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 THE EARLY POEMS 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEP 
 
 X 
 
 WITH 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 BY 
 
 N. H. DOLE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Gift 
 
 EDUCATION 
 
 .t) .LINQLUST 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1893, 
 BY T. Y. CROW ELL & CO, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH vii 
 
 THE HKIDAI. OK I KNNACOOK i 
 
 I. The Mcrriniiick 7 
 
 II. I lu- Rishalni 9 
 
 III. The 1 laughter 14 
 
 IV. Tin- Wedding 17 
 
 \ . The New Home 21 
 
 VI. At Pennacook 24 
 
 VII. The Departure 27 
 
 VIII. Song of Indian Women 29 
 
 LEGENDARY: 
 
 The Merrimack 31 
 
 The Norsemen 35 
 
 Cassandra Southwiek 39 
 
 Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 50 
 
 St. John 55 
 
 Pentucket 61 
 
 The Familist s Hymn 64 
 
 The Fountain 68 
 
 The Exiles 73 
 
 The New Wife and the Old 83 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM : 
 
 ^/The Slave Ships 89 
 
 Stanzas, Our Countrymen in Chains 95 
 
 iii 
 
 575780 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM continued. PAGE 
 
 ^- The Yankee Girl 99 
 
 To W. L. G I0 i 
 
 ^JBong of the Free I0 3 
 
 The Hunters of Men Ic >5 
 
 Clerical Oppressors , 107 
 
 -^^The Christian Slave no 
 
 Stanzas for the Times 113 
 
 Lines written on reading Gov. Ritner s Message, 1836 116 
 Lines written on reading the Famous " Pastoral Let 
 ter " 119 
 
 Lines written for the Meeting of the Anti-Slavery 
 
 Society at Chatham Street Chapel, New York, 1834 124 
 Lines written for the Celebration of the Third Anni 
 versary of British Emancipation, 1837 126 
 
 Lines written for the Anniversary Celebration of the 
 
 First of August, at Milton, 1846 127 
 
 The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her 
 
 Daughter, sold into Southern Bondage 130 
 
 Address written for the Opening of " PENNSYLVANIA 
 
 HALL " 132 
 
 The Moral Warfare 138 
 
 The Response 139 
 
 The World s Convention of the Friends of Emancipa 
 tion, held in London in 1840 143 
 
 New Hampshire, 1845 I 5 I 
 
 The New Year: addressed to the Patrons of the Penn 
 sylvania Freeman 152 
 
 Massachusetts to Virginia 158 
 
 The Relic 165 
 
 Stanzas for the Times 1844 168 
 
 The Branded Hand 172 
 
 Texas 176 
 
 To Faneuil Hall 180 
 
 To Massachusetts 182 
 
 The Pine Tree 184 
 
 Lines suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington 
 in the iath Month of 1845 iC6 
 
CONTENTS. v 
 
 VOICES OK FREEDOM continued. PACE 
 
 Lines from a Letter to a Young Clerical Friend 192 
 
 Yorktown 193 
 
 Ego, written in the Book of a Friend 196 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS: 
 
 The Frost Spirit 203 
 
 The Vaudois Teacher 204 
 
 ^Phe Call of the Christian 207 
 
 ->My Soul and 1 209 
 
 * To a Friend on her Return from Europe 217 
 
 To the Reformers of England 220 
 
 The Quaker of the Olden Time 222 
 
 Reformer 224 
 
 The Prisoner for Debt 226 
 
 Lines written on reading Several Pamphlets published 
 
 by Clergymen against the Abolition of the Gallows 231 
 
 The Human Sacrifice 235 
 
 Randolph of Roanoke 242 
 
 Democracy 246 
 
 To Ronge 249 
 
 Chalkley Hall 251 
 
 To John Pierpont 254 
 
 The Cypress Tree of Ceylon 255 
 
 ~~>.A Dream of Summer 258 
 
 To with a copy of " Woolman s Journal " 259 
 
 Leggett s Monument 265 
 
 ^The Angels of Buena Vista 266 
 
 Forgiveness 271 
 
 Barclay of Ury 271 
 
 What the Voice said 276 
 
 To Delaware 279 
 
 Worship 280 
 
 The Album 283 
 
 The Demon of the Study 284 
 
 The Pumpkin 288 
 
 Extract from a " New England Legend " 290 
 
 I Limpton Beach 293 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS continued. PAGE 
 
 Lines written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright 296 
 Lines accompanying Manuscripts presented to a 
 
 Friend 297 
 
 The Reward 300 
 
 Raphael 301 
 
 The Knight of St. John 305 
 
 Autumn Thoughts 308 
 
 SONGS OF LABOR : 
 
 Dedication 309 
 
 The Ship-builders 311 
 
 The Shoemakers 314 
 
 The Drovers 317 
 
 The Fishermen 321 
 
 The Huskers 324 
 
 The Corn Song 328 
 
 The Lumbermen 330 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 iridescent 
 colors should play over the Quaker drab ! That from 
 the insignificant chrysalis 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 gener 
 ously 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 ex 
 pects 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 Puri 
 tans. 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 
 
viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 descendant 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 daugh 
 ter 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 grand 
 father married Sarah Greenleaf, a descendant of a 
 French exile, whose name, instead of being perverted 
 like the Lummydews (L Hommedieux) and the De- 
 sizzles (Des Isles), was simply translated into Eng 
 lish. What part this Gallic blood played in Whit- 
 tier s mental make-up, it would be no less difficult 
 than interesting to determine. 
 
 Whittier s mother, Abagail Hussey, was descended 
 from the Rev. Stephen Bachelor 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 in 
 herited by Whittier, and Daniel Webster, and Wil 
 liam Pitt Fessenden, and Caleb dishing. Dark, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. i\ 
 
 expressive, penetrating eyes, full of soul and flashing 
 with sudden lightning glances, were characteristic of 
 the " Bachelder eye," common to so many families in 
 New Hampshire. 
 
 \\ hittier s father married at the age of forty-lour 
 and had only four children, Mary, John Greenleaf, 
 who was born September 17, 1807, Matthew Frank 
 lin, 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" be 
 hind 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 com 
 posed 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, how 
 ever, 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 cen 
 tury. Money was scarce in those days. And yet 
 
x BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 t^ie 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 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 fibre. 
 His poems are full of references to Bible events and 
 characters. "In my boyhood, 1 he says, "in our 
 lonely farmhouse, we had scanty sources of informa- 
 
BIOGR. -\rilK. A I .VAV-: /( //. xi 
 
 tion, few hooks, and only a small \\vrklv newspaper. 
 Our only annual was the Almanac. Under such 
 circumstances story-telling was a necessary ivsou ra 
 in the long winter evenings." 
 
 When Nature sets about to make a poet, she has 
 her own college. These apparent 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 robin feeds her young, 
 How the oriole s nest is hung; 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 Where the ground-nut 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, 
 Face to face with her he talks. 
 
 He goes on autobiographically : 
 
 I was rich in flowers and trees, 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
 
xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
 Laught the brook for my delight 
 Through the day and through the night, 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talkt 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 prod 
 ucts 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 Whittier, 
 of " my father, mother, my brother and two sisters, 
 and my uncle and aunt, both unmarried." In ad 
 dition 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 overlooked What oatmeal was to Carlyle, 
 
\ 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii 
 
 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 pur 
 posely exacerbate his stomach in order to coin Don 
 Juan" into guineas? 
 
 Each member of that delightful household stand- 
 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. 
 u After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his 
 mug of cider, he gave us * Bonnie Doon, 1 Highland 
 Mary, 1 and * Auld Lang Syne. 1 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 excep 
 tion of that of the Bible, of which I had been a 
 close student), and it had a lasting influence upon 
 
, , 
 
 xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imag 
 ine 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. 
 
 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 dis 
 covered. 
 
 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 meter 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 Whit 
 tier s reading is often to be found in his poems. 
 " Mogg Megone " also shows the insidious influence 
 of "Lalla Rookh." "The Bridal of Pennacook" 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. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv 
 
 It is said that Whittier \vas 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 beau 
 tiful 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 J^rec Press poems was in blank 
 verse and entitled <% Deity." He confided the secret 
 to his sister. She informed 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 Whit 
 tier 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 
 
p 
 
 xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 nine 
 teen, and was long remembered as " a very handsome, 
 distinguished-looking 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. 1 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 cessa 
 tion 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 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii 
 
 promised his mother that he would never enter a play 
 house. 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, Whittier taught the dis 
 trict school at West Amesbury, thus enabling him to 
 return for another six months at the Atademy. Gar 
 rison 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 engagement was of short duration. In 1830 
 he was editing the Haverhill Gazette. He was begin 
 ning to be widely known as a poet. Next he became 
 editor of the New England Weekly Review of Hart 
 ford, 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. 1 More than one love-poem dated from 
 this time. Long afterwards he touched upon these 
 episodes in "Memories 11 and in "A Sea-dream. 11 
 But Whittier never married. 
 
 He published his first volume in 1831, "Legends 
 of New England, 1 a collection of his prose and verse. 
 This was afterwards suppressed, as well as his first 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 narrative poem, " Moll Pitcher/ 1 published the follow 
 ing 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 : 
 
 Our fathers to their grave,* 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 mi^ht 
 
 We gird us for the coming fight 
 
 And, strong in Him whose caus ; s ours 
 
 In conflict with unholy powers, 
 
 We grasp the weapons He has giv-?n, 
 
 The Light and Truth and Love of 1 leaven. 
 
 Side by side with William Lloyd G^nson stood 
 Whittier. The manifesto of the one was *,he inspira 
 tion of the other : " I will be harsh as truth and as 
 uncompromising 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 : 
 
 II 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; 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xix 
 
 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 Considered 
 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 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 
 
xx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 1 s most precious possessions. 
 
 In spite of his stand on an unpopular side, Whit- 
 tier s character was appreciated by his fellow-citizens. 
 He was elected a member of the Massachusetts State 
 legislature 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 Mas 
 sachusetts 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 de 
 stroy American trade, to the advantage of British. 
 This noble reformer had narrrowly escaped a mob in 
 Salem. Whittier invited him to his East Haver- 
 hill 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 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi 
 
 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 oi 
 several hundred persons. On their way back, they 
 were assailed with stones. Whittier declared that 
 he understood -how St. Paul felt when the Je\\^ at- 
 tacked 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 themselves 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 
 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 excit 
 ing times. 
 
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Most of the year Whittier, like Cincianatus, 
 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 Freeman, 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 dis 
 turbed the meetings with their jeers and yells. On 
 the third day, in spite of the association s formal 
 demand for protection, 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 fire 
 men refused to quench the flames and were com 
 plimented 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 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL Sk I-.TCH. xxiii 
 
 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 tailing health compelled 
 him to return to Massachusetts. The East Haver- 
 hill farm was sold in 1840, and he removed with 
 his mother, sister, and aunt to Amesbury, which 
 was his It ^il residence through the rest of his life. 
 Within ten or twelve minutes 1 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 : 
 
xxiv 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 the 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, he wrote against him 
 that tremendous accusation entitled " Ichabod." He 
 never ceased, however, to regret the severity of those 
 awful lines, which make Browning s " Lost Leader M 
 sound flat and insipid in comparison. 
 
 Whittier was never despondent. In the darkest 
 hours he saw the rainbow promise 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. 
 
 Thus, while he knew how to apply the lash, he also 
 could cheer, and encourage, and advise. His prac 
 tical common sense, his clear vision, saw far ahead. 
 
 It would be impossible to write the history of 
 Emancipation and not recognize the influence of 
 
BIOGRArilR AL SKETCH. xxv 
 
 WhitHer s lyrics. Lacking in imagination, in grace, 
 in what is commonly called poetic charm, often 
 clumsy, ill-rhymed, and unrhythmical, they yet have 
 an awakening power like that of a trumpet. Plain 
 and unadorned, they appealed 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 first appealed 
 to him, and many of his earliest poems have the 
 Red-skins as, their heroes; speaking of " Mogg 
 Megone" many years after it was written, he 
 says : 
 
 * Looking at it at the present time, it suggests the 
 idea of a big Indian in his war-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. 
 Thus : - 
 
 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 
 
xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 meaning of the 
 word " poet 1 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 Ameri 
 can 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 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKI: TCI I. xxvii 
 
 his daily life a prayer. Faith in God was supreme. 
 Read any of his hymns, his addresses to friends, his 
 memorials to the dead ; there are more than seventy 
 of them gathered in the second volume of his col 
 lected 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 moriiing, trust 
 
 The All-merciful and Just. 
 
 The solemn joy that soul communion feels 
 
 Immortal life reveals; 
 And human love, its prophecy ar.d sign, 
 
 Interprets love divine. 
 
 One of his last 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 critically 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 w r ork had 
 indeed 
 
 The simple air and rustic dress 
 And sign of haste and carelessness 
 
xxx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 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 valuable. 
 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 pict 
 ures he painted ! 
 
 Whittier, without the advantages, or so-called 
 advantages, of college training, without ever travel 
 ling 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 senti 
 mentality and turbidity of Lowell, from the artificial 
 ity 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 at 
 tempted to enumerate them or the date of their 
 appearing. 
 
 He lived to see the crown of immortality unani 
 mously conferred upon him. He lived to a grand 
 
BIO GRA I /// c ,/ /. -VA7-: 7 Y 7/. xxxi 
 
 old age, and yet he has said that for many years 
 not merely the exertion 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 Hamp 
 ton 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, 
 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. 
 
xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Ring, bells in unreared steeples, 
 The joy of unborn peoples ! 
 Sound, trumpets far off blown, 
 Your tiiumph is my own ! 
 
 NATHAN HASKELL DOLE, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK.* 
 
 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 aisles 
 
 Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips 
 
 Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, 
 
 1 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, Passacona 
 way ordered a select number 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 accompanied by a brave escort of 
 her husband s chief men. But when she wished to return, her 
 father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing her husband, and 
 asking him to come and take her away. He returned for 
 answer that he had escorted his wife to her father s house in a 
 tyle that became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, 
 her father must send her back in the same way. This Passa 
 conaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the 
 connection of his daughter with the Saugus chief. Vide Mar 
 ton s \ew Canaan. 
 
 I 
 
2 : THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Silent with wonder, where the mountain 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 water-falls. 
 
 We had looked upward where the summer sky, 
 
 Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun, 
 
 Sprung its blue arch above the abutting 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, bewildered 
 
 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 mountains 
 
 Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and 
 
 thick 
 
 As meadow molt nills the far sea of Casco, 
 A white gleam or. the horizon of the east ; 
 Fair lakes, embosc ned in the woods and hills ; 
 Moosehillock s mo\ itain range, and Kearsarge 
 Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun! 
 
 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, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 3 
 
 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 throaged streets 
 
 Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see 
 
 Life s sunniest side, and with a heart to take 
 
 Its chances all as God-sends ; and his brother, 
 
 Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retaining 
 
 The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, 
 
 Whose mirror of the beautiful and true, 
 
 In Man and Nature, was as yet undimmed 
 
 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 
 
4 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 Massachusetts bay, 
 
 With the same breath which stirs Spring s opening 
 
 leaves 
 
 And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem, 
 Poisoning our sea-side atmosphere. 
 
 It chanced 
 
 That as we turned upon our homeward way, 
 A drear north-eastern 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 pinnacle, 
 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. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PRNNACOOK. 5 
 
 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 mishaps ; 
 
 Gave us the history of his scaly clients, 
 
 Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations 
 
 Of barbarous law Latin, passages 
 
 From Izaak Walton s Angler, sweet and fresh 
 
 As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire 
 
 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 loveliness 
 
 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 
 
6 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them 
 Watts 1 unmelodious psalms Astrology s 
 Last home, a musty file 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 Merrimack, 
 Our fair one, in the playful exercise 
 Of her prerogative the right divine 
 Of youth and beauty, bade us versify 
 The legend, and with ready pencil sketched 
 Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning 
 To each his part, and barring our excuses 
 With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers 
 Whose voices still are heard in the Romance 
 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 circumstances 
 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 wandering in thought, 
 Pilgrims of Romance o er the olden world, 
 That our broad land our sea-like lakes, and moun 
 tains 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Piled .to the clouds, our rivers overhung 
 
 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 speculation 
 
 As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges^ 
 
 Rights and appurtenances, which make up 
 
 A Yankee Paradise unsung, unknown, 
 
 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. 
 
 OH, child of that white-crested mountain 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, 
 
8 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and 
 
 free, 
 Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the 
 
 sea! 
 
 No bridge arched thy waters 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 Amoskeag s fall 
 Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, 
 Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn, 
 And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with corn. 
 
 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 meadows had swung. 
 
 In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood 
 The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook 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 ; 
 
/ ///; A AV/U/ OF PENNACOOK* 9 
 
 There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy 
 
 maid 
 Wove her many-lined baskets and bright wampum 
 
 braid. 
 
 Oh, Stream of the Mountains! if answer of thine 
 Could rise from 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. 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
 1 This was the name which the Indians of New England 
 gave to two or three of their principal chiefs, to whom all their 
 inferior sagamores acknowledged allegiance. 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, etc. 
 
10 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 fore-ground planted, 
 
 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 appeareth more familiarly than to others." 
 Winslow s Relation. 
 
Tin-: />A7/),// OF PENNACOOK. \ I 
 
 Glimpses came of rowers rowing. 
 Stir of leaves and wild flowers blowing, 
 Steel-like gleams of water (lowing, 
 In the sun-light 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, 
 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 rled. 
 
12 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 a-bed, 
 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 ; 
 
THI-: HKIPAI. < } /- n-.xxAcooK. 
 
 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 wondering 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 making. 
 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! 
 
14 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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, 
 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 
 
 O 
 
 They laid her in the walnut shade. 
 Where a green hillock gently swelling 
 
 Her fitting mound of burial made. 
 There trailed the vine in Summer hours 
 
 The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell 
 On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, 
 Woven with leaf and spray, the softened 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 beneath his foremost 
 tread. 
 
THE BRIDAL Ol<~ PEXXACOOh . 15 
 
 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 moon-lit play ; 
 
 No other shared his lonely bed, 
 No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. 
 
 A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes 
 
 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 1 had graced his wig 
 wam well. 
 
 1 " The Indians " says Roger Williams, " have a god whom 
 they call Wetuomamt, who presides over the household." 
 
1 6 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Child of the forest ! strong and free, 
 Slight-robed, with loosely flowing 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 hunter 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, 
 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 a part, 
 To feel with bird and stream and tree 
 
 The pulses of the same great heart : 
 
Till-. URIDAI. 01- rKNNACOOK. 17 
 
 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 sweet-briar on the hill-side 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. 
 
1 8 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 fire-light 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. 
 
 X 
 
 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 South East 
 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 Snooganock, 
 And from rough Cob s whose thick woods shake 
 Their pine-cones in Umbagog lake. 
 
 From Ainmonoosuck 1 s mountain pass 
 Wild as his home came Chepewass ; 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 19 
 
 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 Kearsarge ; 
 Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, 
 And salmon speard in the Contoocook ; 
 
 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 Piscataquog : 
 
 And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands 
 In the river scooped by a spirit s hands, 1 
 
 1 There are rocks in the River at the Falls of Amoskeag, in 
 the cavities of which, tradition says, the Indians formerly stored 
 and concealed their corn. 
 
20 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, 
 Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn. 
 
 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 1 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 sramed his hard dark countenance. 
 
 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? 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 21 
 
 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 : 
 
 Why, \\ith 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 hill-side, where black hemlock spurs 
 And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept ledge 
 
 Pierced the thin-glaz d ice, or bristling 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 
 (iurgled the waters of th6 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 bla/ing through the hill-side oaks, 
 No fishers kneeling on the ice below ; 
 
22 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 moistening 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 hunter 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 tenderness ; 
 
 But, in their stead, the warrior n s settled pride, 
 
 And vanity s pleased smile with homage 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. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 23 
 
 For she had learned the maxims of her race, 
 Which teach the woman to become a slave 
 
 And feel herself the pardonless disgrace 
 
 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 southwest 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 runners came, 
 With gift and greeting for the Saugus 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 together, 
 And a grave council in his wigwam met, 
 
 Solemn and brief in words, considering 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, 
 
24 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 
 
 Concluded in a body to escort her 
 
 Up to her fathers home of pride and strength, 
 Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense 
 Of Winnepurkit s power and regal consequence. 
 
 So through old woods which Aukeetamit s l hand 
 A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, 
 
 Over high breezy hills, and meadow land 
 
 Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went, 
 
 Till rolling clown its wooded banks between, 
 
 A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimack was 
 seen. 
 
 The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn 
 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 Weetamoo again. 
 
 VI. AT PENNACOOK. 
 
 THE hills are dearest which our childish 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 
 Shines round the helmsman plunging through the 
 
 night ; 
 l The Spring God. See Roger Williams s Key, etc. 
 
A///-; URIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 2$ 
 
 And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees 
 In close, dark, stranger streets his native 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 childhood lie! 
 
 Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more 
 A child upon her fathers 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 chief 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. 
 
26 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 " 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. 
 u Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook, " 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 Agawams, 
 
 " 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 council gave. 
 
 Alas poor bride ! can thy grim sire impart 
 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, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 2J 
 
 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; 
 li i 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 loneliness? 
 
 VII. THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 THE wild March rains had fallen fast and long 
 The snowy mountains of the North among, 
 Making each vale a water-course 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 Merrimack 
 Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. 
 
28 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 do\vn 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 useless oar, 
 
 The bead-wrought blanket trailing o er the water 
 
 He knew them all wo for the Sachem s daughter! 
 
 Sick and aweary of her lonely life, 
 Heedless of peril the still faithful wife 
 Had left her mother s grave, her father s door, 
 To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. 
 
 Down the white rapids like a sear 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 ? 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 29 
 
 VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. 
 
 A 
 
 THE Dark eye has left us, 
 
 The Spring-bird has flown, 
 On the pathway of spirits 
 
 She wanders alone. 
 
 The song of the wood-clove has died on our shore 
 Mat wonck kunna-monee ! l We hear it no more ! 
 
 Oh, 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 wonck kunna-monee ! We see her no more ! 
 
 Ot 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 ! 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 ! 
 
 i " Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her 
 no more. Vide Roger Williams s Key to the Indian Language. 
 
30 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 Oh mighty Sowanna ! 1 
 Thy gateways unfold, 
 From the wigwam of sunset 
 
 Lift curtains of gold ! 
 
 Take home the poor Spirit whose journey 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 farewell song. 
 
 i " The Great South West God." See Roger Williams s 
 Observations, etc. 
 
LEGENDARY. 
 
 THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 [" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the South, 
 which they call Merrimack." SIEUR DE MONTS, 1604.] 
 
 STREAM of my fathers ! sweetly still 
 The sunset rays thy valley fill ; 
 Poured slantwise down the long defile, 
 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, 
 
32 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 ; l 
 
 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," 2 
 
 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, 
 
 1 The celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the govern 
 ment of the colony in Virginia, in his capacity of" Admiral of 
 New England," made a careful survey of the coast from Penob- 
 scot to Cape Cod, in the summer of 1614. 
 
 2 Lake Winnipiseogee The Smile of the Great Spirit 
 *he source of one of the branches of the Merrimack. 
 
////: .]//: A- A /j/,/rA . 33 
 
 Planting upon the topmost crag 
 The staff of England s battle-flag ; 
 And, while from out its heavy fold 
 Saint George s crimson cross unrolled, 
 iMidst roll of drum and trumpet blare, 
 And weapons brandishing in air, 
 He gave to that lone promontory 
 The sweetest name in all his story ; l 
 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. 
 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, 
 
 i Captain Smith gave to the promontory, now called Cape 
 Ann, the name of Tragabizanda, in memory of his young and 
 beautiful mistress of that name, who, while he was a captive at 
 Constantinople, like Uesdemona, " loved him for the dangers 
 he had passed." 
 
34 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 I 
 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 ; 
 
THE NORSEMEN. 35 
 
 And while the gazer leaned to trace, 
 More near, some clear familiar face, 
 He wept to find the vision flown 
 A phantom and a dream alone ! 
 
 THE NORSEMEN. 
 
 [Some three or four years since, a fragment of a statue, rudely 
 chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Brad 
 ford, on the Merrimack. Its origin must be left entirely to 
 conjecture. The fact that the ancient Northmen visited New 
 England, some centuries before the discoveries of Columbus, 
 is now very generally admitted.] 
 
 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. 
 
36 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing 
 
 The mellow sound of church-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 cliff and crag, to throw 
 
 Its wild arms o er the stream below. 
 
 Unchanged, alone, the same bright river 
 
 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 by, 
 
 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 NORSEMEN. 37 
 
 The light spray from rarh 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 Thule 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 Skald 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 Gaal has heard its stormy swell. 
 The light Frank knows its summons well ; 
 lona s sable-stoled Culdee 
 
38 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Has heard it sounding o er the sea, 
 And swept with hoary beard and hair 
 His altar s foot in trembling prayer! 
 
 Tis 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 Berserkar or idol grim 
 A fragment of Valhalla s Thor, 
 The stormy Viking s god of War, 
 Of 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 ; 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 39 
 
 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, 
 To mortal musings sometimes sent, 
 To whisper even when it seems 
 But Memory s phantasy of dreams 
 Through the mind s waste of woe and sin, 
 Of an immortal origin! 
 1841. 
 
 CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 [In the following ballad, the author has endeavored to dis 
 play the strong enthusiasm of the early Quaker, the short 
 sighted intolerance of the clergy and magistrates, and that 
 sympathy with the oppressed, which the " common people," 
 when not directly under the control of spiritual despotism, have 
 ever evinced. He is not blind to the extravagance of language 
 and action which characterized some of the pioneers of Qua 
 kerism in New England, and which furnished persecution with 
 its solitary but most inadequate excuse. 
 
 The ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable 
 event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young per 
 sons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who 
 had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property 
 for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined 
 
4O LEGENDARY. 
 
 ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were 
 unable to pay. The case being represented to the General 
 Court, at Boston, that body issued an order, which may still be 
 seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward 
 Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was 
 " fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English 
 nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An 
 attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, 
 but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the 
 West Indies. Vide Sewall s History, pp. 225, 226, G. Bishop.] 
 
 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 hand 
 maid 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; 
 
CASSANDKA SOVTHWICK* 41 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Oh, 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 mur 
 mur 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 fathers 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 sifst thou here, Cassandra? Bethink thee 
 with what mirth 
 
42 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Oh ! 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 sack 
 cloth-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. 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTIIU ICK. 43 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 Oh ! 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, oh, 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! 1 was the language 
 
 of my heart, 
 And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts 
 
 depart. 
 
44 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sun 
 shine 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 sheriffs 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, m}- trembling limbs 
 grew weak : 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her 
 soul cast out 
 
 The fear of man, which brings a snare the weak 
 ness 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 : 
 
CASSANDRA SOL THIVICK. 45 
 
 44 Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven 
 
 a brazen wall. 
 Trust still His loving kindness whose power is 
 
 overall. 11 
 
 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 net-work 
 
 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. 
 
46 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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," 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/ 
 
CASSANDRA SOr/7/ll /CA . 47 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their 
 
 cruel laws ! " 
 Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people s 
 
 just applause. 
 
48 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Like the herdsmen of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver 
 sold ? " 
 
 I looked on haughty Enclicott ; 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 murmur 
 ing 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, 1 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. 
 
CASSAXDKA SOUTinriCK. 49 
 
 Oh, 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 hand 
 maid 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, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening s twilight 
 calm 
 
 Uplift the loud thanksgiving pour forth the grate 
 ful 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. 
 
50 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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! 
 
 1842. 
 
 FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS, 1 
 
 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. 
 
 I Polan, a chief of the Sokokis Indians, the original inhabi 
 tants of the country lying between Agamenticus and Casco Bay, 
 was killed in a skirmish at Windham, on the Sebago lake, in 
 the spring of 1756. He claimed all the lands on both sides of 
 the Presumpscot River to its mouth at Casco, as his own. He 
 was shrewd, subtle, and brave. After the white men had re 
 tired, the surviving Indians "swayed" or bent down a young 
 tree until its roots were turned up, placed the body of their 
 chief beneath them, and then released the tree to spring bacK 
 to its former position. 
 
FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 5 1 
 
 The sun looks o er, with hazy eye, 
 The snowy mountain-tops which lie 
 Piled coldly up against the sky. 
 
 and white! save- where the bleak, 
 Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
 Or Miow-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 snow. 
 
 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 
 
52 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 dark and wide. 
 
 And there the fallen chief is laid, 
 In tasselled garb 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. 1 
 
 1 The Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic faith. 
 Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed to the French 
 settlements on the St. Francois. 
 
/YVTA AV/A TK /:/-. (>/- THE SOKOh iS. 53 
 
 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. 
 
 To their wild wail the waves which break 
 Forever round that lonely lake 
 A solemn under-tone 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. 
 
54 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 ! 1 
 
 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 fall 
 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 things, 
 
 To light the naked spirit brings ; 
 
 1 The brutal and unchristian spirit of the early settlers ot 
 New England toward the red man is strikingly illustrated in 
 the conduct of th man who shot down the Sokokis chief. He 
 used to say he always noticed the anniversary of that exploit, as 
 " the day on which he sent the devil a present." Williamson s 
 History of Maine, 
 
55 
 
 Not with our partial eye shall scan 
 Not with our pride and scorn shall ban 
 The spirit of our brother man! 
 
 1841- 
 
 ST. JOHN. 
 
 [The fierce rivalship of the two French officers, left by the 
 death of RAZH.i.A in the possession of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, 
 forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the 
 New World. CHARLES ST. ESTIENNE, inheriting from his 
 lather the title of Lord DE LA TOUR, whose seat was at the 
 mouth of the St. John s River, was a Protestant; DE AULNEY 
 CHARNISY, whose fortress was at the mouth of the Penobscot, 
 or ancient Pentagoet, was a Catholic. The incentives of a false 
 religious feeling, sectarian intolerance, and personal interest 
 and ambition, conspired to render their feud bloody and unspar 
 ing. The Catholic was urged on by the Jesuits, who had found 
 protection from Puritan gallows-ropes under his jurisdiction; 
 the Huguenot still smarted under the recollection of his wrongs 
 and persecutions in France. Both claimed to be champions of 
 that cross from which went upward the holy petition of the 
 Prince of Peace : " Father, forgive them." LA TOUR received 
 aid in several instances from the Puritan colonies of Massachu 
 setts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining 
 arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle 
 was attacked by DE AULNEY, and successfully defended by its 
 high-spirited mistress. A second attack, however, followed in 
 the 4th mo. 1647. Lady LA TOUR defended her castle with a 
 desperate perseverance. After a furious cannonade, DE AUL- 
 NEY stormed the walls, and put the entire garrison to the sword. 
 Lady LA TOUR languished a few days only in the hands of her 
 inveterate enemy, and died of grief, greatly regretted by the 
 colonists of Boston, to whom, as a devoted Protestant, she was 
 well known.] 
 
56 LEGENDARY. 
 
 " 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 1 had look d 
 
 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, 2 
 
 Of Papists abhorr d, 
 Had welcomed and feasted 
 
 The heretic Lord. 
 
 1 The settlement of the Jesuits on the island of Mount Desert 
 was called St. Saviour. 
 
 2 The isle of Monhegan was one of the first settled on the 
 coast of Maine. 
 
ST. JOHN. $7 
 
 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. 
 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 ; 
 
58 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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. 
 
ST. y."//.v. S9 
 
 " Pentagoet s dark vessels 
 
 Were moored in the bay, 
 Grim sea-lions, roaring 
 
 Aloud for their prey." 
 u 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-blazon d banner 
 
 Float over St. John." 
 
60 LEGENDARY. 
 
 " Let the dastard look to it! " 
 Cried fiery Estienne, 
 
 " Were D Aulney King Louis, 
 Pd 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! 1 
 
 As if suddenly smitten 
 
 La Tour stagger d back ; 
 His hand grasped his sword-hilt, 
 
 His forehead grew black. 
 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 creek-side 
 
 Her fishers shall throng! 
 Pentagoet shall rue 
 
 What his Papists have done. 
 When his palisades echo 
 
 The Puritan s gun! " 
 
PEN TUCKET. 6 1 
 
 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! 
 1841. 
 
 PENTUCKET. 
 
 [The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimack, called by the 
 Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier 
 town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage 
 warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and 
 Indians, under the command of De Challions, and Hertel de 
 Rouville, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made 
 an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only 
 thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a 
 still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy 
 also fell, and among them Hertel de Rouville. The minister 
 of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a shot through his 
 own door.] 
 
 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, 
 
62 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Left, by the spirit of the star 
 Of sunset s holy hour, ajar! 
 
 Beside the river s tranquil flood 
 The dark and low-walPd -dwellings stood, 
 W T here many a rood of open land 
 Stretched up and down on either hand, 
 With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
 The thick and blacken d stumps between. 
 Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, 
 The wild, untravell d 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 milk-maid carolPd 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 sw^allow d all, 
 Undreaming of the fiery fate 
 Which made its dwellings desolate ! 
 
 Hours pass d away. By moonlight sped 
 The Merrimack along his bed. 
 Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
 Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, 
 
PENTUCKET. 63 
 
 Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
 As the hush d 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 blowing. 
 
 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? 
 
 Charr d tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 
 
 Or paling rude, or leafless limb? 
 
 No through the trees fierce eye-balls glow d, 
 
 Dark human forms in sunshine show d, 
 
 Wild from their native wilderness, 
 
 With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 
 
 A yell, the dead might wake to hear, 
 Swell d 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. 
 
64 LEGENDARY. 
 
 No sound of combat filPd the air, 
 No shout was heard, nor gun-shot there : 
 Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
 From smouldering ruins slowly broke, 
 And on the green sward 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 hearth-stone 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 fear d, 
 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. 
 1838. 
 
 THE FAMILIST S HYMN. 
 
 [The " Pilgrims " of New England, even in their wilderness 
 home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions 
 which agitated the mother country after the downfall of 
 Charles the First, and of the established Episcopacy. The 
 Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were banished, on pain of 
 death, from the Massachusetts Colony. One Samuel Gorton, 
 
THE FAM I LIST S IIYMX. 6$ 
 
 a bold and eloquent declaimcr, after preaching for a time in 
 Boston, against the doctrines of the Puritans, and declaring 
 that their churches were mere human devices, and their sacra 
 ment and baptism an abomination, was driven out of the 
 State s jurisdiction, and compelled to seek a residence among 
 the savages. He gathered round him a considerable number 
 of converts, who, like the primitive Christians, shared all 
 things in common. His opinions, however, were so trouble 
 some to the leading clergy of the Colony, that they instigated 
 an attack upon his " Family " by an armed force, which 
 seized upon the principal men in it, and brought them into 
 Massachusetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard 
 labor in several towns (one only in each town), during the 
 pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden, under 
 severe penalties, to utter any of their religious sentiments 
 except to such ministers as might labor for their conversion. 
 They were unquestionably sincere in their opinions, and, 
 whatever may have been their errors, deserved to be ranked 
 among those who have in all ages suffered for the freedom of 
 conscience.] 
 
 FATHER ! to thy suffering poor 
 
 Strength and grace and faith impart, 
 And with Thy own love restore 
 
 Comfort to the broken heart ! 
 Oh, 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 : 
 
66 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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, 
 
 Bow d, 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! 
 
THE FAMILIST S HYMN. 6? 
 
 Safe our quiet Eden lay 
 
 When the war-whoop stirred the land, 
 And the Indian turn d 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 Wachusefs wooded side, 
 On Nantuckefs 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, 
 
68 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 r 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! 
 1838. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 [On the declivity of a hill, in Salisbury, Essex County, is a 
 beautiful fountain of clear water, gushing out from the very 
 roots of a majestic and venerable oak. It is about two miles 
 from the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimack.] 
 
 TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling 
 
 By the swift Powow, 
 With the summer sunshine falling 
 
 On thy heated brow, 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 69 
 
 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 wreatrTd and bare, 
 Gushing up to sun and air. 
 
 Brighter waters sparkled never 
 
 In that magic well, 
 Of whose gift of life for ever 
 
 Ancient legends tell, 
 In the lonely desert wasted, 
 And by mortal lip untasted. 
 
 Waters which the proud Castilian l 
 
 Sought with longing eyes, 
 Underneath the bright pavilion 
 
 Of the Indian skies ; 
 Where his forest pathway lay 
 Through the blooms of Florida. 
 
 i De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds 
 of the new world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual 
 youth. 
 
70 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 T\vixt the swells of land, 
 
THE FOUNTAIN 71 
 
 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 throwing 
 
 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 
 
 For the wood-bird s merry singing, 
 And the hunter s cheer, 
 
72 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Iron clang and hammer s ringing 
 
 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 conquer d 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 for ever, 
 
 But he came no more 
 To the hill-side 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. 
 1837- 
 
THE EXILES. 73 
 
 THE EXILES. 
 
 [The incidents upon which the following ballad has its 
 foundation, occurred about the year 1660. Thomas Macey was 
 one of the first, if not the first white settler of Nantucket. A 
 quaint description of his singular and perilous voyage, in his 
 own hand-writing, is still preserved.] 
 
 THE goodman sat beside his door 
 
 One sultry afternoon, 
 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 a 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. 
 
74 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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, twill peril thee 
 
 Within thy doors to take 
 A hunted seeker of the Truth, 
 
 Oppressed for conscience 1 sake." 
 
 Oh, kindly spoke the goodman s wife 
 "Come in, old man!" quoth she, 
 
 u We will not leave thee to the storm. 
 Whoever thou may st be." 
 
TIII-: i-:xii ES. 75 
 
 Then came the aged wanderer in, 
 
 And silent sat him down ; 
 While all within grew dark as night 
 
 Beneath the storm-cloud s frown. 
 
 Hut while the sudden lightning s bla/e 
 
 Filled every cottage nook, 
 And with the jarring thunder-roll 
 
 The loosened casement shook, 
 
 A heavy tramp of horses 1 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 (iod thanks, if forty stripes 
 
 Repay thy deadly sin." 
 
76 LEGENDARY. 
 
 " What seek ye ? " quoth the goodman, 
 
 " 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, 
 
 " Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, 
 "Thou lt rue thy conduct sore. 1 
 
 Then kindled Macey s eye of fire : 
 " No priest who walks the earth, 
 
 Shall pluck away the stranger-guest 
 Made welcome to my hearth. 1 
 
 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 : 
 
THE EXILES. 77 
 
 " 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 
 
 I .ack on its hinges fell. 
 
 " Come forth, old gray-beard, 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 
 
 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." 
 
LEGENDARY. 
 
 And priest and sheriff, both together 
 
 Upon his threshold stood, 
 When Macey, through another door, 
 
 Sprang out into the wood. 
 
 "Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey criec\ 
 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." 
 
Tin-: EXILES. 79 
 
 l( 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 : 
 
 Behind him, like some owl s nest, hung 
 His wig upon a thorn. 
 
 "Come back come back!" the parsonxried, 
 
 "The church s curse beware. 
 " Curse an thou wilt," said Macey, " but 
 
 Thy blessing prithee spare." 
 
 " Vile scoffer! " cried the baffled priest, 
 
 " Thou lt yet the gallows see." 
 Who s born to be hanged, will not be drowned," 
 
 Quoth Macey merrily ; 
 
 "And so, sir sheriff and priest, good bye!" 
 
 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. 
 
80 LEGENDARY. 
 
 And through the broken clouds, the sun 
 Looked out serene and warm, 
 
 Painting its holy symbol-light 
 Upon the passing storm. 
 
 Oh, 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 " 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 weathercock 
 Peered o er the pines before them. 
 
THE EXILES. 8 1 
 
 Around the Black Rocks, on their left. 
 
 The marsh lay broad and green ; 
 And on their right, with chvarf 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. 
 
82 LEGENDARY, 
 
 Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 
 The vent rous Macey passed, 
 
 And on Nantuckefs 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 
 Nantuckef s 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. 
 
THE NEW WIFE AXD THE OLD. 8; 
 
 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 for evermore, 
 That charity and freedom dwell, 
 
 As now upon her shore ! 
 1841. 
 
 THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 
 
 [The following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvel 
 lous legends connected with the famous General M., of 
 Hampton, N.H., who was regarded by his neighbors as a 
 Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, 
 as I heard it when a child, from a venerable family visitant.] 
 
 DARK the halls, and cold the feast 
 Gone the bridesmaids, 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 1 shout ; 
 Dies the bonfire on the hill ; 
 All is dark and all is still, 
 
84 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Save the starlight, save the breeze 
 Moaning through the grave-yard trees ; 
 And the great sea-waves below, 
 Like the night s pulse, 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 mantel 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 urwrought. 
 
THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 85 
 
 " Yet," she sighs, " he loves me well, 
 More than these calm lips will tell 
 Stooping to my lowly state, 
 He 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 
 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, 
 
86 LEGENDARY. 
 
 " 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!" 
 
THE XI: \\ II ///: AND THE OLD. 87 
 
 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 shrinketh ; 
 
 Can those soft arms round him lie, 
 
 Underneath his dead wife s eye? 
 
 She her fair young head can rest 
 
 Soothed and child-like 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 though^ 
 
88 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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. 
 1843. 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 THE SLAVE SHIPS. 
 
 " That fatal, that perfidious bark, 
 Built i the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." 
 
 Milton s Lye id as. 
 
 [The French ship LE RODEUR, with a crew of twenty-two 
 men, and with one hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from 
 Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a 
 terrible malady broke out an obstinate disease of the eyes 
 contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. 
 It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves 
 (only half a wine-glass per day being allowed to an individual), 
 and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed. 
 By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck 
 occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves 
 in each other s arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so 
 universally prevails among them, of being swiftly transported 
 to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the captain 
 ordered several, who were stopped in the attempt, to be shot, 
 or hanged, before their companions. The disease extended to 
 the crew ; and one after another were smitten with it, until 
 only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition 
 did not preclude calculation : to save the expense of supporting 
 slaves rendered unsalable, and to obtain grounds for a claim 
 against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, having 
 become blind, -were thrown into the sea and drowned ! 
 
 8 9 
 
90 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary indi 
 vidual, 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. Benjamin Constant, 
 in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820.] 
 
 " 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. 
 
THE SLAVE SHIPS. 91 
 
 " 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!" 
 
 Cu ilass 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. 
 
Q2 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 God of the earth ! what cries 
 
 Rang upward unto Thee ? 
 Voices of agony and blood, 
 
 From ship-deck and from sea. 
 The last dull plunge was heard 
 
 The last wave caught its stain 
 And the unsated shark looked up 
 
 For human hearts in vain. 
 
 Red glowed the western waters 
 
 The setting sun was there, 
 Scattering alike on wave and cloud 
 
 His fiery mesh of hair. 
 Amidst a group in blindness, 
 
 A solitary eye 
 Gazed, from the burdened slaver s deck, 
 
 Into that burning sky. 
 
 " A storm, 11 spoke out the gazer, 
 
 " Is gathering and at hand 
 Curse on ? t I d give my other eye 
 
 For one firm rood of land. 11 
 And then he laughed but only 
 
 His echoed laugh replied 
 For the blinded and the suffering 
 
 Alone were at his side. 
 
 Night settled on the waters, 
 
 And on a stormy heaven, 
 While fiercely on that lone ship^ track 
 
 The thunder-gust was driven. 
 
THE SLAVE SHIPS. 93 
 
 "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 \vay, 
 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 I 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. 
 
94 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 In the sunny Guadaloupe 
 
 A dark-hulled vessel lay 
 With a crew who noted never 
 
 The night-fall or the day. 
 The blossom of the orange 
 
 Was white by every stream, 
 And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird 
 
 Were in the warm sun-beam. 
 
 And the sky was bright as ever, 
 
 And the moonlight slept as well, 
 On the palm trees by the hill-side, 
 
 And the streamlet of the dell ; 
 And the glances of the Creole 
 
 Were still as archly deep, 
 And her smiles as full as ever 
 
 Of passion and of sleep. 
 
 But vain were bird and blossom, 
 
 The green earth and the sky, 
 And the smile of human faces, 
 
 To the slaver s darkened eye ; 
 At the breaking of the morning, 
 
 At the star-lit evening time, 
 O er a world of light and beauty, 
 
 Fell the blackness of his crime. 
 
 1834- 
 
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS. 95 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [" The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their 
 native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her re 
 formed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. 
 Shall the United States the free United States, which could 
 not bear the bonds of a king, cradle the bondage which a king 
 is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? 
 Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less 
 energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age? " Dr. 
 Fallens Address. 
 
 " Genius of America ! Spirit of our free institutions where 
 art thou? How art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! son of the morning 
 how art thou fallen from Heaven ! Hell from beneath is 
 moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming! The kings of 
 the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha! ART THOU BECOME 
 LIKE UNTO US ? " Speech of Samuel J. May.] 
 
 OUR fellow-countrymen in chains! 
 
 Slaves in a land of light and law! 
 Slaves crouching on the very plains 
 
 Where rolled the storm of Freedom s war! 
 A groan from Eutaw s haunted wood 
 
 A wail where Camden s martyrs fell 
 By every shrine of patriot blood, 
 
 From Moultrie s wall and Jasper s well! 
 
 By storied hill and hallowed grot, 
 By mossy wood and marshy glen, 
 
 Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, 
 And hurrying shout of Marion s men. 
 
96 VOICES OF FREED OAT. 
 
 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 her altars burning? 
 
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS. 97 
 
 Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, 
 
 By Vend6me j s pile and Schoenbrun s wall 
 And Poland, gasping on her lance, 
 
 The impulse of our cheering call? 
 And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye, 
 
 Clank o er our fields his hateful chain? 
 And toss his fettered arms on high, 
 
 And groan for Freedom s gift, in vain? 
 
 Oh, say, shall Prussia s banner be 
 
 A refuge for the stricken slave ? 
 And shall the Russian serf go free 
 
 By Baikal s lake and Neva s wave ? 
 And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane 
 
 Relax the iron hand of pride, 
 And bid his bondman 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 be etles o er the Western Sea? 
 And shall we scoff at Europe s kings, 
 
 When Freedom s fire is dim with us, 
 And round our country s altar clings 
 
 The damning shade of Slavery s curse ? 
 
 Go let us ask of Constantine 
 
 To loose his grasp on Poland s throat ; 
 
 And beg the lord of Mahmoud s line 
 To spare the struggling Suliote 
 
98 . VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Will not the scorching answer come 
 From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ i 
 
 " Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, 
 Then turn, and ask the like of us! " 
 
 Just God! and shall we calmly rest, 
 
 The Christian s scorn the heathen s mirth- 
 Content to live the lingering jest 
 
 And by-word of a mocking Earth ? 
 Shall our own glorious land retain 
 
 That curse which Europe scorns to bear? 
 Shall our own brethren drag the chain 
 
 Which not even Russia s menials wear? 
 
 Up, then, in Freedom s manly part, 
 
 From gray-beard eld to fiery youth, 
 And on the nation s naked heart 
 
 Scatter the living coals of Truth ! 
 Up while ye slumber, deeper yet 
 
 The shadow of our fame is growing! 
 Up while ye pause, our sun may set 
 
 In blood, around our altars flowing! 
 
 Oh ! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth 
 
 The gathered wrath of God and man 
 Like that which wasted Egypt s earth, 
 
 When hail and fire above it ran. 
 Hear ye no warnings in the air? 
 
 Feel ye no earthquake underneath ? 
 Up up why will ye slumber where 
 
 The sleeper only wakes in death? 
 
THE YANKEE GIRL. QQ 
 
 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 remove, 
 
 And smite to earth Oppression s rod. 
 With those mild arms of Truth and Love, 
 
 Made mighty through the living God! 
 
 Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, 
 
 And leave no traces where it stood ; 
 Nor longer let its idol drink 
 
 His daily cup of human blood : 
 But rear another altar there, 
 
 To Truth and Love and Mercy given, 
 And Freedom s gift, and Freedom s prayer, 
 
 Shall call an answer down from Heaven! 
 1834. 
 
 THE YANKEE GIRL. 
 
 SHE sings at 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 , x 
 Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams ! 
 
 *-/ \j \ V ^ 
 
 How brilliant and mirtMful 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! 
 
100 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door 
 
 The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 
 
 T is the great Southern planter the master who 
 
 waves 
 His whip of dominion o er hundreds of slaves. 
 
 " Nay, Ellen for shame ! Let those Yankee fools 
 
 spin, 
 Who would pass for our slaves with a change of 
 
 their skin ; 
 
 Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, 
 Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel ! 
 
 " But thou art too lovely and precious a gem 
 To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them 
 For shame, Ellen, shame! cast thy bondage aside, 
 And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. 
 
 " Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, 
 But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, 
 Where the" shade of the palm-tree is over my home, 
 And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom ! 
 
 "Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all 
 
 Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call ; 
 
 They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and 
 
 awe, 
 And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." 
 
 Oh, could ye have seen her that pride of our girls 
 Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, 
 
TO IV. J.. G. \ 101 
 
 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 footsteps of fear! 
 
 " And the sky of thy South may be brighter than 
 
 ours, 
 
 And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers ; 
 But, dearer the blast round our mountains which 
 
 raves, 
 Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over 
 
 slaves ! 
 
 " Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel. 
 With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel ; 
 Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be 
 In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!" 
 
 TO W. L. G. 
 
 CHAMPION of those who groan beneath 
 
 Oppression s iron hand : 
 In view of penury, hate, and death, 
 
 I see thee fearless stand, 
 Still bearing up thy lofty brow, 
 
 In the steadfast strength of truth, 
 In manhood sealing well the vow 
 
 And promise of thy youth. 
 
&F FREED OM. 
 
 Go on ! for thou hast chosen well ; 
 
 On in the strength of God! 
 Long as one human heart shall swell 
 
 Beneath the tyrant s rod. 
 Speak in a slumbering nation s ear, 
 
 As thou hast ever spoken, 
 Until the dead in sin shall hear 
 
 The fetter s link be broken ! 
 
 I love thee with a brother s love, 
 
 I feel my pulses thrill, 
 To mark thy spirit soar above 
 
 The cloud of human ill. 
 My heart hath leaped to answer thine? 
 
 And echo back thy words. 
 As leaps the warrior s at the shine 
 
 And flash of kindred swords! 
 
 They tell me thou art rash and vain 
 
 A searcher after fame 
 That thou art striving but to gain 
 
 A long-enduring name 
 That thou hast nerved the Afric s hand ? 
 
 And steeled the Afric s heart, 
 To shake aloft his vengeful brand, 
 
 And rend his chain apart. 
 
 Have I not known thee well, and read 
 
 Thy mighty purpose long! 
 And watched the trials which have made 
 
 Thy human spirit strong? 
 
SONG OF THE FREE. 103 
 
 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 
 
 Press on to thy reward 
 The hour when man shall only kneel 
 
 Before his Father God. 
 
 1833- 
 
 SONG OF THE FREE. 
 
 ["Living, I shall assert the right of FREE DISCUSSION; 
 dying, I shall assert it ; and, should I leave no other inherit 
 ance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them 
 the inheritance of FRKK 1 RINCIPLES, and the example of a 
 manly and independent defence of them." Daniel Webster.} 
 
 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 ? 
 
104 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Graves green and holy 
 Around us are lying, 
 
 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 
 
 Oceanward 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 for ever! 
 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 ; 
 
THI-: lli XTERS OF MEN. 1 05 
 
 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 for ever! 
 Truce with oppression, 
 
 Never, oh! never! 
 1836. 
 
 THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 
 
 Written on reading the report of the proceedings of the Ameri 
 can Colonization Society at its annual meeting in 1834. 
 
 HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o er mountain and 
 
 glen. 
 
 Through cane-brake and forest the limiting of men ? 
 The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, 
 As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn : 
 Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the 
 
 whip, 
 
 And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! 
 All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match 
 Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to 
 
 catch. 
 
 So speed to their hunting, o er mountain and glen, 
 Through cane-brake and forest the hunting of 
 
106 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ride 
 
 In the glow of their zeal, in the strength of their 
 
 pride ! 
 
 The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, 
 Just screening the politic statesman behind 
 The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer 
 The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. 
 And woman kind woman wife, widow, and maid 
 For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : 
 Her foot s in the stirrup her hand on the rein 
 How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! 
 
 Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, 
 
 In this "land of the brave and this home of the 
 
 free." 
 Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to 
 
 Maine, 
 
 All mounting the saddle all grasping the rein 
 Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin 
 Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! 
 Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! 
 Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and 
 
 prey? 
 Will their hearts fail within them ? their nerves 
 
 tremble, when 
 All roughly they ride to the hunting of men? 
 
 Ho! ALMS for our hunters! all weary and faint 
 Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. 
 The horn is wound faintly the echoes are still, 
 Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. 
 
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 
 
 Haste alms for our hunters! the hunted once more 
 Have turned from their flight with their backs to the 
 
 shore : 
 
 What right have they here in the home of the white. 
 Shadowed o er by our banner of Freedom and 
 
 Right? 
 
 Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again 
 Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men! 
 
 ALMS ALMS for our hunters! why will ye delay, 
 When their pride and their glory are melting away? 
 The parson has turned ; for, on charge of his own, 
 Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone? 
 The politic statesman looks back with a sigh 
 There is doubt in his heart there is fear in his 
 
 eye. 
 
 Oh ! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, 
 And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. 
 Oh! haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, 
 For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men? 
 
 1835. 
 
 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 THEI R SANCTION 
 TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the 
 impressive character of the scene ! "] 
 
108 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 JUST God! and these are they 
 Who minister at Thine altar, God of Right! 
 Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay 
 
 On Israel s Ark of light! 
 
 What! preach and kidnap men? 
 Give thanks and rob Thy own afflicted poor ? 
 Talk of Thy glorious liberty, and then 
 
 Bolt hard the captive s door? 
 
 What ! servants of Thy own 
 Merciful Son, who came to seek and save 
 The homeless and the outcast, fettering down 
 
 The tasked and plundered slave ! 
 
 Pilate and Herod, friends ! 
 Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine! 
 Just God and holy! is that church, which lends 
 
 Strength to the spoiler, Thine? 
 
 Paid hypocrites, who turn 
 Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book 
 Of those high words of truth which search and burn 
 
 In warning and rebuke ; 
 
 Feed fat, ye locusts, feed! 
 And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord 
 That, from the toiling bondsman s utter need, 
 
 Ye pile your own full board. 
 
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 109 
 
 How long, O Lord! how long 
 Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, 
 And. in Thy name, for robbery and wrong 
 
 At Thy own altars pray? 
 
 Is not Thy hand stretched forth 
 Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite? 
 Shall not the living God of all the earth, 
 
 And heaven above, do right ? 
 
 Woe, then, to all who grind 
 Their brethren of a common Father down! 
 To all who plunder from the immortal mind 
 
 Its bright and glorious crown! 
 
 Woe to the priesthood! woe 
 To those whose hire is with the price of blood 
 Perverting, darkening, changing as they go, 
 
 The searching truths of God! 
 
 Their glory and their might 
 Shall perish ; and their very names shall be 
 Vile before all the people, in the light 
 
 Of a world s liberty. 
 
 Oh! speed the moment on 
 
 When Wrong shall cease and Liberty, and Love, 
 And Truth, and Right, throughout the earth be 
 known 
 
 As in their home above. 
 1836. 
 
IIO VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. 
 
 [In a late publication of L. F. TASISTRO, " Random Shots 
 and Southern Breezes," is a description of a slave auction at 
 New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the 
 woman on the stand as " A GOOD CHRISTIAN ! "] 
 
 A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! 
 Who bids for God s own image? for His grace 
 Which that poor victim of the market-place 
 
 Hath in her suffering won? 
 
 My God! can such things be? 
 Hast thou not said that whatsoe er is done 
 Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one, 
 
 Is even done to Thee? 
 
 In that sad victim, then, 
 
 Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand 
 Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, 
 
 Bound, sold, and scourged again! 
 
 A Christian up for sale! 
 Wet with her blood your whips o ertask her 
 
 frame, 
 Make her life loathsome with your wrong and 
 
 shame, 
 Her patience shall not fail! 
 
THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. Ill 
 
 A heathen hand might deal 
 
 Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years, 
 But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears 
 
 Ye neither heed nor feel. 
 
 Con well thy lesson o er, 
 
 Thou prudent teacher tell the toiling slave 
 No dangerous tale of Him who came to save 
 
 The outcast and the poor. 
 
 But wisely shut the ray 
 Of God s free Gospel from her simple heart, 
 And to her darkened mind alone impart 
 
 One stern command " OBEY! " 1 
 
 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. 
 
 1 There is in Liberty County, Georgia, an Association for 
 the religious instruction of Negroes. Their seventh annual 
 report contains an address by the Rev. Josiah Spry Law, from 
 which we extract the following : " There is a growing interest, 
 in this community, in the religious instruction of Negroes. 
 There is a conviction that religious instruction promotes the 
 quiet and order of the people, and the pecuniary interest of the 
 owners." 
 
112 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall, 
 Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, 
 While turning to the sacred Kebla feels 
 
 His fetters break and fall. 
 
 Cheers for the turbaned Bey 
 Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn 
 The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne 
 
 Their inmates into day : 
 
 But our poor slave in vain 
 
 Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes 
 Its rites will only swell his market price, 
 
 And rivet on his chain. 1 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Oh, from the fields of cane, 
 
 From the low rice-swamp, from the trader s cell 
 From the black slave-ship s foul and loathsome 
 hell, 
 
 And coffle s weary chain, 
 
 1 We often see advertisements in the Southern papers, in 
 which individual slaves, or several of a lot, are recommended 
 as "pious" or as "members of churches." Lately we saw a 
 slave advertised, who, amon^ other qualifications, was de 
 scribed as " a Baptist preacher" 
 
ST.1XZAS FOR THE TIMES. 113 
 
 Hoarse, horrible, and strong, 
 Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, 
 Filling the arches of the hollow sky, 
 
 How LONG, OH GOD, HOW LONG ? 
 
 1843- 
 
 STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1 
 
 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 ? 
 
 1 The " Times " alluded to were those evil times of the pro- 
 slavery meeting in Faneuil Hall, for the suppression of free 
 dom of speech, lest it should endanger the foundations of 
 commercial society. In view of the outrages which a care 
 ful observation of the times had enabled him to foresee must 
 spring from the false witness borne against the abolitionists by 
 the speakers at that meeting well might Garrison say of them, 
 " I consider the man who fires a city guiltless in comparison." 
 
114 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ? 
 
 Shall Mercy s tears no longer flow ? 
 Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel 
 
 The dungeon s gloom the assassin s blow, 
 Turn back the spirit roused to save 
 The Truth, our Country, and the Slave? 
 
 Of human skulls that shrine was made, 
 Round which the priests of Mexico 
 
 Before their loathsome idol prayed 
 Is Freedom s altar fashioned so? 
 
 And must w r e yield to Freedom s God, 
 
 As offering meet, the negro s blood? 
 
 Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought 
 Which well might shame extremest hell ? 
 
 Shall freemen lock the indignant thought? 
 Shall Pity s bosom cease to swell? 
 
 Shall Honor bleed? Shall Truth succumb? 
 
 Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ? 
 
 No by each spot of haunted ground, 
 
 Where Freedom weeps her children s fall -, 
 
 By Plymouth s rock, and Bunker s mound 
 By Griswold s stained and shattered wall 
 
 By Warren s ghost by Langdon s shade 
 
 By all the memories of our dead ! 
 
 By their enlarging souls, which burst 
 The bands and fetters round them set 
 
 By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed 
 Within our inmost bosoms, yet, 
 
 By all above around below 
 
 Be ours the indignant answer NO! 
 
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. I 1 5 
 
 No guided by our country s laws, 
 
 For truth, and right, and suffering man. 
 
 Be ours to strive in Freedom s cause, 
 As Christians may as freemen can ! 
 
 Still pouring on unwilling ears 
 
 That truth oppression only fears. 
 
 What ! shall we guard our neighbor still, 
 While woman shrieks beneath his rod, 
 
 And while he tramples down at will 
 The image of a common God! 
 
 Shall watch and ward be round him set, 
 
 Of Northern nerve and bayonet ? 
 
 And shall we know and share with him 
 The danger and the growing shame? 
 
 And see our Freedom s light grow dim. 
 
 Which should have filled the world with flame? 
 
 And, writhing, feel, where er we turn, 
 
 A world s reproach around us burn ? 
 
 Is t not enough that this is borne? 
 
 And asks our hearty 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? 
 
Il6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 press! 
 
 From our Green Mountains to the Sea, 
 
 One voice shall thunder WE ARE FREE! 
 
 1835- 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Written on reading the spirited and manly remarks of Governor 
 RITNER, of Pennsylvania, in his Message of 1836, on the 
 subject of Slavery. 
 
 THANK God for the token! one lip is still free 
 One spirit untrammelled unbending one knee! 
 Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm, 
 Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm ; 
 When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God, 
 Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood ; 
 When the recreant North has forgotten her trust, 
 And the lip of her honor is low in the dust, 
 Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has 
 broken! 
 
RITNER. x II/ 
 
 Thank God, that one man, as a freeman, has spoken! 
 O er thy crags, Alleghany. a blast has been blown! 
 Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone. 
 To the land of the South of the charter and 
 
 chain 
 
 Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery s pain ; 
 Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips 
 Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips! 
 Where " chivalric" honor means really no more 
 Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor! 
 Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high, 
 And the words which he utters are WORSHIP, OR 
 
 DIE! 
 
 Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood 
 Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God ; 
 Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining ; 
 Wherever the lash of the driver is twining ; 
 Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart, 
 Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart ; 
 Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind, 
 In silence and darkness, the God-given mind ; 
 There, God speed it onward! its truth will be 
 
 felt 
 The bonds shall be loosened the iron shall melt ! 
 
 And oh, will the land where the free soul of PENN 
 Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen 
 Will the land where a BENEZET S spirit went forth 
 To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of 
 Earth 
 
Il8 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 theii 
 
 kind, 
 
 The Christian and statesman their efforts com 
 bined 
 Will that land of the free and the good wear a 
 
 chain ? 
 Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ? 
 
 No, RITNER! her "Friends, "at thy warning shall 
 
 stand 
 
 Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band ; 
 Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, 
 Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime ; 
 Turning back 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, honest and true, 
 Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due ; 
 Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine, 
 On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine 
 The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave 
 The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave : l - 
 
 1 It is a remarkable fact that the first testimony of a religious 
 body against negro slavery was that of a Society of German 
 " Friends " in Pennsylvania. 
 
PASTORAL LETTER. 119 
 
 Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the 
 
 South 
 One brow for the brand for the padlock one 
 
 mouth? 
 
 They cater to tyrants ? they rivet the chain. 
 Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again? 
 
 No, never! one voice, like the sound in the cloud, 
 When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more loud, 
 Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed 
 From the Delaware s marge to the Lake of the West, 
 On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow 
 Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! 
 The voice of a PEOPLE uprisen awake 
 Pennsylvania s watchword, with Freedom at stake, 
 Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each 
 
 height, 
 "OuR COUNTRY AND LIBERTY! GOD FOR THE 
 
 RIGHT! 1 
 
 1837. .o, 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Written on reading the famous " PASTORAL LETTER " of the 
 Massachusetts General Association, 1837. 
 
 So, this is all the utmost reach 
 
 Of priestly power the mind to fetter! 
 When laymen think --when women preach 
 
 A war of words a " Pastoral Letter! " 
 Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! 
 
 Was it thus with those, your predecessors, 
 Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes 
 
 Their loving kindness to transgressors? 
 
120 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull 
 
 Alas ! in hoof and horns and features, 
 How different is your Brookfield bull, 
 
 From him who bellows from St. Peter s! 
 Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, 
 
 Think ye, can words alone preserve them? 
 Your wiser fathers taught the arm 
 
 And sword of temporal power to serve them. 
 
 Oh, glorious days when church and state 
 
 Were wedded by your spiritual fathers! 
 And on submissive shoulders sat 
 
 Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. 
 No vile " itinerant " then can mar 
 
 The beauty of your tranquil Zion, 
 But at his peril of the scar 
 
 Of hangman s whip and branding-iron. 
 
 Then, wholesome laws relieved the church 
 
 Of heretic and mischief-maker, 
 And priest and bailiff joined in search, 
 
 By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker! 
 The stocks were at each church s door, 
 
 The gallows stood on Boston Common, 
 A Papist s ears the pillory bore, 
 
 The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman! 
 
 Your fathers dealt not as ye deal 
 With " non-professing " frantic teachers ; 
 
 They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, 
 And flayed the backs of "female preachers." 
 
. 
 
 PASTORAL LETTER. 121 
 
 Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue, 
 And SalenVs streets, could tell their story, 
 
 Of fainting woman dragged along, 
 
 Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory! 
 
 And will ye ask me, why this taunt 
 
 Of memories sacred from the scorner? 
 And why with reckless hand I plant 
 
 A nettle on the graves ye honor? 
 Not to reproach New England s dead 
 
 This record from the past I summon, 
 Of manhood to the scaffold led, 
 
 And suffering and heroic woman. 
 
 No for yourselves alone, I turn 
 
 The pages of intolerance over, 
 That, in their spirit, dark and stern, 
 
 Ye haply may your own discover! 
 For, if ye claim the "pastoral right" 
 
 To silence Freedom s voice of warning, 
 And from your precincts shut the light 
 
 Of Freedom s day around ye dawning ; 
 
 If when an earthquake voice of power, 
 
 And signs in earth and heaven are showing 
 That, forth, in its appointed hour, 
 
 The Spirit of the Lord is going! 
 And, with that Spirit, Freedom s light 
 
 On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, 
 Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, 
 
 In glory and in strength are waking! 
 
122 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 darke^ deeds of bigot madness 
 Are closely with your own combined, 
 
 Yet " less in anger than in sadness " ? 
 What marvel, if the people learn 
 
 To claim the right of free opinion ? 
 What marvel, if at times they spurn 
 
 The ancient yoke of your dominion ? 
 
 Oh, how contrast, with such as ye, 
 
 A LEAVITT S free and generous bearing! 
 A PERRY S calm integrity, 
 
 A PHELP S zeal and Christian daring! 
 A FOLLEN S soul of sacrifice, 
 
 And MAY S with kindness overflowing! 
 How green and lovely in the eyes 
 
 Of freemen are their graces growing! 
 
 Ay, there s a glorious remnant yet, 
 
 Whose lips are wet at Freedom s fountains, 
 
 The coming of whose welcome feet 
 Is beautiful upon our mountains I 
 
PASTOKM LETTER. 123 
 
 Men who the gospel tidings bring 
 
 Of Liberty and Love forever, 
 Whose joy is one abiding spring, 
 
 Whose peace is as a gentle river! 
 
 But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale 
 
 Of Carolina s high-souled daughters, 
 Which echoes here the mournful wail 
 
 Of sorrow from Edisto s waters. 
 Close while ye may the public ear 
 
 With malice vex, with slander wound them 
 The pure and good shall throng to hear, 
 
 And tried and manly hearts surround them. 
 
 Oh, ever may the power which led 
 
 Their way to such a fiery trial, 
 And strengthened womanhood to tread 
 
 The wine-press of such self-denial, 
 Be round them in an evil land, 
 
 With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, 
 With Miriam s voice, and Judith s hand, 
 
 And Deborah s song for triumph given ! 
 
 And what are ye who strive with God, 
 
 Against the ark of his salvation, 
 Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, 
 
 With blessings for a dying nation? 
 What, but the stubble and the hay 
 
 To perish, even as flax consuming, 
 With all that bars His glorious way, 
 
 Before the brightness of His coming? 
 
124 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And them sad Angel, who so long 
 
 Hast waited for the glorious token, 
 That Earth from all her bonds of wrong 
 
 To liberty and light has broken 
 Angel of Freedom ! soon to thee 
 
 The sounding trumpet shall be given, 
 And over Earth s full jubilee 
 
 Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven! 
 
 1837- 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chat 
 ham Street Chapel, N.Y., held on the 4th of the yth month, 
 1834. 
 
 O THOU, whose presence went before 
 
 Our fathers in their weary way, 
 As with Thy chosen moved of yore 
 
 The fire by night the cloud by day! 
 
 When from each temple of the free, 
 A nation s song ascends to Heaven, 
 
 Most Holy Father! unto Thee 
 
 May not our humble prayer be given ? 
 
 Thy children all though hue and form 
 Are varied in Thine own good will 
 
 With Thy own holy breathings warm, 
 And fashioned in Thine image still. 
 
LINES. 125 
 
 We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain 
 Around us \\avc their fruits once more, 
 
 And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, 
 Are bending round each cottage door. 
 
 And peace is here ; and hope and love 
 
 Are round us as a mantle thrown, 
 And unto Thee, supreme above, 
 
 The knee of prayer is bowed alone. 
 
 But oh, for those this day can bring, 
 
 As unto us, no joyful thrill 
 For those who, under Freedom s wing, 
 
 Are bound in Slavery s fetters still : 
 
 For those to whom Thy 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 
 
 Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined, 
 Who, as a father, pitiest all! 
 
 And grant, O Father! that the time 
 Of Earth s deliverance may be near, 
 
 When every land, and tongue, and clime, 
 The message of Thy love shall hear- 
 
126 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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! 
 
 1834. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Written for the celebration of the Third Anniversary of British 
 Emancipation, at the Broadway Tabernacle, N.\., " First of 
 August," 1837. 
 
 O HOLY FATHER! just and true 
 
 Are all Thy works and words and ways, 
 And unto Thee alone are due 
 
 Thanksgiving and eternal praise! 
 As children of Thy gracious care, 
 
 We veil the eye we bend the knee, 
 With broken words of praise and prayer, 
 
 Father and God, we come to Thee. 
 
 For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, 
 
 The sighing of the island slave ; 
 And stretched for him the arm of might, 
 
 Not shortened that it could not save. 
 The laborer sits beneath his vine, 
 
 The shackled soul and hand are free 
 Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine! 
 
 Praise! for the blessing is of Thee! 
 
//.YES. 127 
 
 And oh, we feel Thy presence here 
 
 Thy awful arm in judgment bare! 
 Thine eye hath seen the bondman s tear 
 
 Thine ear hath heard the bondman s prayer! 
 Praise! for the pride of man is low, 
 
 The counsels of the wise are naught, 
 The fountains of repentance flow ; 
 
 What hath our God in mercy wrought? 
 
 Speed on Thy work. Lord God of Hosts! 
 
 And when the bondman s chain is riven, 
 And swells from all our guilty coasts 
 
 The anthem of the free to Heaven, 
 Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led, 
 
 As with Thy cloud and fire before, 
 But unto Thee, in fear and dread, 
 
 Be praise and glory ever more. 
 1837. 
 
 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! 
 
128 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 He spoke! across the Carib sea, 
 
 We heard the clash of breaking chains, 
 
 And felt the heart-throb of the free, 
 
 The first, strong pulse of liberty 
 
 Which thrilled along the bondman s veins. 
 
 Though long delayed, and far, and slow, 
 
 The Briton s triumph shall be ours ; 
 Wears slavery here a prouder brow 
 Than that which twelve short years ago 
 Scowled darkly from her island bowers ? 
 
 Mighty alike for good or ill 
 
 With mother-land we fully share 
 
 The Saxon strength the nerve of steel 
 
 The tireless energy of will, 
 
 The power to do, the pride to dare. 
 
 What she has done can we not do ? 
 
 Our hour and men are both at hand ; 
 The blast which Freedom s angel blew 
 O er her green island, 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! 
 
LINES, i 9 
 
 Oh kingly mockers! scoffing show 
 What deeds in Freedom s name we do ; 
 
 Yet know that every taunt ye throw 
 
 Across the waters, goads our slow 
 
 Progression towards the right and true. 
 
 Not always shall your outraged poor, 
 
 Appalled by democratic crime, 
 Grind as their fathers ground before, - 
 The hour which sees our prison door 
 
 Swing wide shall be their triumph time. 
 
 Oh then, my brothers! every blow 
 
 Ye deal is felt the wide earth through ; 
 
 Whatever here uplifts the low 
 
 Or humbles Freedom s hateful foe, 
 
 Blesses the Old World through the New. 
 
 Take heart! The promised hour draws near- 
 I hear the downward beat of wings, 
 
 And Freedom s trumpet sounding clear 
 
 Joy to the people! woe and fear 
 
 To new world tyrants, old world kings ! 
 
 1846. 
 
130 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 ! 
 
FAREWELL OF SLAVE MOTHER. 
 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 Oh. when weary, sad, and slow, 
 From the fields at night they go, 
 Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
 To their cheerless homes again 
 There no brother s voice shall greet them 
 There no father s welcome meet them. 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 
 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From the tree whose shadow lay 
 On their childhood s place of play 
 From the cool spring where they drank 
 Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank 
 From the solemn house of prayer, 
 And the holy counsels there 
 Gone? gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone 
 
 Toiling through the weary day, 
 
 And at night the spoiler s prey. 
 
 Oh, that they had earlier died, 
 
 Sleeping calmly, side by side, 
 
132 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Where the tyrant s power is o er 
 And the fetter galls no more! 
 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, - 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 
 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 By the holy love He beareth 
 By the bruised reed He spareth 
 Oh, may He, to whom alone 
 All their cruel wrongs are known, 
 Still thei r hope and refuge prove, 
 With a ino.-J than mother s love. 
 Gone, gone sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 1838. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 Written for the opening of " PENNSYLVANIA HALL," dedicated 
 to Free Discussion, 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 
 
ADDRESS. 133 
 
 Nor blazoned car nor banners floating gay, 
 Like those which swept along the Appian way, 
 When, to the welcome of imperial Rome, 
 The victor warrior came in triumph home, 
 And trumpet-peal, and shoutings wild and high, 
 Stirred the blue quiet of the Italian sky; 
 But calm and grateful, prayerful and sincere, 
 As Christian freemen, only, gathering here, 
 We dedicate our fair and lofty Hall, 
 Pillar and arch, entablature and wall, 
 As Virtue s shrine as Liberty s abode 
 Sacred to Freedom, and to Freedom s God! 
 
 Oh! loftier halls, neath brighter skies than these, 
 Stood darkly mirrored in the /Egean seas, 
 Pillar and shrine and life-like statues seen, 
 Graceful and pure, the marble shafts between, 
 Where glorious Athens from her rocky hill 
 Saw Art and Beauty subject to her will 
 And the chaste temple, and the classic grove 
 The hall of sages and the bowers of love, 
 Arch, fane, and column, graced the shores, and gave 
 Their shadows to the blue Saronic wave ; 
 And statelier rose, on Tiber s winding side, 
 The Pantheon s dome the Coliseum s pride 
 The Capitol, whose arches backward flung 
 The deep, clear cadence of the Roman tongue, 
 Whence stern decrees, like words of fate, w^ent 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! 
 
I 34 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 yEgina s wave, 
 
 In the thronged forum, or the sages seat, 
 
 The bold lip pleaded, and the warm heart beat ; 
 
 No soul of sorrow melted at his pain, 
 
 No tear of pity rusted on his chain ! 
 
 But this fair Hall, to Truth and Freedom given, 
 
 Pledged to the Right before all Earth and Heaven, 
 
 A free arena for the strife of mind, 
 
 To caste, or sect, or color unconfined, 
 
 Shall thrill with echoes, such as ne er of old 
 
 From Roman hall, or Grecian temple rolled ; 
 
 Thoughts shall find utterance, such as never yet 
 
 The 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 oppressor s wrong 
 
 Shall strong rebukings thrill on Freedom 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, 
 
ADDRESS. 135 
 
 Holy to Freedom and the Rights of All! 
 But a fair field, where mind may close with mind, 
 Free as the sunshine and the chainless wind ; 
 Where the high trust is fixed on Truth alone, 
 And bonds and fetters from the soul are thrown ; 
 Where wealth, and rank, and worldly pomp, and might 
 Yield to the presence of the True and Right. 
 
 And fitting is it that this Hall should stand 
 
 Where Pennsylvania s Founder led his band, 
 
 From thy blue waters, Delaware ! to press 
 
 The virgin verdure of the wilderness. 
 
 Here, where all Europe with amazement saw 
 
 The soul s high freedom trammelled by no law ; 
 
 Here, where the fierce and warlike forest-men 
 
 Gathered in peace, around the home of PENN, 
 
 Awed by the weapons Love alone had given, 
 
 Drawn from the holy armory of Heaven ; 
 
 Where Nature s voice against the bondman s wrong 
 
 First found an earnest and indignant tongue ; 
 
 Where LAY S bold message to the proud was borne, 
 
 And KEITH S rebuke, and FRANKLIN S manly scorn 
 
 Fitting it is that here, where Freedom first 
 
 From her fair feet shook off the Old World s dust, 
 
 Spread her white pinions to our Western blast, 
 
 And her free tresses to our sunshine cast, 
 
 One Hall should rise redeemed from Slavery s ban-- 
 
 One Temple sacred to the Rights of Man! 
 
 Oh ! if the spirits of the parted come, 
 Visiting angels, to their olden home ; 
 If the dead fathers of the land look forth 
 
136 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 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 outcast slave, 
 Is it a dream that such as these look down, 
 And with their blessing our rejoicings crown? 
 
 Let us rejoice, that, while the pulpit s door 
 
 Is barred against the pleaders for the poor ; 
 
 While the church, wrangling upon points of faith, 
 
 Forgets her bondmen suffering unto death ; 
 
 While crafty traffic and the lust of gain 
 
 Unite to forge oppression s triple chain, 
 
 One door is open, and one Temple free 
 
 As a resting place for hunted Liberty ! 
 
 Where men may speak, unshackled and unawed, 
 
 High words of truth, for Freedom and for God. 
 
 And when that truth its perfect work hath done, 
 And rich with blessings o er our land hath gone ; 
 When not a slave beneath his yoke shall pine, 
 From broad Potomac to the far Sabine ; 
 
ADDRESS. 137 
 
 When unto angel-lips at last is given 
 
 The silver trump of Jubilee to Heaven ; 
 
 And from Virginia s plains Kentucky s shades, 
 
 And through the dim Floridian everglades, 
 
 Rises, to meet that angel-trumpet s sound, 
 
 The voice of millions from their chains unbound 
 
 Then, though this Hall be crumbling in decay, 
 
 Its strong walls blending with the common clay, . 
 
 Yet, round the ruins of its strength shall stand 
 
 The best anc| noblest of a ransomed land 
 
 Pilgrims, like those who throng around the shrine 
 
 ( )f 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, 
 I low 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 vail, 
 And History s pen for after times record 
 Its consecration unto FREEDOM S GOD! 
 
 1838. 
 
138 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 THE MORAL WARFARE. 
 
 WHEN Freedom, on her natal day, 
 
 Within her war-rocked cradle lay, 
 
 An iron race around her stood, 
 
 Baptized her infant brow in blood 
 
 And, through the storm which round her swept, 
 
 Their constant ward and watching kept. 
 
 Then, where our quiet herds repose, 
 The roar of baleful battle rose, 
 And brethren of a common tongue 
 To mortal strife as tigers sprung, 
 And every gift on Freedom s shrine 
 Was man for beast, and blood for wine! 
 
 Our fathers to their graves have gone ; 
 Their strife is past their triumph won ; 
 But sterner trials wait the race 
 Which rises in their honored place 
 A moral warfare with the crime 
 And folly of an evil time. 
 
 So let it be. In God s own might 
 We gird us for the coming fight, 
 And, strong in Him whose cause is ours 
 In conflict with unholy powers, 
 We grasp the weapons He has given, 
 The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven! 
 1836. 
 
THE RESPONSE. 139 
 
 THE RESPONSE. 
 
 [" To agitate the question (Slavery) anew, is not only im 
 politic, but it is a virtual breach of good faith to our brethren 
 of the South ; an unwarrantable interference with their domes 
 tic 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 Inaugural 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 possessed, 
 Would lay for her his spear in rest ? 
 
 1 1 is " 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 Fennsylvanians and as men ; 
 
 To do, by Lynch law unforbid, 
 
 What our own Rush and Franklin did. 
 
140 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 Ay, there we stand, with planted feet, 
 
 Steadfast, where those old worthies stood : 
 
 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, "expunge 1 the record there! 1 
 
 Go, eat thy words. Shall H[enry] C[lay] 
 
 Turn round a moral harlequin? 
 And arch V[an] B[uren] 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 : summon out 
 
 The parson in his saintly gown, 
 To curse the outlawed roundabout, 
 
 In concert with the Belial brood 
 
 The Balaam of " the brotherhood " ! 
 
 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." Richmond ( Va.) Enquirer. 
 
TIII-: Ki- .xroxsE. 141 
 
 Quench every free discussion light 
 
 Clap on the legislative snuffers. 
 And caulk with -resolutions" tight 
 
 The ghastly rents the t nion suttei>! 
 Let church and state brand Abolition 
 As heresy and rank sedition. 
 
 Choke down, at once, each breathing thing, 
 That whispers of the Rights of Man : 
 
 Gag the free girl who d?.res 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 LIXDLEY COATES S poultry yard, 
 Beleaguer THOMAS WHITSON S home ! 
 
 Beat up the Quaker quarters show 
 
 Your valor to an unarmed foe ! 
 
142 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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! 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 143 
 
 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 waking ; 
 Or shrieking of her symbol bird 
 
 From out his cloudy eyrie breaking ; 
 Where Justice hath one worshipper, 
 Or Truth one altar built to her ; 
 Where er a human eye is weeping 
 
 O er wrongs which Earth s sad children know 
 Where er a single heart is keeping 
 
 Its prayerful watch with human woe : 
 Thence let them come, and greet each other, 
 And know in each, a friend and brother! 
 
 Yes, let them come! from each green vale 
 
 Where England s old baronial halls 
 
 Still bear upon their storied walls 
 The grim crusader s rusted mail, 
 Battered by Paynim spear and brand 
 On iMalta s rock or Syria s sand! 
 And mouldering pennon-staves once set 
 
 Within the soil of Palestine, 
 By Jordan and Gennesaret ; 
 
 Or, borne with England s battle line, 
 
144 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 O er Acre s shattered turrets stooping, 
 
 Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, 
 
 With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, 
 A holier summons now is given 
 
 Than that gray hermit s voice of old, 
 Which unto all the winds of heaven 
 
 The banners of the Cross unrolled! 
 Not for the long deserted shrine, 
 
 Not for the dull unconscious sod, 
 Which tells not by one lingering sigh 
 
 That there the hope of Israel trod ; 
 But for that TRUTH, for which alone 
 
 In pilgrim eyes are sanctified 
 The garden moss, the mountain stone, 
 Whereon His holy sandals pressed 
 The fountain which His lip hath Iplessed 
 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, 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 145 
 
 Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal 
 
 The melody which Erin loves, 
 When o er that harp, mid bursts of gladness 
 And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, 
 
 The hand of her O Connell moves : 
 Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, 
 And mountain hold, and heathery 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 curling ; 
 From Indian Bengal s groves of palm 
 And rosy fields and gales of balm, 
 Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled 
 Through regal Ava s gates of gold ; 
 And from the lakes and ancient woods 
 And dim Canadian solitudes, 
 Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, 
 Queen of the North, Quebec looks down ; 
 And from those bright and ransomed Isles 
 Where all unwonted Freedom smiles 
 And the dark laborer still retains 
 The scar of slavery s broken chains ! 
 
 From the hoar Alps, which sentinel 
 The gateways of the land of Tell, 
 Where morning s keen and earliest glance 
 
146 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 On Jura s rocky wall is thrown, 
 And from the olive bower s of France 
 
 The vine groves garlanding the Rhone 
 " Friends of the Blacks, 1 as true and tried 
 As those who stood by Oge s side 
 Brissot and eloquent Gregoire 
 When with free lip and heart of fire 
 The Haytien told his country s wrong, 
 Shall gather at that summons 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 wheresoe er the tone 
 Of Israel s prophet-lyre is known. 
 
 Still let them come from Quito s walls, 
 
 And from the Orinoco s tide, 
 From Lima s Inca-haunted halls, 
 From Santa Fe and Yucatan, 
 
 Men who by swart Guerrero s side 
 Proclaimed the deathless RIGHTS OF MAN, 
 
 Broke every bond and fetter off, 
 
 And hailed in every sable serf 
 A free and brother Mexican! 
 Chiefs who crossed the Andes 1 chain 
 
 Have followed Freedom s flowing pennon, 
 And seen on Junin s fearful plain, 
 Glare o er the broken ranks of Spain, 
 
 The fire-burst of Bolivar s cannon! 
 And Hayti, from her mountain land> 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 147 
 
 Shall send the sons of those who hurled 
 Defiance from her blazing strand 
 The war-gage from her Pe tion 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 Gezelf 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 lotos blossoms swim 
 
 Within their ancient hallowed waters 
 Where er is heard thy prophet s hymn, 
 
 Or song of Nubia s sable daughters, 
 The curse of SLAVERY and the crime, 
 Thy bequest from remotest time, 
 At thy dark Mehemet s decree 
 For evermore 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, 
 
148 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 A day-star flashing brightly forth, 
 
 The herald-sign of Freedom s dawn ! 
 Oh! who could dream that saw thee then, 
 
 And watched thy rising from afar. 
 That vapors from oppression s fen 
 
 Would cloud the upward-tending star? 
 Or, that earth s tyrant powers, which heard, 
 
 Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, 
 Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, 
 To mock thee with their welcoming, 
 Like Hades when her thrones were stirred 
 
 To greet the down-cast Star of Morning! 
 "Aha! and art thou fallen thus? 
 Art THOU become as one of us? 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE ii OKf.n s mv/y-;.\"/ /(W. 140 
 
 But in their stead the God-like plan 
 To teach the brotherhood of man 
 
 To love and reverence one another, 
 As sharers of a common blood 
 The children of a common God! 
 Yet, even at its lightest word. 
 Shall Slavery s darkest depths be stirred : 
 Spain watching from her Mora s keep 
 Her slave-ships traversing the deep. 
 And Rio, in her strength and pride, 
 Lifting, along her mountain side, 
 Her snowy battlements and towers 
 Her lemon groves and tropic bowers, 
 With bitter hate and sullen fear 
 Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; 
 And where my country s flag is flowing, 
 On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing 
 
 Above the Nation s council-halls, 
 Where Freedom s praise is loud and long, 
 
 While, close beneath the outward walls, 
 The driver plies his reeking thong 
 
 The hammer of the man-thief falls, 
 O er hypocritic cheek and brow 
 The crimson flush of shame shall glow : 
 And all who for their native land 
 Are pledging life and heart and hand 
 Worn watchers o er her changing weal, 
 Who 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 
 
150 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And 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 done 
 Her captives from their chains unbound, 
 
 Her prisons opening to the sun ; 
 But tearfully her arms extending 
 Over the poor and unoffending ; 
 
 Her regal emblem now no longer 
 A bird of prey, with talons reeking, 
 Above the dying captive shrieking, 
 But, spreading out her ample wing 
 A broad, impartial covering 
 
 The weaker sheltered by the stronger! - 
 Oh! then to Faith s anointed eyes 
 
 The promised token shall be given ; 
 And on a nation^ sacrifice, 
 
 Atoning for the sin of years. 
 
NEW HAMPSHIRE. 1845. 151 
 
 And wet with penitential tears 
 The fire shall fall from Ik-uven! 
 
 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 bro 
 ken 
 Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth, 
 
 And in the clear tones of her old time spoken! 
 Oh, all undreamed of, all unhoped-for changes 
 
 The tyrant s ally proves his sternest foe ; 
 To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, 
 
 New Hampshire thunders an indignant No! 
 Who is it now despairs? Oh, faint of heart, 
 
 Look upward to those Northern mountains cold, 
 
 Flouted by Freedom s victor-flag unrolled, 
 And gather strength to bear a manlier part! 
 All is not lost. The angel of God s blessing 
 
 Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight ; 
 Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing, 
 
 Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right! 
 Courage, then. Northern hearts ! Be firm, be true : 
 What one brave. State hath done, can ye not also 
 do? 
 
 1845. 
 
152 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR: 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANU 
 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 ! 
 
 Oh, seer-seen Angel! waiting now 
 With weary feet on sea and shore, 
 
 Impatient for the last dread vow 
 That time shall be no more ! 
 
 Once more across thy sleepless eye 
 The semblance of a smile has passed ; 
 
 The year departing leaves more nigh 
 Time s fearfullest and last. 
 
 Oh ! in that dying year hath been 
 The sum of all since ti.ne 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 ; 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 153 
 
 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 clays 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 manhood s breast, 
 And lofty aims and low desires 
 
 By turns disturbed his rest. 
 
 The wailing of the newly-born 
 
 Has mingled with the funeral knell ; 
 
154 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And o er the dying s ear has gone 
 The merry marriage-bell. 
 
 And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
 While Want, in many a humble shed, 
 
 Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
 The live-long night for bread. 
 
 And worse than all the human slave 
 The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! 
 
 Plucked off the crown his Maker gave 
 His regal manhood gone! 
 
 Oh! still my country! o er thy plains, 
 Blackened with slavery s blight and ban, 
 
 That human chattel drags his chains 
 An uncreated man! 
 
 And still, where er to sun and breeze, 
 My country, is thy flag unrolled, 
 
 With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
 A stain on every fold. 
 
 Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! 
 
 It gathers scorn from every eye, 
 And despots smile, and good men frown, 
 
 Whene er it passes by. 
 
 Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow 
 Above the slaver s loathsome jail 
 
 Its folds are ruffling even now 
 His crimson flag of sale. 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 155 
 
 Still round our country s proudest hall 
 The trade in human rlesh is driven. 
 
 And at each careless hammer-fall 
 A human heart is riven. 
 
 And this, too, ^Snctioned 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 l 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! 
 
 1 The Northern author of the Congressional rule against 
 receiving petitions of the people on the subject of Slavery. 
 
156 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 heSr 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 deom 
 
 The fiendish mob the prostrate law 
 
 The fiery jet through midnight s gloom, 
 Our gazing thousands saw. 
 
 Look to our State the poor man s right 
 Torn from him : and the sons of those 
 
 Whose blood in Freedom s sternest fight 
 Sprinkled the Jersey snows. 
 
 Outlawed within the land of Penn, 
 
 That Slavery s guilty fears might cease, 
 
 And those whom God created men, 
 Toil on as brutes in peace. 
 
 Yet o er the blackness of the storm, 
 A bow of promise bends on high, 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 157 
 
 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 shall the Southern conscience quake, 
 Before that light poured full and strong, 
 
 So shall the Southern heart awake 
 To all the bondman s wrong. 
 
 And from that rich and sunny land 
 
 The song of grateful millions rise, 
 Like that of Israel s ransomed band 
 
 Beneath Arabia s skies : 
 
158 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 gono 
 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 Massa 
 chusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SOMER 
 SET 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 high 
 ways go 
 Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 159 
 
 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 hi.n h, 
 Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt 
 
 along our sky ; 
 Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest 
 
 labor here 
 No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in 
 
 fear. 
 
 Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. 
 
 George s bank 
 Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and 
 
 dank; 
 Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout 
 
 are the hearts which man 
 The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of 
 
 Cape Ann. 
 
 The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their 
 
 icy forms, 
 Bent grimly o er their straining lines or wrestling 
 
 with the storms ; 
 Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the 
 
 waves they roam, 
 They laugh to scorn the slaver s threat against their 
 
 rocky home. 
 
l6o VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 Massachu 
 setts 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 hate 
 ful hell - 
 
 Our voices, at your bidding, take up the blood 
 hound s yell 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. l6l 
 
 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 z.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 man 
 hood s wild despair ; 
 
 Cling closer to the " cleaving curse " that writes upon 
 your plains 
 
 The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of 
 chains. 
 
1 62 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of 
 
 old, 
 By watching round the shambles where human 
 
 flesh is sold 
 Gloat o er the new-born child, and count his market 
 
 value, when 
 The maddened mother s cry of woe shall pierce the 
 
 slaver s den! 
 
 Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian 
 
 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 had been, 
 Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire s 
 
 mountain men : 
 The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering 
 
 still 
 In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. 
 
 And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for 
 
 his prey 
 
 Beneath the very shadow of Bunker s shaft of gray, 
 How, through the free lips of the son, the father s 
 
 warning spoke ; 
 How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim 
 
 city broke! 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 163 
 
 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 Narra- 
 
 gansett Bay! 
 
1 64 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 ; 
 YouVe 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 God-like 
 
 soul of man ! 
 
THE RELIC. 165 
 
 But for us and for our children, the vow which we 
 
 have given 
 
 For freedom and humanity, is registered in Heaven ; 
 No slai e-htint in our borders- no pirate on our 
 
 stratldl m 
 
 A ..* fetter* in the Bay State no slave upon oit\* land" 1 . 
 I843- 
 
 THE RELIC. 
 
 [PENNSYLVANIA HALL, dedicated to Free Discussion and 
 the cause of Human Liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. 
 The following 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 sincere ; 
 
 Around that gift of friendship dwells 
 A memory doubly dear 
 
 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, 
 
1 66 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 P>eedom s shrine ! a brand 
 
 Plucked from its burning! let it be 
 Dear as a jewel from the hand 
 
 Of a lost friend to me! 
 Flower of a perished garland left, 
 Of life and beauty unbereft! 
 
 Oh ! if the young enthusiast bears, 
 O er weary waste and sea, the stone 
 
 Which crumbled from the Forum s stairs, 
 Or round the Parthenon ; 
 
 Or olive bough from some wild tree 
 
 Hung over old Thermopylae : 
 
 If leaflets from some hero s tomb, 
 
 Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, - 
 
 Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom 
 On fields renowned in story, 
 
 Or fragment from the Alhambra s crest, 
 
 Or the gray rock by druids blessed ; 
 
 Sad Erin s shamrock greenly growing 
 Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, 
 
 Or Scotia s " rough burr thistle " blowing 
 On Bruce s Bannockburn 
 
 Or Runnymede s wild English rose, 
 
 Or lichen plucked from Sempach s snows!- 
 
THE RELIC. 167 
 
 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 and Freedom trod, 
 
 Lifting on high, with hands unstained, 
 Thanksgiving unto God ; 
 
 Where Mercy s voice of love was pleading 
 
 For human hearts in bondage bleeding! 
 
 Where midst the sound of rushing feet 
 
 And curses on the night air flung, 
 That pleading voice rose calm and sweet 
 
 From woman s earnest tongue ; 
 And Riot turned his scowling glance, 
 Awed, from her tranquil countenance! 
 
 That temple now in ruin lies! 
 The fire-stain on its shattered wall, 
 
 And open to the changing skies 
 Its black and roofless hall, 
 
 It stands before a nation s sight, 
 
 A grave-stone 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! 
 
1 68 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 A voice which slavery cannot kill 
 Speaks from the crumbling arches still ! 
 
 And even this relic from thy shrine, 
 Oh, holy Freedom! hath to me 
 
 A potent power, a voice and sign 
 To testify of thee ; 
 
 And, grasping it, methinks I feel 
 
 A deeper faith, a stronger zeal. 
 
 And not unlike that mystic rod, 
 Of old stretched o er the Egyptian wave, 
 
 Which opened, in the strength of God, 
 A pathway for the slave, 
 
 It yet may point the bondman s way, 
 
 And turn the spoiler from his prey. 
 
 1839. 
 
 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 bond 
 age. 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 ; 
 
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1844. 169 
 
 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 ; 1 
 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. 
 
 i Three new publications, from the pens of Dr. Junkin, 
 President of Miami College, Alexander McCaine of the Meth 
 odist Protestant church, and of a clergyman of the Cincinnati 
 Synod, defending Slavery on Scriptural ground, have recently 
 made their appearance. 
 
I/O VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 
 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 purchased 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 prophet s lyre, 
 
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1844, \ ; 
 
 And in a dark and evil time 
 Smote down on Israel s last 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 ; 
 Hut 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 disowns ; 
 
 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 opei: to the light of day 
 
172 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE BRANDED HAND. 
 
 [CAPTAIN JONATHAN WALKER, of Harwich, Mass., was 
 solicited by several fugitive slaves at Pensacola, Florida, to 
 convey them in his vessel to the British West Indies. Al 
 though well aware of the hazard of the enterprise, he attempted 
 to comply with their request. He was seized by an American 
 vessel, consigned to the American authorities at Key West, 
 and by them taken back to Florida where, after a long and 
 rigorous imprisonment he was brought to trial. He was 
 sentenced to be branded on the right hand with the letters 
 " S. S." ( " Slave Stealer ") and amerced in a heavy fine. He 
 was released on the payment of his fine in the 6th month of 
 1845.] 
 
 WELCOME home again, brave seaman! with thy 
 
 thoughtful brow and gray, 
 And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day 
 
THE BRANDED HAND. 173 
 
 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 
 
 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! 
 
1/4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 As the Templar home was welcomed, bearing back 
 
 from Syrian wars 
 
 The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scimitars. 
 The pallor of the prison and the shackle s crimson 
 
 span, 
 So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of 
 
 God and man! 
 
 He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer s 
 
 grave, 
 Thou for His living presence in the bound and 
 
 bleeding slave ; 
 
 He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, 
 Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of God! 
 
 For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o er 
 him swung, 
 
 From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery 
 wrung, 
 
 And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God- 
 deserted shrine, 
 
 Broke the bondman s heart for bread, poured the 
 bondman s blood for wine 
 
 While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour 
 
 knelt, 
 And spurned, the while, the temple where a present 
 
 Saviour dwelt ; 
 Thou beheld st Him in the task-field, in the prison 
 
 shadows dim, 
 And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto 
 
 Him! 
 
THE BRANDED HAX1). 175 
 
 In the lone and long night watches, sky above and 
 
 wave below, 
 Thou did st learn a higher wisdom than the babbling 
 
 school-men 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 thy 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 North 
 ern air 
 
 Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God look 
 there ! 
 
1/6 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 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 Puri 
 tan line : 
 
 Woe to the State-gorged leeches, and the Church s 
 locust band, 
 
 When they look from slavery s ramparts on the com 
 ing of that hand! 
 
 1846. 
 
 TEXAS. 
 VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 UP the hill-side, 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. 177 
 
 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 tlame-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 : 
 
178 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 "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 ; 
 
TEXAS. 1 79 
 
 "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. 
 
180 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! " 
 
 1844- 
 
 TO FANEUIL HALL. 
 
 [Written in 1844, on reading a call by " a Massachusetts 
 Freeman" for a meeting in Faneuil Hall of the citizens of 
 Massachusetts, without distinction of party, opposed to the 
 annexation of Texas, and the aggressions of South Carolina, 
 and in favor of decisive action against Slavery.] 
 
 MEN! if manhood still ye claim, 
 
 If the Northern pulse can thrill, 
 Roused by wrong or stung by shame, 
 
 Freely, strongly still : 
 Let the sounds of traffic die : 
 
 Shut the mill-gate leave the stall 
 Fling the axe and hammer by 
 
 Throng to Faneuil Hall ! 
 
 Wrongs which freemen never brooked 
 Dangers grim and fierce as they, 
 
 Which, like couching lions, looked 
 On your fathers way ; 
 
TO FANEUII. HALL. l8l 
 
 These your instant zeal demand, 
 Shaking with their earthquake-call 
 
 Every rood of Pilgrim land 
 Ho, to Faneuil Hall! 
 
 From your capes and sandy bars 
 
 From your mountain-ridges cold, 
 Through whose pines the westering stars 
 
 Stoop their crowns of gold 
 Come, and with your footsteps wake 
 
 Echoes from that holy wall : 
 Once again, for Freedom s sake, 
 
 Rock your fathers hall ! 
 
 Up, and tread beneath yoiu 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! 
 
1 82 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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! 
 
 1844. 
 
 TO MASSACHUSETTS. 
 
 WRITTEN DURING THE PENDING OF THE TEXAS 
 QUESTION. 
 
 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 the right side up! 
 
TO MASSACHUSETTS. 183 
 
 But when, with thine uniting, 
 
 Come voices long and loud, 
 And far-off hills are writing 
 
 Thy fire-words on the cloud : 
 When from Penobscof s fountains 
 
 A deep response is heard, 
 And across the Western mountains 
 
 Rolls back thy rallying word ; 
 
 Shall thy line of battle falter, 
 
 With its allies just in view ? 
 Oh, by hearth and holy altar, 
 
 My Fatherland, be true! 
 Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom! 
 
 Speed them onward far and fast! 
 Over hill and valley speed them, 
 
 Like the Sibyl s on the blast ! 
 
 Lo! the Empire State is shaking 
 
 The shackles from her hand ; 
 With the rugged North is waking 
 
 The level sunset land! 
 On they come the free battalions! 
 
 East and West and North they 
 And the heart-beat of the millions 
 
 Is the beat of Freedom s drum. 
 
 " To the tyrant 1 s plot no favor! 
 
 No heed to place-fed knaves! 
 Bar and bolt the door forever 
 
 Against the land of Slaves! " 
 
1 84 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it. 
 
 The Heavens above us spread! 
 The land is roused its spirit 
 
 Was sleeping, but not dead! 
 
 1844- 
 
 THE PINE TREE. 
 
 Written on hearing that the Anti-Slavery Resolves of 
 STEPHEN C. PHILLIPS had been rejected by the Whig Con 
 vention in Faneuil Hall, in 1846. 
 
 LIFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State s 
 rusted shield, 
 
 Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree on our ban 
 ner 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 gam 
 bling stocks may rise? 
 
 Would ye barter man for cotton ? That your gains 
 may be the same. 
 
7 Y/A riNE TREE. 185 
 
 Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children 
 through the flame? 
 
 Is the dollar only real? God and truth and right 
 a dream ? 
 
 Weighed against your lying ledgers must our man 
 hood kick the beam? 
 
 Oh, 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 1 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 ? 
 Oh 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! 
 
 1846. 
 
1 86 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 sun-light 
 
 From the gray sky overhead, 
 
 Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built 
 town outspread. 
 
 Through this broad street, restless ever, 
 
 Ebbs and flows a human tide, 
 Wave on wave a living river ; 
 
 Wealth and fashion side by side ; 
 Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick 
 current glide. 
 
 Underneath yon dome, whose coping 
 Springs above them, vast and tall, 
 Grave men in the dust are groping 
 For the largess, base and small, 
 
 Which the hand of Pow r er 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- 
 
LINES. 187 
 
 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 1 hem, 
 With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God 
 and Truth condemn. 
 
 From this glittering lie my vision 
 Takes a broader, sadder range, 
 Full before me have arisen 
 
 Other pictures dark and strange ; 
 From the parlor to the prison must the scene and 
 witness change. 
 
 Hark! the heavy gate is swinging 
 On its hinges, harsh and slow ; 
 One pale prison lamp is flinging 
 
 On a fearful group below 
 
 Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe er it does 
 not show. 
 
 Pitying God! Is that a WOMAN 
 On whose wrist the shackles clash? 
 
 Is that shriek she utters human, 
 Underneath the stinging lash? 
 
188 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 hol 
 low show! 
 
 Nay, my words are all too sweeping : 
 
 In this crowded human mart 
 Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; 
 
 Man s strong will and woman s heart, 
 In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their 
 generous part. 
 
 And from yonder sunny valleys, 
 Southward in the distance lost, 
 
LINES. 189 
 
 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! 
 
 u 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 li^ht, 
 
 Where from Freedom s sunrise drifted slowly back 
 the murk of night! 
 
I QO VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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! 
 
 Oh, my brothers! oh, my sisters! 
 
 Would to God that ye were near. 
 Gazing with me clown the vistas 
 
 Of a sorrow strange and drear ; 
 
 Would to God that ye were listening to the Voice I 
 seem to hear! 
 
 With the storm above us driving, 
 
 With the false earth mined below 
 Who shall marvel if thus striving 
 We have counted friend as foe ; 
 
 Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for 
 blow ? 
 
 Well it may be that our natures 
 
 Have grown sterner and more hard, 
 And the freshness of their features 
 
 Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, 
 And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely 
 jarred. 
 
 Be it so. It should not swerve us 
 From a purpose true and brave ; 
 
 Dearer Freedom s rugged service 
 Than the pastime of the slave ; 
 
LINES. 191 
 
 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 
 
 Bad us be of heart and cheer, 
 
 Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the 
 inward ear. 
 
 Know we not our dead are looking 
 
 Downward with a sad surprise, 
 All our strife of words rebuking 
 
 With their mild and loving eyes ? 
 Shall we grieve the holy angels ? Shall we cloud their 
 blessed skies ? 
 
 Let us draw their mantles o er us 
 Which have fallen in our way ; 
 Let us do the work before us, 
 
 Cheerly, bravely, while we may, 
 Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is 
 
 no* day r 
 1845. 
 
1 92 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 LINES 
 FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND, 
 
 A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire 
 A faith which doubt can never dim 
 
 A heart of love, a lip of fire 
 
 Oh ! 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, oh, God! Thy servant dare 
 Thy truth in all its power to tell, 
 
 Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear 
 The Bible from the grasp of hell! 
 
 From hollow rite and narrow span 
 Of law and sect by Thee released, 
 
 Oh! teach him that the Christian man 
 Is holier than the Jewish priest. 
 
YORKTOWN. 193 
 
 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 ho alone who loves his kind 
 
 Shall, child-like, claim the love of Thee! 
 
 1846. 
 
 YORKTOWN. 
 
 [DR. THATCHER, surgeon in SCAMMEL S regiment, in his 
 description of the siege of Yorktown, says : " The labor on the 
 Virginia plantations is performed altogether by a species of 
 the human race cruelly wrested from their native country, and 
 doomed to perpetual bondage, while their masters are man 
 fully contending for freedom and the natural rights of man. 
 Such is the inconsistency of human nature." Eighteen hun 
 dred 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 free 
 dom after the surrender of Yorktown, than when PATRICK 
 HENRY first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the 
 hills and vales of Virginia."] 
 
 FROM Yorktown s ruins, ranked and still, 
 Two lines stretch far o er vale and hill : 
 Who curbs his steed at head of one? 
 Hark! the low murmur : Washington! 
 Who bends his keen, approving glance 
 Where down the gorgeous line of France 
 
194 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Shine knightly star and plume of snow? 
 Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! 
 
 The earth which bears this calm array 
 Shook with the war-charge yesterday, 
 Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel. 
 Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel ; 
 October s clear and noonday sun 
 Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, 
 And down night s double blackness fell, 
 Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. 
 
 Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines 
 Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; 
 While through them, sullen, grim, and slow. 
 The conquered hosts of England go : 
 O Hara s brow belies his dress, 
 Gay Tarlton s troop ride bannerless : 
 Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, 
 Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes! 
 
 Nor thou alone : with one glad voice 
 Let all thy sister States rejoice ; 
 Let Freedom, in whatever clime 
 She waits with sleepless eye her time, 
 Shouting from cave and mountain wood, 
 Make glad her desert solitude, 
 While they who hunt her quail with fear : 
 The New World s chain lies broken here! 
 
 But who are they, who, cowering, wait 
 Within the shattered fortress gate? 
 
YORK TOWN. 195 
 
 Dark tillers of Virginia s soil, 
 Classed with the battle s common spoil, 
 With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, 
 With Indian weed and planters wine. 
 With stolen beeves, and foraged corn 
 Are they not men, Virginian born ? 
 
 Oh! veil your faces, young and brave! 
 Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave! 
 Sons of the North-land, 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. 
 
 Oh! fields still green and fresh in story, 
 
 Old days of pride, old names of glory, 
 
 Old marvels of the tongue and pen, 
 
 Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, 
 
 Ye spared the wrong ; and over all 
 
 Behold the avenging shadow fall ! 
 
 Your world-wide honor stained with shame 
 
 Your freedom s self a hollow name! 
 
ig6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 Spielberg s dungeon cell, 
 Safe drear Siberia s frozen hell : 
 With Slavery s flag o er both unrolled, 
 What of the New World fears the Old? 
 
 1847. 
 
 EGO. 
 
 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 are penned, 
 Still with the thought of thee will blend 
 That of some loved and common friend 
 
F.GO. IQ7 
 
 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 approves 
 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 ? 
 
 Oh! 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 doubtfu/ 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. 
 
198 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 green sward 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. 
 
199 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 Her gifts reclaimed her smiles withdrawn ? 
 
 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! 
 
200 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 has rendered less 
 " The sum of human wretchedness, 1 
 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! 
 
EGO. 201 
 
 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 head-stone creep 
 
 If still, as Freedom s rallying sign, 
 Upon the young heart s altars shine 
 The very fires they caught from mine 
 
 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, 
 With Fancy s leaf-emvoven hay, 
 My sad and sombre gift I lay. 
 
202 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 the 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 sympathy 
 
 Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, 
 
 Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine 
 
 Their varied gifts, I offer mine. 
 
 1843- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE FROST SPIRIT. 
 
 HE comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes! 
 
 You may trace his footsteps 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 
 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. 
 203 
 
204 M ISC ELLA NE O US. 
 
 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, 
 
 Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mourn 
 ful 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! 
 
 1830. 
 
 THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 
 
 [" The manner in which the WALDENF.SES and heretics dis 
 seminated their principles 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 com- 
 
THE VAUDO/S TEACHER. 205 
 
 mo<litics tar 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." 
 A . Sa 
 
 "On, 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 thine 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, 
 Which 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!" 
 
 " Oh, 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! " 
 
206 MISCELLANE US. 
 
 The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her 
 
 form of grace was seen, 
 Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved 
 
 their 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! " 
 
 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 low 
 liness 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 power ; 
 
THE CALL OF THE CUR 1ST I AX. 2O/ 
 
 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! 
 
 1830. 
 
 THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 NOT always as the whirlwind s rush 
 
 On Horeb s mount of fear, 
 Not always as the burning bush 
 
 To Alidian-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! 
 
208 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 martydom 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh, 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 : 
 
.}fV SOUL AND I. 209 
 
 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! 
 
 I333- 
 
 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!" 
 
 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, oh soul of mine 
 That thou tremblest so? 
 
 Has thou wrought His task, and kept the line 
 He bade thee go? 
 
2 I O M/SCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 
 
 Thovfrt craven grown. 
 Is it so hard with God and me 
 
 To stand alone ? 
 
 Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 
 
 Oh, 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. 
 
MY SOUL AND /. 211 
 
 ; 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 arc well : 
 Were they wrought for Truth s sake or for thine? 
 
 My soul, pray tell. 
 
 u Of all the work my hand hath wrought 
 
 IVneath 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. 
 
2 1 2 MIS C ELLA NE US. 
 
 " 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 knee\ 
 
 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 
 
 To the Known and Gone ; 
 For while gazing behind them evermore 
 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. 
 
MY SOUL AXD L 21 
 
 " I call on the souls who have left the light 
 
 To reveal their lot ; 
 I bend my 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 dropping of rain, 
 
 Kuch drop a tear! 
 
 "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 sun-lit 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 
 \Vas thy being lent; 
 
 For the craven s fear is but selfishness, 
 Like his merriment. 
 
2 1 4 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 controls 
 Whatever thou fearest ; 
 
 Round Him in calmest music rolls 
 Whatever 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. 
 
MY SOUL .L\/> L 215 
 
 Why fear the night? why sin ink 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, 
 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. 
 
 Oh, 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 neighbor s wrong is thy present hell, 
 
 His bliss thy heaven. 
 
2 1 6 M ISC ELL ANE O US. 
 
 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, sustaineth 
 
 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 before thee 
 
 Lies dark in view, 
 Shall with beams of light from the inner glory 
 
 Be stricken through. 
 
 And like meadow mist through Autumn 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! 
 
 1847- 
 
TO A FXIEND. 21? 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 ON HKR 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 : 
 
2 1 8 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 ; 
 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! 
 
 Oh, 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! 
 
TO A FRIEND. 2 19 
 
 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 tliou 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 Switzer 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, \vho, 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, 
 
22O MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Still may that picture live, 
 All its fair forms survive, 
 And to thy spirit give 
 Gladness in Heaven ! 
 
 1841. 
 
 TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 1 
 
 GOD bless ye, brothers ! in the fight 
 Ye re waging now, ye cannot fail, 
 
 For better is your sense of right 
 Than kingcraft 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 1 It can scarcely be necessary to say that the author refers 
 to those who are seeking the reform of political evils in Great 
 Britain by peaceful and Christian means. 
 
TO TIH: A7-.7-V A .J/A A .S 1 OF ENGLAND. 221 
 
 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 blutl". bold men of Runnymede 
 Are \\ith ye still in times like these; 
 
 The shades of Kn^land 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 hath 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! 
 
222 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Oh, ye who, with undoubting eyes, 
 
 Through present cloud and gathering storm, 
 
 Behold the span of Freedom s skies, 
 And sunshine soft and warm, 
 
 Press bravely onward ! not in vain 
 Your generous trust in human kind ; 
 
 The good which bloodshed could not gain 
 Your peaceful zeal shall find. 
 
 Press on! the triumph shall be won 
 Of common rights and equal laws, 
 
 The glorious dream of Harrington, 
 And Sidney s good old cause. 
 
 Blessing the cotter and the crown, 
 Sweetening worn Labor s bitter cup ; 
 
 And, plucking not the highest down, 
 Lifting the lowest up. 
 
 Press on ! and we who may not share 
 
 The toil or glory of your fight, 
 May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, 
 
 God s blessing on the right! 
 
 1843- 
 
 THE 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 QC.4KEK OF THE OLDEN TIME. 22$ 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh! Spirit of that early day, 
 
 So pure and strong and true, 
 Be with us in the narrow way 
 
 Our faithful fathers knew. 
 Give strength the evil to forsake, 
 
 The cross of Truth to bear, 
 And love and reverent fear to make 
 
 Our daily lives a prayer! 
 
 1838. 
 
224 MISCELLANE US. 
 
 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, 11 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^rthrown. 
 
 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? 11 
 
THE REFORMER. 22$ 
 
 Yet louder rang the Strong One s stroke, 
 
 Yet nearer flashed his axe s gleam ; 
 Shuddering and sick at heart I woke, 
 As from a dream. 
 
 I looked : aside the dust cloud rolled -- 
 The Waster seemed the Builder too; 
 Upsprittging from the ruined Old 
 I saw the New. 
 
 T was but the ruin of the bad 
 
 The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
 Whatever 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 leit behind a smile which cheered 
 Like breaking day. 
 
 The grain grew green on battle-plains, 
 
 O er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow 
 The slave stood forging from his chains 
 The spade and plough. 
 
 Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay 
 
 And cottage windows, flower-entwined; 
 Looked out upon the peaceful bay 
 And hills behind. 
 
226 MIS CELL A NE O US. 
 
 Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, 
 
 The lights on brimming crystal fell, 
 Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head 
 And mossy well. 
 
 Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope, 
 Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, 
 And with the idle gallows-rope 
 The young child played. 
 
 Where the doomed victim in his cell 
 Had counted o er the weary hours, 
 Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, 
 Came crowned with flowers. 
 
 Grown wiser for the lesson given, 
 
 I fear no longer, for I know 
 That, where the share is deepest driven, 
 The best fruits grow. 
 
 The outworn rite, the old abuse, 
 
 The pious fraud transparent grown, 
 The good held captive in the use 
 Of wrong alone 
 
 These wait their doom, from that great law 
 Which makes the past time serve to-day ; 
 And fresher life the world shall draw 
 From their decay. 
 
/ //A REFORMER. 22J 
 
 Oh! backward-looking son of time! 
 
 The new is old, the old is new, 
 The cycle of a change sublime 
 Still sweeping through. 
 
 So wisely taught the Indian seer; 
 
 Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, 
 Who wake by turns Earth s love and fear? 
 Are one, the same. 
 
 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! 
 
 1846. 
 
228 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 eye-balls, through his horrid hair, 
 
 Gleam on him, fierce and red ; 
 And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
 Fall ever on his loathing ear, 
 
THE PKISONER FOR DEBT. 22Q 
 
 And, or in wakefulness or sleep, 
 Nerve, rlesh, and pulses thrill and creep 
 Whene er that ruffian s tossing limb, 
 Crimson with murder, touches him! 
 
 What has the gray-haired prisoner done? 
 
 Has murder stained his hands with gore? 
 Not so ; his crime s a fouler one ; 
 
 GOD MADE THE OLD MAN POOR! 
 
 For this he shares a felon s cell 
 The fittest earthly type of hell! 
 For this, the boon for which he poured 
 His young blood on the invader s sword, 
 And counted light the fearful cost 
 His blood-gained liberty is lost! 
 
 And so, for such a place of rest, 
 
 Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain 
 
 On Concord s field, and Bunker s crest, 
 And Saratoga s plain? 
 
 Look forth, thou man of many scars. 
 
 Through thy dim dungeon s iron bars ; 
 
 It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
 
 Yon monument upreared to thee 
 
 Piled granite and a prison cell 
 
 The land repays thy service well ! 
 
 Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 
 
 And fling the starry banner out ; 
 Shout " Freedom ! " till your lisping ones 
 Give back their cradle-shout : 
 
230 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 agr?,e 
 To praise " our glorious libertj ! " 
 
 But when the patriot 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 
 1847. 
 
LINES. 231 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON READING SEVKKAI. I AMIMM.KTS PUBLISHED 
 BY CLERGYMEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THK 
 GALLOWS. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE suns of eighteen centuries have shone 
 
 Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made 
 
 The fisher s boat, the cavern s floor of stone, 
 And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; 
 
 And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew, 
 And broke with publicans the bread of shame, 
 And drank, with blessings in His Father s name, 
 
 The water which Samaria s outcast drew, 
 
 Hath now His temples upon every shore, 
 
 Altar and shrine and priest, and incense dim 
 Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, 
 
 From lips which press the temple s marble floor, 
 
 Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! 
 
 n. 
 
 Yet as of old, when, meekly " doing good," 
 He fed a blind and selfish multitude, 
 And even the poor companions of His lot 
 With their dim earthly vision knew Him not, 
 
 How ill are His high teachings understood! 
 Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest 
 
 At His own altar binds the chain anew ; 
 Where He hath bidden to Life s equal feast, 
 
 The starving many wait upon the few ; 
 
232 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Where He hath spoken Peace, His name hath been 
 The loudest war-cry of contending men ; 
 Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed 
 The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, 
 Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, 
 And crossed its blazon with the holy sign ; 
 Yea, in His name who bade the erring live, 
 And daily taught His lesson to forgive! 
 
 Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel ; 
 And, with His words of mercy on their lips, 
 Hung gloating o er the pincers burning grips, 
 
 And the grim horror of the straining wheel ; 
 Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim s limb, 
 Who saw before his searing eye-balls 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 
 The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew 
 
 The white-sown bones of heretics, where er 
 
 They sank beneath the Crusade s holy spear 
 
 Goa s dark dungeons Malta s sea-washed cell, 
 Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung 
 Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, 
 
 Heaven s anthem blending with the shriek of hell! 
 
 The midnight of Bartholomew the stake 
 Of Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame 
 
 Which Calvin kindled by Geneva s lake 
 
LINES. 233 
 
 New England s scartuld, and the priestly sneer 
 Which mocked its victims in that hour ot" tear. 
 
 When guilt itself a human tear might claim, 
 lli-.ir witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One! 
 That Karth 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 RKVKN<;K is CKI.MK! 
 That man is holier than a creed, that all 
 
 Restraint upon him must consult his good, 
 Hope s sunshine linger on his prison wall, 
 
 And Love look in upon his solitude. 
 The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught 
 Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought 
 Into the common mind and popular thought ; 
 And words, to which by Galilee s lake shore 
 The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, 
 Have found an echo in the general heart, 
 And of the public faith become a living part. 
 
 v. 
 
 Who shall arrest this tendency? Bring back 
 The cells of Venice and the bigot s rack ? 
 Harden the softening human heart again 
 To cold indifference to a brother s pain? 
 Ye most unhappy men! who, turned away, 
 From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, 
 Grope in the shadows of Man s twilight time, 
 
234 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood 
 O er those foul altars streaming with warm blood ? 
 
 Permitted in another age and clime ? 
 Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew 
 Rebuked the Pagan s mercy, when he knew 
 No evil in the Just One? Wherefore turn 
 To the dark cruel past ? Can we not learn 
 From the pure Teacher s life, how mildly free 
 Is the great Gospel of Humanity? 
 The Flamen s knife is bloodless, and no more 
 Mexitli s altars soak with human gore, 
 No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke 
 Through the green arches of the Druid s oak ; 
 And ye of milder faith, with your high claim 
 Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, 
 Will ye become the Druids of our time ? 
 
 Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, 
 And, consecrators of Law s darkest clime, 
 
 Urge to its loathsome work the hangman s hand? 
 Beware lest human nature, roused at last, 
 From its peeled shoulder your encumbrance cast, 
 
 And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, 
 Rank ye with those who led their victims round 
 The Celt s red altar and the Indian s mound, 
 
 Abhorred of Earth and Heaven a pagan brother 
 hood ! 
 
 1842. 
 
////; HUMAN SACRIFICE. 235 
 
 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 1 
 
 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. 
 Attain from careless feet the dew 
 
 Of summer s misty morn he shook ; 
 Again with merry heart he threw 
 
 His light line in the rippling brook. 
 Back crowded all his school-day joys 
 
 He urged the ball and quoit again, 
 And heard the shout of laughing boys 
 
 Come ringing down the walnut glen. 
 Again he felt the western breeze, 
 
 With scent of flowers and crisping hay; 
 And down again through wind-stirred trees 
 
 He saw the quivering sunlight play. 
 An angel in home s vine-hung door, 
 He saw his sister smile once more ; 
 Once more the truant s brown-locked head 
 Upon his mother s knee was laid, 
 And sweetly lulled to slumber there, 
 With evening s holy hymn and prayer. 
 
 1 Some of the leading sectarian papers have lately published 
 the letter of a clergyman, giving an account of his attendance 
 upon a criminal (who had committed murder during a fit of in 
 toxication), at the time of his execution, in western New York. 
 
236 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 foot-fall 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 1 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. 
 
 The writer describes the agony of the wretched being his 
 abortive attempts at prayer his appeal for life his fear of a 
 violent death ; and, after declaring his belief that the poor vic 
 tim died without hope of salvation, concludes with a warm 
 eulogy upon the Gallows, being more than ever convinced of 
 its utility by the awful dread and horror which it inspired. 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 237 
 
 No dream for him of sin forgiven. 
 While still that baleful spectre stood, 
 
 With its hour.se murmur, " /> /<><></ for blood ! 
 Between him and the pitying Heaven! 
 
 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; 
 
238 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 noon-day sun 
 
 Smote on the features of the dead ! 
 And he who stood the doomed beside, 
 Calm gauger of the swelling tide 
 Of mortal agony and fear, 
 Heeding with curious eye and ear 
 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, 
 
Till-, ll I 1 MAX SACRIFICE. 239 
 
 Whereon Hope s moonlight never lies, 
 And Faith s white blossoms never wave 
 
 To the soft breath of Memory s sighs ; 
 
 Which sent a spirit marred and stained, 
 
 llv 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 bv the Bible and the Cord! 
 
24O MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, Thou! at whose rebuke the grave 
 Back to warm life its sleeper gave, 
 Beneath whose sad and tearful glance 
 The cold and changed countenance 
 Broke the still horror of its trance, 
 And waking, saw with joy above, 
 A brother s face of tenderest love ; 
 Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, 
 The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, 
 And from thy very garment s hem 
 Drew life and healing unto them, 
 The burden of Thy holy faith 
 Was love and life, not hate and death, 
 Man s demon-ministers of pain, 
 
 The fiends of his revenge, were sent 
 
 From Thy pure Gospel s element 
 To their dark home again. 
 Thy name is Love! What, then, is he, 
 
 Who in that name the gallows rears, 
 An awful altar built to Thee, 
 
 With sacrifice of blood and tears? 
 Oh, once again Thy healing lay 
 
 On the blind eyes which know 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! 
 
THE III* MAN SACRIFICE. 241 
 
 VII. 
 
 As on the White Sea s l 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 ; 
 So underneath its clouds of sin, 
 
 The heart of man retaineth yet 
 Gleams of its holy origin ; 
 
 And half-quenched stars that never set, 
 Dim colors of its faded bow, 
 
 And early beauty, linger there, 
 And o er its wasted desert blow 
 
 Faint breathings of its morning air. 
 Oh ! never yet upon the scroll 
 Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul. 
 
 Hath Heaven inscribed " DESPAIR!" 
 Cast not the clouded gem away, 
 Quench not the dim but living ray 
 
 My brother man. Beware! 
 With that deep voice which from the skies 
 Forbade the Patriarch s sacrifice, 
 
 God s angel cries, FORBEAR! 
 
 1843- 
 
 1 Among the Tartars, the Caspian is known as Akdingis, 
 that is, White Sea. Baku, on its Persian side, is remarkable 
 for its perpetual fire, scarcely discoverable under the pitchy 
 clouds of smoke from the bitumen which feeds it. It is the 
 natural fire-altar of the old Persian worship. 
 
242 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 RANDOLPH OF ROANOKEo 
 
 OH, 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 forgetful ness 
 
 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 
 
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 243 
 
 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! 
 
244 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 1 rushing sound, 
 
 Her blue peaks rose before him. 
 
 He held his slaves, yet made withal 
 
 No false and vain pretences, 
 Nor paid a lying priest to seek 
 
 For scriptural defences. 
 His harshest words of proud rebuke, 
 
 His bitterest taunt and scorning, 
 Fell fire-like on the Northern brow 
 
 That bent to him in fawning. 
 
 He held his slaves : yet kept the while 
 
 His reverence for the Human ; 
 In the dark vassals of his will 
 
 He saw but Man and Woman! 
 No hunter of God s outraged poor 
 
 His Roanoke valley entered ; 
 No trader in the souls of men 
 
 Across his threshold ventured. 1 
 
 And when the old and wearied man 
 Laid down for his last sleeping, 
 
 i Randolph had a hearty hatred of slave traders, and it is 
 said treated some of them quite roughly, who ventured to 
 cheapen his " chattels personal." 
 
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 24$ 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh! never bore his ancient State 
 
 A truer son or braver! 
 None trampling with a calmer scorn 
 
 On foreign hate or favor. 
 He knew her faults, yet never stooped 
 
 His proud and manly feeling 
 To poor excuses of the wrong 
 
 Or meanness of concealing. 
 
 But none beheld with clearer eye 
 
 The plague-spot o er her spreading, 
 None heard more sure the steps of Doom 
 
 Along her future treading. 
 For her as for himself he spake, 
 
 When, his gaunt frame upbracing, 
 He traced with dying hand "REMORSE! 11 
 
 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, 
 
 l See the remarkable statement of Dr. Parish, his medical 
 attendant. 
 
246 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 briars for corn-sheaves giving! 
 Oh! more than all thy dead renown 
 
 Were now one hero living! 
 
 1847- 
 
 DEMOCRACY. 
 
 [" All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to 
 you, do ye even so to them." Matthew vii. 12.] 
 
 BEARER of Freedom s holy light, 
 Breaker of Slavery s chain and rod, 
 
 The foe of all which pains the light, 
 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. 
 
DEMOCRACY. 247 
 
 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, 
 
 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 divine 
 
 The pitying heart the helping arm 
 The prompt self-sacrifice are thine. 
 
 Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, 
 
 How fade the lines of caste and birth! 
 
 How equal in their suffering lie 
 The groaning multitudes of earth! 
 
 Still to a stricken brother true, 
 Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 
 
 As stooped to heal the wounded Jew 
 The worshipper of Gerizim. 
 
>48 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 By misery unrepelled, unawed 
 
 By pomp or power, thou seest a MAN 
 
 In prince or peasant slave or lord 
 Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 
 
 Through all disguise, form, place, or name, 
 Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, 
 
 Through poverty and squalid shame, 
 Thou lookest on the man within. 
 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 However debased, and soiled, and dim, 
 
 The crown upon his forehead set 
 The immortal gift of God to him. 
 
 And there is reverence in thy look ; 
 
 For that frail form which mortals wear 
 The Spirit of the Holiest took, 
 
 And veiled His perfect brightness there. 
 
 Not from the shallow babbling fount 
 
 Of vain philosophy thou art ; 
 He who of old on Syria s mount 
 
 Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener s heart, 
 
 In holy words which cannot die, 
 
 In thoughts which angels leaned to know, 
 
 Proclaimed thy message from on high 
 Thy mission to a world of woe. 
 
TO RONGE. 249 
 
 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, 
 
250 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 On crown or crosier, which shall interpose 
 Between thee and the weal of Father-land. 
 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! 
 1846. 
 
CHALKLE Y I/A/ f.. 2$ I 
 
 CHALKLEY HALL. 1 
 
 How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze 
 
 To him who Hies 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh! once again revive, while on my ear 
 
 The cry of Gain 
 
 And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away, 
 Ye blessed memories of my early day 
 
 Like sere grass wet with rain!- 
 
 i Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of 
 THOMAS CHALKI.EY, an eminent minister of the " Friends" 
 denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, 
 and his Journal, which was published 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 temporary residence in Philadelphia, 
 in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around 
 the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from 
 the heat anil bustle of the city. 
 
252 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Once more let God s green earth and sunset air 
 
 Old feelings waken ; 
 
 Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, 
 Oh, 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 countless 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. 
 
 And here his neighbors gathered in to greet 
 
 Their friend again, 
 
 Safe from the wave and the destroying 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, 
 
CHALK LEY HALL. 253 
 
 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 sate 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. 
 
 Oh, 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 upland glade-- 
 
 To me is holy ground. 
 
254 MISCELLANE US. 
 
 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 Petrarch 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 Romance 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! 
 
 1843- 
 
 TO JOHN P1ERPONT. 
 
 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 Palestine, 
 Not to the poet, but the man I bring 
 In friendship s fearless trust my offering: 
 How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, 
 Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me 
 
THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 255 
 
 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 /ion. even thy song 
 1 lath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! 
 
 THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 
 
 [Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the four 
 teenth 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. 
 Hit- traveller saw several venerable JOGF.ES, or saints, sitting 
 silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the fall 
 ing 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. 
 
256 MIS CELLANE O US. 
 
 O er them the tropic night-storm swept, 
 The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; 
 
 The cloud-fire on their eye-balls blazed, 
 Yet there they waited still ! 
 
 What was the vorld 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. 
 
 Oh! 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, 
 W hose 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? 
 
THE C)77v /-:.V.V TREE OI- CEYLON. 257 
 
 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. 
 
 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 u watch one hour " in humbling prayer : 
 
 Life s " great things, 1 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. 
 
 Oh, 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! 
 
 1841. 
 
258 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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, oh mother Nature! " cry 
 
 Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; 
 " 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! 
 
TO . 259 
 
 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//r \st month, 1847. 
 
 TO , 
 
 WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN S JOURNAL. l 
 
 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 a power like Midas, 
 All things into gold. 
 
 2 " Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Assays 
 ofElia, 
 
260 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 And the passing shades of sadness 
 Wearing even a welcome guise, 
 
 As when some bright lake lies open 
 To the sunny skies ; 
 
 Every wing of bird above it, 
 Every light cloud floating on, 
 
 Glitters like that flashing mirror 
 In the self-same 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 : 
 
TO . 26l 
 
 That which mystic Plato pondered. 
 That which Xeno heard with awe, 
 
 And the star-rapt Zoroaster 
 In his night-watch saw. 
 
 From the doubt and darkness springing 
 Of the dim, uncertain Past, 
 
 Mm in- to the dark still shadows 
 O er the Future cast, 
 
 Karly 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! 
 
262 M ISC EL LANE US. 
 
 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, 1 
 
 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. 
 
 1 August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi., " Interrogavi Terram," etc. 
 
TO - 263 
 
 Not to ease and aimless quiet 
 
 Doth that inward answer tend, 
 But to works of love and duty 
 
 As our being s 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 WOOL. MAX 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 
 Halt-unconscious taught : 
 
264 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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! 
 
LEGGETT S MONUMENT. 26$ 
 
 If with readier ear thou heedest 
 What the Inward Teacher saith, 
 
 Listening with a willing spirit 
 And a child-like faith, 
 
 Thou mayest live to bless the giver, 
 Who himself but trail 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. 
 1840. 
 
 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, 
 
 Who clamored down the bold reformer 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 is it 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! 
 
 1841. 
 
266 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 
 
 [A LETTER-WRITER from Mexico states that, at the terrible 
 fight of Buena Vista, MEXICAN women were seen hovering 
 near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and 
 succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found sur 
 rounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, minister 
 ing to the wants of AMERICANS as well as MEXICANS, with 
 impartial tenderness.] 
 
 SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward 
 
 far away, 
 O er the camp of the invaders, o^r 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, 
 
THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 267 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 
 
 plough 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 ! ala= ! I know not ; friend and foe together 
 
 fall, 
 O er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for 
 
 them all!" 
 
268 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "Oh my heart s love! oh 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? 
 Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! oh, 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 
 
 dowrn 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 ; 
 
THE ANGELS OF BUENA 17STA. 269 
 
 Hut. 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 hitter teeling looked she hack upon 
 
 her dead : 
 I .ut 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! " mur 
 mured 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. 
 
2/0 MISCELLANE US. 
 
 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!" 
 
 Sink, oh 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, oh Father! is this evil world of ours ; 
 Upward, through its 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 oMr 
 
 air! 
 1847- 
 
FORGIVENESS. 2/1 
 
 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 burial place ; 
 Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
 Find one sad level and how, soon or late, 
 
 Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meekened face, 
 And cold hands folded over a still heart, 
 
 Pass the green threshold of our common 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 trembling I forgave! 
 
 1846. 
 
 BARCLAY OF URY. 
 
 [Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of FRIENDS, 
 in Scotland, was BARCLAY, of URY, an old and distinguished 
 soldier, who had fought under GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, in Ger 
 many. 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 uncommon 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 
 
2/2 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 my religious 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 entertainment 
 in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor."] 
 
 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 froward ; 
 Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! 
 Push him! prick him! through the town 
 
 Drive the Quaker coward! " 
 
BARCLAY OF URY. 
 
 But from out the thickening crowd 
 Cried a sudden voice and loud : 
 
 "Barclay! Ho! a Harclay!" 
 And the old man at his side, 
 Saw a comrade, battle tried, 
 
 Scarred and sunburned 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. 11 
 Marvelled much that henchman bold? 
 That his laird, so stout of old, 
 
 Now so meekly pleaded. 
 
 " Woe s the day, 11 he sadly said, 
 With a slowly shaking head, 
 And a look of pity ; 
 
2 74 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 " 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 ll 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. 
 
BARCLAY OF L A Y. 2?$ 
 
 " When each good wife, 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. 
 
 1 lard to feel the stranger s scoff, 
 Hard the old friend s falling off, 
 
 Hard to learn forgiving : 
 Hut the Lord His own rewards, 
 And His love 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! 
 
 Not in vain. Confessor old, 
 Unto us the tale is told 
 Of thy day of trial ; 
 
2/6 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Every age on him. who strays 
 From its broad and beaten ways, 
 Pours its seven-fold 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! 
 1847. 
 
 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 ! 
 
IT/fAT THE R >/(/ SAID. 2JJ 
 
 "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-faced Mammon 
 
 Reaping men like grain. 
 
 " Where is God, that \ve should fear Him? 1 
 
 Thus the earth-born Titans say ; 
 God ! if thou art living, hear us ! 
 
 Thus the weak ones pray. 
 
 "Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding, 11 
 
 Spake a solemn Voice within ; 
 " Weary 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 
 
 i:\crmore 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. 
 
 "Could st thou boast, oh child of weakness! 
 
 O er the sons of wrong and strife, 
 Were their strong temptations planted 
 
 In thy path of life? 
 
2/8 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 " Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing 
 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 mothers fire? 
 
 In his black tent did the Tartar 
 Choose his wondering sire? 
 
 " He alone, whose hand is bounding 
 Human power and human will, 
 
 Looking through each soul s surrounding, 
 Knows its good or ill. 
 
 " 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. 
 
TO DELAWARE* 2/0 
 
 "Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty 
 
 To thy lips her trumpet set, 
 But \\ith harsher blasts shall mingle 
 
 \\ ailings of regret." 
 
 Cease not, Voice of holy speaking, 
 Teacher sent of ( .od. he 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. 
 
 1847. 
 
 TO DELAWARE. 
 
 Written during the Discussion, in the Legislature of that 
 State in the Winter of 1846-47, of a Bill for the Abolition of 
 Slavery. 
 
 THRICE welcome to thy sisters of the East, 
 
 To the strong tillers of a rugged home, 
 With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, 
 
 And hardy feet o er-swept by ocean s foam ; 
 And to the young nymphs of the golden West, 
 
 Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom. 
 Trail in the sunset, oh, redeemed and blest, 
 
 To the warm welcome of thy sisters come! 
 Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay 
 
2 80 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains, 
 And the great lakes, where echoes free alway 
 
 Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains, 
 Shall weave new sun-bows in their tossing spray, 
 And all their waves keep grateful holiday. 
 And, smiling on thee through her mountain rains, 
 
 Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, 
 And vast Katahdin o er his woods, shall wear 
 Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air ; 
 
 And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks 
 O errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, 
 
 When, at thy bidding, the electric wire 
 
 Shall tremble northward with its words of fire : 
 Glory and praise to God! another State is free! 
 
 1847. 
 
 WORSHIP. 
 
 [ " Pure religion and undenled before God and the Father 
 is this, To visit the fatherless and widows 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 
 
 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 mothers 1 offering, to the Fiend s embraces, 
 
 Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. 
 
//(Vv .S y/// . 28l 
 
 Red altars, kindling through that ni^ht of error. 
 Smoked with warm blood beneath the rruel e\e 
 
 Of lawlf l o\\er and sanguinary Terror, 
 Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky; 
 
 Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcasting 
 All hea\en 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 wi/.ard 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 Unseen One please; 
 As it 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 sen-ice 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. 
 
282 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 surrounding 
 The priestly altar and the saintly grave, 
 
 No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, 
 Nor incense clouding up the twilight 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 fatherless ! 
 
 Types of our human weakness and our sorrow ! 
 
 Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead? 
 Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow 
 
 From stranger eyes the home lights which have 
 fled? 
 
 Oh, 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 gratitude. 
 
THE ALBUM. 283 
 
 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 ALBUM. 
 
 THE dark-eyed daughters of the Sun, 
 At morn and evening hours, 
 
 O er-hung 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. 
 
2 84 MfSCELLANE US. 
 
 Yet lady, shall this book of thine, 
 Where Love his gifts has brought, 
 
 Become to thee a Persian shrine, 
 O er-hung with flowers of thought. 
 
 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 sun, 
 
 And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, 
 
 The Fiend of Faust was a faithful one, 
 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 withered limb, 
 
 Like the nightmare in one s sleep. 
 But he drank of the wine, and Sinbad cast 
 The evil weight from his back at last. 
 
 But the demon that cometh day by day 
 To my quiet room and fire-side nook, 
 Where the casement light falls dim and gray 
 
THE nr.MOX OF THE STUDY. 285 
 
 On faded painting and ancient hook, 
 U .1 -Norrier one than any whose names 
 An- ihionieled well l>y good king James. 
 
 No bearer of burdens like Caliban. 
 
 No runner of errands like Ariel, 
 He conies in the shape of a fat old man, 
 
 Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell : 
 And whence he conies, 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! 
 
 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. 
 
286 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 esprit, 
 
 All reach my ear in the self-same tone, 
 
 I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! 
 
 Oh! sweet as the lapse of water av 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 moonlit 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 sometimes look, 
 
 As I sit at eve by her side alone, 
 
 And we read by turns from the self-same book 
 
 Some tale perhaps of the olden time, 
 
 Some lovers 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, 
 
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 287 
 
 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! 
 
 Oh. pity me then, -vhen, day by day, 
 
 The stout fiend darkens my parlor door ; 
 
 And reads me perchance the self-same 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 ; 
 
 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. 
 
 I ve crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate., 
 And laid the Primer above them all, 
 
 I ve nailed a horse-shoe 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 ! 
 
288 MISCELLANEOUS, 
 
 u Conjuro te, sceleratissime, 
 
 Abire ad tuum 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 seven-fold 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 ! 
 
 1835- 
 
 THE PUMPKIN. 
 
 OH ! 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 ; 
 
Tin-: rr.MrxrN. 289 
 
 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, 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 restored, 
 When 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 brightens the eye ? 
 What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ? 
 
 Oh ! fruit loved of boyhood ! the old days re 
 calling, 
 
 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 lantern the moon, 
 
MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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 t eyes never watched o er its baking than 
 
 thine ! 
 And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to ex 
 
 press. 
 
 Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less ; 
 That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
 And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 
 
 grow, 
 
 And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
 Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin Pie ! 
 1844. 
 
 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 scorning ! - 
 
 Gone like the Indian wizard s yell 
 And fire-dance round the magic rock, 
 
EXTRACT. 291 
 
 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 church-yard dead 
 dlimpse upward from their turfy bed, 
 
 Startling the traveller, late and lone; 
 As, on some night of starless weather, 
 They silently commune together, 
 
 Kach sitting on his own head-stone ! 
 The rootless 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 broom-stick nags, 
 Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters 
 As beverage meet for Satan s daughters ; 
 No more their mimic tones be heard 
 The mew of cat the chirp of bird, 
 Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter 
 Of the fell demon following after ! 
 
 The cautious good-man nails no more 
 A horse-shoe on his outer door, 
 Lest some unseemly hag should fit 
 To his own mouth her bridle-bit 
 The good-wife s churn no more refuses 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 creatures, 
 
 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, dream-like, as a fairy s moan 
 
 Above her nightly closing flowers, 
 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 invaders 
 So perished Albion s " glammaryc," 
 
 With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, 
 His charmed torch beside his knee, 
 That even the dead himself might see 
 
 The magic scroll within his keeping. 
 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 
 
//,/.w yv.v RF.AC/f. 293 
 
 All seeming to his knowing < 
 Familiar as his catechise." 
 Or Webster s Spelling Book." 
 
 1833. _^_ 
 
 HAMPTON lU.ACH. 
 
 THE sunlight glitters keen and bright 
 
 Where, miles a\\a\. 
 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 iivith loose-flung rein 
 
 Our seaward way. 
 
 Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain. 
 Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, 
 And bends above our heads the flowering 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 How 
 The breath of a new lik- the healing of the seas! 
 
294 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
HAMPTON BEACH. 295 
 
 Serene and mild the untried light 
 
 May have its dawning ; 
 And, as in Summer s northern night 
 Tlu- evening and the dawn unite, 
 The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul s new 
 morning. 
 
 I sit alone : in foam and spray 
 
 Wave after wave 
 
 Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, 
 Beneath like fallen Titans lay, 
 
 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 lire the glowing sunset sky! 
 
296 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell! 
 
 I bear with me 
 
 No token stone nor glittering shell, 
 But long and oft shall Memory tell 
 Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea 
 
 1843- 
 
 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 undimmed sight, 
 
 And, day by day, within thy spirit grew 
 
 A holier hope than young Ambition knew, 
 
 As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, 
 
 Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom s cry of pain, 
 Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon! 
 
 Portents at which the bravest stand aghast 
 
 The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, 
 Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong, 
 
 Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, 
 
 Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, 
 
 Hear st not the tumult surging overhead. 
 
 Who now shall rally Freedom s scattering host? 
 
 Who wear the mantle of the leader lost ? 
 
LINES. 297 
 
 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 torch-lights trim. 
 
 And wave them high across the abysmal black, 
 Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and 
 rejoice. 
 
 \oth io., 1847. 
 
 LINES, 
 ACCOMPANYING MAM s( -RUTS PRESENTED 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 ; 
 
 Still starting from his sandy bed, 
 
 The way-worn 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, 
 
298 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 convent 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. 
 
LINES. 
 
 299 
 
 These light leaves at thy feet I lay 
 
 Poor common thoughts on common tilings, 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 Ere long shall miss its shade. 
 
 Oh, 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 my heart, the leaves I bring 
 
 May well defy the wintry cold, 
 Until, in Heaven s eternal spring, 
 
 I.ik- s fairer ones unfold. 
 
 1847- 
 
3<DO MISCELLANEOUS, 
 
 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 behind, 
 Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 
 
 From his loved dead? 
 
 Who bears no trace of passion s evil force? 
 Who shuns thy sting, oh terrible Remorse? 
 
 Who does not cast 
 
 On the thronged pages of his memory 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 grateful tears, 
 
 If he hath been 
 
 Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, 
 To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, 
 
 His fellow-men ? 
 
RAPHAEL. 301 
 
 If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
 A ray of .sunshine to the cell of sin, 
 
 If lu- 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 never more 
 
 Can henceforth part. 
 
 1848. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
 Seemed blending with my joy. 
 
 1 Suggested by a portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen, 
 in the possession of Thomas Tracy, of Newburyport. 
 
302 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 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, 
 13y 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. 
 
RAPHAEL. 303 
 
 There drooped thy more than mortal face, 
 
 Oh 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 changeful clime, 
 
 Plant for their deathless heritage 
 The fruits and flowers of time. 
 
304 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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? 
 
 Oh no! We live our life again : 
 Or warmly touched or coldly dim 
 
 The pictures of the Past remain, 
 Man s works shall follow him! 
 
 1842. 
 
////-. KNIGHT Of- ST. JOHN. 305 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 ERE down yon blue Carpathian hills 
 
 Tin- sun shall sink a^ain ! 
 Faivwrll t> liU- and all its ills, 
 
 Fatvurll to cell and chain. 
 
 These prison shades arc 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 trom the desert of my fate 
 
 I gaze across the past ; 
 Forever on life s dial-plate 
 
 The shade is backward cast! 
 
306 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 IVe 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. 
 
 Oh, 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 f loving eyes! 
 
THE KXIGHT 01- ST. JOHN. 30? 
 
 Ah me! upon another s breast 
 
 Those golden locks recline ; 
 I see upon another iv>t 
 
 The glance that oner was mine! 
 
 "O faithless Priest! O perjured knight!" 
 
 I hear the Master cry; 
 " Shut out the vision from thy sight, 
 
 Let Karth 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 self-same blow, 
 
 The lover and the priest! 
 
 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. 
 
 1843- 
 
308 MISCELLANE US. 
 
 AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 
 
 FROM " MARGARET SMITH S JOURNAL." 
 
 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, 11 the Earth did seem to say, 
 
 "For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." 
 
 " I 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." 
 1849. 
 
SONGS OF LABOR, 
 
 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 remain : 
 
 Hut 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, 
 The dry and wasting roots between, 
 A sober after-growth is seen, 
 
 As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple 
 wood ! 
 
 39 
 
3IO SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Yet birds will sing, and breezes play 
 
 Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; 
 And through the bleak and wintry day 
 It keeps its steady green alway, 
 So even my after-thoughts may have a charm for 
 thee 
 
 Art s perfect forms no moral need, 
 And beauty is its own excuse ; l 
 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. 
 
 1 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." 
 
Till-: SHir-BUILDERS. 3 I I 
 
 The doom which to the guilty pair 
 Without the walls of Eden came, 
 Transforming sinless ease to care 
 And rugged toil, no more shall bear 
 The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. 
 
 A blessing now a curse no more ; 
 
 Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, 
 The coarse mechanic vesture wore, 
 A poor man toiling with the poor, 
 In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. 
 
 1850. 
 
 THE 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, 
 
312 SONGS OF LABOR, 
 
 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 ; 
 
Till: .S7/// -/ r//./V-.A .V. 313 
 
 And know we well the painted shell 
 
 We give to wind and wave. 
 Must float, the sailor s citadel, 
 
 Or sink, the sailor s grave! 
 
 Ho! strike away the bars and blocks, 
 
 And set the good ship free! 
 Why lingers on these dusty rocks 
 
 The young bride of the sea? 
 Look! how she moves adown the grooves, 
 
 In graceful beauty now! 
 How lowly on the breast she loves 
 
 Sinks down her virgin prow! 
 
 God bless her! wheresoever the breeze 
 
 Her snowy wing shall fan, 
 Aside the frozen Hebrides, 
 
 Or sultry Hindostan! 
 Where er, in mart or on the main, 
 
 With peaceful flag unfurled, 
 She helps to wind the silken chain 
 
 Of commerce round the world! 
 
 Speed on the ship! But let her bear 
 
 No merchandise of sin, 
 No groaning cargo of despair 
 
 Her roomy hold within. 
 No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, 
 
 Nor poison-draught for ours ; 
 But honest fruits of toiling hands 
 
 And Nature s sun and showers. 
 
3 14 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Be hers the Prairie s golden grain, 
 
 The Desert s golden sand, 
 The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 
 
 The spice of Morning land ! 
 Her pathway on the open main 
 
 May blessings follow free, 
 And glad hearts welcome back again 
 
 Her white sails from the sea! 
 
 1846. 
 
 THE 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! 
 
THE .s7/( )/-..!/,/ A /- A .V. 315 
 
 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 goat-herd 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. 
 
316 SONGS OF LAB OK. 
 
 Ye dare to trust, for honest fame, 
 
 The jury Time empanels, 
 And leave to truth each noble name 
 
 Which glorifies your annals. 
 
 Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 
 
 In strong and hearty German ; 
 And Bloomfield s lay, and Gifford s wit, 
 
 And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
 Still from his book, a mystic seer, 
 
 The soul of Behmen teaches, 
 And England s priestcraft shakes to hear 
 
 Of Fox s leathern breeches. 
 
 The foot is yours ; where er it falls, 
 
 It treads your well-wrought leather, 
 On 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 brogan, 
 
 With footsteps slow and weary, 
 May wander where the sky s blue span 
 
 Shuts down upon the prairie. 
 On Beauty s foot, your slippers glance, 
 
 By Saratoga s fountains, 
 Or twinkle down the summer dance 
 
 Beneath the Crystal Mountains! 
 
THE DROVE R*. 
 
 The red brick to the mason s hand, 
 
 The brown earth to the tiller s, 
 The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 
 
 Like fairy Cinderella s! 
 As they who shunned the household maid 
 
 Beheld the crown upon her, 
 So all shall see your toil repaid 
 
 With hearth and home and honor. 
 
 Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 
 
 In water cool and brimming 
 " All honor to the good old Craft, 
 
 Its merry men and women!" 
 Call out again your long array, 
 
 In the old time s pleasant manner; 
 Once more, on gay St. Crispin s day, 
 
 Fling out his blazoned banner! 
 
 1846. 
 
 THE DROVERS. 
 
 THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun 
 
 Still onward cheerly driving! 
 There s life alone in duty done, 
 
 And rest alone in striving. 
 But see! the day is closing cool, 
 
 The woods are dim before us ; 
 The white fog of the way-side pool 
 
 Is creeping slowly o er us. 
 
318 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 hill-sides 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 road-side rill. 
 
 Or sunny lakelet, drinking. 
 
THE DROl I-.RS. 319 
 
 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 good-man ; forth 
 
 Wife, children, house-dog, sally, 
 Till once more on their drsty path 
 
 The bailed truants rally. 
 
 We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, 
 
 Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, 
 Like those who grind their noses down 
 
 On pastures bare and stony 
 Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, 
 
 And cows too lean for shadows, 
 Disputing feebly with the frogs 
 
 The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 
 
 In our good drove, so sleek and fair, 
 
 No bones of leanness rattle ; 
 No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, 
 
 Or Pharaoh s evil cattle. 
 Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 
 
 That fed him unrepining ; 
 The fatness of a goodly land 
 
 In each dun hide is shining. 
 
320 SONGS OF LAB OK. 
 
 We ve sought them where, in warmest nooks,, 
 
 The freshest feed is growing, 
 By sweetest springs and clearest brooks 
 
 Through honeysuckle flowing ; 
 Wherever hill-sides, 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 way-side 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 foot-sore beasts are weary, 
 And through yon elms the tavern sign 
 
 Looks out upon us cheery. 
 To-morrow, eastward with our charge 
 
 We ll go to meet the dawning, 
 Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge 
 
 Have seen the sun of morning. 
 
 When snow-flakes o er the frozen earth, 
 
 Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
 When children throng the glowing hearth, 
 
 And quiet wives are knitting ; 
 
THE FISHERMEN. 321 
 
 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. 
 
 1847- 
 
 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 light-house from the sand; 
 
 And the scattered pines are waving 
 Their farewell from the land. 
 
322 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 
 
 Of 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, 
 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. 
 
THE l-ISHERMEN. 323 
 
 There we ll drop our lines, and gather 
 
 Old Ocean s treasures in, 
 Where er the mottled mackerel 
 
 Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
 The sea s our field of harvest, 
 
 Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
 We ll reap the teeming waters 
 
 As at home they reap the plain 
 
 Our wet hands spread the carpet, 
 
 And light the hearth of home ; 
 From our fish, as in the old time, 
 
 The silver coin shall come. 
 As the demon fled the chamber 
 
 Where the fish of Tobit lay, 
 So ours from all our dwellings 
 
 Shall frighten Want away. 
 
 Though the mist upon our jackets 
 
 In the bitter air congeals, 
 And our lines wind stiff and slowly 
 
 From off the frozen reels ; 
 Though the fog be dark around us, 
 
 And the storm blow high and loud, 
 We will whistle down the wild wind, 
 
 And laugh beneath the cloud! 
 
 In the darkness as in daylight, 
 
 On the water as on land, 
 God s eye is looking on us, 
 
 And beneath us is his hand! 
 
324 
 
 SOJVGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Death will find us soon or later, 
 On the deck or in the cot ; 
 
 And we cannot meet him better 
 Than in working out our lot. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the west wind 
 
 Comes freshening down the bay, 
 The rising sails are filling 
 
 Give way, my lads, give way ! 
 Leave the coward landsman clinging 
 
 To the dull earth, like a weed 
 The stars of heaven shall guide us, 
 
 The breath of heaven shall speed! 
 
 1845- 
 
 THE 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 disc of fire, he brightened as he 
 
 sped; 
 
THE HUSKERS. 325 
 
 Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and 
 subdued, 
 
 On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly pict 
 ured 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. 
 
 , J 
 
 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 
 
 weather-cocks ; 
 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. 
 
326 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 bright 
 ness passed. 
 
 And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 
 
 stream and pond, 
 Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire 
 
 beyond, 
 
THE HUSKEKS. $2? 
 
 Slowly o er the Eastern sea-blurts 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 clown 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. 
 
328 SONGS OF LAB OK. 
 
 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. 
 1847. 
 
 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. 
 
THI-: in SKERS. 329 
 
 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! 
 
33O SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
 Whose folly laughs to scorn 
 
 The blessing of our hardy grain, 
 Our wealth of golden corn! 
 
 Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
 Let mildew blight the rye, 
 
 Give to the worm the orchard s fruit ? 
 The wheat-field to the fly : 
 
 But let the good old crop adorn 
 The hills our fathers trod ; 
 
 Still let us, for his golden corn, 
 Send up our thanks to God! 
 
 1847. 
 
 THE 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. 
 
THE LUMBERMEN. 331 
 
 Noiseless creeping, while we re sleeping, 
 
 Frost his task-work pi it- : 
 Soon, his icy bridges heaping, 
 
 Shall our log-piles rise. 
 
 When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 
 
 On some night of rain, 
 Lake and river break asunder 
 
 Winter s weakened chain, 
 Down the wild March flood shall bear them 
 
 To the saw-mill s wheel. 
 Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them 
 
 With his teeth of steel. 
 
 Be it starlight, be it moonlight, 
 
 In these vales below, 
 When the earliest beams of sunlight 
 
 Streak the mountain s snow. 
 Crisps the 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 \\ide morasses, 
 
 Or through rocky walls. 
 Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 
 
 White with foamy falls ; 
 
332 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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, 
 
Till-. I. I M H MM EN. 333 
 
 When, like seamen from the waters, 
 
 From the woods we come, 
 Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, 
 
 Angels of our home! 
 
 Not for us the measured ringing 
 
 From the village spire, 
 Not for us the Sabbath singing 
 
 Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
 Ours the old, majestic temple, 
 
 Where God\s brightness shines 
 Down the dome so grand and ample, 
 
 Propped by lofty pines! 
 
 Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 
 
 Speaks He in the breeze, 
 As of old beneath the twilight 
 
 Of lost Eden s trees! 
 For his ear, the inward feeling 
 
 Needs no outward tongue ; 
 He can see the spirit kneeling 
 
 While the axe is swung. 
 
 Heeding truth alone, and turning 
 
 From the false and dim, 
 Lamp of toil or altar burning 
 
 Are alike to Him. 
 Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting 
 
 On our rugged toil ; 
 Far ships waiting for the freighting 
 
 Of our woodland spoil ! 
 
334 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Ships, whose traffic links these highlands^ 
 
 Bleak and cold, of ours, 
 With the citron-planted islands 
 
 Of a clime of flowers ; 
 To our frosts the tribute bringing 
 
 Of eternal heats ; 
 In our lap of winter flinging 
 
 Tropic fruits and sweets. 
 
 Cheerly, on the axe of labor, 
 
 Let the sunbeams dance, 
 Better than the flash of sabre 
 
 Or the gleam of lance ! 
 Strike ! With every blow is given 
 
 Freer sun and sky, 
 And the long-hid earth to heaven 
 
 Looks, with wondering eye! 
 
 Loud behind us grow the murmurs 
 
 Of the age to come ; 
 Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, 
 
 Bearing harvest-home! 
 Here her virgin lap with treasures 
 
 Shall the green earth fill ; 
 Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 
 
 Crown each beechen hill. 
 
 Keep who will the city s alleys, 
 Take the smooth-shorn plain, 
 
 Give to us the cedar valleys, 
 Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
 
THE LUMBERMEN. 335 
 
 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! 
 
 1845. 
 
YA 04456 
 
 575780 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY