the Indians ; but this is doubted by the able and inde- fatigable author of the History of Saco and Biddeford. Part I. p. 115. Page 2. The leaping brook. Foxwell's Brook flows from a marsh or bog, called the " Heath," in Saco, contain- ing thirteen hundred acres. On this brook, and surrounded by wild and romantic scenery, is a beautiful waterfall, of more than sixty feet. Page 3. Hiacoomes. Hiacoomes, the first Christian preacher on Martha's Vineyard; for a biography of whom the reader is referred to In- crease Mayhew's account of the Praying Indians, 1726. The following is related of him : " One Lord's day, after meeting, where Hiacoomes had been preaching, there came in a Powwaw very angry, and said, 'I know all the meeting Indians are liars. You say you don't care for the Pow- waws ' ; then calling two or three of them by name, he railed at them, and told them they were deceived, for the Powwaws could kill all the meeting Indians, if they set about it. But Hiacoomes told him that he would be in the midst of all the Powwaws in the island, and they should do the utmost they could against him ; and when they should do their worst by their witchcraft to kill him, he would without fear set himself against them, by remembering Jehovah. He told them also he did put all the Powwaws un- der his heel. Such was the faith of this good man. Nor were these Powwaws ever able to do these Christian Indians any hurt, though others were frequently hurt and killed by them." Mayhew, pp. 6, 7, c. r. Page 5. An ache in her tooth. "The tooth-ache," says Roger Williams in his observations upon the language and customs of the New England tribes, " is the only paine which will force their stoute hearts to cry." He afterwards remarks that even the Indian women never cry as he has heard " some of their men in this paine." Page 6. Wuttamuttata. Wuttamuttata, " Let us drink." Weekan, " It is sweet." Vide Roger Williams 's Key to the Indian Language, " in that parte of America called New England." London, 1643, p. 35. Page 7. Wetuomanit. Wetuomanit, a house god, or demon. "They the Indians have given me the names of thirty-seven gods, which I have, all which in their solemne Worships they invocate ! " R. Williams's Briefe Ob- servations of the Customs, Manners, Wor- ships, &c., of the Natives, in Peace and Warre, in Life and Death : on all which is added Spiritual Observations, General and Particular, of Chiefe and Special use upon all occasions to all the English inhabiting these parts ; yet Pleasant and Profitable to the view of all Mene. p. no, c. 21. Page 9. The Desert hie. Mt. Desert Island, the Bald Mountain upon which overlooks Frenchman's and Penobscot Bay. It was upon this island that the Jesuits made their earliest settle- ment. Page 10. The Jesuifs Cross and Book. Father Hennepin, a missionary among the Iroquois, mentions that the Indians believed him to be a conjurer, and that they were particularly afraid of a bright silver chalice which he had in his possession. "The Indians," says Pere Jerome Lalla- NOTES. 355 mant, " fear us as the greatest sorcerers on earth." Page 10. Bomazeen. Bomazeen is spoken of by Penhallow, as " the famous warrior and chieftain of Nor- ridgewock." He was killed in the attack of the English upon Norridgewock, in 1724. Page ii. The Jesuit. Pere Ralle, or Rasles, was one of the most zealous and indefatigable of that band of Jesuit missionaries who, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, pene- trated the forests of America, with the avowed object of converting the heathen. The first religious mission of the Jesuits, to the sav- ages in North America, was in 1611. The zeal of the fathers for the conversion of the Indians to the Catholic faith knew no bounds. For this, they plunged into the depths of the wilderness ; habituated them- selves to all the hardships and privations of the natives ; suffered cold, hunger, and some of them death itself, by the extremest tortures. Pere Brebeuf, after laboring in the cause of his mission for twenty years, together with his companion, Pere Lalla- mant, was burned alive. To these might be added the names of those Jesuits who were put to death by the Iroquois, Dan- iel, Gamier, Buteaux, La Riborerde, Gou- pil, Constantin, and Liegeouis. " For bed," says Father Lallamant, in his Relation de ce qui s'cst dans le pays des Hurons, 1640, c. 3, " we have nothing but a miserable piece of bark of a tree ; for nourishment, a hand- ful or two of corn, either roasted or soaked in water, which seldom satisfies our hunger ; and after all, not venturing to perform even the ceremonies of our religion, without be- ing considered as sorcerers." Their suc- cess among the natives, however, by no means equalled their exertions. Pere Lalla- mant says : " With respect to adult per- sons, in good health, there is little apparent success ; on the contrary, there have been nothing but storms and whirlwinds from that quarter." Sebastian Ralle established himself, some time about the year 1670, at Norridgewock, where he continued more than forty years. He was accused, and perhaps not without justice, of exciting his praying Indians against the English, whom he looked upon as the enemies not only of his king, but also of the Catholic religion. He was killed by the English, in 1724, at the foot of the cross which his own hands had planted. This Indian church was broken up, and its members either killed outright or dispersed. In a letter written by Ralle to his nephew he gives the following account of his church, and his own labors: "All my converts re- pair to the church regularly twice every day ; first, very early in the morning, to at- tend mass, and again in the evening, to assist in the prayers at sunset. As it is necessary to fix the imagination of savages, whose attention is easily distracted, I have composed prayers, calculated to inspire them with just sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars : they chant, or at least recite them aloud, during mass. Be- sides preaching to them on Sundays and saints' days, I seldom let a working-day pass, without making a concise exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with hor- ror at those vices to which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practise of some particular virtue." Vide Lettres Edifiantes et Cur., Vol. VI. p. 127. Page 15. Pale priest! The character of Ralle has probably never been correctly delineated. By his brethren of the Romish Church, he has been nearly apotheosized. On the other hand, our Puritan historians have represented him as a demon in human fdrm. He was undoubtedly sincere in his devotion to the interests of his church, and not over-scrupulous as to the means of ad- vancing those interests. "The French," says the author of the History of Saco and Biddeford, " after the peace of 1713, secretly promised to supply the Indians with arms and ammunition, if they would renew hos- tilities. Their principal agent was the cele- brated Ralle, the French Jesuit." p. 215. Page 1 6. De Rouville. Hertel de Rouville was an active and unsparing enemy of the English. He was the leader of the combined French and Indian forces which destroyed Deerfield and massacred its inhabitants, in 1703. He 356 NOTES. was afterwards killed in the attack upon Haverhill. Tradition says that, on examin- ing his dead body, his head and face were found to be perfectly smooth, without the slightest appearance of hair or beard. Page 17. Cowesass? Cowesass? tawhich wessaseen? Are you afraid ? why fear you ? Page 20. THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married a daughter of Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662. The wedding took place at Pennacook (now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies closed with a great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, Passaconaway ordered a select num- ber of his men to accompany the newly- married couple to the dwelling of the husband, where in turn there was another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winnepurkit, expressing a desire to visit her father's house, was permitted to go, ac- companied by a brave escort of her hus- band's chief men. But when she wished to return, her father sent a messenger to Sau- gus, informing her husband, and asking him to come and take her away. He re- turned for an answer that he had escorted his wife to her father's house in a style that became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, her father must send her back in the same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the connection of his daughter with the Saugus chief. Vide Morton's New Canaan. Page 24. The Bashaba. This was the name which the Indians of New England jfave to two or three of their principal chiefs, to whom all their inferior sagamores acknowledged al- legiance. Passaconaway seems to have been one of these chiefs. His residence was at Pennacook. (Mass. Hist. Coll., Vol. III. pp. 21, 22.) " He was regarded," says Hubbard, " as a great sorcerer, and his fame was widely spread. It was said of him that he could cause a green leaf to grow in winter, trees to dance, water to burn, &c. He was, undoubtedly, one of those shrewd and powerful men whose achievements are always regarded by a barbarous people as the result of supernatural aid. The Indians gave to such the names of Powahs or Panisees." " The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and to these the Devill appear- eth more familiarly than to others." Wins- low's Relation. Page 26. The household-god. " The Indians," says Roger Williams, " have a god whom they call Wetuomanit, who presides over the household." Page 28. The great stone vase. There are rocks in the river at the Falls of Amoskeag, in the cavities of which, tradi- tion says, the Indians formerly stored and concealed their corn. Page 30. Aukeetamit. The Spring God. Vide Roger Will- iams 's Key, &c. Page 33- Mat wonck kunna-monee ! " Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her no more. Vide Roger Wiliiams's Key to the Indian Language. Page 33- O mighty Sowanna ! "The Great South West God." Vide Roger Williams' s Observations, &c. Page 34. The adventurer. The celebrated Captain Smith, after re- signing the government of the Colony in Virginia, in his capacity of " Admiral of New England," made a careful survey of the coast from Penobscot to Cape Cod, in the summer of 1614. Page 34. " The Smile of Heaven" Lake Winnipiseogee, The Smile of the Great Spirit, the source of one of the branches of the Merrimack. Page 34. The sweetest name in all his story. Captain Smith gave to the promontory, now called Cape Ann, the name of Traga- bizanda, in memory of his young and beautiful mistress of that name, who, while he was a captive at Constantinople, like Desdemona, " loved him for the dangers he had passed." Page 38. THE NORSEMEN. Some three or four years since, a frag- ment of a statue, rudely chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on the Merrimack. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The NOTES. 357 fact that the ancient Northmen visited New England, some centuries before the discov- eries of Columbus, is now very generally admitted. Page 46. The proud Castilian. De Soto, in the sixteenth century, pene- trated into the wilds of the new world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth. Page 53. 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 Tous- saint many noble qualities, and had in- structed 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'Ouverlure was ap- pointed, by the French government, Gen- eral-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 pros- perous. The miserable attempt of Napoleon to re-establish slavery in St. Domingo, al- though 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 subterra- nean 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 In- dia Islands, since their first discovery by Columbus, could not boast of a single name which deserves comparison with that of Toussaint L'Ouverture. Page 56. Dark Haytien ! 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 be- hind 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." Page 56. THE SLAVE-SHIP. 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 ap- proaching the line, a terrible malady broke out, an obstinate disease of the eyes, contagious, and altogether beyond the re- sources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves (only half a wineglass 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 cap- tain 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 un- affected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not preclude calculation : to save the expense of supporting slaves rendered un- salable, and to obtain grounds for a claim BANCROFT 35S NOTES. against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, having become blind, were thrown into the sea and drowned! 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 2ist 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. Speech of M. Ben- jamin Constant, in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820. Page 78. And he the basest of the base. The Northern author of the Congressional rule against receiving petitions of the people on the subject of Slavery. Page 90. YORKTOWN. Dr. Thacher, surgeon in Scammel's regi- ment, in his description of the siege of Yorktown, says: "The labor on the Vir- ginia 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 free- dom 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." Page 98. TH K 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 repre- sentatives of the estates of England, the greater excommunication against the in- fringer of that instrument. The imposing ceremony took place in the great Hall of Westminster. A copy of the curse, as pro- nounced 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 ob- serve them being made, against said liberties, are accursed and sequestered from the com- pany of heaven and the sacraments of the Holy Church." WILLIAM PENN, in his admirable politi- cal 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 free- dom thereby repeated and confirmed." Page 117. THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. " The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their princi- ples among the Catholic gentry, was by carrying with them a box of trinkets, or articles of dress. Having entered the houses of the gentry and disposed of some of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable than these, inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be protected from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy." K. Saccho. Page 136. CHALKLEY HALL. Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of THOMAS CHALKLEY, an emi- nent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was pub- lished in 1749., presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow-men. During a tem- porary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful NOTES. 359 scenery around the ancient village of Frank- ford frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city. Page 140. The great Augustine. August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi. " Interrogavi Terram," &c. Page 142. And beauty is its own excuse. 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." Page 153. BARCLAY OF URY. Among the earliest converts to the doc- trines of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an occasion of un- common rudeness, lamented that he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. " I find more satisfaction," said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my reli- gious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertain- ment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor." Page 167. LUCY HOOPER. Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the ist of 8th mo., 1841, aged 24 years. Page 168. CHANNING. The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, beautifully and truly manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common legacy. Page 171. Sibmatis vine. " O vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee with the weeping of Jazer!" Jeremiah xlviii. 32. Page 175. To MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF' HIS SISTER. Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President ot the Brit- ish Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845. She was the col- league, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: "Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended than in this excellent woman." Page 177. The Smile of God. Winnipiseogee : " Smile of the Great Spirit." Page 180. THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK. This legend is the subject of a cele- brated picture by Tintoretto, of which Mr. Rogers possesses the original sketch. The slave lies on the ground, amid a crowd of spectators, who look on, animated by all the various emotions of sympathy, rage, terror; a woman, in front, with a child in her arms, has always been admired for the life-like vivacity of her attitude and expres- sion. The executioner holds up the broken implements; St. Mark, with a headlong movement, seems to rush down from heaven in haste to save his worshipper. The dra- matic grouping in this picture is wonder- ful ; the coloring, in its gorgeous depth and harmony, is, in Mr. Rogers's sketch, finer than in the picture. Mrs. Jamieson's Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art, Vol. I. p. 121. Page 181. THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. Pennant, in his "Voyage to the Heb- rides," describes the holy well of Loch Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure of melancholy, trouble, and insanity. Page 183. To PJU'S 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 indemni- NOTES. fication for the owners of the convent de- stroyed near Boston. He defended the cause of the Irish patriots long before it had be- come 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. Page 184. ELLIOTT. Ebenezer Elliott, the intelligence of whose death has recently reached us, was, to the artisans of England, what Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His " Corn-law Rhymes " contributed not a little to that overwhelming tide of popular opinion and feeling which resulted in the repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the eloquent author of " The Reforms and Re- formers of Great Britain" said of him, " Not corn-law repealers alone, but all Britons who moisten their scanty bread with the sweat of the brow, are largely indebted to his inspiring lay, for the mighty bound which the laboring mind of England has taken in our day." Page 186. THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS. The reader of the Biography of the late 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. Page 194. Thou 'mind'st me of a story told, In rare Bernardiris leaves of gold. The incident here referred to is related in a note to Bernardin Henri Saint Pierre's Etudes de la Nature. " We arrived at the habitation of the Her- mits a little before they sat down to their table, and while they were still at church. J. J. Rousseau proposed to me to offer up our devotions. The hermits were reciting the Litanies of Providence, which are re- markably beautiful. Afterwe had addressed our prayers to God, and the hermits were proceeding to the refectory, Rousseau said to me, with his heart overflowing, ' At this moment I experience what is said in the gospel : Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am 1 in the midst of them. There is here a feeling of peace and happiness which penetrates the soul.' I said, ' If Fenelon had lived, you would have been a Catholic.' He exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, ' O, if Fenelon were alive, I would struggle to get into his service, even as a lackey! ' " In my sketch of Saint Pierre, it will be seen that I have somewhat antedated the period of his old age. At that time he was not probably more than fifty. In describing him, I have by no means exaggerated his own history of his mental condition at the period of the story. In the fragmentary Sequel to his Studies of Nature, he thus speaks of himself: "The ingratitude of those of whom I had deserved kindness, unexpected family misfortunes, the total loss of my small patrimony through enter- prises solely undertaken for the benefit of my country, the debts under which I lay oppressed, the blasting of all my hopes, these combined calamities made dreadful inroads upon my health and reason ... I found it impossible to continue in a room where there was company, especially if the doors were shut. I could not even cross an alley in a public garden, if several per- sons had got together in it. When alone, my malady subsided. I felt myself likewise at ease in places where I saw children only. At the sight of any one walking up to the place where I was, I felt my whole frame agitated, and retired. I often said to my- self, ' My sole study has been to merit well of mankind ; why do I fear them ? ' " He attributes his improved health of mind and body to the counsels of his friend, J. J. Rousseau. " I renounced," says he, " my books. I threw my eyes upon the works of nature, which spake to all my senses a lan- guage which neither time nor nations have it in their power to alter. Thenceforth my histories and my journals were the herbage of the fields and meadows. My thoughts did not go forth painfully after them, as in the case of human systems; but their thoughts, under a thousand engaging forms, NOTES. quietly sought me. In these I studied, with- out effort, the laws of that Universal Wisdom which had surrounded me from the cradle, but on which heretofore I had bestowed little attention." Speaking of Rousseau, he says : " I de- rived inexpressible satisfaction from his society. What I prized still more than his genius, was his probity. He was one of the few literary characters, tried in the fur- nace of affliction, to whom you could, with perfect security, confide your most secret thoughts. . . . Even when he deviated, and became the victim of himself or of others, he could forget his own misery in devotion to the welfare of mankind. He was uni- formly the advocate of the miserable. There might be inscribed on his tomb these affect- ing words from that Book of which he car- ried always about him some select passages, during the last years of his life : His sins, which are many, are forgiven, for he loved much" Page 195. Like that the gray-haired sea- king passed. Dr. Hooker, who accompanied Sir James Ross in his expedition of 1841, thus de- scribes the appearance of that unknown land of frost and fire which was seen in latitude 77 south, a stupendous chain of moun- tains, the whole mass of which, from its highest point to the ocean, was covered with everlasting snow and ice : " The water and the sky were both as blue, or rather more intensely blue, than I have ever seen them in the tropics, and all the coast was one mass of dazzlingly beauti- ful peaks of snow, which, when the sun ap- proached the horizon, reflected the most brilliant tints of golden yellow and scarlet; and then, to see the dark cloud of smoke, tinged with flame, rising from the volcano in a perfect unbroken column, one side jet- black, the other giving back the colors of the sun, sometimes turning off at a right angle by some current of wind, and stretch- ing many miles to leeward ! This was a sight so surpassing everything that can be imag- ined, and so heightened by the consciousness that we had penetrated, under the guidance of our commander, into regions far beyond what was ever deemed practicable, that it caused a feeling of awe to steal over us at the consideration of our own comparative insignificance and helplessness, and at the same time an indescribable feeling of the greatness of the Creator in the works of his hand." Page 203. . . . The first great triumph won In Freedom s name. The election of Charles Sumner to the U.S. Senate " followed hard upon " the ren- dition of the fugitive Sims by the U.S. offi- cials and the armed police of Boston. Page 207. 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 multi- tude. The higher and holier heroism of Christian self-denial and sacrifice, in the humble walks of private duty, is seldom so well appreciated. Page 211. To FREDRIKA BREMER. It is proper to say that these lines are the joint impromptu of my sister and myself. They are inserted here as an expression of our admiration of the gifted stranger whom we have since learned to love as a friend. Page 215. KATHLEEN. This ballad was originally published in a prose work of the author's, as the song of a wandering Milesian schoolmaster. In the seventeenth century, slavery in the New World was by no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political offenders and criminals were transported by the Brit- ish government to the plantations of Barba- does and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle in the market. Kidnapping of free and innocent white persons was prac- tised to a considerable extent in the seaports of the United Kingdom. Page 218. KOSSUTH. It can scarcely be necessary to say that there are elements in the character and passages in the history of the great Hun- garian statesman and orator, which neces- sarily command the admiration of those, even, who believe that no political revolu- 362 NOTES. tion was ever worth the price of human blood. Page 220. Homilies from Oldbug hear. Dr. W , author of "The Puritan," under the name of Jonathan Oldbug. Page 236. WILLIAM FORSTER. William Forster, of Norwich, England, died in East Tennessee, in the ist month, 1854, while engaged in presenting to the governors of the States of this Union the address of his religious society on the evils of slavery. He was the relative and co- adjutor of the Buxtons, Gurneys, and Frys ; and his whole life, extending almost to threescore and ten years, was a pure and beautiful example of Christian benevolence. He had travelled over Europe, and visited most of its sovereigns, to plead against the slave-trade and slavery ; and had twice before made visits to this country, under impressions of religious duty. Page 237. RANTOUL. No more fitting inscription could be placed on the tombstone of Robert Rantoul than this : " He died at his post in Con- gress, and his last words were a protest in the name of Democracy against the Fugi- tive-Slave Law." Page 252. SONGS OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT. " Sebah, Oasis of Fezzan, loth March, 1846. This evening the female slaves were unusually excited in singing, and I had the curiosity to ask my negro ser- vant, 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 4heir songs for me, but got no satisfactory account from them. Said at first said, ' O, they sing of Rubee' (God). ' What do you mean ? ' I replied impatiently. ' O, 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 re- turn again to our dear home" ' " I am not surprised I got little satisfac- tion when I asked the Moors about the songs of their slaves. Who will say that the above words are not a very appro- priate song ? What could have been more congenially adapted to their then woful con- dition ? 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 ob- served that their fatigue and sufferings were too great for them to strike up this melan- choly dirge, and many days their plaintive strains never broke over the silence of the desert." Richardson's Journal. Page 253. THE NKW EXODUS. One of the latest and most interesting items of Eastern news is the statement that Slavery has been formally and totally abolished in Egypt. Page 269. THE CONQUEST OF FIN- LAND. A letter from England, in the Friends' Review, says: "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 gunboats of the Allied squadrons in the late war, with a view to obtaining relief for them." Page 285. TELLING THE BEES. A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremon- ial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home. Page 297. O Beauty, old yet ever new! " Too late I loved Thee, O Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new ! And lo ! Thou NOTES. 363 wert within, and I abroad searching for thee. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee." August. Soliloq., Book X. Page 297. Tides of everlasting Day. " And I saw that there was an Ocean of Darkness and Death : but an infinite Ocean of Light and Love flowed over the Ocean of Darkness: And in that I saw the infinite Love of God." George Fox's Journal. Page 306. LE MARAIS DU CYNGE. The massacre of unarmed and unoffend- ing men, in Southern Kansas, took place near the Marais du Cygne of the French voyageurs. Page 321. THE QUAKER ALUMNI. Read at the Friends' School Anni- versary, Providence, R. I., 6th mo., 1860.