IRLF 
 
 ITTIER 
 
 m 
 
 & 
 
 1 
 
 ; 
 
 
 
 " 
 
 
ITOBER 14. 
 
 L.ast 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 au 
 tumn s, early rime. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door 
 
 was open cast, 
 And slowly, at the sheriff s side, up the long 
 
 street I passed; 
 I heard a murmur round me, and felt, but 
 
 dared not see, 
 Hew, from every door and window, the 
 
 people gazed on me. 
 
 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 Vir 
 ginia s shore, 
 
 You may hold her at a higher price than 
 Indian girl or Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains; and 
 when again he cried: 
 
 "Speak out, my worthy seamen!" no voice, 
 no sign replied; 
 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and 
 kind words met my ear; 
 
 "God bless thee and preserve thee, my gen 
 tle 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!" 
 "U>11 answered, worthy captain, shame on 
 
 their cruel laws!" 
 Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud 
 
 the people s first applause. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed 
 
 dhanged beneath my eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue 
 
 walls of the sky, 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill and gTream 
 
 and woodland lay, 
 And softer lapsed on summer sands the 
 
 waters of the bay. 
 
 [John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
GIFT OF 
 John C. Lynch, 
 
Associated FrSS > 
 
 AMKBBUBY, Mass., Dec. 17.-This old town 
 has been in a furore all day, C ^ ebr * tui 5; 
 eighty-eighth birthday of the Nation s 
 grand old poet, John Greenleaf Whu- 
 tier, who, at his house, Known _ as Oak 
 Knoll, has been busily engaged with delight 
 in receiving a host of friends, letters and 
 communications that have poure< 
 upon him. Notes of greeting and 
 congratulations were received from the 
 representatives and senators 
 
 rounted. The-childred here presented 
 him their remembrances, consisting o 
 ters congratulation and flowers.eveiy 
 bearing a tlower of some kind. 
 
 SS-siJS fiftwfs iSSS 
 
 much affected. Curing iu VK , nd 
 town authorities, headed by the clerk and 
 followed by a concourse of citizens, 
 
 ing in State, and drove to the poet s house^ 
 The* Governor congratulated Mr. wnittie 
 Ind presented him with a handsome souv 
 enir Other cities fittingly remembered 
 , the old gentleman. Hejwas so earned away 
 by his enthusiasm and emotion that he was 
 overcome early this evening and had to be 
 a ssisted to retire. 
 
THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL 
 FOLK. 
 
 CHOTA NAQPOOE. 
 
 We have opened the door. 
 
 Once, twice, thrice ! 
 We have swei>t the floor, 
 
 We have boiled the rice. 
 Come hither, coiue hither! 
 Come from the far lands, 
 Come from the star lands, 
 
 Come as before! 
 We lived long together, 
 We loved one another; 
 
 Come back to our life. 
 Come father, come mother. 
 Come sister, come brother, 
 
 Child, husband, wife, 
 For you we are sighing. 
 - Q *ke your old places, 
 
A Dark Cloud ami its Silver Lining. 
 
 In the minister s morning sermon, he told 
 
 of the primal fall, 
 And how, henceforth, the wrath of God 
 
 rested on each and all; 
 
 And how, of His will and pleasure, all souls, 
 
 save a chosen few, 
 "Were doomed ro eternal torture, and held in 
 
 the way thereto. 
 
 Yet never, by Faith s unreason, a saintlier 
 
 soul was tried, 
 And never the harsh old lesson a tenderer 
 
 heart belied. 
 
 And after the painful service, on that pleas 
 ant, bright, spring day, 
 
 He walked with his little daughter thro the 
 apple bloom of May. 
 
 Sweet in the fresh, green meadow sparrow 
 
 and blackbird sung; 
 Above him its tinted petals the blossoming 
 
 orchard hung. 
 
 Around, on the wonderful glory, the minister 
 
 looked and smiled; 
 " How good is the Lord, who gives us these 
 
 gifts from His hand, my child. 
 
 " Behold, in the bloom of apples, and the 
 
 violets in the sward, 
 A hint of the old lost beauty of the garden 
 
 of the Lord." 
 
 Then up spake the little maiden, treading on 
 
 snow and pink, 
 " O, father! these pretty blossoms are very 
 
 wicked, I think. 
 
 " Had there been no Garden of Eden, there 
 
 never had been a fall; 
 And if never a tree had blossomed, God 
 
 would ha fe loved us all." 
 
 "Hush, child!" the father answered, "By 
 
 His decree man fell; 
 His ways are in clouds and darkness, but 
 
 He doeth all things well. 
 
 "And whether by His ordaining to us cometh 
 
 good or ill, 
 Joy or pain, or light or shadow, we must fear 
 
 and love Him still." 
 
 "O, I fear him!" said the daughter, "and 1 
 
 try to love Him, too; 
 But I wish He were kind and gentle kind 
 
 and loving as you." 
 
 The minister groaned in spirit, as the tremu 
 lous lips of pain, 
 
 And wide, wet eyes, uplifted, questioned his 
 own in vain. 
 
of the Lord." 
 
 Then up spake the little maiden, treading on 
 
 snow and pink, 
 " O, father! these pretty blossoms are very 
 
 wicked, I think. 
 
 " Had there been no Garden of Eden, there 
 
 never had been a fall; 
 And if never a tree had blossomed, God 
 
 would ha /e loved us all." 
 
 "Hush, child!" the father answered, "By 
 
 His decree man fell; 
 His ways are in clouds and darkness, but 
 
 He doeth all things well. 
 
 "And whether by His ordaining to us cometh 
 
 good or ill, 
 Joy or pain, or light or shadow, we must fear 
 
 and love Him still." 
 
 O, I fear him!" said the daughter, "and 1 
 
 try to love Him, too; 
 But I wish He were kind and gentle kind 
 
 and loving as you." 
 
 The minister groaned in spirit, as the tremu 
 lous lips of pain, 
 
 And wide, wet eyes, uplifted, questioned his 
 own in vain. 
 
 Bowing his head, he pondered the words of 
 
 his little one. 
 Had he erred in his life-long teachings ? 
 
 and wrong to his Master done? 
 
 To what grim and dreadful idol had he lent 
 
 the holiest name ? 
 Did his own heart, loving and human, the 
 
 God of his worship shame ? 
 
 And lo! from the bloom and greenness, from 
 
 the tender skies above, 
 And the face of little daughter, he read a 
 
 lesson of love. 
 
 No more as the cloudy terror of Sinai s 
 
 mount of law 
 But as Christ in the Syrian lilies the vision 
 
 of God he saw. 
 
 And as when, in the clefts of Horeb, of old 
 
 WHS His presence known, 
 The dread, ineffable glory was infinite ^ood- 
 
 iH-ss alone. 
 
 Thereafter his hearers noted in his praye 
 
 a tenderer strain. 
 Ainl never th> message of hatred burned c 
 
 his lips sixain. 
 
 And the -eotlinii tongue \\-as prayer! u I. an 
 
 the Minded e.\.-s found sU ht, 
 Ami hearts, as flint aforetime, grew soft i 
 
 warmth and li^ht. 
 
 Joint <;. H /iit/icr. 
 
 
THE 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 MOGG MEGONE, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 
 
 LEGENDARY POEMS, VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, AND 
 
 SONGS OF LABOR 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 1885 
 
Copyright, 1884, 
 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 T LOVE the old melodious lays 
 * Which softly melt the ages through, 
 The songs of Spenser s golden days, 
 Arcadian Sidney s silvery phrase, 
 Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. 
 
 Yet, vainly in my quiet hours 
 To breathe their marvellous notes I try ; 
 
 I feel them, as the leaves and flowers 
 
 In silence feel the dewy showers, 
 And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky. 
 
 The rigor of a frozen clime, 
 The harshness of an untaught ear, 
 
 The jarring words of one whose rhyme 
 
 Beat often Labor s hurried time, 
 
 Or Duty s rugged march through storm and strife, are 
 here. 
 
 Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, 
 No rounded art the lack supplies ; 
 
 Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, 
 
 Or softer shades of Nature s face, 
 I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. 
 
 544677 
 
iv PROEM. 
 
 Nor mine the seer-like power to show 
 
 The secrets of the heart and mind ; 
 
 To drop the plummet-line below 
 Our common world of joy and woe, 
 
 A more intense despair of brighter hope to find. 
 
 Yet here at least an earnest sense 
 Of human right and weal is shown ; 
 
 A hate of tyranny intense, 
 
 And hearty in its vehemence, 
 As if my brother s pain and sorrow were my own. 
 
 O Freedom ! if to me belong 
 
 Nor mighty Milton s gift divine, 
 
 Nor MarvelPs wit and graceful song, 
 Still with a love as, deep and strong 
 
 As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine ! 
 
 AMESBURY, \\th mo., 1847. 
 
SO PASSED THE (QUAKERS THROUGH BOSTON TOWN 
 
 From Whit tier s The Tent on the Beach 
 Illustrated by Charles H. and Marcia Oakes Wood bury 
 
THE MISTRESS 
 
 From Charles Dudley Warner s Backlog Studies 
 Illustrated by Edmund H. Garrett 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Part 1 3 
 
 Part II 18 
 
 Part III 35 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK 47 
 
 I. The Merrimack 5 2 
 
 II. TheBashaba 54 
 
 III. The Daughter 57 
 
 IV. The Wedding 61 
 
 V. The New Home 64 
 
 VI. At Pennacook 67 
 
 VII. The Departure 7 o 
 
 VIII. Song of Indian Women 71 
 
 LEGENDARY. 
 
 The Merrimack . t 75 
 
 The Norsemen . 78 
 
 Cassandra Southwick . 82 
 
 Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 91 
 
 St. John 95 
 
 Pentucket 100 
 
 The Familist s Hymn 103 
 
 The Fountain 106 
 
 The Exiles no 
 
 The New Wife and the Old 118 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Toussaint 1 Ouverture . . 125 
 
 ^The Slave-Ships 133 
 
v i CONTENTS. 
 
 Stanzas. Our Countrymen in Chains 137 
 
 The Yankee Girl 141 
 
 . To W. L. G - . . .143 
 
 Song of the Free 144 
 
 V^he Hunters of Men 146 
 
 Clerical Oppressors . 148 
 
 \/The Christian Slave . . . . . . . . .150 
 
 Stanzas for the Times 152 
 
 Lines, written on reading the Message of Governor Ritner, of 
 
 Pennsylvania, 1836 155 
 
 The Pastoral Letter 158 
 
 Lines, written for the meeting of the Antislavery Society, at 
 
 Chatham Street Chapel, N. Y., 1834 162 
 
 Lines, written for the Celebration of the Third Anniversary of 
 
 British Emancipation, 1837 164 
 
 Lines, written for the Anniversary Celebration of the First of 
 
 August, at Milton, 1846 ........ 165 
 
 \XThe Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters sold 
 
 into Southern Bondage ......... 167 
 
 The Moral Warfare 169 
 
 The World s Convention of the Friends of Emancipation, held 
 
 in London in 1840 170 
 
 New Hampshire 178 
 
 The New Year; addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania 
 
 Freeman 179 
 
 Massachusetts to Virginia 184 
 
 The Relic 190 
 
 The Branded Hand 193 
 
 Texas 196 
 
 To Faneuil Hall 200 
 
 To Massachusetts 201 
 
 The Pine-Tree 203 
 
 Lines, suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington in the 
 
 i2th month of 1845 205 
 
 Lines, from a Letter to a young Clerical Friend . . . 210 
 
 Yorktown 212 
 
 Lines, written in the Book of a Friend 214 
 
 Paean 220 
 
 To the Memory of Thomas Shipley 222 
 
 To a Southern Statesman 225 
 
 Lines, on the Adoption of Pinckney s Resolutions . . 226 
 
 The Curse of the Charter-Breakers 229 
 
 The Slaves of Martinique 233 
 
 The Crisis 238 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The Knight of St. John , 245 
 
 The Holy Land 248 
 
 Palestine 249 
 
 Ezekiel , 252 
 
 The Wife of Manoah to her Husband 256 
 
 The Cities of the Plain 260 
 
 The Crucifixion 261 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem 2 6 3 
 
 Hymns 266 
 
 The Female Martyr 27 , 
 
 The Frost Spirit 274 
 
 The Vaudois Teacher 2 -j$ 
 
 The Call of the Christian 277 
 
 My Soul and I 2jy 
 
 To a Friend, on her Return from Europe 286 
 
 The Angel of Patience 289 
 
 Follen 290 
 
 To the Reformers of England 294 
 
 The Quaker of the Olden Time 296 
 
 The Reformer 297 
 
 The Prisoner for Debt 3* 
 
 Lines, written on reading Pamphlets published by Clergymen 
 
 against the Abolition of the Gallows 303 
 
 The Human Sacrifice 37 
 
 Randolph of Roanoke 3 1 3 
 
 Democracy 3 r 7 
 
 ToRonge 32O 
 
 ChalklevHall 3" 
 
 To J. P 324 
 
 The Cypress-Tree o f Ceylon 3 2 4 
 
 A Dream of Summer 3 2 7 
 
 To 328 
 
 Leggett s Monument 334 
 
 SONGS OF LABOR, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Dedication 337 
 
 The Ship-Builders 339 
 
 The Shoemakers 34 1 
 
 The Drovers 344 
 
 The Fishermen 343 
 
 TheHuskers 35 
 
 The Corn-Song 354 
 
 The Lumbermen . ...... 35" 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 1835- 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 [The story of MOGG MEGONE has been considered by the author only 
 as a framework for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its 
 early inhabitants. In portraying the Indian character he has followed, 
 as closely as his story would admit, the rough but natural delineations 
 of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix, and Roger Williams ; and in so doing 
 he has necessarily discarded much of the romance which poets and 
 novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red-man.] 
 
 PART I. 
 
 "\ 1( 7HO stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, 
 * * Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, 
 
 Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, 
 Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone ? x 
 Close to the verge of the rock is he, 
 
 While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, 
 Hurrying down to its grave, the sea, 
 
 And slow through the rock its pathway hewing I 
 Far down, through the mist of the falling river, 
 Which rises up like an incense ever, 
 The splintered points of the crags ^re seen, 
 With water howling and vexed between, 
 While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath 
 Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! 
 
 But Mogg Megone never trembled yet 
 Wherever his eye or his foot was set 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 He is watchful : each form in the moonlight dim, 
 
 Of rock or of tree, is seen of him : 
 
 He listens ; each sound from afar is caught, 
 
 The faintest shiver of leaf and limb : 
 
 But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, 
 
 Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, 
 
 And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. 
 
 The moonlight through the open bough 
 
 Of the gnarled beech, whose naked root 
 
 Coils like a serpent at his foot, 
 Falls, checkered, on the Indian s brow. 
 His head is bare, save only where 
 Waves in the wind one lock of hair, 
 
 Reserved for him, whoe er he be, 
 More mighty than Megone in strife, 
 
 When, breast to breast and knee to knee, 
 Above the fallen warrior s life 
 Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife. 
 
 Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun, 
 And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on : 
 His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid, 
 And magic words on its polished blade, 
 T was the gift of Castine 2 to Mogg Megone, 
 For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn : 
 His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, 
 
 And Modocawando s wives had strung 
 The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine 
 On the polished breech, and broad bright line 
 
 Of beaded wampum around it hung. 
 
 What seeks Megone ? His foes are near, 
 Grey Jocelyn s 3 eye is never sleeping, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 5 
 
 And the garrison lights are burning clear, 
 Where Phillips * men their watch are keeping. 
 
 Let him hie him away through the dank river fog, 
 Never rustling the boughs nor displacing the rocks, 
 
 For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg 
 Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. 
 
 He starts, there s a rustle among the leaves : 
 
 Another, the click of his gun is heard ! 
 A footstep is it the step of Cleaves, 
 
 With Indian blood on his English sword ? 
 Steals Harmon 5 down from the sands of York, 
 With hand of iron and foot of cork ? 
 Has Scamman, versed in Indian wile, 
 For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ? 6 
 Hark ! at that whistle, soft and low, 
 
 How lights the eye of Mogg Megone ! 
 A smile gleams o er his dusky brow, 
 
 " Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython ! " 
 
 Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, 
 And quick, keen glances to and fro, 
 
 The hunted outlaw, Bonython ! 7 
 A low, lean, swarthy man is he, 
 With blanket-garb and buskined knee, 
 
 And naught of English fashion on ; 
 For he hates the race from whence he sprung, 
 And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. 
 
 " Hush, let the Sachem s voice be weak ; 
 The water-rat shall hear him speak, 
 The owl shall whoop in the white man s ear, 
 That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here!" 
 He pauses, dark, over cheek and brow, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 A flush, as of shame, is stealing now : 
 
 " Sachem !" he says, "let me have the land, 
 
 Which stretches away upon either hand, 
 
 As far about as my feet can stray 
 
 In the half of a gentle summer s day, 
 
 From the leaping brook 8 to the Saco river, 
 And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me, 
 Shall sit in the Sachem s wigwam, and be 
 
 The wife of Mogg Megone forever." 
 
 There s a sudden light in the Indian s glance, 
 A moment s trace of powerful feeling, 
 
 Of love or triumph, or both perchance, 
 Over his proud, calm features stealing. 
 
 " The words of my father are very good ; 
 
 He shall have the land, and water, and wood ; 
 
 And he who harms the Sagamore John 
 
 Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone ; 
 
 But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast, 
 
 And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." 
 
 " But, father ! " and the Indian s hand 
 
 Falls gently on the white man s arm, 
 And with a smile as shrewdly bland 
 
 As the deep voice is slow and calm, 
 " Where is my father s singing-bird, 
 
 The sunny eye, and sunset hair ? 
 I know I have my father s word. 
 
 And that his word is good and fair ; 
 
 But will my father tell me where 
 Megone shall go and look for his bride ? 
 For he sees her not by her father s side." 
 
 The dark, stern eye of Bonython 
 
 Flashes over the features of Mogg Megone, 
 
MOGG ME GONE. 7 
 
 In one of those glances which search within ; 
 But the stolid calm of the Indian alone 
 
 Remains where the trace of emotion has been. 
 " Does the Sachem doubt ? Let him go with me, 
 And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see." 
 Cautious and slow, with pauses oft, 
 And watchful eyes and whispers soft, 
 The twain are stealing through the wood, 
 Leaving the downward-rushing flood, 
 Whose deep and solemn roar behind 
 Grows fainter on the evening wind. 
 
 Hark ! is that the angry howl 
 
 Of the wolf the hills among ? 
 Or the hooting of the owl, 
 
 On his leafy cradle swung? 
 Quickly glancing, to and fro, 
 Listening to each sound they go 
 Round the columns of the pine, 
 
 Indistinct, in shadow, seeming 
 Like some old and pillared shrine ; 
 With the soft and white moonshine, 
 Round the foliage-tracery shed 
 Of each column s branching head, 
 
 For its lamps of worship gleaming ! 
 And the sounds awakened there, 
 
 In the pine-leaves fine and small, 
 
 Soft and sweetly musical, 
 By the fingers of the air, 
 For the anthem s dying fall 
 Lingering round some temple s wall ! 
 Niche and cornice round and round 
 Wailing like the ghost of sound ! 
 Is not Nature s worship thus, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Ceaseless ever, going on ? 
 Hath it not a voice for us 
 
 In the thunder, or the tone 
 Of the leaf-harp faint and small, 
 
 Speaking to the unsealed ear 
 
 Words of blended love and, fear, 
 Of the mighty Soul of all ? 
 
 Naught had the twain of thoughts like these 
 As they wound along through the crowded trees, 
 Where never had rung the axeman s stroke 
 On the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked oak ; 
 Climbing the dead tree s mossy log, 
 Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine, 
 Turning aside the wild grape-vine, 
 And lightly crossing the quaking bog 
 Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog, 
 And out of whose pools the ghostly fog 
 
 Creeps into the chill moonshine ! 
 Yet, even that Indian s ear had heard 
 The preaching of the Holy Word : 
 Sanchekantacket s isle of sand 
 Was once his father s hunting land, 
 Where zealous Hiacoomes 9 stood, 
 The wild apostle of the wood, 
 Shook from his soul the fear of harm, 
 And trampled on the Powwaw s charm ; 
 Until the wizard s curses hung 
 Suspended on his palsying tongue, 
 And the fierce warrior, grim and tall, 
 Trembled before the forest Paul ! 
 
 A cottage hidden in the wood, 
 
 Red through its seams a light is glowing, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 9 
 
 On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, 
 
 A narrow lustre throwing. 
 " Who s there ? " a clear, firm voice demands ; 
 
 " Hold, Ruth, t is I, the Sagamore ! " 
 Quick, at the summons, hasty hands 
 
 Unclose the bolted door ; 
 And on the outlaw s daughter shine 
 The flashes of the kindled pine. 
 
 Tall and erect the maiden stands, 
 
 Like some young priestess of the wood, 
 
 The freeborn child of Solitude, 
 
 And bearing still the wild and rude, 
 Yet noble trace of Nature s hands. 
 Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain 
 More from the sunshine than the rain ; 
 Yet, where her long fair hair is parting, 
 A pure white brow into light is starting ; 
 And, where the folds of her blanket sever, 
 Are a neck and bosom as white as ever 
 The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river. 
 But in the convulsive quiver and grip 
 Of the muscles around her bloodless lip, 
 
 There is something painful and sad to see ; 
 And her eye has a glance more sternly wild 
 Than even that of a forest child 
 
 In its fearless and untamed freedom should be, 
 Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen 
 So queenly a form and so noble a mien, 
 
 As freely and smiling she welcomes them there, 
 Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone : 
 
 " Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare ? 
 
 And, Sachem, say, does Scamman wear, 
 In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own ? " 
 
I0 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Hurried and light is the maiden s tone ; 
 
 But a fearful meaning lurks within 
 Her glance, as it questions the eye of Meg one, - 
 
 An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! 
 The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there 
 Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair ! 
 With hand upraised, with quick-drawn breath^ 
 She meets that ghastly sign of death. 
 In one long, glassy, spectral stare 
 The enlarging eye is fastened there, 
 As if that mesh of pale brown hair 
 
 Had power to change at sight alone, 
 Even as the fearful locks which wound 
 Medusa s fatal forehead round, 
 
 The gazer into stone. 
 With such a look Herodias read 
 The features of the bleeding head, 
 So looked the mad Moor on his dead, 
 Or the young Cenci as she stood, 
 O er-dabbled with a father s blood ! 
 
 Look \ feeling melts that frozen glance, 
 It moves that marble countenance, 
 As if at once within her strove 
 Pity with shame, and hate with love. 
 The Past recalls its joy and pain, 
 Old memories rise before her brain, 
 The lips which love s embraces met, 
 The hand her tears of parting wet, 
 The voice whose pleading tones beguiled 
 The pleased ear of the forest-child, 
 And tears she may no more repress 
 Reveal her lingering tenderness. 
 
MOGG MEGONE. Ir 
 
 O, woman wronged can cherish hate 
 
 More deep and dark than manhood may ; 
 But when the mockery of Fate 
 
 Hath left Revenge its chosen way, 
 And the fell curse, which years have nursed, 
 Full on the spoiler s head hath burst, 
 When all her wrong, and shame, and pain 
 Burns fiercely on his heart and brain, 
 Still lingers something of the spell 
 
 Which bound her to the traitor s bosom, 
 Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell, 
 
 Some flowers of old affection blossom. 
 
 John Bonython s eyebrows together are drawn 
 With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn, 
 He hoarsely whispers, " Ruth, beware ! 
 
 Is this the time to be playing the fool, 
 Crying over a paltry lock of hair, 
 
 Like a love-sick girl at school ? 
 Curse on it ! an Indian can see and hear : 
 Away, and prepare our evening cheer ! " 
 
 How keenly the Indian is watching now 
 Her tearful eye and her varying brow, 
 
 With a serpent eye, which kindles and burns, 
 
 Like a fiery star in the upper air : 
 On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns : 
 
 " Has my old white father a scalp to spare ? 
 
 For his young one loves the pale brown hair 
 Of the scalp of an English dog far more 
 Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor : 
 
 Go, Mogg is wise . he will keep his land, 
 
 And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand, 
 Shall miss his scalp where it grew before." 
 
MOGG MEG 
 
 The moment s gust of grief is gone. 
 
 The Up is clenched, the tears are still, - 
 God pity thee, Ruth Bonython ! 
 With what a strength of wul * 
 Are nature s feelings in thy breast, 
 As with an iron hand, repressed ! 
 And how, upon that nameless woe, 
 Quick as the puke can come and go, 
 While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet 
 The bosom heaves, the eye is wet, 
 Has thy dark spirit power to stay 
 The heart s wfld current on its way ? 
 
 And whence that baleful strength of guile, 
 Which over that still working brow 
 And tearful eye and cheek, can throw 
 The mockery of a smile ? 
 
 -med by her father s blackening frown, 
 
 
 Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again 
 The savage murderer s sullen gate. 
 And scarcely look or tone betrays 
 How the heart strives beneath its chain. 
 
 * Is the Sachem angry, angry with Ruth, 
 Because she cries with an ache in her tooth*"* 
 Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry, 
 And look about with a woman s 
 
 Roth win sit in the Sachem s door 
 And braid the mats for his wigwam floor, 
 And broQ his fish and tender fawn, 
 And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, 
 For she loves the brave and the wise, and none 
 Are braver and wiser than Mogg Megone !* 
 
MOCG MEGONE. 
 
 The Indian s brow is clear once more : 
 
 With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, 
 He sits upon the wigwam floor, 
 
 And watches Ruth go by, 
 Intent upon her household care ; 
 
 And ever and anon, the while, 
 Or on the maiden, or her fare, 
 Which smokes in grateful promise there, 
 
 Bestows his quiet smile. 
 
 Ah, Mogg Megone ! what dreams are thine, 
 But those which love s own fancies dress, 
 The sum of Indian happiness ! 
 A wigwam, where the warm sunshine 
 Looks in among the groves of pine, 
 A stream, where, round thy light canoe, 
 The trout and salmon dart in view, 
 And the fair girl, before thee now, 
 Spreading thy mat with hand of snow, 
 Or plying, in the dews of morn, 
 Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn, 
 Or offering up, at eve, to thee, 
 Thy birchen dish of hominy ! 
 
 From the rude board of Bonython, 
 
 Venison and succotash have gone, 
 
 For long these dwellers of the wood 
 
 Have felt the gnawing want of food. 
 
 But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer, 
 
 \Vith head averted, yet ready ear, 
 
 She stands by the side of her austere sire, 
 
 Feeding, at times, the unequal fire 
 
 With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, 
 
 Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls 
 
14 MOGG ME GONE. 
 
 On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, 
 And over its inmates three. 
 
 From Sagamore Bonython s hunting flask 
 
 The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone : 
 " Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? 
 
 Will he make his mark, that it may be known, 
 On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land, 
 From the Sachem s own, to his father s hand ? " 
 The fire-water shines in the Indian s eyes, 
 
 As he rises, the white man s bidding to do : 
 " Wuttamuttata weekan ! u Mogg is wise, 
 
 For the water he drinks is strong and new, 
 Mogg s heart is great ! will he shut his hand, 
 When his father asks for a little land ? " 
 With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn 
 
 On the parchment the shape of a hunter s bow, 
 " Boon water, boon water, Sagamore John ! 
 
 Wuttamuttata, weekan ! our hearts will grow ! " 
 He drinks yet deeper, he mutters low, 
 He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, 
 His head falls down on his naked breast, 
 He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. 
 
 " Humph drunk as a beast ! " and Bonython s brow 
 
 Is darker than ever with evil thought 
 u The fool has signed his warrant ; but how 
 
 And when shall the deed be wrought ? 
 Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is there, 
 To fix thy gaze in that empty air? 
 Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought that tear, 
 Which shames thyself and our purpose here, 
 Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, 
 Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 15 
 
 And whose beastly soul is in Satan s keeping, 
 This this !" he dashes his hand upon 
 The rattling stock of his loaded gun, 
 
 " Should send thee with him to do thy weeping 1" 
 
 " Father ! " the eye of Bonython 
 Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, 
 Hollow and deep, as it were spoken 
 
 By the unmoving tongue of death, 
 Or from some statue s lips had broken, 
 
 A sound without a breath ! 
 " Father ! my life I value less 
 Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; 
 And how it ends it matters not, 
 By heart-break or by rifle-shot ; 
 But spare awhile the scoff and threat, 
 Our business is not finished yet." 
 
 " True, true, my girl, I only meant 
 To draw up again the bow unbent. 
 Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought 
 To frighten off thy gloomy thought ; 
 Come, let s be friends ! " He seeks to clasp 
 His daughter s cold, damp hand in his. 
 Ruth startles from her father s grasp, 
 As if each nerve and muscle felt, 
 Instinctively, the touch of .guilt, 
 Through all their subtle sympathies. 
 
 He points her to the sleeping Mogg : 
 " What shall be done with yonder dog ? 
 Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine, 
 The deed is signed and the land is mine ; 
 And this drunken fool is of use no more, 
 
1 6 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 
 T were Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth, 
 Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor, 
 If not for thine, at least for his sake, 
 Rather than let the poor dog awake 
 To drain my flask, and claim as his bride 
 Such a forest devil to run by his side, 
 Such a Wetuomanit 12 as thou wouldst make . " 
 
 He laughs at his jest. Hush what is there ? 
 The sleeping Indian is striving to rise, 
 With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes ! 
 " Wagh ! Mogg will have the pale-face s hair, 
 
 For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help 
 The hair to pull, and the skin to peel, 
 Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel, 
 
 The great Captain Scamman must lose his scalp ! 
 And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg." 
 His eyes are fixed, but his lips draw in, 
 With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin, 
 And he sinks again, like a senseless log. 
 
 Ruth does not speak, she does not stir ; 
 
 But she gazes down on the murderer, 
 
 Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell 
 
 Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. 
 
 She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, 
 
 And the dark fingers clenching the bear-skin bed ! 
 
 What thoughts of horror and madness whirl 
 
 Through the burning brain of that fallen girl ! 
 
 John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, 
 Its muzzle is close to the Indian s ear, 
 
 But he drops it again. " Some one may be nigh, 
 And I would not that even the wolves should hear/ 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 17 
 
 He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, 
 Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; 
 Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian s side, 
 From his throat he opens the blanket wide ; 
 And twice or thrice he feebly essays 
 A trembling hand with the knife to raise. 
 
 " I cannot," he mutters, " did he not save 
 
 My life from a cold and wintry grave, 
 
 When the storm carfie down from Agioochook, 
 
 And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook, 
 
 And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow, 
 
 Till my knees grew weak and I could not go, 
 
 And I felt the cold to my vitals creep, 
 
 And my heart s blood stiffen, and pulses sleep ! 
 
 I cannot strike him Ruth Bonython ! 
 
 In the Devil s name, tell me - what s to be done ? " 
 
 O, when the soul, once pure and high, 
 Is stricken down from Virtue s sky, 
 As, with the downcast star of morn, 
 Some gems of light are with it drawn, 
 And, through its night of darkness, play 
 Some tokens of its primal day, 
 Some lofty feelings linger still, 
 
 The strength to dare, the nerve to meet 
 
 Whatever threatens with defeat 
 Its all-indomitable will ! 
 But lacks the mean of mind and heart, 
 
 Though eager for the gains of crime, 
 
 Oft, at his chosen place and time, 
 The strength to bear his evil part ; 
 And, shielded by his very Vice, 
 Escapes from Crime by Cowardice. 
 
MO GO MEGONE. 
 
 Ruth starts erect, with bloodshot eye, 
 And lips drawn tight across her teeth, 
 Showing their locked embrace beneath, 
 In the red fire-light : " Mogg must die ! 
 Give me the knife ! " The outlaw turns, 
 Shuddering in heart and limb, away, 
 But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, 
 
 And he sees on the wall strange shadows play. 
 A lifted arm, a tremulous blade, 
 Are dimly pictured in light and shade, 
 
 Plunging down in the darkness. Hark, that cry 
 Again and again he sees it fall, 
 That shadowy arm down the lighted wall ! 
 
 He hears quick footsteps a shape flits by 
 The door on its rusted hinges creaks : 
 " Ruth daughter Ruth ! " the outlaw shrieks. 
 But no sound comes back, he is standing alone 
 By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 T IS morning over Norridgewock, 
 On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. 
 Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred 
 At intervals by breeze and bird, 
 And wearing all the hues which glow 
 In heaven s own pure and perfect bow, 
 
 That glorious picture of the air, 
 Which summer s light-robed angel forms 
 On the dark ground of fading storms, 
 
 With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 And, stretching out, on either hand, 
 
 O er all that wide and unshorn land, 
 
 Till, weary of its gorgeousness, 
 
 The aching and the dazzled eye 
 
 Rests gladdened, on the calm blue sky, 
 
 Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! 
 The oak, upon the windy hill, 
 
 Its dark green burthen upward heaves 
 The hemlock broods above its rill, 
 Its cone-like foliage darker still, 
 
 Against the birch s graceful stem, 
 And the rough walnut-bough receives 
 The sun upon its crowded leaves, 
 
 Each colored like a topaz gem ; 
 
 And the tall maple wears with them 
 The coronal which autumn gives, 
 
 The brief, bright sign of ruin near, 
 
 The hectic of a dying year ! 
 
 The hermit priest, who lingers now 
 On the Bald Mountain s shrubless brow, 
 The gray and thunder-smitten pile 
 Which marks afar the Desert Isle, 13 
 
 While gazing on the scene below, 
 May half forget the dreams of home, 
 
 That nightly with his slumbers come, 
 The tranquil skies of sunny France, 
 The peasant s harvest song and dance, 
 The vines around the hillsides wreathing 
 The soft airs midst their clusters breathing, 
 The wings which dipped, the stars which shone 
 Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! 
 And round the Abbey s shadowed wall, 
 At morning spring and even-fall, 
 
20 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Sweet voices in the still air singing, 
 The chant of many a holy hymn, 
 
 The solemn bell of vespers ringing, - 
 And hallowed torch-light falling dim 
 
 On pictured saint and seraphim ! 
 For here beneath him lies unrolled, 
 Bathed deep in morning s flood of gold, 
 A vision gorgeous as the dream 
 Of the beatified may seem, 
 
 When, as his Church s legends say, 
 Borne upward in ecstatic bliss, 
 
 The rapt enthusiast soars away 
 Unto a brighter world than this : 
 A mortal s glimpse beyond the pale, 
 A moment s lifting of the veil ! 
 
 Far eastward o er the lovely bay, 
 Penobscot s clustered wigwams lay ; 
 And gently from that Indian town 
 The verdant hillside slopes adown, 
 To where the sparkling waters play 
 
 Upon the yellow sands below ; 
 And shooting round the winding shores 
 
 Of narrow capes, and isles which lie 
 
 Slumbering to ocean s lullaby, 
 With birchen boat and glancing oars, 
 
 The red men to their fishing go ; 
 While from their planting ground is borne 
 The treasure of the golden corn, 
 By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glow 
 Wild through the locks which o er them flow. 
 The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, 
 Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, 
 Watching the huskers, with a smile 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 2 i 
 
 For each full ear which swells the pile; 
 And the old chief, who nevermore 
 May bend the bow or pull the oar, 
 Smokes gravely in his wigwam door, 
 Or slowly shapes, with axe of stone, 
 The arrow-head from flint and bone. 
 
 Beneath the westward turning eye 
 A thousand wooded islands lie, 
 Gems of the waters ! with each hue 
 Of brightness set in ocean s blue. 
 Each bears aloft its tuft of trees 
 
 Touched by the pencil of the frost, 
 And, with the motion of each breeze, 
 
 A moment seen, a moment lost, 
 
 Changing and blent, confused and tossed. 
 
 The brighter with the darker crossed, 
 Their thousand tints of beauty glow 
 Down in the restless waves below, 
 
 And tremble in the sunny skies, 
 As if, from waving bough to bough, 
 
 Flitted the birds of paradise. 
 There sleep Placentia s group, and there 
 Pere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; 
 And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff, 
 
 On which the Father s hut is seen, 
 The Indian stays his rocking skiff, 
 
 And peers the hemlock-boughs between, 
 Half trembling, as he seeks to look 
 Upon the Jesuit s Cross and Book. 1 * 
 There, gloomily against the sky 
 The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; 
 And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare, 
 Lifts its gray turrets in the air, 
 
22 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Seen from afar, like some stronghold 
 Built by the ocean kings of old ; 
 And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin ? 
 Swells in the north vast Katahdin : 
 And, wandering from its marshy feet, 
 The broad Penobscot comes to meet 
 
 And mingle with his own bright bay. 
 Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods, 
 Arched over by the ancient woods, 
 Which Time, in those dim solitudes, 
 
 Wielding the dull axe of Decay, 
 
 Alone hath ever shorn away. 
 
 Not thus, within the woods which hide 
 The beauty of thy azure tide, 
 
 And with their falling timbers block 
 Thy broken currents, Kennebec ! 
 Gazes the white man on the wreck 
 
 Of the down-trodden Norridgewock, 
 In one lone village hemmed at length, 
 In battle shorn of half their strength, 
 Turned, like the panther in his lair, 
 
 With his fast-flowing life-blood wet, 
 For one last struggle of despair. 
 
 Wounded and faint, but tameless yet ! 
 Unreaped, upon the planting lands, 
 The scant, neglected harvest stands : 
 
 No shout is there, no dance, no song 
 The aspect of the very child 
 Scowls with a meaning sad and wild 
 
 Of bitterness and wrong. 
 The almost infant Norridgewock 
 Essays to lift the tomahawk ; 
 And plucks his father s knife away, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 23 
 
 To mimic, in his frightful play, 
 
 The scalping of an English foe : 
 Wreathes on his lip a horrid smile, 
 Burns, like a snake s, his small eye, while 
 
 Some bough or sapling meets his blow. 
 The fisher, as he drops his line, 
 Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver 
 Along the margin of the river, 
 Looks up and down the rippling tide, 
 And grasps the firelock at his side. 
 For Bomazeen 15 from Tacconock 
 Has sent his runners to Norridgewock, 
 With tidings that Moulton and Harmon of York 
 
 Far up the river have come : 
 
 They have left their boats, they have entered the wood, 
 And filled the depths of the solitude 
 
 With the sound of the ranger s drum. 
 
 On the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet 
 The flowing river, and bathe its feet, 
 The bare-washed rock, and the drooping grass, 
 And the creeping vine, as the waters pass, 
 A rude and unshapely chapel stands, 
 Built up in that wild by unskilled hands : 
 Yet the traveller knows it a place of prayer, 
 For the holy sign of the cross is there : 
 And should he chance at that place to be, 
 
 Of a Sabbath morn, or some hallowed day, 
 When prayers are made and masses are said, 
 Some for the living and some for the dead, 
 Well might that traveller start to see 
 
 The tall dark forms, that take their way 
 From the birch canoe, on the river-shore, 
 And the forest paths, to that chapel door ; 
 
MOCG ME GONE. 
 
 And marvel to mark the naked knees 
 And the dusky foreheads bending there, 
 
 While, in coarse white vesture, over these 
 In blessing or in prayer, 
 
 Stretching abroad his thin pale hands, 
 
 Like a shrouded ghost, the Jesuit 16 stands. 
 
 Two forms are now in that chapel dim, 
 The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale, 
 Anxiously heeding some fearful tale, 
 Which a stranger is telling him. 
 That stranger s garb is soiled and torn, 
 And wet with dew and loosely worn ; 
 Her fair neglected hair falls down 
 O er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown 5 
 Yet still, in that disordered face, 
 The Jesuit s cautious eye can trace 
 Those elements of former grace 
 Which, half effaced, seem scarcely less, 
 Even now, than perfect loveliness. 
 
 With drooping head, and voice so low 
 That scarce it meets the Jesuit s ears, 
 
 While through her claspe d fingers flow, 
 
 From the heart s fountain, hot and slow, 
 Her penitential tears, 
 
 She tells the story of the woe 
 And evil of her years. 
 
 " O father, bear with me ; my heart 
 Is sick and death-like, and my brain 
 Seems girdled with a fiery chain, 
 
 Whose scorching links will never part, 
 And never cool again. 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Bear with me while I speak, but turn 
 Away that gentle eye, the while, 
 
 The fires of guilt more fiercely burn 
 Beneath its holy smile ; 
 
 For half I fancy I can see 
 
 My mother s sainted look in thee. 
 
 " My dear lost mother ! sad and pale, 
 
 Mournfully sinking day by day, 
 And with a hold on life as frail 
 
 As frosted leaves, that, thin and gray, 
 Hang feebly on their parent spray, 
 And tremble in the gale ; 
 Yet watching o er my childishness 
 With patient fondness, not the less 
 For all the agony which kept 
 Her blue eye wakeful, while I slept ; 
 And checking every tear and groan 
 That haply might have waked my own, 
 And bearing still, without offence, 
 My idle words, and petulance ; 
 
 Reproving with a tear, and, while 
 The tooth of pain was keenly preying 
 Upon her very heart, repaying 
 My brief repentance with a smile. 
 
 " O, in her meek, forgiving eye 
 
 There was a brightness not of mirth, 
 
 A light whose clear intensity 
 Was borrowed not of earth. 
 
 Along her cheek a deepening red 
 
 Told where the feverish hectic fed ; 
 And yet, each fatal token gave 
 
 To the mild beauty of her face 
 
26 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 A newer and a dearer grace, 
 
 Unwarning of the grave. 
 T was like the hue which Autumn gives 
 To yonder changed and dying leaves, 
 
 Breathed over by his frosty breath ; 
 Scarce can the gazer feel that this 
 Is but the spoiler s treacherous kiss, 
 
 The mocking-smile of Death ! 
 
 " Sweet were the tales she used to tell 
 
 When summer s eve was dear to us, 
 And, fading from the darkening dell, 
 The glory of the sunset fell 
 
 On wooded Agamenticus, 
 When, sitting by our cottage wall, 
 The murmur of the Saco s fall, 
 
 And the south-wind s expiring sighs 
 Came, softly blending, on my ear, 
 With the low tones I loved to hear : 
 
 Tales of the pure, the good, the wise, 
 The holy men and maids of old, 
 In the all-sacred pages told ; 
 Of Rachel, stooped at Haran s fountains, 
 
 Amid her father s thirsty flock, 
 Beautiful to her kinsman seeming 
 As the bright angels of his dreaming, 
 
 On Padan-aran s holy rock ; 
 Of gentle Ruth, and her who kept 
 
 Her awful vigil on the mountains, 
 By Israel s virgin daughters wept ; 
 Of Miriam, with her maidens, singing 
 
 The song for grateful Israel meet, 
 While every crimson wave was bringing 
 
 The spoils of Egypt at her feet ; 
 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Of her, Samaria s humble daughter, 
 Who paused to hear, beside her well, 
 Lessons of love and truth, which fell 
 
 Softly as Shiloh s flowing water ; 
 And saw, beneath his pilgrim guise, 
 
 The Promised One, so long foretold 
 
 By holy seer and bard of old, 
 
 Revealed before her wondering eyes 1 
 
 " Slowly she faded. Day by day 
 Her step grew weaker in our hall, 
 And fainter, at each even-fall, 
 
 Her sad voice died away. 
 Yet on her thin, pale lip, the while, 
 Sat Resignation s holy smile : 
 And even my father checked his tread, 
 And hushed his voice, beside her bed : 
 Beneath the calm and sad rebuke 
 Of her meek eye s imploring look, 
 The scowl of hate his brow forsook, 
 
 And in his stern and gloomy eye, 
 At times, a few unwonted tears 
 Wet the dark lashes, which for years 
 
 Hatred and pride had kept so dry. 
 
 " Calm as a child to slumber soothed, 
 As if an angel s hand had smoothed 
 
 The still, white features into rest, 
 Silent and cold, without a breath 
 
 To stir the drapery on her breast, 
 Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang, 
 The horror of the mortal pang, 
 The suffering look her brow had worn, 
 The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, - 
 
 She slept at last in death 1 
 
 27 
 
28 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 " O, tell me, father, can the dead 
 Walk on the earth, and look on us, 
 
 And lay upon the living s head 
 Their blessing or their curse ? 
 
 For, O, last night she stood by me, 
 
 As I lay beneath the woodland tree ! " 
 
 The Jesuit crosses himself in awe, 
 " Jesu ! what was it my daughter saw ? " 
 
 " She came to me last night. 
 
 The dried leaves did not feel her tread ; 
 She stood by me in the wan moonlight, 
 
 In the white robes of the dead 1 
 Pale, and very mournfully 
 She bent her light form over me. 
 I heard no sound, I felt no breath 
 Breathe o er me from that face of death : 
 Its blue eyes rested on my own, 
 Rayless and cold as eyes of stone ; 
 Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze, 
 Something, which spoke of early days, 
 A sadness in their quiet glare, 
 As if love s smile were frozen there, 
 Came o er me with an icy thrill ; 
 O God ! I feel its presence still ! " 
 
 The Jesuit makes the holy sign, 
 
 " How passed the vision, daughter mine ? 
 
 " All dimly in the wan moonshine, 
 As a wreath of mist will twist and twine, 
 And scatter, and melt into the light, 
 So scattering, melting on my sight, 
 
MOGG MEGONB. 
 
 The pale, cold vision passed ; 
 But those sad eyes were fixed on mine 
 Mournfully to the last." 
 
 " God help thee, daughter, tell me why 
 That spirit passed before thine eye ! " 
 
 " Father, I know not, save it be 
 
 That deeds of mine have summoned her 
 From the unbreathing sepulchre, 
 To leave her last rebuke with me. 
 Ah, woe for me ! my mother died 
 Just at the moment when I stood 
 Close on the verge of womanhood, 
 A child in everything beside ; 
 And when my wild heart needed most 
 Her gentle counsels, they were lost. 
 
 " My father lived a stormy life, 
 Of frequent change and daily strife ; 
 And, God forgive him ! left his child 
 To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; 
 To love the red man s dwelling-place, 
 
 The birch boat on his shaded floods, 
 The wild excitement of the chase 
 
 Sweeping the ancient woods, 
 The camp-fire, blazing on the shore 
 
 Of the still lakes, the clear stream, where 
 
 The idle fisher sets his wear, 
 Or angles in the shade, far more 
 
 Than that restraining awe I felt 
 Beneath my gentle mother s care, 
 
 When nightly at her knee I knelt, 
 With childhood s simple prayer. 
 
 29 
 
30 MO G G MEGONE. 
 
 " There came a change. The wild, glad mood 
 
 Of unchecked freedom passed. 
 Amid the ancient solitude 
 Of unshorn grass and waving wood, 
 
 And waters glancing bright and fast, 
 A softened voice was in my ear, 
 Sweet as those lulling sounds and fine 
 The hunter lifts his head to hear, 
 Now far and faint, now full and near 
 
 The murmur of the wind-swept pine. 
 A manly form was ever nigh, 
 A bold, free hunter, with an eye 
 
 Whose dark, keen glance had power to wake 
 Both fear and love, to awe and charm ; 
 
 T was as the wizard rattlesnake, 
 Whose evil glances lure to harm 
 Whose cold and small and glittering eye, 
 And brilliant coil, and changing dye, 
 Draw, step by step, the gazer near, 
 With drooping wing and cry of fear, 
 Yet powerless all to turn away, 
 A conscious, but a willing prey ! 
 
 Fear, doubt, thought, life itself, erelong 
 Merged in one feeling deep and strong. 
 Faded the world which I had known, 
 
 A poor vain shadow, cold and waste ; 
 In the warm present bliss alone 
 
 Seemed I of actual life to taste. 
 Fond longings dimly understood, 
 The glow of passion s quickening blood, 
 And cherished fantasies which press 
 The young lip with a dream s caress, 
 The heart s forecast and prophecy 
 
MOGG MEG ONE. 
 
 Took form and life before my eye, 
 Seen in the glance which met my own, 
 Heard in the soft and pleading tone, 
 Felt in the arms around me cast, 
 And warm heart-pulses beating fast. 
 Ah ! scarcely yet to God above 
 With deeper trust, with stronger love 
 Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent, 
 Or cloistered nun at twilight bent, 
 Than I, before a human shrine, 
 As mortal and as frail as mine, 
 With heart, and soul, and mind, and form, 
 Knelt madly to a fellow-worm. 
 
 " Full soon, upon that dream of sin, 
 An awful light came bursting in. 
 The shrine was cold at which I knelt, 
 
 The idol of that shrine was gone ; 
 A humbled thing of shame and guilt, 
 
 Outcast, and spurned and lone, 
 Wrapt in the shadows of my crime, 
 
 With withering heart and burning brain, 
 
 And tears that fell like fiery rain, 
 I passed a fearful time. 
 
 " There came a voice it checked the tear 
 
 In heart and soul it wrought a change ; 
 My father s voice was in my ear ; 
 
 It whispered of revenge ! 
 A new and fiercer feeling swept 
 
 All lingering tenderness away ; 
 And tiger passions, which had slept 
 
 In childhood s better day, 
 Unknown, unfelt, arose at length 
 In all their own demoniac strength. 
 
3 2 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 " A youthful warrior of the wild, 
 By words deceived, by smiles beguiled, 
 Of crime the cheated instrument, 
 Upon our fatal errands went. 
 
 Through camp and town and wilderness 
 He tracked his victim ; and, at last, 
 Just when the tide of hate had passed, 
 And milder thoughts came warm and fast, 
 Exulting, at my feet he cast 
 
 The bloody token of success. 
 
 " O God ! with what an awful power 
 
 I saw the buried past uprise, 
 And gather, in a single hour, 
 
 Its ghost-like memories ! 
 And then I felt alas ! too late 
 That underneath the mask of hate, 
 That shame and guilt and wrong had thrown 
 O er feelings which they might not own, 
 
 The heart s wild love had known no change ; 
 And still, that deep and hidden love, 
 With its first fondness, wept above 
 
 The victim of its own revenge ! 
 There lay the fearful scalp, and there 
 The blood was on its pale brown hair ! 
 I thought not of the victim s scorn, 
 
 I thought not of his baleful guile, 
 My deadly wrong, my outcast name, 
 The characters of sin and shame 
 On heart and forehead drawn ; 
 
 I only saw that victim s smile, 
 The still, green places where we met. 
 The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; 
 I only felt, I only heard 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 33 
 
 The greeting and the parting word, 
 
 The smib, the embrace, the tone, which made 
 
 An Eden of the forest r;hade. 
 
 " And oh ! with what a loathing eye, 
 
 With what a deadly hate, and deep, 
 I saw that Indian murderer lie 
 
 Before me, in his drunken sleep ! 
 What though for me the deed was done, 
 And words of mine had sped him on ! 
 Yet when he murmured, as he slept, 
 
 The horrors of that deed of blood, 
 The tide of utter madness swept 
 
 O er brain and bosom, like a flood. 
 And, father, with this hand of mine " 
 
 " Ha ! what didst thou ? " the Jesuit cries, 
 Shuddering, a,s smitten with sudden pain, 
 
 And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, 
 With the other he makes the holy sign. 
 " I smote him as I would a worm ; 
 With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm : 
 
 He never woke again ! " 
 
 Woman of sin and blood and shame, 
 Speak, I would know that victim s name." 
 
 " Father," she gasped, " a chieftain, known 
 As Saco s Sachem, MOGG MEGONE ! " 
 
 Pale priest ! What proud and lofty dreams, 
 What keen desires, what cherished schemes, 
 What hopes, that time may not recall, 
 Are darkened by that chieftain s fall ! 
 a* 
 
34 
 
 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Was he not pledged, by cross and vow, 
 
 To lift the hatchet of his sire, 
 And, round his own, the Church s foe, 
 
 To light the avenging fire ? 
 Who now the Tarrantine shall wake, 
 For thine and for the Church s sake ? 
 
 Who summon to the scene 
 Of conquest and unsparing strife, 
 And vengeance dearer than his life, 
 
 The fiery-souled Castine ? " 
 
 Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, 
 His long, thin frame as ague shakes ; 
 
 And loathing hate is in his eye, 
 As from his lips these words of fear 
 Fall hoarsely on the maiden s ear, 
 
 " The soul that sinneth shall surely die ! " 
 
 She stands, as stands the stricken deer, 
 Checked midway in the fearful chase, 
 
 When bursts upon his eye and ear 
 
 The gaunt, gray robber, baying near, 
 Between him and his hiding-place ; 
 
 While still behind, with yell and blow, 
 
 Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. 
 
 " Save me, O holy man ! " her cry 
 Fills all the void, as if a tongue, 
 Unseen, from rib and rafter hung, 
 
 Thrilling with mortal agony ; 
 
 Her hands are clasping the Jesuit s knee, 
 And her eye looks fearfully into his own ; 
 
 " Off, woman of sin ! nay, touch not me 
 With those fingers of blood ; begone ! " 
 
 With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form 
 
 That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm. 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 35 
 
 Ever thus the spirit must, 
 
 Guilty in the sight of Heaven, 
 
 With a keener woe be riven, 
 For its weak and sinful trust 
 In the strength of human dust ; 
 
 And its anguish thrill afresh, 
 For each vain reliance given 
 
 To the failing arm of flesh. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 AH, weary Priest ! with pale hands pressed 
 
 On thy throbbing brow of pain, 
 Baffled in thy life-long quest, 
 
 Overworn with toiling vain, 
 How ill thy troubled musings fit 
 
 The holy quiet of a breast 
 
 With the Dove of Peace at rest, 
 Sweetly brooding over it. 
 Thoughts are thine which have no part 
 With the meek and pure of heart, 
 Undisturbed by outward things, 
 Resting in the heavenly shade, 
 By the overspreading wings 
 
 Of the Blessed Spirit made. 
 Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong 
 Sweep thy heated brain along, 
 Fading hopes, for whose success 
 
 It were sin to breathe a prayer ; 
 Schemes which Heaven may never bless, 
 
 Fears which darken to despair. 
 
3 6 MOGG ME GONE. 
 
 Hoary priest ! thy dream is done 
 Of a hundred red tribes won 
 
 To the pale of Holy Church ; 
 And the heretic o erthrown, 
 And his name no longer known, 
 And thy weary brethren turning, 
 Joyful from their years of mourning, 
 Twixt the altar and the porch. 
 Hark ! what sudden sound is heard 
 
 In the wood and in the sky, 
 Shriller than the scream of bird, 
 
 Than the trumpet s clang more high ! 
 Every wolf-cave of the hills, 
 
 Forest arch and mountain gorge, 
 
 Rock and dell, and river verge, 
 With an answering echo thrills. 
 Well does the Jesuit know that cry, 
 Which summons the Norridgewock to die, 
 And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh, 
 He listens, and hears the rangers come, 
 With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, 
 And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), 
 And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot, 
 And taunt and menace, answered well 
 By the Indians mocking cry and yell, 
 The bark of dogs, the squaw s mad scream, 
 The dash of paddles along the stream, 
 The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves 
 Of the maples around the church s eaves, 
 And the gride of hatchets, fiercely thrown, 
 On wigwam-log and tree and stone. 
 Black with the grime of paint and dust, 
 
 Spotted and streaked with human gore, 
 A grim and naked head is thrust 
 
MOGG MEGQNE. 37 
 
 Within the chapel-door. 
 "Ha Bomazeen ! in God s name say, 
 What mean these sounds of bloody fray ? " 
 Silent, the Indian points his hand 
 
 To where across the echoing glen 
 Sweep Harmon s dreaded ranger-band, 
 
 And Moulton with his men. 
 " Where are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? 
 Where are De Rouville 18 and Castine, 
 And where the braves of Sawga s queen ? " 
 " Let my father find the winter snow 
 Which the sun drank up long moons ago ! 
 Under the falls of Tacconock, 
 The wolves are eating the Norridgewock ; 
 Castine with his wives lies closely hid 
 Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid ! 
 On Sawga s banks the man of war 
 Sits in his wigwam like a squaw, 
 Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, 
 Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, 
 Lies stiff and stark and cold as a stone." 
 
 Fearfully over the Jesuit s face, 
 
 Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace, 
 
 Like swift cloud-shadows, each other chase, 
 
 One instant, his fingers grasp his knife, 
 
 For a last vain struggle for cherished life, 
 
 The next, he hurls the blade away, 
 
 And kneels at his altar s foot to pray ; 
 
 Over his beads his fingers stray, 
 
 And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud 
 
 On the Virgin and her Son ; 
 For terrible thoughts his memory crowd 
 
 Of evil seen and done, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Of scalps brought home by his savage flock 
 From Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock, 
 In the Church s service won. 
 
 No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, 
 
 As scowling on the priest he looks : 
 
 " Cowesass cowesass tawhich wessaseen ? i9 
 
 Let my father look upon Bomazeen, 
 
 My father s heart is the heart of a squaw, 
 
 But mine is so hard that it does not thaw : 
 
 Let my father ask his God to make 
 
 A dance and a feast for a great sagamore, 
 When he paddles across the western lake, 
 
 With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit s shore 
 Cowesass cowesass tawhich wessaseen ? 
 Let my father die like Bomazeen ! " 
 
 Through the chapel s narrow doors, 
 
 And through each window in the walls, 
 Round the priest and warrior pours 
 
 The deadly shower of English balls. 
 Low on his cross the Jesuit falls ; 
 While at his side the Norridgewock, 
 With failing breath, essays to mock 
 And menace yet the hated foe, 
 Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro 
 
 Exultingly before their eyes, 
 Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow, 
 
 Defiant still, he dies. 
 
 " So fare all eaters of the frog f 
 Death to the Babylonish dog ! 
 
 Down with the beast of Rome ! " 
 With shouts like these, around the dead, 
 
MOGG ME GONE. 39 
 
 Unconscious on his bloody bed, 
 
 The rangers crowding come. 
 Brave men ! the dead priest cannot hear 
 The unfeeling taunt, the brutal jeer ; 
 Spurn for he sees ye not in wrath 
 The symbol of your Saviour s death ; 
 
 Tear from his death-grasp, in your zeal, 
 And trample, as a thing accursed, 
 The cross he cherished in the dust ; 
 
 The dead man cannot feel ! 
 
 Brutal alike in deed and word, 
 
 With callous heart and hand of strife, 
 How like a fiend may man be made, 
 Plying the foul and monstrous trade 
 
 Whose harvest-field is human life, 
 Whose sickle is the reeking sword ! 
 Quenching, with reckless hand in blood, 
 Sparks kindled by the breath of God ; 
 Urging the deathless soul, unshriven, 
 
 Of open guilt or secret sin, 
 Before the bar of that pure Heaven 
 
 The holy only enter in ! 
 O, by the widow s sore distress, 
 The orphan s wailing wretchedness, 
 By Virtue struggling in the accursed 
 Embraces of polluting Lust, 
 By the fell discord of the Pit 
 And the pained souls that people it, 
 And by the blessed peace which fills 
 
 The Paradise of God forever, 
 Resting on all its holy hills, 
 
 And flowing with its crystal river, 
 Let Christian hands no longer bear 
 
40 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 In triumph on his crimson car 
 The foul and idol god of war ; 
 
 No more the purple wreaths prepare 
 
 To bind amid his snaky hair ; 
 
 Nor Christian bards his glories tell, 
 
 Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. 
 
 Through the gun-smoke wreathing white, 
 
 Glimpses on the soldiers sight 
 
 A thing of human shape I ween, 
 
 For a moment only seen, 
 
 With its loose hair backward streaming, 
 
 And its eyeballs madly gleaming, 
 
 Shrieking, like a soul in pain, 
 
 From the world of light and breath. 
 Hurrying to its place again, 
 
 Spectre-like it vanisheth ! 
 
 Wretched girl ! one eye alone 
 Notes the way which thou hast gone. 
 That great Eye, which slumbers never, 
 Watching o er a lost world ever, 
 Tracks thee over vale and mountain. 
 By the gushing forest-fountain, 
 Plucking from the vine its fruit, 
 Searching for the ground-nut s root, 
 Peering in the she-wolf s den, 
 Wading through the marshy fen, 
 Where the sluggish water-snake 
 Basks beside the sunny brake, 
 Coiling in his slimy bed, 
 Smooth and cold against thy tread, 
 Purposeless, thy mazy way 
 Threading through the lingering day, 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 41 
 
 And at night securely sleeping 
 Where the dogwood s dews are weeping ! 
 Still, though earth and man discard thee, 
 Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee : 
 He who spared the guilty Cam, 
 
 Even when a brother s blood, 
 
 Crying in the ear of God, 
 Gave the earth its primal stain, 
 He whose mercy ever liveth, 
 Who repenting guilt forgiveth, 
 And the broken heart receiveth, 
 Wanderer of the wilderness, 
 
 Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild, 
 He regardeth thy distress, 
 
 And careth for his sinful child ! 
 
 T is spring-time on the eastern hills ! 
 Like torrents gush the summer rills ; 
 Through winter s moss and dry dead leaves 
 The bladed grass revives and lives, 
 Pushes the mouldering waste away, 
 And glimpses to the April day. 
 In kindly shower. and sunshine bud 
 The branches of the dull gray wood ; 
 Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks 
 The blue eye of the violet looks ; 
 
 The southwest wind is warmly blowing, 
 And odors from the springing grass, 
 The pine-tree and the sassafras, 
 
 Are with it on its errands going. 
 
 A band is marching through the wood 
 Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, 
 
4 2 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 The warriors of the wilderness, 
 Painted, and in their battle dress ; 
 And with them one whose bearded cheek, 
 And white and wrinkled brow, bespeak 
 
 A wanderer from the shores of France. 
 A few long locks of scattering snow 
 Beneath a battered morion flow, 
 And from the rivets of the vest 
 Which girds in steel his ample breast, 
 
 The slanted sunbeams glance. 
 In the harsh outlines of his face 
 Passion and sin have left their trace ; 
 Yet, save worn brow and thin gray hair, 
 No signs of weary age are there. 
 
 His step is firm, his eye is keen, 
 Nor years in broil and battle spent, 
 Nor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bent 
 
 The lordly frame of old Castine. 
 
 No purpose now of strife and blood 
 
 Urges the hoary veteran on : 
 The fire of conquest, and the mood 
 
 Of chivalry have gone. 
 A mournful task is his, to lay 
 
 Within the earth the bones of those 
 Who perished in that fearful day, 
 When Norridgewock became the prey 
 
 Of all unsparing foes. 
 Sadly and still, dark thoughts between, 
 Of coming vengeance mused Castine, 
 Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, 
 Who bade for him the Norridgevvocks 
 Dig up their buried tomahawks 
 
 For firm defence or swift attack ; 
 
MOGG MEGONE. 43 
 
 And him whose friendship formed the tie 
 Which held the stern self-exile back 
 
 From lapsing into savagery ; 
 
 Whose garb and tone and kindly glance 
 Recalled a younger, happier day, 
 And prompted memory s fond essay, 
 To bridge the mighty waste which lay 
 Between his wild home and that gray, 
 
 Tall chateau of his native France, 
 
 Whose chapel bell, with far-heard din, 
 
 Ushered his birth-hour gayly in, 
 
 And counted with its solemn toll 
 
 The masses for his father s soul. 
 
 Hark ! from the foremost of the band 
 
 Suddenly bursts the Indian yell ; 
 For now on the very spot they stand 
 
 Where the Norridgewocks fighting fell. 
 No wigwam smoke is curling there ; 
 The very earth is scorched and bare : 
 And they pause and listen to catch a sound 
 
 Of breathing life, but there comes not one, 
 Save the fox s bark and the rabbit s bound ; 
 But here and there, on the blackened ground, 
 
 White bones are glistening in the sun. 
 And where the house of prayer arose, 
 And the holy hymn, at daylight s close, 
 And the aged priest stood up to bless 
 The children of the wilderness, 
 There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; 
 
 And the birchen boats of the Norridgewock, 
 
 Tethered to tree and stump and rock, 
 Rotting along the river bank ! 
 
44 MOGG MEGONE. 
 
 Blessed Mary ! who is she 
 
 Leaning against that maple-tree ? 
 
 The sun upon her face burns hot, 
 
 But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; 
 
 The squirrel s chirp is shrill and clear 
 
 From the dry bough above her ear ; 
 
 Dashing from rock and root its spray, 
 Close at her feet the river rushes ; 
 The blackbird s wing against her brushes, 
 And sweetly through the hazel-bushes 
 The robin s mellow music gushes ; 
 
 God save her ! will she sleep alway ? 
 
 Castine hath bent him over the sleeper : 
 
 " Wake, daughter, wake !" but she stirs no limb 
 The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim ; 
 
 And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, 
 Until the angel s oath is said, 
 
 And the final blast of the trump goes forth 
 
 To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. 
 
 RUTH BONYTHON IS DEAD ! 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK 
 1848. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 20 
 
 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 isler. 
 Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips 
 Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, 
 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 waterfalls, 
 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, 
 
48 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 mole-hills, the far sea of Casco, 
 
 A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; 
 
 Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; 
 
 Moosehillock s mountain range, and Kearsarge 
 
 Lifting his rocky 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, 
 
 From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam 
 
 Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon 
 
 Rising behind Umbagog s eastern pines, 
 
 Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its beams 
 
 At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver 
 
 The Merrimack by Uncanoonuc s falls. 
 
 There were five souls of us whom travel s chance 
 
 Had thrown together in these wild north hills : 
 
 A city lawyer, for a month escaping 
 
 From his dull office, where the weary eye 
 
 Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets, 
 
 Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see 
 
 Life s sunniest side, and with a heart to take 
 
 Its chances all as godsends ; and his brother, 
 
 Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retaining 
 
 The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 49 
 
 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 
 
 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 seaside atmosphere. 
 
 It chanced 
 
 That as we turned upon our homeward way, 
 A drear northeastern storm came howling up 
 The valley of the Saco ; and that girl 
 Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington, 
 
 
5 o THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 southwest 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 
 
THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. ^ 
 
 Of poetry, the holiest, tenderest lines 
 
 Of the sad bard of Olney, the sweet songs, 
 
 Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, 
 
 Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount 
 
 Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing 
 
 From the green hills, immortal in his lays. 
 
 And for myself, obedient to her wish, 
 
 I searched our landlord s proffered library, 
 
 A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures 
 
 Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them, 
 
 Watts unmelodious psalms, Astrology s 
 
 Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, 
 
 And an old chronicle of border wars 
 
 And Indian history. And, as I read 
 
 A story of the marriage of the Chief 
 
 Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, 
 
 Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt 
 
 In the old time upon the Merrimack, 
 
 Our fair one, in the playful exercise 
 
 Of her prerogative, the right 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, 
 
5 2 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 mountains 
 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. 
 
 O 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. 
 
7 HE MERRIMACK. 53 
 
 From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone, 
 From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of stone, 
 By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free, 
 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 ; 
 There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy maid 
 Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum braid. 
 
 O Stream of the Mountain ! 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. 
 
54 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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. 21 
 
 LIFT we the twilight curtains of the Past, 
 And, turning from familiar sight and sound, 
 
 Sadly and full of reverence let us cast 
 
 A glance upon Tradition s shadowy ground, 
 
 Led by the few pale lights which, glimmering round 
 
 That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast ; 
 
 And that which history gives not to the eye, 
 
 The faded coloring of Time s tapestry, 
 
 Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush supply. 
 
 Roof of bark and walls of pine, 
 
 Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine, 
 
 Tracing many a golden line 
 
 On the ample floor within ; 
 Where upon that earth-floor stark, 
 Lay the gaudy mats of bark, 
 With the bear s hide, rough and dark, 
 
 And the red-deer s skin. 
 
 Window-tracery, small and slight, 
 Woven of the willow white, 
 Lent a dimly checkered light, 
 
 And the night-stars glimmered down. 
 Where the lodge-fire s heavy smoke, 
 Slowly through an opening broke, 
 In the low roof, ribbed with oak, 
 
 Sheathed with hemlock brown. 
 
THE BASHABA, 55 
 
 Gloomed behind the changeless shade, 
 By the solemn pine-wood made ; 
 Through the rugged palisade, 
 
 In the open foreground planted, 
 Glimpses came of rowers rowing, 
 Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blowing, 
 Steel-like gleams of water flowing, 
 
 In the sunlight slanted. 
 
 Here the mighty Bashaba, 
 
 Held his long-unquestioned sway, 
 
 From the White Hills, far away, 
 
 To the great sea s sounding shore ; 
 Chief of chiefs, his regal word 
 All the river Sachems heard, 
 At his call the war-dance stirred, 
 
 Or was still once more. 
 
 There his spoils of chase and war, 
 Jaw of wolf and black bear s paw, 
 Panther s skin and eagle s claw, 
 
 Lay beside his axe and bow ; 
 And, adown the roof-pole hung, 
 Loosely on a snake-skin strung, 
 In the smoke his scalp-locks swung 
 
 Grimly to and fro. 
 
 Nightly down the river going, 
 Swifter was the hunter s rowing, 
 When he saw that lodge-fire glowing 
 
 O er the waters still and red ; 
 And the squaw s dark eye burned brighter 
 And she drew her blanket tighter, 
 As, with quicker step and lighter, 
 
 From that door she fled. 
 
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 abed, 
 Drew its bear-skin over head, 
 Shrinking from the pale lights shed 
 
 On the trembling wall. 
 
 All the subtle spirits hiding 
 Under earth or wave, abiding 
 In the caverned rock, or riding 
 
 Misty clouds or morning breeze; 
 Every dark intelligence, 
 Secret soul, and influence 
 Of all things which outward sense 
 
 Feels, or hears, or sees, 
 
 These the wizard s skill confessed, 
 At his bidding banned or blessed, 
 Stormful woke or lulled to resl- 
 
 Wind and cloud, and fire ard flood ; 
 Burned for him the drifted sm.w. 
 Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, 
 And the leaves of summer grow 
 
 Over winter s wood ! 
 
THE BASHABA. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 1 - 
 
5 8 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
 Yet when he v -aame was heard no more, 
 And when the robe her mother gave, 
 
 And small, light moccasin she wore, 
 Had slowly wasted on her grave, 
 
 Unmarked of him the dark maids sped 
 Their sunset dance and moonlit play ; 
 
 No other shared his lonely bed, 
 No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. 
 
 A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes 
 The tempest-smitten tree receives 
 
THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 59 
 
 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 22 had graced his wigwam 
 well. 
 
 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. 
 
60 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK 
 
 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 ; 
 But we, from Nature long exiled 
 
 In our cold homes of Art and Thought, 
 Grieve like the stranger-tended child, 
 Which seeks its mother s arms, and sees but feels them 
 not. 
 
 The garden rose may richly bloom 
 
 In cultured soil and genial air, 
 To cloud the light of Fashion s room 
 
 Or droop in Beauty s midnight hair, 
 In lonelier grace, to sun and dew 
 
 The sweetbrier on the hillside shows 
 Its single leaf and fainter hue, 
 Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose ! 
 
 Thus o er the heart of Weetamoo 
 Their mingling shades of joy and ill 
 
 The instincts of her nature threw, 
 The savage was a woman still. 
 
 Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, 
 Heart-colored prophecies of life, 
 
 Rose on the ground of her young dreams 
 The light of a new home, the lover and the wife. 
 
THE WEDDING. 6 1 
 
 IV. THE WEDDING. 
 
 COOL and dark fell the autumn night, 
 But the Bashaba s wigwam glowed with light, 
 For down from its roof by green withes hung 
 Flaring and smoking the pine-knots swung. 
 
 And along the river great wood-fires 
 Shot into the night their long red spires, 
 Showing behind the tall, dark wood 
 Flashing before on the sweeping flood. 
 
 In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, 
 Now high, now low, that firelight played, 
 On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, 
 On gliding water and still canoes. 
 
 The trapper that night on Turee s brook, 
 And the weary fisher on Contoocook. 
 Saw over the marshes and through the pine, 
 And down on the river the dance-lights shine. 
 
 For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo 
 The Bashaba s daughter Weetamoo, 
 And laid at her father s feet that night 
 His softest furs and wampum white. 
 
 From the Crystal Hills to the far southeast 
 The river Sagamores came to the feast ; 
 And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook, 
 Sat down on the mats of Pennacook. 
 
62 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 They came from Sunapee s shore of rock, 
 From the snowy sources of Snooganock, 
 And from rough Coos whose thick woods shake 
 Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake. 
 
 From Ammonoosuc s mountain pass, 
 Wild as his home, came Chepewass ; 
 And the Keenomps of the hills which throw 
 Their shade on the Smile of Manito. 
 
 With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, 
 Glowing with paint came old and young, 
 In wampum and furs and feather 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 speared 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 ; 
 
THE WEDDING. 63 
 
 And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands 
 In the river scooped by a spirit s hands, 23 
 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 woools and the waters yield, 
 Furnished in that olden day 
 The bridal feast of the Bashaba. 
 
 And merrily when that feast was done 
 On the fire-lit green the dance begun, 
 With squaws shrill stave, and deeper hum 
 Of old men beating the Indian drum. 
 
 Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, 
 And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, 
 Now in the light, and now in the shade 
 Around the fires the dancers played. 
 
 The step was quicker, the song more shrill, 
 And the beat of the small drums louder still 
 Whenever within the circle drew 
 The Saugus Sachem and W T eetamoo. 
 
 The moons of forty winters had shed 
 Their snow upon that chieftain s head, 
 And toil and care, and battle s chance 
 Had seamed his hard, dark 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 ? 
 
 4 
 
64 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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, with wise instinct, Nature seems 
 To harmonize her wide extremes, 
 Linking the stronger with the weak, 
 The haughty with the soft and meek ! 
 
 V. THE NEW HOME. 
 
 A WILD and broken landscape, spiked with firs, 
 Roughening the bleak horizon s northern edge, 
 
 Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs 
 And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept ledge 
 
 Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or 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 
 Gurgled the waters of the moon- struck sea ; 
 
 And faint with distance came the stifled roar, 
 
 The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. 
 
 No cheerful village with its mingling smokes, 
 No laugh of children wrestling in the snow, 
 
 No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks, 
 No fishers kneeling on the ice below ; 
 
 Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, 
 
 Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed 
 Weetamoo. 
 
THE NEW HOME. 65 
 
 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 w armth 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 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. 
 
 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. 
 
06 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 PennacooL 
 
 With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water, 
 The forest sages pondered, and at length, 
 
 Concluded in a body to escort her 
 
 Up to her father s home of pride and strength, 
 
 Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense 
 
 Of Winnepurkit s power and regal consequence. 
 
 So through old woods which Aukeetamit s 24 hand 
 A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, 
 
 Over high breezy hills, and meadow land 
 Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went, 
 
AT PENNACOOK. 67 
 
 Till, rolling down 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 ; 
 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 father s wigwam floor ! 
 Once more with her old fondness to beguile 
 From his cold eye the strange light of a smile, 
 
68 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 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 chief s 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. 
 
 " If now no more a mat for her is found 
 Of all which line her father s wigwam round. 
 Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, 
 And send her back with wampum gifts again." 
 
 The baffled runner turned upon his track, 
 Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. 
 " Dog of the Marsh," cried 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, 
 
AT PENNACOOK. 69 
 
 " 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, 
 
 Or, from the east, across her azure field 
 
 Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield. 
 
 Yet Winnepurkit came not, on the mat 
 Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat ; 
 And he, the while, in Western woods afar, 
 Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. 
 
 Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief! 
 Waste not on him the sacredness of grief ; 
 Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, 
 His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. 
 
 What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights, 
 
 The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, 
 
 Cold, crafty, proud of woman s weak distress, 
 
 Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness ? 
 
yo THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 
 
 VII. THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 THE wild March rains had fallen fast and long 
 The snowy mountains of the North among, 
 Making each vale a watercourse, each hill 
 Bright with the cascade of some new-made rill. 
 
 Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, 
 Heaved underneath by the swollen current s strain, 
 The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merrimack 
 Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. 
 
 On that strong turbid water a small boat, 
 Guided by one weak hand, was seen to float ; 
 Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, 
 Too early voyager with too frail an oar ! 
 
 Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, 
 The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side. 
 The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, 
 With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. 
 
 The trapper, moistening his moose s meat 
 
 On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc s feet, 
 
 Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream 
 
 Slept he, or waked he ? was it truth or dream ? 
 
 The straining eye bent fearfully before, 
 
 The small hand clenching on the useless oar, 
 
 The bead-wrought blanket trailing o er the water, 
 
 He knew them all : woe for the Sachem s daughter ! 
 

 SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. 71 
 
 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 sere leaf whirled, 
 
 On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, 
 
 Empty and broken, circled the canoe 
 
 In the vexed pool below but, where wis Weetamoo ? 
 
 VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. 
 
 THE Dark eye has left us, 
 
 The Spring-bird has flowi? ; 
 On the pathway of spirits 
 
 She wanders alone. 
 
 The song of the wood-dove has died OP our shore, 
 Mat wonck kunna-monee / 25 We hear it no more ! 
 
 O, dark water Spirit ! 
 
 We cast on thy wave 
 These furs which may never 
 
 Hang over her grave ; 
 
 Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore, 
 Mat wonck kunna-monee / We see her no mol*e I 
 
 Of the strange land she walks in 
 
 No Powah has told : 
 It may burn with the sunshine, 
 
 Or freeze with the cold. 
 
 Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wo r e, 
 Mat ivonck kunna-monee / We see her no rnore > 
 
72 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 
 
 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 ivonck kunna-monee / They hear us no more ! 
 
 O mighty Sowanna ! K 
 
 Thy gateways unfold, 
 From thy wigwam of sunset 
 
 Lift curtains of gold ! 
 
 Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o er, 
 Mat ivonck 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. 
 
LEGENDARY 
 
 1846. 
 
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 ; 
 
7 6 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Nor farm-house with its maple shade, 
 
 Or rigid poplar colonnade, 
 
 But lies distinct and full in sight, 
 
 Beneath this gush of sunset light. 
 
 Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, 
 
 Stretching its length of foam afar, 
 
 And Salisbury s beach of shining sand, 
 
 And yonder island s wave-smoothed strand, 
 
 Saw the adventurer s tiny sail 
 
 Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; * 
 
 And o er these woods and waters broke 
 
 The cheer from Britain s hearts of oak, 
 
 As brightly on the voyager s eye, 
 
 Weary of forest, sea, and sky, 
 
 Breaking the dull continuous wood, 
 
 The Merrimack rolled down his flood ; 
 
 Mingling that clear pellucid brook, 
 
 Which channels vast Agioochook 
 
 When spring-time s sun and shower unlock 
 
 The frozen fountains of the rock, 
 
 And more abundant waters given 
 
 From that pure lake, "The Smile of Heaven," 28 
 
 Tributes from vale and mountain-side, 
 
 With ocean s dark, eternal tide ! 
 
 On yonder rocky cape, which braves 
 The stormy challenge of the waves, 
 Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, 
 The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, 
 Planting upon the topmost crag 
 The staff of England s battle-flag ; 
 And, while from out its heavy fold 
 Saint George s crimson cross unrolled, 
 Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, 
 
THE MERRIMACK. 77 
 
 And weapons brandishing in air, 
 He gave to that lone promontory 
 The sweetest name in all his story ; " 
 Of her, the flower of Islam s daughters, 
 Whose harems look on StambouFs 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, 
 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 Apalachian peak 
 On Juniata s silver streak ; 
 Have seen along his valley gleam 
 The Mohawk s softly winding stream ? 
 The level light of sunset shine 
 
LEGENDARY. 
 
 Through broad Potomac s hem of pine ; 
 And autumn s rainbow-tinted banner 
 Hang lightly o er the Susquehanna ; 
 Yet, wheresoe er his step might be, 
 Thy wandering child looked back to thee ! 
 Heard in his dreams thy river s sound 
 Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, 
 The unforgotten swell and roar 
 Of waves on thy familiar shore \ 
 And saw, amidst the curtained gloom 
 And quiet of his lonely room, 
 Thy sunset scenes before him pass ; 
 As, in Agrippa s magic glass, 
 The loved and lost arose to view, 
 Remembered groves in greenness grew, 
 Bathed still in childhood s morning dew, 
 Along whose bowers of beauty swept 
 Whatever Memory s mourners wept, 
 Sweet faces, which the charnel kept, 
 Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept ; 
 And while the gazer leaned to trace, 
 More near, some dear familiar face, 
 He wept to find the vision flown, 
 A phantom and a dream alone ! 
 
 THE NORSEMEN. 80 
 
 GIFT from the cold and silent Past ! 
 A relic to the present cast ; 
 Left on the ever-changing strand 
 Of shifting and unstable sand, 
 
THE NORSEMEN. 
 
 Which wastes beneath the steady chime 
 And beating of the waves of Time ! 
 Who from its bed of primal rock 
 First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block ? 
 Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, 
 Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? 
 
 The waters of my native stream 
 
 Are glancing in the sun s warm beam : 
 
 From sail-urged keel and flashing oar 
 
 The circles widen to its shore ; 
 
 And cultured field and peopled town 
 
 Slope to its willowed margin down. 
 
 Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing 
 
 The home-life sound of school-bells ringing, 
 
 And rolling wheel, and rapid jar 
 
 Of the fire-winged and steedless car, 
 
 And voices from the wayside near 
 
 Come quick and blended on my ear, 
 
 A spell is in this old gray stone, 
 
 My thoughts are with the Past alone ! 
 
 A change ! The steepled town no more 
 
 Stretches along the sail-thronged shore ; 
 
 Like palace-domes in sunset s cloud, 
 
 Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud : 
 
 Spectrally rising where they stood, 
 
 I see the old, primeval wood : 
 
 Dark, shadow-like, on either hand 
 
 I see its solemn waste expand : 
 
 It climbs the green and cultured hill, 
 
 It arches o er the valley ; s rill ; 
 
 And leans from cliff and crag, to throw 
 
 Its wild arms o er the stream below. 
 
8o LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 cfy, 
 
 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 light spray from each rushing prow ? 
 Have they not in the North Sea s blast 
 Bowed to the waves the straining mast ? 
 Their frozen sails the low, pale sun 
 Of 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, 
 
THE NORSEMEN. 81 
 
 Keeping a harsh and fitting time 
 To Saga s chant, and Runic rhyme ; 
 Such lays as Zetland s Scald has sung, 
 His gray and naked isles among ; 
 Or muttered low at midnight hour 
 Round Odin s mossy stone of power. 
 The wolf beneath the Arctic moon 
 Has answered to that startling rune ; 
 The Gael has heard its stormy swell, 
 The light Frank knows its summons well; 
 lona s sable-stoled Culdee 
 Has heard it sounding o er the sea, 
 And swept, with hoary beard and hair, 
 His altar s foot in trembling prayer ! 
 
 T is past, the wildering vision dies 
 
 In darkness on my dreaming eyes ! 
 
 The forest vanishes in air, 
 
 Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare ; 
 
 I hear the common tread of men, 
 
 And hum of work-day life again ; 
 
 The mystic relic seems alone 
 
 A. broken mass of common stone ; 
 
 And if it be the chiselled limb 
 
 Of Berserker or idol grim, 
 
 A fragment of Valhalla s Thor, 
 
 The stormy Viking s god of War, 
 
 Or Praga of the Runic lay, 
 
 Or love-awakening Siona, 
 
 I know not, for no graven line, 
 
 Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, 
 
 Is left me here, by which to trace 
 
 Its name, or origin, or place. 
 
 Yet, for this vision of the Past, 
 
82 LEGENDARY. 
 
 This glance upon its darkness cast, 
 My spirit bows in gratitude 
 Before the Giver of all good, 
 Who fashioned so the human mind, 
 That, from the waste of Time behind, 
 A simple stone, or mound of earth, 
 Can summon the departed forth ; 
 Quicken the Past to life again, 
 The Present lose in what hath been, 
 And in their primal freshness show 
 The buried forms of long ago. 
 As if a portion of that Thought 
 By which the Eternal will is wrought, 
 Whose impulse fills anew with breath 
 The frozen solitude of Death, 
 To mortal mind were sometimes lent, 
 To mortal musings sometimes sent, 
 To whisper even when it seems 
 But Memory s fantasy of dreams 
 Through the mind s waste of woe and sin, 
 Of an immortal origin ! 
 
 T 
 
 CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK, 
 1658. 
 
 O the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise 
 
 to-day, 
 From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the 
 
 spoil away, 
 Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful 
 
 three, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid 
 
 free! 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 83 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison 
 
 bars, 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale 
 
 gleam of stars ; 
 L.I the coldness and the darkness all through the long 
 
 night-time, 
 My grated casement whitened with autumn s early rime. 
 
 Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
 Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky ; 
 No sound amid night s stillness, save that which seemed 
 
 to be 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; 
 
 All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the mor 
 row 
 
 The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my 
 sorrow, 
 
 Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for 
 and sold, 
 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the 
 fold! 
 
 O, the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking 
 
 and the shame ; 
 And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me 
 
 came : 
 " Why sit st thou thus forlornly ! " the wicked murmur 
 
 said, 
 "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy 
 
 maiden bed? 
 
 " Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet. 
 Seen in thy father s dwelling, heard in the pleasant 
 street ? 
 
8 4 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sab 
 bath through, 
 Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father s pew? 
 
 " Why sit st thou here, Cassandra ? Bethink thee with 
 
 what mirth 
 Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright 
 
 hearth ; 
 How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white 
 
 and fair, 
 On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 
 
 " Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee 
 
 kind words are spoken 
 Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing 
 
 boys are broken, 
 
 No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, 
 For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters 
 
 braid. 
 
 " O, weak, deluded maiden ! by crazy fancies led, 
 
 With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; 
 
 To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and 
 sound ; 
 
 And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and 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 pil 
 lory lame, 
 
 Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying ?n their 
 shame. 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 85 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ? a sadly toiling slave, 
 Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to 
 
 the grave ! 
 Think of thy woman s nature, subdued in hopeless 
 
 thrall, 
 The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all ! " 
 
 O, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature s fears 
 Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing 
 
 tears, 
 I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent 
 
 prayer 
 To feel, O Helper of the weak ! that Thou indeed wert 
 
 there ! 
 
 I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi s cell, 
 
 And how from Peter s sleeping limbs the prison-shack 
 les fell, 
 
 Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel s robe of 
 white, 
 
 And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 
 
 Bless the Lord for all his mercies ! for the peace and 
 
 love I felt, 
 
 Like dew of Hermon s holy hill, upon my spirit melt ; 
 When " Get behind me, Satan ! " was the language of 
 
 my heart, 
 And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. 
 
 Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sunshine 
 
 fell, 
 Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my 
 
 lonely cell ; 
 
86 LEGENDARY. 
 
 The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the 
 street 
 
 Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of pass 
 ing feet. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open 
 
 cast, 
 And slowly, at the sheriff s side, up the long street I 
 
 passed ; 
 I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not 
 
 see, 
 How, from every door and window, the people gazed 
 
 on me. 
 
 And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my 
 
 cheek, 
 Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs 
 
 grew weak : 
 w O Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her soul 
 
 cast out 
 The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness 
 
 and the doubt." 
 
 Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in 
 
 morning s breeze, 
 And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering 
 
 words like these : 
 " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a 
 
 brazen wall, 
 Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over 
 
 all." 
 
 We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters 
 
 broke 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of 
 
 rock ; 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 87 
 
 The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines 
 
 on high, 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on 
 
 the sky. 
 
 And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and 
 
 grave and cold, 
 And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed 
 
 and old, 
 
 And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, 
 Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. 
 
 And, poisoning with his evil words the ruler s ready ear, 
 The priest leaned o er his saddle, with laugh and scoff 
 
 and jeer; 
 It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence 
 
 broke, 
 As if through woman s weakness a warning spirit spoke. 
 
 I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou siniter 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 I " 
 
88 LEGENDARY. 
 
 But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while 
 
 the sheriff read 
 
 That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, 
 Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood 
 
 bring 
 No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, 
 
 said, 
 " Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker 
 
 maid ? 
 
 In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia s shore, 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or 
 
 Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when agaift 
 
 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 whea 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, 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 89 
 
 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. 
 
 " Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver 
 
 sold?" 
 
 I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half-way 
 
 drawn, 
 Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate 
 
 and scorn ; 
 Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence 
 
 back, 
 And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring 
 
 in his track. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed 
 
 his parchment roll. 
 " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the 
 
 ruler and the priest, 
 fudge ye, if from their further work I be not well 
 
 released." 
 
 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round 
 
 the silent bay, 
 frs, <vith kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go 
 
 my way ; 
 
9 o LEGENDARY. 
 
 For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the 
 
 glen, 
 And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts 
 
 of men. 
 
 O, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath 
 my eye, 
 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the 
 sky, 
 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and wood 
 land 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, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening s twilight calm 
 Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful 
 
 psalm ; 
 Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints 
 
 of old, 
 When of the Lord s good angel the rescued Peter told. 
 
 And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of 
 
 wrong, 
 The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay his hand upon 
 
 the strong. 
 
FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 91 
 
 Woe to the wicked rulers in his avenging hour ! 
 Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and 
 devour ! 
 
 But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, 
 And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise 
 
 be clad, 
 For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the 
 
 stormy wave, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save ! 
 
 FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
 
 AROUND Sebago s lonely lake 
 There lingers not a breeze to break 
 The mirror which its waters make. 
 
 The solemn pines along its shore, 
 The firs which hang its gray rocks o er, 
 Are painted on its glassy floor. 
 
 The sun looks o er, with hazy eye, 
 The snowy mountain-tops which lie 
 Piled coldly up against the sky. 
 
 Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak 
 Wild winds have bared some splintering peak 
 Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. 
 
 Yet green are Saco s banks below, 
 And belts of spruce and cedar show, 
 Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 
 
LEGENDARY. 
 
 The earth hath felt the breath of spring, 
 Though yet on her deliverer s wing 
 The lingering frosts of winter cling. 
 
 Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks 
 And mildly from its sunny nooks 
 The blue eye of the violet looks. 
 
 And odors from the springing grass, 
 The sweet birch and the sassafras, 
 Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 
 
 Her tokens of renewing care 
 Hath Nature scattered everywhere, 
 In bud and flower, and warmer air. 
 
 But in their hour of bitterness, 
 What reck the broken Sokokis, 
 Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ? 
 
 The turf s 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 
 
FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
 
 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 garbs of skins arrayed, 
 And girded with his wampum-braid. 
 
 The silver cross he loved is pressed 
 Beneath the heavy arms, which rest 
 Upon his scarred and naked breast. 
 
 T is done : the roots are backward sent, 
 The beechen-tree stands up unbent, 
 The Indian s fitting monument ! 
 
 When of that sleeper s broken race 
 Their green and pleasant dwelling-place 
 Which knew them once, retains no trace ; 
 
 O, long may sunset s light be shed 
 As now upon that beech s head, 
 A green memorial of the dead ! 
 
 There shall his fitting requiem be 
 
 In northern winds, that, cold and free, 
 
 Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 
 
 To their wild wail the waves which break 
 Forever round that lonely lake 
 A solemn undertone shall make ! 
 
 And who shall deem the spot unblest, 
 Where Nature s younger children rest, 
 Lulled on their sorrowing mother s breast ? 
 
 93 
 
94 
 
 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Deem ye that mother loveth less 
 These bronzed forms of the wilderness 
 She foldeth in her long caress ? 
 
 As sweet o er them her wild-flowers blow 
 As if with fairer hair and brow 
 The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 
 
 What though the places of their rest 
 No priestly knee hath ever pressed, 
 No funeral rite nor prayer hath blest ? 
 
 What though the bigot s ban be there, 
 And thoughts of wailing and despair, 
 And cursing in the place of prayer ! 
 
 Yet Heaven hath angels watching round 
 The Indian s lowliest forest-mound, 
 And they have made it holy ground. 
 
 There ceases man s frail judgment ; all 
 His powerless bolts of cursing 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 ; 
 
ST. JOHN. 95 
 
 Not with our partial eye shall scan, 
 Not with our pride and scorn shall ban, 
 The spirit of our brother man ! 
 
 ST. JOHN. 
 1647. 
 
 HPO the winds give our banner ! 
 -* Bear homeward again ! " 
 Cried the Lord of Acadia, 
 
 Cried Charles of Estienne ; 
 From the prow of his shallop 
 
 He gazed, as the sun, 
 From its bed in the ocean, 
 
 Streamed up the St. John. 
 
 O er the blue western waters 
 
 That shallop had passed, 
 Where the mists of Penobscot 
 
 Clung damp on her mast. 
 St. Saviour had looked 
 
 On the heretic sail, 
 As the songs of the Huguenot 
 
 Rose on the gale. 
 
 The pale, ghostly fathers 
 
 Remembered her well, 
 And had cursed her while passing, 
 
 With taper and bell, 
 But the men of Monhegan, 
 
 Of Papists abhorred, 
 
96 LEGENDAR K 
 
 Had welcomed and feasted 
 The heretic Lord. 
 
 They had loaded his shallop 
 
 With dun-fish and ball, 
 With stores for his larder, 
 
 And steel for his wall. 
 Pemequid, from her bastions 
 
 And turrets of stone, 
 Had welcomed his coming 
 
 With banner and gun. 
 
 And the prayers of the elders 
 
 Had followed his way, 
 As homeward he glided, 
 
 Down Pentecost Bay. 
 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 ; 
 
ST. JOHN. 
 
 From the low, shattered walls 
 Which the flame had o errui 
 
 There floated no banner, 
 There thundered no gun ! 
 
 But beneath the low arch 
 
 Of its doorway there stood 
 A pale priest of Rome, 
 
 In his cloak and his hood. 
 With the bound of a lion 
 
 La Tour sprang to land, 
 On the throat of the Papist 
 
 He fastened his hand. 
 
 " Speak, son of the Woman 
 
 Of scarlet and sin ! 
 What wolf has been prowling 
 
 My castle within ? " 
 From the grasp of the soldier 
 
 The Jesuit broke, 
 Half in scorn, half in sorrow, 
 
 He smiled as he spoke : 
 
 " No wolf, Lord of Estienne, 
 
 Has ravaged thy hall, 
 But thy red-handed rival, 
 
 With fire, steel, and ball ! 
 On an errand of mercy 
 
 I hitherward came, 
 While the walls of thy castle 
 
 Yet spouted with flame. 
 
 " Pentagoet s dark vessels 
 Were moored in the bay, 
 
 5 
 
LEGENDARY. 
 
 Grim sea-lions, roaring 
 
 Aloud for their prey." 
 " But what of my lady ? " 
 
 Cried Charles of Estienne : 
 " On the shot-crumbled turret 
 
 Thy lady was seen : 
 
 " Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, 
 
 Her hand grasped thy pennon. 
 While her dark tresses swayed 
 
 In the hot breath of cannon ! 
 But woe to the heretic, 
 
 Evermore woe ! 
 When the son of the church 
 
 And the cross is his foe ! 
 
 " In the track of the shell, 
 
 In the path of the ball, 
 Pentagoet swept over 
 
 The breach of the wall ! 
 Steel to steel, gun to gun, 
 
 One moment, and then 
 Alone stood the victor, 
 
 Alone with his men ! 
 
 " Of its sturdy defenders, 
 
 Thy lady alone 
 Saw the cross-blazoned banner 
 
 Float over St. John." 
 " Let the dastard look to it ! " 
 
 Cried fiery Estienne, 
 " Were D Aulney King Louis, 
 
 I d free her again!" 
 
ST. JOHN. 99 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 A.S if suddenly smitten, 
 
 La Tour staggered 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 creekside 
 
 Her fishers shall throng ! 
 Pentagoet shall rue 
 
 What his Papists have done, 
 When his palisades echo 
 
 The Puritan s gun ! " 
 
 O, the loveliest of heavens 
 
 Hung tenderly o er him ; 
 There were waves in the sunshine, 
 
 And green isles before him : 
 But a pale hand was beckoning 
 
 The Huguenot on ; 
 And in blackness and ashes 
 
 Behind was St. John ! 
 
loo LEGENDARY. 
 
 PENTUCKET. 
 1708. 
 
 T T OW sweetly on the wood-girt town 
 *- -* The mellow light of sunset shone ! 
 Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
 Mirror the forest and the hill, 
 Reflected from its waveless breast 
 The beauty of a cloudless west, 
 Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
 Within the western gates of heaven, 
 Left, by the spirit of the star 
 Of sunset s holy hour, ajar ! 
 
 Beside the river s tranquil flood 
 The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, 
 Where many a rood of open land 
 Stretched up and down on either hand, 
 With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
 The thick and blackened stumps between. 
 Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, 
 The wild, untravelled forest spread, 
 Back to those mountains, white and cold, 
 Of which the Ind.an trapper told, 
 Upon whose summits never yet 
 Was mortal foot in safety set. 
 
 Quiet and calm, without a fear 
 Of danger darkly lurking near, 
 The weary laborer left his plough, 
 The milkmaid carolled by her cow ; 
 From cottage door and household hearth 
 
PENTUCKET. 101 
 
 Rose songs of praise or tones of mirth. 
 
 At length the murmur died away, 
 
 And silence on that village lay. 
 
 So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, 
 
 Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, 
 
 Undreaming of the fiery fate 
 
 Which made its dwellings desolate ! 
 
 Hours passed away. By moonlight sped 
 The Merrimack along his bed. 
 Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
 Dark cottage- wall and rock and wood, 
 Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
 As the hushed grouping of a dream. 
 Yet on the still air crept a sound, 
 No bark of fox, nor rabbit s bound, 
 Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing, 
 Nor leaves in midnight breezes 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 ? 
 
 Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 
 
 Or paling rude, or leafless limb ? 
 
 No, through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed, 
 
 Dark human forms in moonshine showed, 
 
 Wild from their native wilderness, 
 
 With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 
 
 A yell the dead might wake to hear 
 Swelled on the night air far and clear, 
 Then smote the Indian tomahawk 
 On crashing door and shattering lock, 
 
102 LEGENDARY.. 
 
 Then rang the rifle-shot, and then 
 The shrill death-scream of stricken men, - 
 Sank the red axe in woman s brain,. 
 And childhood s cry arose in vain, 
 Bursting through roof and window came, 
 Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame ; 
 And blended fire and moonlight glared 
 On still dead men and weapons bared. 
 
 The morning sun looked brightly through 
 The river willows, wet with dew. 
 No sound of combat filled the air, 
 No shout was heard, nor gunshot there 
 Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
 From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; 
 And on the greensward many a stain, 
 And, here and there, the mangled slain, 
 Told how that midnight bolt had sped, 
 Pentucket, on thy fated head ! 
 
 Even now the villager can tell 
 Where Rolfe beside his 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 feared, 
 Bore not a trace of hair or beard, 
 And still, within the churchyard ground, 
 Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
 Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
 The victims of that sacrifice. 
 
THE FA MI LIST S HYMN. IO3 
 
 THE FAMILIST S HYMN. 
 
 FEATHER ! to thy suffering poor 
 
 Strength and grace and faith impart, 
 And with thy own love restore 
 
 Comfort to the broken heart ! 
 O, the failing ones confirm 
 
 With a holier strength of zeal ! - 
 Give thou not the feeble worm 
 Helpless to the spoiler s heel ! 
 
 Father ! for thy holy sake 
 
 We are spoiled and hunted thus ; 
 Joyful, for thy truth we take 
 
 Bonds and burthens unto us : 
 Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, 
 
 Weary with our daily task, 
 That thy truth may never fall 
 
 Through our weakness, Lord, we ask. 
 
 Round our fired and wasted homes 
 
 Flits the forest-bird unscared, 
 And at noon the wild beast comes 
 
 Where our frugal meal was shared ; 
 For the song of praises there 
 
 Shrieks the crow the livelong day ; 
 For the sound of evening prayer 
 
 Howls the evil beast of prey ! 
 
 Sweet the songs we loved to sing 
 
 Underneath thy holy sky, 
 Words and tones that used to bring 
 
 Tears of joy in every eye, 
 
104 
 
 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, 
 When we gathered knee to knee, 
 
 Blameless youth and hoary hair, 
 Bowed, O God, alone to thee. 
 
 As thine earthly 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 ! 
 
 Safe our quiet Eden lay 
 
 When the war-whoop stirred the land, 
 And the Indian turned away 
 
 From our home his bloody hand. 
 Well that forest- ranger saw, 
 
 That the burthen and the curse 
 Of the white man s cruel law 
 
 Rested also upon us. 
 
 Torn apart, and driven forth 
 
 To our toiling hard and long, 
 Father ! from the dust of earth 
 
 Lift we still our grateful song ! 
 Grateful, that in bonds we share 
 
 In thy love which maketh free ; 
 Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, 
 
 Draw us nearer, Lord, to thee ! 
 
 Grateful ! that where er we toil, 
 By Wachuset s wooded side, 
 
THE F AM I LIST S HYMN . Ic >5 
 
 On Nantucket s sea- worn isle, 
 
 Or by wild Neponset s tide, 
 Still, in spirit, we are near, 
 
 And our evening hymns, which rise 
 Separate and discordant here, 
 
 Meet and mingle in the skies ! 
 
 Let the scoffer scorn and mock, 
 
 Let the proud and evil priest 
 Rob the needy of his flock, 
 
 For his wine-cup and his feast, 
 Redden not thy bolts in store 
 
 Through the blackness of thy skies ? 
 For the sighing of the poor 
 
 Wilt Thou not, at length, arise ? 
 
 Worn and wasted, oh ! how long 
 
 Shall thy trodden poor complain ? 
 In thy name they bear the wrong, 
 
 In thy cause the bonds of pain! 
 Melt oppression s heart of steel, 
 
 Let the haughty priesthood see, 
 And their blinded followers feel, 
 
 That in us they mock at Thee ! 
 
 In thy time, O Lord of hosts, 
 
 Stretch abroad that hand to save 
 Which of old, on Egypt s coasts, 
 
 Smote apart the Red Sea s wave ! 
 Lead us from this evil land, 
 
 From the spoiler set us free, 
 And once more our gathered band, 
 
 Heart to heart, shall worship thee ! 
 s* 
 
io6 LEGENDARY. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 ^RAVELLER! on thy journey toiling 
 
 *~ By the swift Powow, 
 With the summer sunshine falling 
 
 On thy heated brow, 
 Listen, while all else is still, 
 To the brooklet from the hill. 
 
 Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing 
 
 By that streamlet s side, 
 And a greener verdure showing 
 
 Where its waters glide, 
 Down the hill-slope murmuring on, 
 Over root and mossy stone. 
 
 Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth 
 
 O er the sloping hill, 
 Beautiful and freshly springeth 
 
 That soft-flowing rill. 
 
 Through its dark roots wreathed and bare. 
 Gushing up to sun and air. 
 
 Brighter waters sparkled never 
 
 In that magic well, 
 Of whose gift of life forever 
 
 Ancient legends tell, 
 In the lonely desert wasted, 
 And by mortal lip untasted. 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. IC >7 
 
 Waters which the proud Castilian S1 
 
 Sought with longing eyes, 
 Underneath the bright pavilion 
 
 Of the Indian skies ; 
 Where his forest pathway lay 
 Through the blooms of Florida. 
 
 Years ago a lonely stranger, 
 
 With the dusky brow 
 Of the outcast forest-ranger, 
 
 Crossed the swift Powow ; 
 And betook him to the rill 
 And the oak upon the hill. 
 
 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. 
 
I0 8 LEGENDARY. 
 
 Far behind was Ocean striving 
 With his chains of sand ; 
 
 Southward, sunny glimpses giving, 
 Twixt the swells of land, 
 
 Of its calm and silvery track, 
 
 Rolled the tranquil Merrimack. 
 
 Over village, wood, and meadow 
 Gazed that stranger man, 
 
 Sadly, till the twilight shadow 
 Over all things ran, 
 
 Save where spire and westward pane 
 
 Flashed the sunset back again. 
 
 Gazing thus upon the dwelling 
 
 Of his warrior sires, 
 Where no lingering trace was telling 
 
 Of their wigwam fires, 
 Who the gloomy thoughts might know 
 Of that wandering child of woe ? 
 
 Naked lay, in sunshine glowing, 
 Hills that once had stood 
 
 Down their sides the shadows throwing 
 Of a mighty wood, 
 
 Where the deer his covert kept, 
 
 And the eagle s pinion swept I 
 
 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 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 109 
 
 For the wood-bird s merry singing, 
 
 And the hunter s cheer, 
 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 conquered river, 
 
 Could they hold them dear, 
 With their native loveliness 
 Tamed and tortured into this ? 
 
 Sadly, as the shades of even 
 
 Gathered o er the hill, 
 While the western half of heaven 
 
 Blushed with sunset still, 
 From the fountain s mossy seat 
 Turned the Indian s weary feet. 
 
 Year on year hath flown forever, 
 
 But he came no more 
 To the hillside or the river 
 
 Where he came before. 
 But the villager can tell 
 Of that strange man s visit well. 
 
 And the merry children, laden 
 
 With their fruits or flowers, 
 Roving boy and laughing maiden, 
 
 In their school-day hours, 
 Love the simple tale to tell 
 Of the Indian and his well. 
 
IIO . LEGENDARY. 
 
 THE EXILES. 
 1660. 
 
 THE goodman sat beside his door 
 One sultry afternoon, 
 With his young wife singing at his side 
 An old and godly tune. 
 
 A glimmer of heat was in the air ; 
 
 The dark green woods were still ; 
 And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud 
 
 Hung over the western hill. 
 
 Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud 
 
 Above the wilderness, 
 As some dark world from upper air 
 
 Were stooping over this. 
 
 At times the solemn thunder pealed, 
 
 And all was still again, 
 Save a low murmur in the air 
 
 Of coming wind and rain. 
 
 Just as the first big rain-drop fell, 
 
 A weary stranger came, 
 And stood before the farmer s door, 
 
 With travel soiled and lame. 
 
 Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope 
 
 Was in his quiet glance, 
 And peace, like autumn s moonlight, clothed 
 
 His tranquil countenance. 
 
THE EXILES. 
 
 A look, like that his Master wore 
 
 In Pilate s council-hall : 
 It told of wrongs, but of a love 
 
 Meekly forgiving all. 
 
 " Friend ! wilt thou give me shelter here ? " 
 
 The stranger meekly said ; 
 And, leaning on his oaken staff, 
 
 The goodman s features read. 
 
 " My life is hunted, evil men 
 
 Are following in my track ; 
 The traces of the torturer s whip 
 
 Are on my aged back. 
 
 " And much, I fear, t will peril thee 
 
 Within thy doors to take 
 A hunted seeker of the Truth, 
 
 Oppressed for conscience sake." 
 
 O, kindly spoke the goodman s wife, 
 " Come in, old man ! " quoth she, 
 
 " We will not leave thee to the storm, 
 Whoever thou mayst be." 
 
 Then came the aged wanderer in, 
 
 And silent sat him down ; 
 While all within grew dark as night 
 
 Beneath the storm-cloud s frown. 
 
 But while the sudden lightning s blaze 
 
 Filled every cottage nook, 
 And with the jarring thunder-roll 
 
 The loosened casements shook, 
 
II2 LEGENDARY. 
 
 A heavy tramp of horses feet 
 
 Came sounding up the lane, 
 And half a score of horse, or more, 
 
 Came plunging through the rain. 
 
 "Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, 
 We would not be house-breakers ; 
 
 A rueful deed thou st done this day, 
 In harboring banished Quakers." 
 
 Out looked the cautious goodman then, 
 
 With much of fear and awe, 
 For there, with broad wig drenched with raia, 
 
 The parish priest he saw. 
 
 " Open thy door, thou wicked man, 
 
 And let thy pastor in, 
 And give God thanks, if forty stripes 
 
 Repay thy deadly sin." 
 
 " What seek ye ? " quoth the goodman, 
 
 " The stranger is my guest ; 
 He is worn with toil and grievous wroivg, 
 
 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 It rue thy conduct sore ! " 
 
 Then kindled Macey s eye of fire : 
 "No priest who walks the earth 
 
 Shall pluck away the stranger-guest 
 Made welcome to my hearth." 
 
THE EXILES. 
 
 Down from his cottage wall he caught 
 
 The matchlock, hotly tried 
 At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, 
 
 By fiery Ireton s side ; 
 
 Where Puritan, and Cavalier, 
 
 With shout and psalm contended ; 
 
 And Rupert s oath, and Cromwell s prayer, 
 With battle-thunder blended. 
 
 Up rose the ancient stranger then : 
 
 " My spirit is not free 
 To bring the wrath and violence 
 
 Of evil men on thee : 
 
 " And for thyself, I pray forbear, 
 
 Bethink thee of thy Lord, 
 Who healed again the smitten ear, 
 
 And sheathed his follower s sword. 
 
 " I go, as to the slaughter led : 
 Friends of the poor, farewell ! " 
 
 Beneath his hand the oaken door 
 Back on its hinges fell. 
 
 " Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," 
 
 The reckless scoffers cried, 
 As to a horseman s saddle-bow 
 
 The old man s arms were tied. 
 
 And of his bondage hard and long 
 
 In Boston s crowded jail, 
 Where suffering woman s prayer was heard, 
 
 With sickening childhood s wail, 
 
114 LEGENDARY. 
 
 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." 
 
 " Now, goodwife, haste thee !" Macey cried ; 
 
 She caught his manly arm : 
 Behind, the parson urged pursuit, 
 
 With outcry and alarm. 
 
 Ho ! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, 
 
 The river-course was near : 
 The plashing on its pebbled shore 
 
 Was music to their ear. 
 
 A gray rock, tasselled o er with birch, 
 
 Above the waters hung, 
 And at its base, with every wave, 
 
 A small light wherry swung. 
 
 A leap they gain the boat and there 
 
 The goodman wields his oar ; 
 " 111 luck betide them all," he cried, - 
 
 " The laggards upon the shore." 
 
 Down through the crashing underwood, 
 
 The burly sheriff came : 
 "Stand, Goodman Macey, yield thyself; 
 
 Yield in the King s own name," 
 
THE EXILES. 1 
 
 " Now out upon thy hangman s face ! " 
 
 Bold Macey answered then, 
 " Whip women, on the village green, 
 
 But meddle not with men. 1 
 
 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 parson cried, 
 
 " The church s curse beware." 
 "Curse, an thou wilt," said Macey, "but 
 
 Thy blessing prithee spare." 
 
 "Vile scoffer ! " cried the baffled priest, 
 
 " Thou It yet the gallows see." 
 " Who s born to be hanged will not be drowned, 
 
 Quoth Macey, merrily ; 
 
 " And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by ! * 
 
 He bent him to his oar, 
 And the small boat glided quietly 
 
 From the twain upon the shore. 
 
 Now in the west, the heavy clouds 
 
 Scattered and fell asunder, 
 While feebler came the rush of rain, 
 
 And fainter growled the thunder. 
 
 And through the broken clouds the sun 
 
 Looked out serene and warm, 
 Painting its holy symbol-light 
 
 Upon the passing storm. 
 
tl 6 LEGENDARY. 
 
 O, beautiful ! that rainbow span, 
 
 O er dim Crane-neck was bended; 
 
 One bright foot touched the eastern hills, 
 And one with ocean blended. 
 
 By green Pentucket s southern slope 
 
 The small boat glided fast, 
 The watchers of " the Block-house " 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 weathercocV 
 Peered o er the pines before them. 
 
 Around the Black Rocks, on their left, 
 The marsh lay broad and green ; 
 
 And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, 
 Plum Island s hills were seen. 
 
 With skilful hand and wary eye 
 The harbor-bar was crossed ; 
 
 A plaything of the restless wave, 
 The boat on ocean tossed. 
 
THE EXILES. 
 
 The glory of the sunset heaven 
 
 On land and water lay, 
 On the steep hills of Agawam, 
 
 On cape, and bluff, and bay. 
 
 They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, 
 And Gloucester s harbor-bar ; 
 
 The watch-fire of the garrison 
 Shone like a setting star. 
 
 How brightly broke the morning 
 
 On Massachusetts Bay ! 
 Blue wave, and bright green island, 
 
 Rejoicing in the day. 
 
 On passed the bark in safety 
 
 Round isle and headland steep, 
 
 No tempest broke above them, 
 No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 
 
 Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 
 
 The vent rous Macey passed, 
 And on Nantucket s naked isle 
 
 Drew up his boat at last. 
 
 And how, in log-built cabin, 
 
 They braved the rough sea-weather ; 
 And there, in peace and quietness, 
 
 Went down life s vale together : 
 
 How others drew around them, 
 
 And how their fishing sped, 
 Until to every wind of heaven 
 
 Nantucket s sails were spread ; 
 
 117 
 
US LEGENDARY. 
 
 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 winnovr 
 Her shrubless hills of sand, 
 
 Free as the waves that batter 
 Along her yielding land. 
 
 Than hers, at duty s summons, 
 No loftier spirit stirs, 
 
 Nor falls o er human suffering 
 A readier tear than hers. 
 
 God bless the sea-beat island! 
 And grant forevermore, 
 
 That charity and freedom dwell, 
 As now, upon her shore ! 
 
 THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 
 
 DARK the halls, and cold the feast, 
 Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest 
 All is over, all is done, 
 Twain of yesterday are one I 
 Blooming girl and manhood gray, 
 Autumn in the arms of May 1 
 
THE NEW WIFE AND ThE OLD. Iig 
 
 Hushed within and hushed without, 
 Dancing feet and wrestlers shout ; 
 Dies the bonfire on the hill ; 
 All is dark and all is still, 
 Save the starlight, save the breeze 
 Moaning through the graveyard trees ; 
 And the great sea-waves below, 
 Pulse of the midnight beating slow. 
 
 From the brief dream of a bride 
 She hath wakened, at his side. 
 With half-uttered shriek and start, 
 Feels she not his beating heart ? 
 And the pressure of his arm, 
 And his breathing near and warm ? 
 
 Lightly from the bridal bed 
 Springs that fair dishevelled head, 
 And a feeling, new, intense, 
 Half of shame, half innocence, 
 Maiden fear and wonder speaks 
 Through her lips and changing cheeks. 
 
 From the oaken 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 unwrought 
 
I2o LEGENDARY. 
 
 "Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well, 
 More thar these calm lips will tell 
 Stooping to my lowly state, 
 He hath m.ide me rich and great, 
 And I bless him, though he be 
 Hard and stern to all save me ! " 
 
 While she sp^ iketh 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, 
 " Waken ! save me ! " still as death 
 At her side he slumbereth. 
 
THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. I2 i 
 
 Ring and bracelet all are gone, 
 
 And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ; 
 
 But she hears a murmur low, 
 
 Full of sweetness, full of woe, 
 
 Half a sigh and half a moan : 
 
 " Fear not ! give the dead her own ! " 
 
 Ah ! the dead wife s voice she knows ! 
 
 That cold hand whose pressure froze, 
 
 Once in warmest life had borne 
 
 Gem and band her own hath worn. 
 
 " Wake thee ! wake thee ! " Lo, his eyes 
 
 Open with a dull surprise. 
 
 In his arms the strong man folds her, 
 Closer to his breast he holds her ; 
 Trembling limbs his own are meeting, 
 And he feels her heart s quick beating : 
 " Nay, my dearest, why this fear ? " 
 " Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" 
 
 " Nay, a dream, an idle dream." 
 But before the lamp s pale gleam 
 Tremblingly her hand she raises, 
 There no more the diamond blazes, 
 Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, 
 " Ah ! " she sighs, " her hand was cold ! 
 
 Broken words of cheer he saith, 
 
 But his dark lip quivereth, 
 
 And as o er the past he thinketh, 
 
 From his young wife s arms he shrinketh ; 
 
 Can those soft arms round him lie, 
 
 Underneath his dead wife s eye ? 
 
122 LEGENDARY. 
 
 She her fair young head can rest 
 
 Soothed and childlike on his breast, 
 
 And in trustful innocence 
 
 Draw new strength and courage thence; 
 
 He, the proud man, feels within 
 
 But the cowardice of sin ! 
 
 She can murmur in her thought 
 Simple prayers her mother taught, 
 And His blessed angels call, 
 Whose great love is over all ; 
 He, alone, in prayerless pride, 
 Meets the dark Past at her side ! 
 
 One, who living shrank with dread 
 From his look, or word, or tread, 
 Unto whom her early grave 
 Was as freedom to the slave, 
 Moves him at this midnight hour 
 With the dead s unconscious power I 
 
 Ah, the dead, the unforgot ! 
 
 From their solemn homes of thought, 
 
 Where the cypress shadows blend 
 
 Darkly over foe and friend, 
 
 Or in love or sad rebuke, 
 
 Back upon the living look. 
 
 And the tenderest ones and weakest, 
 Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, 
 Lifting from those dark, still places, 
 Sweet and sad-remembered faces, 
 O er the guilty hearts behind 
 An unwitting triumph find. 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 FROM 1833 TO 1848. 
 
-H 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 FROM 1833 TO 1848. 
 
 TOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE. 32 
 
 WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile 
 
 With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down 
 Its beauty on the Indian isle, 
 
 On broad green field and white-walled town ; 
 And inland waste of rock and wood, 
 In searching sunshine, wild and rude, 
 Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam, 
 Soft as the landscape of a dream, 
 All motionless and dewy wet, 
 Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met : 
 The myrtle with its snowy bloom, 
 Crossing the nightshade s solemn gloom, 
 The white cecropia s silver rind 
 Relieved by deeper green behind, 
 The orange with its fruit of gold, 
 The lithe paullinia s verdant fold, 
 The passion-flower, with symbol holy, 
 Twining its tendrils long and lowly, 
 The rhexias dark, and cassia tall, 
 And, proudly rising over all, 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The kingly palm s imperial stem, 
 Crowned with its leafy diadem, 
 Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade, 
 The fiery-winged cucullo played ! 
 Yes, lovely was thine aspect, then, 
 
 Fair island of the Western Sea ! 
 Lavish of beauty, even when 
 Thy brutes were happier than thy men, 
 
 For they, at least, were free ! 
 Regardless of thy glorious clime, 
 
 Unmindful of thy soil of flowers, 
 The toiling negro sighed, that Time 
 
 No faster sped his hours. 
 For, by the dewy moonlight still, 
 He fed the weary-turning mill, 
 Or bent him in the chill morass, 
 To pluck the long and tangled grass, 
 And hear above his scar-worn back 
 The heavy slave-whip s frequent crack ; 
 While in his heart one evil thought 
 In solitary madness wrought, 
 One baleful fire surviving still 
 
 The quenching of the immortal mind, 
 
 One sterner passion of his kind, 
 Which even fetters could not kill, 
 The savage hope, to deal, erelong, 
 A vengeance bitterer than his wrong ! 
 
 Hark to that cry ! long, loud, and shrill, 
 From field and forest, rock and hill, 
 Thrilling and horrible it rang, 
 
 Around, beneath, above ; 
 The wild beast from his cavern sprang, 
 
 The wild bird from her grove ! 
 
TOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE. 
 
 127 
 
 Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony 
 Were mingled in that midnight cry ; 
 But like the lion s growl of wrath, 
 When falls that hunter in his path 
 Whose barbe d arrow, deeply set, 
 Is rankling in his bosom yet, 
 It told of hate, full, deep, and strong, 
 Of vengeance kindling out of wrong ; 
 It was as if the crimes of years 
 The unrequited toil, the tears, 
 The shame and hate, which liken well 
 Earth s garden to the nether hell 
 Had found in Nature s self a tongue, 
 On which the gathered horror hung ; 
 As if from cliff, and stream, and glen 
 Burst on the startled ears of men 
 That voice which rises unto God, 
 Solemn and stern, the cry of blood ! 
 It ceased, and all was still once more, 
 Save ocean chafing on his shore, 
 The sighing of the wind between 
 The broad banana s leaves cf green, 
 Or bough by restless plumage shook, 
 Or murmuring voice of mountain brook. 
 
 Brief was the silence. Once again 
 Pealed to the skies that frantic yell, 
 
 Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain, 
 And flashes rose and fell ; 
 
 And painted on the blood-red sky, 
 
 Dark, naked arms were tossed on high ; 
 
 And, round the white man s lordly hall, 
 Trod, fierce and free, the brute he made; 
 
 And those who crept along the wall, 
 
 T 
 
128 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And answered to his lightest call 
 
 With more than spaniel dread, 
 The creatures of his lawless beck, T 
 Were trampling on his very neck ! 
 And on the night-air, wild and clear, 
 Rose woman s shriek of more than fear ; 
 For bloodied arms were round her thrown, 
 And dark cheeks pressed against her own ! 
 
 Then, injured Afric ! for the shame 
 Of thy own daughters, vengeance came 
 Full on the scornful hearts of those, 
 Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes, 
 And to thy hapless children gave 
 One choice, pollution or the grave ! 
 
 Where then was he whose fiery zeal 
 Had taught the trampled heart to feel, 
 Until despair itself grew strong, 
 And vengeance fed its torch from wrong ? 
 Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding ; 
 Now, when oppression s heart is bleeding ; 
 Now, when the latest curse of Time 
 
 Is raining down in fire and blood, 
 That curse which, through long years of crime, 
 
 Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood, 
 Why strikes he not, the foremost one, 
 Where murder s sternest deeds are done ? 
 
 He stood the aged palms beneath, 
 
 That shadowed o er his humble door, 
 Listening, with half-suspended breath, 
 To the wild sounds of fear and death, 
 Toussaint 1 Ouverture ! 
 
TO USSAINT L 1 UVER JURE. j 2 ? 
 
 What marvel that his heart beat high ! 
 
 The blow for freedom had been given, 
 And blood had answered to the cry 
 
 Which Earth sent up to Heaven ! 
 What marvel that a fierce delight 
 Smiled grimly o er his brow of night, 
 As groan and shout and bursting flame 
 Told where the midnight tempest came, 
 With blood and fire along its van, 
 And death behind ! he was a Man ! 
 
 Yes, dark-souled chieftain ! if the light 
 
 Of mild Religion s heavenly ray 
 Unveiled not to thy mental sight 
 
 The lowlier and the purer way, 
 In which the Holy Sufferer trod, 
 
 Meekly amidst the sons of crime, 
 That calm reliance upon God 
 
 For justice in his own good time, 
 
 That gentleness to which belongs 
 Forgiveness for its many wrongs, 
 Even as the primal martyr, kneeling 
 
 " For mercy on the evil-dealing, 
 
 Let not the favored white man name 
 Thy stern appeal, with words of blame. 
 Has he not, with the light of heaven 
 
 Broadly around him, made the same ? 
 Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven, 
 
 And gloried in his ghastly shame ? 
 Kneeling amidst his brother s blood, 
 To offer mockery unto God, 
 As if the High and Holy One 
 Could smile on deeds of murder done 1 
 As if a human sacrifice 
 
 6* 
 
130 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Were purer in his Holy eyes, 
 
 Though offered up by Christian hands, 
 
 Than the foul rites of Pagan lands ! 
 
 Sternly, amidst his household band, 
 His carbine grasped within his hand, 
 
 The white man stood, prepared and still, 
 Waiting the shock of maddened men, 
 Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when 
 
 The horn winds through their caverned hill 
 And one was weeping in his sight, 
 
 The sweetest flower of all the isle, 
 The bride who seemed but yesternight 
 
 Love s fair embodied smile. 
 And, clinging to her trembling knee 
 Looked up the form of infancy, 
 With tearful glance in either face 
 The secret of its fear to trace. 
 " Ha ! stand or die ! " The white man s eye 
 
 His steady musket gleamed along, 
 As a tall Negro hastened nigh, 
 
 With fearless step and strong. 
 "What, ho, Toussaint !" A moment more, 
 His shadow crossed the lighted floor. 
 " Away ! " he shouted ; " fly with me, 
 The white man s bark is on the sea ; 
 Her sails must catch the seaward wind, 
 For sudden vengeance sweeps behind. 
 Our brethren from their graves have spoken, 
 The yoke is spurned, the chain is broken ; 
 On all the hills our fires are glowing, 
 Through all the vales red blood is flowing ! 
 No more the mocking White shall rest 
 
TOUSSAINT nOUVERTURR. 131 
 
 His foot upon the Negro s breast ; 
 
 No more, at morn or eve, shall drip 
 
 The warm blood from the driver s whip : 
 
 Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn 
 
 For all the wrongs his race have borne, 
 
 Though for each drop of Negro blood 
 
 The white man s veins shall pour a flood ; 
 
 Not all alone the sense of ill 
 
 Around his heart is lingering still, 
 
 Nor deeper can the white man feel 
 
 The generous warmth of grateful zeal. 
 
 Friends of the Negro ! fly with me, 
 
 The path is open to the sea : 
 
 Away, for life ! " - He spoke, and pressed 
 
 The young child to his manly breast, 
 
 As, headlong, through the cracking cane, 
 
 Down swept the dark insurgent train, 
 
 Drunken and grim, with shout and yell 
 
 Howled through the dark, like sounds from hell. 
 
 Far out, in peace, the white man s sail 
 Swayed free before the sunrise gale. 
 Cloud-like that island hung afar, 
 
 Along the bright horizon s verge, 
 O er which the curse of servile war 
 
 Rolled its red torrent, surge on surge ; 
 And he the Negro champion where 
 
 In the fierce tumult struggled he ? 
 Go trace him by the fiery glare 
 Of dwellings in the midnight air, 
 The yells of triumph and despair, 
 
 The streams that crimson to the sea ! 
 
 Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb, 
 Beneath Besangon s alien sky, 
 
I3 2 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Dark Haytien ! for the time shall come, 
 
 Yea, even now is nigh, 
 
 When, everywhere, thy name shall be 
 
 Redeemed from color s infamy ; 
 
 And men shall learn to speak of thee 
 
 As one of earth s great spirits, born 
 
 In servitude, and nursed in scorn, 
 
 Casting aside the weary weight 
 
 And fetters of its low estate, 
 
 In that strong majesty of soul 
 
 Which knows no color, tongue, or clime, 
 Which still hath spurned the base control 
 
 Of tyrants through all time ! 
 Far other hands than mine may wreath 
 The laurel round the brow of death, 
 And speak thy praise as one whose word 
 A thousand fiery spirits stirred, 
 Who crushed his foeman as a worm, 
 Whose step on human hearts fell firm : M 
 Be mine the better task to find 
 A tribute for thy lofty mind, 
 Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone 
 Some milder virtues all thine own, 
 Some gleams of feeling, pure and warm, 
 Like sunshine on a sky of storm, 
 Proofs that the Negro s heart retains 
 Some nobleness amidst its chains, 
 That kindness to the wronged is never 
 
 Without its excellent reward, 
 Holy to human-kind, and ever 
 
 Acceptable to God. 
 
THE SLAVE-SHIPS. 133 
 
 THE SLAVE-SHIPS. 84 
 
 " That fatal, that perfidious bark, 
 Built i the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." 
 
 MILTON S Lycidas. 
 
 "ALL ready ?" cried the captain ; 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " the seamen said ; 
 " Heave up the worthless lubbers, 
 
 The dying and the dead." 
 Up from the slave-ship s prison 
 
 Fierce, bearded heads were thrust : 
 " Now let the sharks look to it, 
 Toss up the dead ones first ! " 
 
 Corpse after corpse came up, 
 
 Death had been busy there ; 
 Where every blow is mercy, 
 
 Why should the spoiler spare ? 
 Corpse after corpse they cast 
 
 Sullenly from the ship, 
 Yet bloody with the traces 
 
 Of fetter-link and whip. 
 
 Gloomily stood the captain, 
 
 With his arms upon his breast, 
 With his cold brow sternly knotted, 
 
 And his iron lip compressed. 
 " Are all the dead dogs over ? " 
 
 Growled through that matted lip, 
 " The blind ones are no better, 
 
 Let s lighten the good ship." 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 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. 
 i*et the holy breath of heaven 
 
 Was sweetly breathing there, 
 ,*nd the heated brow of fever 
 
 Cooled in the soft sea air. 
 
 M Overboard with them, shipmates I 
 
 Cutlass and dirk were plied ; 
 Fettered and blind, one after one, 
 
 Plunged down the vessel s side. 
 The sabre smote above, 
 
 Beneath, the lean shark lay, 
 Waiting with wide and bloody jaw 
 
 His quick and human prey. 
 
 God of the earth ! what cries 
 
 Rang upward unto thee ? 
 Voices of agony and blood, 
 
 From ship-deck and from sea. 
 The last dull plunge was heard, 
 
 The last wave caught its stain, 
 And the unsaied shark looked up 
 
 For human hearts in vain. 
 
THE SLAVE-SHIPS. 135 
 
 Red glowed the western waters, 
 
 The setting sun was there, 
 Scattering alike on wave and cloud 
 
 His fiery mesh of hair. 
 Amidst a group in blindness, 
 
 A solitary eye 
 Gazed, from the burdened slaver s deck^ 
 
 Into that burning sky. 
 
 " A storm," spoke out the gazer, 
 
 "Is gathering and at hand, 
 Curse on t I d give my other eye 
 
 For one firm rood of land." 
 And then he laughed, but only 
 
 His echoed laugh replied, 
 For the blinded and the suffering 
 
 Alone were at his side. 
 
 Night settled on the waters, 
 
 And on a stormy heaven, 
 While fiercely on that lone ship s track 
 
 The thunder-gust was driven. 
 " A sail ! thank God, a sail ! " 
 
 And as the helmsman spoke, 
 Up through the stormy murmur 
 
 A shout of gladness broke. 
 
 Down came the stranger vessel, 
 
 Unheeding on her way, 
 So near, that on the slaver s deck 
 
 Fell off her driven spray. 
 " Ho ! for the love of mercy, 
 
 We re perishing and blind ! " 
 A wail of utter agony 
 
 Came back upon the wind : 
 
136 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 u Help us / for we are stricken 
 
 With blindness every one ; 
 Ten days we Ve floated fearfully, 
 
 Unnoting star or sun. 
 Our ship s the slaver Leon, 
 
 We Ve but a score on board, - 
 Our slaves are all gone over, 
 
 Help, for the love of God 1" 
 
 On livid brows of agony 
 
 The broad red lightning shone, - 
 But the roar of wind and thunder 
 
 Stifled the answering groan. 
 Wailed from the broken waters 
 
 A last despairing cry, 
 As, kindling in the stormy light, 
 
 The stranger ship went by. 
 * % * * # 
 In the sunny Guadaloupe 
 
 A dark-hulled vessel lay, 
 With a crew who noted never 
 
 The nightfall or the day. 
 The blossom of the orange 
 
 Was white by every stream, 
 And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird 
 
 Were in the warm sunbeam. 
 
 And the sky was bright as ever, 
 
 And the moonlight slept as well, 
 On the palm-trees by the hillside 
 
 And the streamlet of the dell: 
 And the glances of the Creole 
 
 Were still as archly deep, 
 And her smiles as full as ever 
 
 Of passion and of sleep. 
 
STANZAS. 137 
 
 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. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 [ "The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native coun 
 try is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied 
 its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States the free 
 United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king cradle the 
 bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a 
 Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less 
 energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?" DR. POLLEN S 
 A ddress. 
 
 "Genius of America! Spirit of our free institutions! where art 
 thou ? How art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! son of the morning, how art 
 then 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 I 
 Aha ! ART THOU BECOME LIKE UNTO us 1 " 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 ! 
 
138 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 By storied hill and hallowed grot, 
 
 By mossy wood and marshy glen, 
 Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, 
 
 And hurrying shout of Marion s men ! 
 The groan of breaking hearts is there, 
 
 The falling lash, the fetter s clank ! 
 Slaves, SLAVES are breathing in that air, 
 
 Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank ! 
 
 What, ho ! oiir 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 1 
 
 Speak ! shall their agony of prayer 
 
 Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ? 
 To us whose fathers scorned to bear 
 
 The paltry menace of a chain ; 
 To us, whose boast is loud and long 
 
 Of holy Liberty and Light, 
 Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong, 
 
 Plead vainly for their plundered Right ? 
 
 What! shall we send, with lavish breath, 
 
 Our sympathies across the wave, 
 Where Manhood, on the field of death, 
 
 Strikes for his freedom or a grave ? 
 Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung 
 
 For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, 
 And millions hail with pen and tongue 
 
 Our light on all her altars burning ? 
 
STANZAS. 139 
 
 Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, 
 
 By Vendome s pile and Schoenbrun s wall, 
 And Poland, gasping on her lance, 
 
 The impulse of our cheering call ? 
 And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye, 
 
 Clank o er our fields his hateful chain ? 
 And toss his fettered arms on high, 
 
 And groan for Freedom s gift, in vain ? 
 
 O, say, shall Prussia s banner be 
 
 A refuge for the stricken slave ? 
 And shall the Russian serf go free 
 
 By Baikal s lake and Neva s wave ? 
 And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane 
 
 Relax the iron hand of pride, 
 And bid his bondmen cast the chain, 
 
 From fettered soul and limb, aside ? 
 
 Shall every flap of England s flag 
 
 Proclaim that all around are free,. 
 From "farthest Ind" to each blue crag 
 
 That beetles o er the Western Sea ? 
 And shall we scoff at Europe s kings, 
 
 When Freedom s fire is dim with us, 
 And round our country s altar clings 
 
 The damning shade of Slavery s curse ? 
 
 Go let us ask of Constantine 
 
 To loose his grasp on Poland s throat; 
 And beg the lord of Mahmoud s line 
 
 To spare the struggling Suliote, 
 Will not the scorching answer come 
 
 From turbaned Turk and scornful Russ : 
 **Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, 
 
 Then turn, and ask the like of us ! " 
 
1 40 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Just God ! and shall we calmly rest. 
 
 The Christian s scorn, the heathen s mirth. 
 Content to live the lingering jest 
 
 And byword of a mocking Earth ? 
 Shall our own glorious land retain 
 
 That curse which Europe scorns to bear? 
 Shall our own brethren drag the chain 
 
 Which not even Russia s menials wear? 
 
 Up, then, in Freedom s manly part, 
 
 From graybeard eld to fiery youth, 
 And on the nation s naked heart 
 
 Scatter the living coals of Truth ! 
 Up, while ye slumber, deeper yet 
 
 The shadow of our lame 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 ? 
 
 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 ! 
 
THE YANKEE GIRL. 
 
 Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, 
 
 And leave no traces where it stood ; 
 Nor longer let its idol drink 
 
 His daily cup of human blood ; 
 But rear another altar there, 
 
 To Truth and Love and Mercy given, 
 And Freedom s gift, and Freedom s prayer, 
 
 Shall call an answer down from Heaven! 
 
 THE YANKEE GIRL. 
 
 SHE sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door, 
 Which the long evening shadow is stretching be 
 fore, 
 
 With a music as sweet as the music which seems 
 Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams ! 
 
 How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, 
 Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky ! 
 And lightly and freely her dark tresses play 
 O er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they ! 
 
 Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door, 
 The haughty and rich to the humble and poor ? 
 T is the great Southern planter, the master who waves 
 His whip of dominion o er hundreds of slaves. 
 
 " Nay, Ellen, for shame ! Let those Yankee fools spin, 
 Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their 
 
 skin ; 
 
 Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, 
 Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel ! 
 
142 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " O, 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 ! 
 
 " O, 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." 
 
 O, could ye have seen her that pride of our girls 
 Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, 
 With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, 
 And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel ! 
 
 " Go back, haughty Southron ! thy treasures of gold 
 Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold ; 
 Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear 
 The crack of the whip and the 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. 143 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 
I44 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 That thou art striving but to gain 
 
 A long-enduring name ; 
 That thou hast nerved the Afric s hand 
 
 And steeled the Afric s heart, 
 To shake aloft his vengeful brand, 
 
 And rend his chain apart. 
 
 Have I not known thee well, and read 
 
 Thy mighty purpose long ? 
 And watched the trials which have made 
 
 Thy human spirit strong ? 
 And shall the slanderer s demon breath 
 
 Avail with one like me, 
 To dim the sunshine of my faith 
 
 And earnest trust in thee ? 
 
 Go on, the dagger s point may glare 
 
 Amid thy pathway s gloom, 
 The fate which sternly threatens there 
 
 Is glorious martyrdom ! 
 Then onward with a martyr s zeal ; 
 
 And wait thy sure reward 
 When man to man no more shall kneeL 
 
 And God alone be Lord ! 
 1833. 
 
 SONG OF THE FREE. 
 
 PRIDE of New England! 
 Soul of our fathers ! 
 Shrink we all craven-like, 
 
 When the storm gathers ? 
 What though the tempest be 
 Over us lowering, 
 
THE SONG OF THE FREE. 145 
 
 Where s the New-Englander 
 
 Shamefully cowering ? 
 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 forever ! 
 Truce with oppression, 
 
 Never, oh ! never ! 
 By our own birthright-gift, 
 
 Granted of Heaven, 
 Freedom for heart and lip, 
 
 Be the pledge given ! 
 If we have whispered truth, 
 
 Whisper no longer ; 
 
146 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Speak as the tempest does, 
 
 Sterner and stronger ; 
 Still be the tones of truth 
 
 Louder and firmer, 
 Startling the haughty South 
 
 With the deep murmur ; 
 God and our charter s right, 
 
 Freedom forever ! 
 Truce with oppression, 
 
 Never, oh ! never ! 
 1836. 
 
 THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 
 
 HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o er mountain and 
 glen, 
 
 Through cane-brake and forest, the hunting of men ? 
 The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, 
 As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn ; 
 Hark ! the cheer and the hallo ! the crack of the 
 
 whip, 
 
 And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip ! 
 All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match, 
 Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch. 
 So speed to their hunting, o er mountain and glen, 
 Through cane-brake and forest, the hunting of men ! 
 
 Gay luck to our hunters ! how nobly they ride 
 
 In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their 
 
 pride ! 
 
 The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind. 
 Just screening the politic statesman behind, 
 
THE HUNTERS OF MEM 147 
 
 The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer, 
 The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. 
 And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid, 
 For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : 
 Her foot s in the stirrup, her hand on the rein, 
 How blithely she rides to the hunting of men ! 
 
 O, goodly and grand is our hunting to see, 
 
 In this "land of the brave and this home of the free." 
 
 Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, 
 
 All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein, 
 
 Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin 
 
 Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin ! 
 
 Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay ! 
 
 Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and 
 
 prey ? 
 Will their hearts fail within them ? their nerves 
 
 tremble, when 
 All roughly they ride to the hunting of men ? 
 
 Ho ! ALMS for our hunters ! all weary and faint, 
 Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. 
 The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still, 
 Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. 
 Haste, alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more 
 Have turned from their flight with their backs to the 
 
 shore : 
 
 What right have they here in the home of the white, 
 Shadowed o er by our banner of Freedom and Right ? 
 Ho ! alms for the hunters ! or never again 
 Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men ! 
 
 ALMS, ALMS for our hunters ! why will ye delay, 
 When their pride and their glory are melting away ? 
 
148 I OICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 The parson has turned ; for, on charge of his own, 
 Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone ? 
 The politic statesman looks back with a sigh, 
 There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his 
 
 eye. 
 
 O, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, 
 And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. 
 O, haste, ere he leaves us ! for who will ride then, 
 For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ? 
 1835- 
 
 CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 
 
 [In the report of the celebrated proslavery meeting in Charleston, S. C., 
 on the 4th of the gth month, 1835, published in the Courier of that city, it 
 is stated, " The CLERGY of all denominations attended in a body, 
 LENDING THEIR SANCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their 
 presence to the impressive character of the scene ! "] 
 
 JUST God ! and these are they 
 Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! 
 Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay 
 On Israel b 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 I 
 
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 149 
 
 Pilate and Herod friends ! 
 Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine ! 
 Just God and holy ! is that church, which lends 
 
 Strength to the spoiler, thine ? 
 
 Paid hypocrites, who turn 
 Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book 
 Of those high words of truth which search and burn 
 
 In warning and rebuke ; 
 
 Feed fat, ye locusts, feed ! 
 And in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord 
 That, from the toiling bondman s utter need, 
 
 Ye pile your own full board. 
 
 How long, O Lord ! how long 
 Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, 
 And in thy name, for robbery and wrong 
 
 At thy own altars pray ? 
 
 Is not thy hand stretched forth 
 Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? 
 Shall not the living God of all the earth, 
 
 And heaven above do right ? 
 
 Woe, then, to all who grind 
 Their brethren of a common Father down ! 
 To all who plunder from the immortal mind 
 
 Its bright and glorious crown ! 
 
 Woe to the priesthood ! woe 
 To those whose hire is with the price of blood, 
 Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, 
 
 The searching truths of God I 
 
I S o VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Their glory and their might 
 Shall perish ; and their very names shall be 
 Vile before all the people, in the light 
 
 Of a world s liberty. 
 
 O, speed the moment on 
 
 When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love 
 And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known 
 
 As in their home above. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE 
 
 [In a late publication of L. F. Tasistro, " Random Shots and South- 
 ern 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 1 "] 
 
 A CHRISTIAN ! going, gone ! 
 Who bids for God s own image ? for his grace r 
 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 1 
 
THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. 15 j 
 
 A Christian up for sale ! 
 
 Wet with her blood your whips, o ertask her frame, 
 Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, 
 
 Her patience shall not fail ! 
 
 A heathen hand might deal 
 
 Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years : 
 But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears, 
 
 Ye neither heed nor feel. 
 
 Con well thy lesson o er, 
 Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave 
 No dangerous tale of Him who came to save 
 
 The outcast and the poor. 
 
 But wisely shut the ray 
 Of God s free Gospel from her simple heart, 
 And to her darkened mind alone impart 
 
 One stern command, OBEY ! 
 
 So shalt thou deftly raise 
 The market price of human flesh ; and while 
 On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile, 
 
 The church shall praise. 
 
 Grave, reverend men shall tell 
 From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest, 
 While in that vile South Sodom, first and best, 
 
 Thy poor disciples sell. 
 
 O, shame ! the Moslem thrall, 
 Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, 
 While turning to the sacred Kebla feels 
 
 His fetters break and fall. 
 
I5 2 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Cheers for the turbaned Bey 
 Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn 
 The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne 
 
 Their inmates into day ; 
 
 But our poor slave in vain 
 
 Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes, 
 Its rites will only swell his market price, 
 
 And rivet on his chain. 
 
 God of all right ! how long 
 Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand, 
 Lifting in prayer to thee the bloody hand 
 
 And haughty brow of wrong ? 
 
 O, from the fields of cane, 
 
 From the low rice-swamp, from the trader s cell, 
 From the black slave-ship s foul and loathsome hell, 
 
 And cofBe s weary chain, 
 
 Hoarse, horrible, and strong, 
 Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, 
 Filling the arches of the hollow sky, 
 
 HOW LONG, O GOD, HOW LONG ? 
 
 STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 
 
 IS this the land our fathers loved, 
 The freedom which they toiled to win ? 
 Is this the soil whereon they moved ? 
 
 Are these the graves they slumber in ? 
 Are we the sons by whom are borne 
 The mantles which the dead have worn ? 
 
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 153 
 
 And shall we crouch above these graves, 
 
 With craven soul and fettered lip ? 
 Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, 
 
 And tremble at the driver s whip ? 
 Bend to the earth our pliant knees, 
 And speak but as our masters please ? 
 
 Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ? 
 
 Shall Mercy s tears no longer flow ? 
 Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel, 
 
 The dungeon s gloom, the assassin s blow, 
 Turn back the spirit roused to save 
 The Truth, our Country, and the Slave ? 
 
 Of human skulls that shrine was made, 
 
 Round which the priests of Mexico 
 Before their loathsome idol prayed ; 
 
 Is Freedom s altar fashioned so ? 
 And must we yield to Freedom s God, 
 As offering meet, the negro s blood ? 
 
 Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought 
 Which well might shame extremest hell ? 
 
 Shall freemen lock the indignant thought ? 
 Shall Pity s bosom cease to swell ? 
 
 Shall Honor bleed ? shall Truth succumb ? 
 
 Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ? 
 
 No ; by each spot of haunted ground, 
 Where Freedom weeps her children s fall, 
 
 By Plymouth s rock, and Bunker s mound, 
 By Griswold s stained and shattered wall, 
 
 By Warren s ghost, by Langdon s shade, 
 
 By all the memories of our dead ! 
 
 7* 
 
154 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 By their enlarging souls, which burst 
 
 The bands and fetters round them set, 
 
 By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed 
 Within our inmost bosoms, yet, 
 
 By all above, around, below, 
 
 Be ours the indignant answer, NO ! 
 
 No ; guided by our country s laws, 
 For truth, and right, and suffering man, 
 
 Be ours to strive in Freedom s cause, 
 As Christians may, as freemen can / 
 
 Still pouring on unwilling ears 
 
 That truth oppression only fears. 
 
 What ! shall we guard our neighbor still, 
 While woman shrieks beneath his rod, 
 
 And while he tramples down at will 
 The image of a common God ! 
 
 Shall watch and ward be round him set, 
 
 Of Northern nerve and bayonet ? 
 
 And shall we know and share with him 
 The danger and the growing shame ? 
 
 And see our Freedom s light grow dim, 
 
 Which should have filled the world with flame ? 
 
 And, writhing, feel, where er we turn, 
 
 A world s reproach around us burn ? 
 
 Is t not enough that this is borne ? 
 
 And asks our haughty neighbor more ? 
 Must fetters which his slaves have worn 
 
 Clank round the Yankee farmer s door ? 
 Must he be told, beside his plough, 
 What he must speak, and when, and how ? 
 
LINES. 155 
 
 Must he be told his freedom stands 
 
 On Slavery s dark foundations strong, 
 
 On breaking hearts and fettered hands, 
 On robbery, and crime, and wrong ? 
 
 That all his fathers taught is vain, 
 
 That Freedom s emblem is the chain ? 
 
 Its life, its soul, from slavery drawn ? 
 
 False, foul, profane ! Go, teach as well 
 Of holy Truth from Falsehood born ! 
 
 Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell ! 
 Of Virtue in the arms of Vice ! 
 Of Demons planting Paradise ! 
 
 Rail on, then, " brethren of the South," 
 Ye shall not hear the truth the less ; 
 
 No seal is on the Yankee s mouth, 
 No fetter on the Yankee s press ! 
 
 From our Green Mountains to the sea, 
 
 One voice shall thunder, WE ARE FREE ! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON READING THE MESSAGE OF GOVERNOR 
 RITNER, OF PENNSYLVANIA, 1836. 
 
 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 ; 
 
J5 6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 When the recreant North has forgotten her trust, 
 And the lip of her honor is low in the dust, . 
 Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has broken ! 
 Thank God that one man as a free-man has spoken ! 
 
 O er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown I 
 Down thy side, 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, O 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 O, will the land where the free soul of PENN 
 Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen, 
 Will the land where BENEZET S spirit went forth 
 To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of Earth, 
 Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first 
 From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst, 
 
LINES. 
 
 157 
 
 Where first for the wronged and the weak of their kind, 
 The Christian and statesman their efforts combined, 
 Will that land of the free and the good wear a chain ? 
 Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ? 
 
 No, RITNER! her "Friends" at thy warning shall 
 
 stand 
 
 Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band ; 
 Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, 
 Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime ; 
 Turning back 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 : 
 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 ! 
 
158 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 THF, 
 
 RIGHT ! " 
 
 THE PASTORAL LETTER. 
 
 SO, this is all, the utmost reach 
 Of priestly power the mind to fetter ! 
 When laymen think when women preach 
 
 A war of words a "Pastoral Letter!" 
 Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! 
 
 Was it thus with those, your predecessors, 
 Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes 
 Their loving-kindness to transgressors ? 
 
 A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull 
 
 Alas ! in hoof and horns and features, 
 How different is your Brookfield bull, 
 
 From him who bellows from St. Peter s ! 
 Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, 
 
 Think ye, can words alone preserve them ? 
 Your wiser fathers taught the arm 
 
 And sword of temporal power to serve them. 
 
 O, glorious days, when Church and State 
 Were wedded by your spiritual fathers ! 
 
 And on submissive shoulders sate 
 
 Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. 
 
 No vile " itinerant" then could mar 
 The beauty of your tranquil Zion 
 
THE PASTORAL LETTER. 
 
 But at his peril of the scar 
 
 Of hangman s whip and branding-iron. 
 
 Then, wholesome laws relieved the church 
 
 Of heretic and mischief-maker, 
 And priest and bailiff joined in search, 
 
 By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker! 
 The stocks were at each church s door, 
 
 The gallows stood on Boston Common, 
 A Papist s ears the pillory bore, 
 
 The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman ! 
 
 Your fathers dealt not as ye deal 
 
 With " non-professing " frantic teachers ; 
 They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, 
 
 And flayed the backs of " female preachers- 
 Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue, 
 
 And Salem s streets could tell their story, 
 Of fainting woman dragged along, 
 
 Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory ! 
 
 And will ye ask me, why this taunt 
 
 Of memories sacred from the scorner ? 
 And why with reckless hand I plant 
 
 A nettle on the graves ye honor ? 
 Not to reproach New England s dead 
 
 This record from the past I summon, 
 Of manhood to the scaffold led, 
 
 And suffering and heroic woman. 
 
 No, for yourselves alone I turn 
 
 The pages of intolerance over, 
 That, in their spirit, dark and stern, 
 
 Ye haply may your own discover I 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 For, if ye claim the " pastoral right " 
 To silence Freedom s voice of warning, 
 
 And from your precincts shut the light 
 Of Freedom s day around ye dawning ; 
 
 If when an earthquake voice of power, 
 
 And signs in earth and heaven, are showing 
 That forth, in its appointed hour, 
 
 The Spirit of the Lord is going ! 
 And, with that Spirit, Freedom s light 
 
 On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, 
 Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, 
 
 In glory and in strength are waking ! 
 
 When for the sighing of the poor, 
 
 And for the needy, God hath risen, 
 And chains are breaking, and a door 
 
 Is opening for the souls in prison ! 
 It then ye would, with puny hands, 
 
 Arrest the very work of Heaven, 
 And bind anew the evil bands 
 
 Which God s right arm of power hath riven, 
 
 What marvel that, in many a mind, 
 
 Those darker deeds of bigot madness 
 Are closely with your own combined, 
 
 Yet " less in anger than in sadness " ? 
 What marvel, if the people learn 
 
 To claim the right of free opinion ? 
 What marvel, if at times they spurn 
 
 The ancient yoke of your dominion ? 
 
 A glorious remnant linger yet, 
 
 Whose lips are wet at Freedom s fountains, 
 
THE PASTORAL LETTER. 161 
 
 The coming of whose welcome feet 
 
 Is beautiful upon our mountains ? 
 Men, who the gospel tidings bring 
 
 Of liberty and love forever, 
 Whose joy is an abiding spring, 
 
 Whose peace is as a gentle river ! 
 
 But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale 
 
 Of Carolina s high-souled daughters, 
 Which echoes here the mournful wail 
 
 Of sorrow from Edisto s waters, 
 Close while ye may the public ear, 
 
 With malice vex, with slander wound them, 
 The pure and good shall throng to hear, 
 
 And tried and manly hearts surround them. 
 
 O, ever may the power which led 
 
 Their way to such a fiery trial, 
 And strengthened womanhood to tread 
 
 The wine-press of such self-denial, 
 Be round them in an evil land, 
 
 With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, 
 With Miriam s voice, and Judith s hand, 
 
 And Deborah s song, for triumph given ! 
 
 And what are ye who strive with God 
 
 Against the ark of his salvation, 
 Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, 
 
 With blessings for a dying nation ? 
 What, but the stubble and the hay 
 
 To perish, even as flax consuming, 
 With all that bars his glorious way, 
 
 Before the brightness of his coming ? 
 
1 62 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And thou, sad Angel, who so long 
 
 Hast waited for the glorious token, 
 That Earth from all her bonds of wrong 
 
 To liberty and light has broken, 
 Angel of Freedom ! soon to thee 
 
 The sounding trumpet shall be given, 
 And over Earth s full jubilee 
 
 Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven ! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE MEETING OF THE ANTISLAVERY 
 SOCIETY, AT CHATHAM STREET CHAPEL, N. Y., HELD 
 ON THE 4TH OF THE /TH MONTH, 1834. 
 
 OTHOU, whose presence went before 
 Our fathers in their weary way, 
 As with thy chosen moved of yore 
 The fire by night, the cloud by day ! 
 
 When from each temple of the free, 
 A nation s song ascends to Heaven, 
 
 Most Holy Father ! unto thee 
 
 May not our humble prayer be given ? 
 
 Thy children all, though hue and form 
 Are varied in thine own good will, 
 
 With thy own holy breathings warm, 
 And fashioned in thine image still. 
 
 We thank thee, Father ! hill and plain 
 Around us wave their fruits once more, 
 
 And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, 
 Are bending round each cottage door. 
 
LINES. 163 
 
 And peace is here ; and hope and love 
 
 Are round us as a mantle thrown, 
 And unto Thee, supreme above, 
 
 The knee of prayer is bowed alone. 
 
 But O, for those this day can bring, 
 
 As unto us, no joyful thrill, 
 For those who, under Freedom s wing, 
 
 Are bound in Slavery s fetters still : 
 
 For those to whom thy living word 
 Of light and love is never given, 
 
 For those whose ears have never heard 
 The promise and the hope of Heaven ! 
 
 For broken heart and clouded mind, 
 Whereon no human mercies fall, 
 
 O, be thy gracious love inclined, 
 Who, as a Father, pitiest all ! 
 
 And grant, O Father ! that the time 
 Of Earth s deliverance may be near, 
 
 When every land and tongue and clime 
 The message of thy love shall hear, 
 
 When, smitten as with fire from heaven, 
 The captive s chain shall sink in dust, 
 
 And to his fettered soul be given 
 The glorious freedom of the just ! 
 
164 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THF THIRD 
 ANNIVERSARY OF BRITISH EMANCIPATION AT THF. 
 BROADWAY TABERNACLE, N. Y., u FIRST OF AUGUST, 
 1837. 
 
 OHOLY FATHER ! just and true 
 Are all thy works and words and ways, 
 And unto thee alone are due 
 
 Thanksgiving and eternal praise ! 
 As children of thy gracious care, 
 
 We veil the eye we bend the knee, 
 With broken words of praise and prayer, 
 Father and God, we come to thee. 
 
 For thou hast heard, O God of Right, 
 
 The sighing of the island slave ; 
 And stretched for him the arm of might, 
 
 Not shortened that it could not save. 
 The laborer sits beneath his vine, 
 
 The shackled soul and hand are free, 
 Thanksgiving ! for the work is thine ! 
 
 Praise ! for the blessing is of thee ! 
 
 And O, we feel thy presence here, 
 
 Thy awful arm in judgment bare ! 
 Thine eye hath seen the bondman s tear, 
 
 Thine ear hath heard the bondman s prayer. 
 Praise ! for the pride of man is low, 
 
 The counsels of the wise are naught, 
 The fountains of repentance flow ; 
 
 What hath our God in mercy wrought ? 
 
LINES. 
 
 Speed on thy work, Lord God of Hosts I 
 
 And when the bondman s chain is riven, 
 And swells from all our guilty coasts 
 
 The anthem of the free to Heaven, 
 O, not to those whom thou hast led, 
 
 As with thy cloud and fire before, 
 But unto thee, in fear and dread, 
 
 Be praise and glory evermore. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF 
 THE FIRST OF AUGUST, AT MILTON, 1846. 
 
 A FEW brief years have passed away 
 ^~* Since Britain drove her million slaves 
 Beneath the tropic s fiery ray : 
 God willed their freedom ; and to-day 
 Life blooms above those island graves ! 
 
 He spoke ! across the Carib Sea 
 We heard the clash of breaking chains, 
 
 And felt the heart-throb of the free, 
 
 The first, strong pulse of liberty 
 
 Which thrilled along the 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 ? 
 
!66 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Mighty alike for good or ill 
 
 With mother-land, we fully share 
 
 The Saxon strength, the nerve of steel, 
 
 The tireless energy of will, 
 
 The power to do, the pride to dare. 
 
 What she has done can we not do ? 
 
 Our hour and men are both at hand ; 
 The blast which Freedom s angel blew 
 O er her green islands, echoes through 
 
 Each valley of our forest land. 
 
 Hear it, old Europe ! we have sworn 
 
 The death of slavery. When it falls, 
 Look to your vassals in their turn, 
 Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, 
 Your prisons and your palace walls ! 
 
 O kingly mockers ! scoffing show 
 
 What deeds in Freedom s name we do ; 
 Yet know that every taunt ye throw 
 Across the waters, goads our slow 
 
 Progression towards the right and true. 
 
 Not always shall your outraged poor, 
 
 Appalled by democratic crime, 
 Grind as their fathers ground before, 
 The hour which sees our prison door 
 Swing wide shall be their triumph time. 
 
 On then, my brothers ! every blow 
 
 Ye deal is felt the wide earth through ; 
 Whatever here uplifts the low 
 Or humbles Freedom s hateful foe, 
 Blesses the Old World through the New. 
 
THE FAREWELL. 167 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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. 
 
r 68 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 O, when weary, sad, and slow, 
 From the fields at night they go, 
 Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
 To their cheerless homes again, 
 There no brother s voice shall greet them, 
 There no father s welcome meet them. 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From the tree whose shadow lay 
 On their childhood s place of play, 
 From the cool spring where they drank, 
 Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank, 
 From the solemn 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 
 
THE MORAL WARFARE. 169 
 
 O that they had earlier died, 
 
 Sleeping calmly, side by side, 
 
 Where the tyrant s power is o er, 
 
 And the fetter galls no more ! 
 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 By the holy love He beareth, 
 By the bruised reed He spareth, 
 O, may He, to whom alone 
 All their cruel wrongs are known, 
 Still their hope and refuge prove, 
 With a more than mother s love. 
 Gone, gone, sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia s hills and waters, -- 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 THE 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. 
 
I yo VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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. 
 
 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: 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 171 
 
 Where Justice hath one worshipper, 
 Or Truth one altar built to her ; 
 Where er a human eye is weeping 
 
 O er wrongs which Earth s sad children know, 
 Where er a single heart is keeping 
 
 Its prayerful watch with human woe : 
 Thence let them come, and greet each other, 
 And know in each a friend and brother ! 
 
 Yes, let them come ! from each green vale 
 
 Where England s old baronial halls 
 
 Still bear upon their storied walls 
 The grim Crusader s rusted mail, 
 Battered by Paynim spear and brand 
 On Malta s rock or Syria s sand ! 
 And mouldering pennon-staves once set 
 
 Within the soil of Palestine, 
 By Jordan and Genessaret ; 
 
 Or, borne with England s battle line, 
 O er Acre s shattered turrets stooping, 
 Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, 
 
 With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, 
 A holier summons now is given 
 
 Than that gray hermit s voice of old, 
 Which unto all the winds of heaven 
 
 The banners of the Cross unrolled ! 
 Not for the long-deserted shrine, 
 
 Not for the dull unconscious sod, 
 Which tells not by one lingering sign 
 
 That there the hope of Israel trod ; 
 But for that TRUTH, for which alone 
 
 In pilgrim eyes are sanctified 
 The garden moss, the mountain stone, 
 Whereon his holy sandals pressed, 
 
T y 2 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 The fountain which his lip hath blessed, 
 Whate er hath touched his garment s hem 
 At Bethany or Bethlehem, 
 
 Or Jordan s river-side. 
 For FREEDOM, in the name of Him 
 
 Who came to raise Earth s drooping poor, 
 To break the chain from every limb, 
 
 The bolt from every prison door ! 
 For these, o er all the earth hath passed 
 An ever-deepening trumpet-blast, 
 As if an angel s breath had lent 
 Its vigor to the instrument. 
 
 And Wales, from Snowden s mountain wall, 
 Shall startle at that thrilling call, 
 
 As if she heard her bards again ; 
 And Erin s " harp on Tara s wall " 
 
 Give out its ancient strain, 
 Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal, 
 
 The melody which Erin loves, 
 When o er that harp, mid bursts of gladness 
 And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, 
 
 The hand of her O Connell moves ! 
 Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, 
 And mountain hold, and heathery 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, 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 
 
 Or morning gun-fire s smoke is curling ; 
 From Indian Bengal s groves of palm 
 And rosy fields and gales of balm, 
 Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled 
 Through regal Ava s gates of gold ; 
 And from the lakes and ancient woods 
 And dim Canadian solitudes, 
 Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, 
 Queen of the North, Quebec looks down ; 
 And from those bright and ransomed Isles 
 Where all unwonted Freedom smiles, 
 And the dark laborer still retains 
 The scar of slavery s broken chains ! 
 
 From the hoar Alps, which sentinel 
 The gateways of the land of Tell, 
 Where morning s keen and earliest glance 
 
 On Jura s rocky wall is thrown, 
 And from the olive bowers of France 
 
 And vine groves garlanding the Rhone, - 
 " Friends of the Blacks," as true and tried 
 As those who stood by Oge s side, 
 And heard the Haytien s tale of wrong, 
 Shall gather at that summons strong, 
 Broglie, Passy, and 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, 
 
 173 
 
 
1?4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 From Lima s Inca-haunted halls, 
 From Santa Fe and Yucatan, 
 
 Men who by swart Guerrero s side 
 Proclaimed the deathless RIGHTS OF MAN, 
 
 Broke every bond and fetter off, 
 
 And hailed in every sable serf 
 A free and brother Mexican ! 
 Chiefs who across the Andes chain 
 
 Have followed Freedom s flowing pennon, 
 And seen on Junin s fearful plain, 
 Glare o er the broken ranks of Spain 
 
 The fire-burst of Bolivar s cannon ! 
 And Hayti, from her mountain land, 
 
 Shall send the sons of those who hurled 
 Defiance from her blazing strand, 
 The war-gage from her Petion s hand, 
 
 Alone against a hostile world. 
 
 Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, 
 Land of the dark and mystic Nile ! 
 
 Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame 
 
 All tyrants of a Christian name, 
 When in the shade of Gizeh s pile, 
 Or, where from Abyssinian hills 
 El Gerek s upper fountain fills, 
 Or where from Mountains of the Moon 
 El Abiad bears his watery boon, 
 Where er thy lotus blossoms swim 
 
 Within their ancient hallowed waters, 
 Where er is heard the Coptic hymn, 
 
 Or song of Nubia s sable daughters, 
 The curse of SLAVERY and the crime, 
 Thy bequest from remotest time, 
 At thy dark Mehemet s decree 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 175 
 
 Forevermore shall pass from thee ; 
 
 And chains forsake each captive s limb 
 Of all those tribes, whose hills around 
 Have echoed back the cymbal sound 
 
 And victor horn of Ibrahim. 
 
 And thou whose glory and whose crime 
 To earth s remotest bound and clime, 
 In mingled tones of awe and scorn, 
 The echoes of a world have borne, 
 My country ! glorious at thy birth, 
 A day-star flashing brightly forth, 
 
 The herald-sign of Freedom s dawn ! 
 O, who could dream that saw thee then, 
 
 And watched thy rising from afar, 
 That vapors from oppression s fen 
 
 Would cloud the upward tending star ? 
 Or, that earth s tyrant powers, which heard, 
 
 Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, 
 Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, 
 To mock thee with their welcoming, 
 Like Hades when her thrones were stirred 
 
 To greet the down-cast Star of Morning ! 
 " Aha ! and art thou fallen thus ? 
 Art THOU become as one of us ? " 
 
 Land of my fathers ! there will stand, 
 Amidst that world-assembled band. 
 Those owning thy maternal claim 
 Unweakened by thy crime and shame, 
 The sad reprovers of thy wrong, 
 The children thou hast spurned so long. 
 Still with affection s fondest yearning 
 To their unnatural mother turning. 
 No traitors they ! but tried and leal, 
 
, 76 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Whose own is but thy general weal, 
 Still blending with the patriot s zeal 
 The Christian s love for human kind, 
 To caste and climate unconfined. 
 
 A holy gathering ! peaceful all : 
 No threat of war, no savage call 
 
 For vengeance on an erring brother ; 
 But in their stead the godlike plan 
 To teach the brotherhood of man 
 
 To love and reverence one another, 
 As sharers of a common blood, 
 The children of a common God ! 
 Yet, even at its lightest word, 
 Shall Slavery s darkest depths be stirred : 
 Spain, watching from her Moro s keep 
 Her slave-ships traversing the deep, 
 And Rio, in her strength and pride, 
 Lifting, along her mountain-side, 
 Her snowy battlements and towers, 
 Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers, 
 With bitter hate and sullen fear 
 Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; 
 And where my country s flag is flowing, 
 On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing 
 
 Above the Nation s council halls, 
 Where Freedom s praise is loud and long, 
 
 While close beneath the outward walls 
 The driver plies his reeking thong, 
 
 The hammer of the man-thief falls, 
 O er hypocritic cheek and brow 
 The crimson flush of shame shall glow : 
 And all who for their native land 
 Are pledging life and heart and hand, 
 
THE WORLD S CONVENTION. 
 
 Worn watchers o er her changing weal, 
 
 Who for her tarnished honor feel, 
 
 Through cottage door and council-hall 
 
 Shall thunder an awakening call. 
 
 The pen along its page shall burn 
 
 With all intolerable scorn, 
 
 An eloquent rebuke shall go 
 
 On all the winds that Southward blow, 
 
 From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb, 
 
 Warning and dread appeal shall come, 
 
 Like those which Israel heard from him, 
 
 The Prophet of the Cherubim, 
 
 Or those which sad Esaias hurled 
 
 Against a sin-accurse d 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 ! 
 
,78 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 O, then to Faith s anointed eyes 
 
 The promised token shall be given ; 
 And on a nation s sacrifice, 
 Atoning for the sin of years, 
 And wet with penitential tears, 
 The fire shall fall from Heaven ! 
 1839- 
 
 NEW HAMPSHIRE. 
 1845. 
 
 GOD bless New Hampshire ! from her granite 
 peaks 
 
 Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks. 
 The long-bound vassal of the exulting South 
 
 For very shame her self-forged chain has broken, 
 Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth, 
 
 And in the clear tones of her old time spoken ! 
 O, all undreamed-of, all unhoped-for changes ! 
 
 The tyrant s ally proves his sternest foe ; 
 To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, 
 
 New Hampshire thunders an indignant No! 
 Who is it now despairs ? O, faint of heart, 
 
 Look upward to those Northern mountains cold, 
 
 Flouted by Freedom s victor-flag unrolled, 
 And gather strength to bear a manlier part ! 
 All is not lost. The angel of God s blessing 
 
 Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight ; 
 Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing, 
 
 Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right ! 
 Courage, then, Northern hearts ! Be firm, be true : 
 What one brave State hath done, can ye not also do ? 
 
 
THE NEW YEAR. , 7Q 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA 
 FREEMAN. 
 
 E wave is breaking on the shore, 
 The echo fading from the chime, 
 Again the shadow moveth o er 
 The dial-plate of time ! 
 
 O seer-seen Angel ! waiting now 
 With weary feet on sea and shore 
 
 Impatient for the last dread vow 
 That time shall be no more ! 
 
 Once more across thy sleepless eye 
 The semblance of a smile has passed : 
 
 The year departing leaves more nigh 
 Time s fearfullest and last. 
 
 O, in that dying year hath been 
 
 The sum of all since time began, 
 
 The birth and death, the joy and pain, 
 Of Nature and of Man. 
 
 Spring, with her change of sun and shower, 
 And streams released from winter s chain, 
 
 And bursting bud, and opening flower, 
 And greenly growing grain ; 
 
 And Summer s shade, and sunshine warm, 
 And rainbows o er her hill-tops bowed, 
 
 And voices in her rising storm, 
 God speaking from his cloud ! 
 
VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And Autumn s fruits and clustering sheaves, 
 And soft, warm days of golden light, 
 
 The glory of her forest leaves, 
 And harvest-moon at night ; 
 
 And Winter with her leafless grove, 
 
 And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, 
 
 The brilliance of her heaven above 
 And of her earth below : 
 
 And man, in whom an angel s mind 
 With earth s low instincts finds abode, 
 
 The highest of the links which bind 
 Brute nature to her God ; 
 
 His infant eye hath seen the light, 
 
 His childhood s merriest laughter rung, 
 
 And active sports to manlier might 
 The nerves of boyhood strung ! 
 
 And quiet love, and passion s fires, 
 
 Have soothed or burned in manhood s breast, 
 And lofty aims and low desires 
 
 By turns disturbed his rest. 
 
 The wailing of the newly-born 
 
 Has mingled with the funeral knell ; 
 
 And o er the dying s ear has gone 
 The merry marriage-bell. 
 
 And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
 While Want, in many a humble shed, 
 
 Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
 The live-long night for bread. 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 181 
 
 And worse than all, the human slave, 
 The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn I 
 
 Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, 
 His regal manhood gone. 
 
 O, still, my country ! o er thy plains, 
 
 Blackened with slavery s blight and ban, 
 
 That human chattel drags his chains, 
 An uncreated man ! 
 
 And still, where er to sun and breeze, 
 
 My country, is thy flag unrolled, 
 With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
 
 A stain on every fold. 
 
 O, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! 
 
 It gathers scorn from every eye, 
 And despots smile and good men frown 
 
 Whene er it passes by. 
 
 Shame ! shame ! its starry splendors glow 
 Above the slaver s loathsome jail, 
 
 Its folds are ruffling even now 
 His crimson flag of sale. 
 
 Still round our country s proudest hall 
 The trade in human flesh is driven, 
 
 And at each careless hammer-fall 
 A human heart is riven. 
 
 And this, too, sanctioned by the men, 
 Vested with power to shield the right, 
 
 And throw each vile and robber den 
 Wide open to the light. 
 
1 82 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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, 35 the basest of the base, 
 The vilest of the vile, whose name, 
 
 Embalmed in infinite disgrace, 
 Is deathless in its shame ! 
 
 A tool, to bolt the people s door 
 Against the people clamoring there, 
 
 An ass, to trample on their floor 
 A people s right of prayer ! 
 
 Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, 
 Self-pilloried to the public view, 
 
 A mark for every passing blast 
 Of scorn to whistle through ; 
 
 There let him hang, and hear the boast 
 Of Southrons o er their pilant tool, 
 
 A new Stylites on his post, 
 " Sacred to ridicule ! " 
 
 Look we at home ! our noble hall, 
 To Freedom s holy purpose given, 
 
 Now rears its black and ruined wall, 
 Beneath the wintry heaven, 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 183 
 
 Telling the story of its doom, 
 
 The fiendish mob, the prostrate law, 
 
 The fiery jet through midnight s gloom, 
 Our gazing thousands saw. 
 
 Look to our State, the poor man s right 
 Torn from him : and the sons of those 
 
 Whose blood in Freedom s sternest fight 
 Sprinkled the Jersey snows, 
 
 Outlawed within the land of Penn, 
 
 That Slavery s guilty fears might cease, 
 
 And those whom God created men 
 Toil on as brutes in peace. 
 
 Yet o er the blackness of the storm 
 
 A bow of promise bends on high, 
 And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm 
 
 Break through our clouded sky. 
 
 East, West, and North, the shout is heard, 
 
 Of freemen rising for the right : 
 Each valley hath its rallying word, 
 
 Each hill its signal light. 
 
 O er Massachusetts rocks of gray, 
 
 The strengthening light of freedom shines, 
 
 Rhode Island s Narragansett Bay, 
 And Vermont s snow-hung pines ! 
 
 From Hudson s frowning palisades 
 To Alleghany s laurelled crest, 
 
 O er lakes and prairies, streams and glades 
 It shines upon the West. 
 
r 8 4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Speed on the light to those who dwell 
 In Slavery s land of woe and sin, 
 
 And through the blackness of that hen 
 Let Heaven s own light break in. 
 
 So shall the Southern conscience quake 
 Before that light poured full and strong, 
 
 So shall the Southern heart awake 
 To all the bondman s wrong. 
 
 And from that rich and sunny land 
 The song of grateful millions rise, 
 
 Like that of Israel s ransomed band 
 Beneath Arabia s skies : 
 
 And all who now are bound beneath 
 Our banner s shade, our eagle s wing 
 
 From Slavery s night of moral death 
 To light and life shall spring. 
 
 Broken the bondman s chain, and gone 
 The master s guilt, and hate, and fear, 
 
 And unto both alike shall dawn 
 A New and Happy Year. 
 
 1839. 
 
 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 Massachusetts will probably be similar to that 
 of the negro SOMERSET in England, in 1772.] 
 
 pHE blast from Freedom s Northern hills, upon its 
 
 Southern way, 
 Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay: 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 185 
 
 No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle s 
 peal, 
 
 Nor steady tread of inarching files, nor clang of horse 
 men s steel. 
 
 No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways 
 
 go, - 
 
 Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; 
 And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands 
 
 far, 
 A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are 
 
 spread for war. 
 
 We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy words and 
 
 high, 
 Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along 
 
 our sky ; 
 Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor 
 
 here, 
 No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in 
 
 fear. 
 
 Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. 
 
 George s bank, 
 Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and 
 
 dank ; 
 Through storm and wave and blinding mist stout are 
 
 the hearts which man 
 The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of 
 
 Cape Ann. 
 
 The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy 
 
 forms, 
 Bent grimly o er their straining lines or wrestling with 
 
 the storms ; 
 

 1 86 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves 
 
 they roam, 
 They laugh to scorn the slaver s threat against their 
 
 rocky home. 
 
 What means the Old Dominion ? Hath she forgot the 
 
 day 
 When o er her conquered valleys swept the Briton s 
 
 steel array ? 
 How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts 
 
 men 
 Encountered Tarleton s charge of fire, and stout Corn- 
 
 wallis, then ? 
 
 Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call 
 Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil 
 
 Hall? 
 When, echoing back her Henry s cry, came pulsing on 
 
 each breath 
 Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of " LIBERTY 
 
 OR DEATH ! " 
 
 What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons have 
 
 proved 
 False to their fathers memory, false to the faith they 
 
 loved, 
 
 If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter spurn, 
 Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty turn ? 
 
 We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery s hateful 
 
 hell, - 
 Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound s 
 
 yell,- 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. jgy 
 
 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 zfree State may, 
 Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day ; 
 But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger 
 
 with alone, 
 And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have 
 
 sown ! 
 
 Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden 
 
 God s free air 
 With woman s shriek beneath the lash, and manhood s 
 
 wild despair ; 
 Cling closer to the " cleaving curse " that writes upon 
 
 your plains 
 The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains. 
 
 Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old, 
 By watching round the shambles where human flesh is 
 
 sold, 
 Gloat o er the new-born child, and count his market 
 
 value, when 
 The maddened mother s cry of woe shall pierce the 
 
 slaver s den ! 
 
!88 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginia name , 
 Plant, if ye will, your fathers graves with rankest weeds 
 
 of shame ; 
 
 Be, if ye will, the scandal of God s fair universe, 
 We wash our hands forever of your sin and shame and 
 
 curse. 
 
 A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom s 
 
 shrine hath been, 
 Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire s 
 
 mountain men : 
 
 The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still 
 In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. 
 
 And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his 
 prey 
 
 Beneath the very shadow of Bunker s shaft of gray, 
 
 How, through the free lips of the son, the father s warn 
 ing spoke ; 
 
 How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city 
 broke ! 
 
 A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on high, 
 
 A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud reply ; 
 
 Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling sum 
 mons rang, 
 
 And up from bench and loom and wheel her young me 
 chanics 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 ; 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 189 
 
 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 Narragan- 
 
 sett Bay ! 
 Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the 
 
 thrill, 
 And the cheer of Hampshire s woodmen swept down 
 
 from Holyoke Hill. 
 
 The voice of Massachusetts ! Of her free sons and 
 
 daughters, 
 Deep calling unto deep aloud, the sound of many 
 
 waters ! 
 Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power 
 
 shall stand ? 
 No fetters in the Bay State ! No slave upon her land ! 
 
 Look to it well, Virginians ! In calmness we have 
 borne, 
 
 In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your 
 scorn ; 
 
 You ve spurned our kindest counsels, you ve hunted 
 for our lives, 
 
 And shaken rou-nd our hearths and homes your mana 
 cles and gyves ! 
 
1 9 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 We wage no war, we lift no arm, we fling no torch 
 
 within 
 The fire-damps of the quaking mine beneath your soil 
 
 of sin ; 
 
 We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while ye can, 
 With the strong upward tendencies and godlike soul of 
 
 man ! 
 
 But for us and for our children, the vow which we have 
 
 given 
 
 For freedom and humanity is registered in heaven ; 
 No slave-hunt in our borders, no pirate on our strand ! 
 No fetters in the Bay State, no slave upon our land ! 
 
 THE RELIC. 
 
 [PENNSYLVANIA HALL, dedicated to Free Discussion and the cause of 
 human liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. The following was writ 
 ten on receiving a cane wrought froin a fragment of the wood-work which 
 the fire had spared.] 
 
 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 Liwrought I 
 
THE RELIC. 191 
 
 Pure thoughts and sweet, like flowers unfold, 
 And precious memories round it cling, 
 
 Even as the Prophet s rod of old 
 In beauty blossoming : 
 
 And buds of feeling pure and good 
 
 Spring from its cold unconscious wood. 
 
 Relic of Freedom s shrine ! a brand 
 Plucked from its burning ! let it be 
 
 Dear as a jewel from the hand 
 Of a lost friend to me ! 
 
 Flower of a perished garland left, 
 
 Of life and beauty unbereft ! 
 
 O, if the young enthusiast bears, 
 O er weary waste and sea, the stone 
 
 Which crumbled from the Forum s stairs, 
 Or round the Parthenon ; 
 
 Or olive-bough from some wild tree 
 
 Hung over old Thermopylae : 
 
 If leaflets from some hero s tomb, 
 
 Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, 
 
 Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom 
 On fields renowned in story, 
 
 Or fragment from the Alhambra s crest, 
 
 Or the gray rock by Druids blessed ; 
 
 Sad Erin s shamrock greenly growing 
 Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, 
 
 Or Scotia s "rough bur thistle " blowing 
 On Bruce s Bannockburn, 
 
 Or Runnymede s wild English rose, 
 
 Or lichen plucked from Sempach s snows I 
 
T92 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 If it be true that things like these 
 To heart and eye bright visions bring, 
 
 Shall not far holier memories 
 To this memorial cling ? 
 
 Which needs no mellowing mist of time 
 
 To hide the crimson stains of crime ! 
 
 Wreck of a temple, unprofaned, 
 
 Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, 
 
 Lifting on high, with hands unstained, 
 Thanksgiving unto God ; 
 
 Where mercy s voice of love was pleading 
 
 For human hearts in bondage bleeding ! 
 
 Where, midst the sound of rushing feet 
 
 And curses on the night-air flung, 
 That pleading voice rose calm and sweet 
 
 From woman s earnest tongue ; 
 And Riot turned his scowling glance, 
 Awed, from her tranquil countenance ! 
 
 
 That temple now in ruin lies ! 
 
 The fire-stain on its shattered wall, 
 And open to the changing skies 
 
 Its black and roofless hall, 
 It stands before a nation s sight, 
 A gravestone over buried Right ! 
 
 But from that ruin, as of old, 
 
 The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying, 
 And from their ashes white and cold 
 
 Its timbers are replying ! 
 A voice which slavery" cannot kill 
 Speaks from the crumbling arches still ! 
 
THE BRANDED HAND. 
 
 And even this relic from thy shrine, 
 
 O holy Freedom ! hath to me 
 A potent power, a voice and sign 
 
 To testify of thee ; 
 And, grasping it, methinks I feel 
 A deeper faith, a stronger zeal. 
 
 And not unlike that mystic rod, 
 
 Of old stretched o er the Egyptian wave, 
 Which opened, in the strength of God, 
 
 A pathway for the slave, 
 It yet may point the bondman s way, 
 And turn the spoiler from his prey. 
 
 THE BRANDED HAND. 
 
 \~\ WELCOME home again, brave seaman ! with thy 
 
 * thoughtful brow and gray, 
 
 And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day, 
 With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady 
 
 nerve in vain 
 Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts 
 
 of pain ! 
 
 Is the tyrant s brand upon thee ? Did the brutal cra 
 vens aim 
 
 To make God s truth thy falsehood, his holiest work 
 thy shame ? 
 
 When, all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron 
 was withdrawn, 
 
 How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn ! 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
1 94 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 foot- 
 sole up to crown, 
 
 Give to shame what God hath given unto honor and 
 renown ! 
 
 Why, that brand is highest honor ! than its traces 
 
 never yet 
 Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon 
 
 set; 
 And thy unborn generations, as they tread our rocky 
 
 strand, 
 Shall tell with pride the story of their father s BRANDED 
 
 HAND! 
 
 As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back from 
 
 Syrian wars 
 
 The scars of Arab lances and of Paynim scymitars, 
 The pallor of the prison, and the shackle s crimson span, 
 So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God 
 
 and man ! 
 
 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, 
 
THE BRANDED HAND. 
 
 195 
 
 And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God-deserted 
 shrine, 
 
 Broke the bondman s heart for bread, poured the bond 
 man 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 shad 
 ows dim, 
 
 And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto him ! 
 
 In thy lone and long night-watches, sky above and 
 
 wave below, 
 Thou didst learn a higher wisdom than the babbling 
 
 schoolmen know ; 
 God s stars and silence taught thee, as his angels only 
 
 can, 
 That the one sole sacred thing beneath the cope of 
 
 heaven is Man ! 
 
 That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and 
 
 creed, 
 In the depth of God s great goodness may find mercy 
 
 in his need ; 
 But woe to him who crushes the SOUL, with chain and 
 
 rod, 
 And herds with lower natures the awful form of God ! 
 
 Then lift that manly right-hand, bold ploughman of the 
 
 wave ! 
 Its branded palm shall prophesy, " SALVATION TO THE 
 
 SLAVE ! " 
 
196 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Hold tip 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 ! 
 
 Take it henceforth for your standard, like the Bruce s 
 heart of yore, 
 
 In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be 
 seen before ! 
 
 And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that 
 
 sign, 
 When it points its finger Southward along the Puritan 
 
 line : 
 Woe to the State-gorged leeches and the Church s 
 
 locust band, 
 When they look from slavery s ramparts on the coming 
 
 of that hand ! 
 
 TEXAS. 
 
 VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 UP the hillside, down the glen, 
 Rouse the sleeping citizen ; 
 Summon out the might of men ! 
 
 Like a lion growling low, 
 Like a night-storm rising slow, 
 Like the tread of unseen foe, 
 
TEXAS. I97 
 
 It is coming, it is nigh ! 
 Stand your homes and altars by ; 
 On your own free thresholds die. 
 
 Clang the bells in all your spires ; 
 On the gray hills of your sires 
 Fling to heaven your signal-fires. 
 
 From Wachuset, lone and bleak, 
 
 Unto Berkshire s tallest peak, 
 
 Let the flame-tongued heralds speak, 
 
 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 : 
 
IQ 8 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 ; 
 
 " Work the ruin, if ye will ; 
 Pluck upon your heads an ill 
 Which shall grow and deepen still. 
 
TEXAS. I99 
 
 " With your bondman s right arm bare, 
 With his heart of black despair, 
 Stand alone, if stand ye dare ! 
 
 " Onward with your fell design ; 
 Dig the gulf and draw the line : 
 Fire beneath your feet the mine : 
 
 " Deeply, when the wide abyss 
 Yawns between your land and this, 
 Shall ye feel your helplessness. 
 
 " By the hearth, and in the bed, 
 Shaken by a look or tread, 
 Ye shall own a guilty dread. 
 
 "And the curse of unpaid toil, 
 Downward through your generous soil 
 Like a fire shall burn and spoil. 
 
 " Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, 
 Vines our rocks shall overgrow, 
 Plenty in our valleys flow ; 
 
 " And when vengeance clouds your skies, 
 Hither shall ye turn your eyes, 
 As the lost on Paradise ! 
 
 " We but ask our rocky strand. 
 Freedom s true and brother band, 
 Freedom s strong and honest hand, 
 
 Valleys by the slave untrod, . 
 
 And the Pilgrim s mountain sod, 
 Blesse d of our fathers God ! " 
 
200 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 TO FANEUIL HALL. 
 
 1844. 
 
 EN ! if manhood still ye claim, 
 If the Northern pulse can thrill, 
 Roused by wrong or stung by shame, 
 
 Freely, strongly still, 
 Let the sounds of traffic die : 
 
 Shut the mill-gate, leave the stall, 
 Fling the axe and hammer by, 
 Throng to Faneuil Hall ! 
 
 . 
 Wrongs which freemen never brooked, 
 
 Dangers grim and fierce as they, 
 Which, like couching lions, looked 
 
 On your fathers way, 
 These your instant zeal demand, 
 
 Shaking with their earthquake-call 
 Every rood of Pilgrim land, 
 
 Ho, to Faneuil Hall! 
 
 From your capes and sandy bars, 
 
 From your mountain-ridges cold, 
 Through whose pines the westering stars 
 
 Stoop their crowns of gold, 
 Come, and with your footsteps wake 
 
 Echoes from that holy wall ; 
 Once again, for Freedom s sake. 
 
 Rock your fathers hall ! 
 
 Up, and tread beneath your feet 
 Every cord by party spun ; 
 
TO MASSACHUSETTS. 2OI 
 
 Let your hearts together beat 
 
 As the heart of one. 
 Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade, 
 
 Let them rise or let them fall : 
 Freedom asks your common aid, 
 
 Up, to Faneuil Hall ! 
 
 Up, and let each voice that speaks 
 
 Ring from thence to Southern plains, 
 Sharply as the blow which breaks 
 
 Prison-bolts and chains ! 
 Speak as well becomes the free : 
 
 Dreaded more than steel or ball, 
 Shall your calmest utterance be, 
 
 Heard from Faneuil Hall ! 
 
 Have they wronged us ? Let us then 
 
 Render back nor threats nor prayers ; 
 Have they chained our free-born men? 
 
 LET US UNCHAIN THEIRS ! 
 
 Up, your banner leads the van, 
 
 Blazoned, " Liberty for all ! " 
 Finish what your sires began ! 
 
 Up, to Faneuil Hall ! 
 
 TO MASSACHUSETTS. 
 
 1844. 
 
 VKTHAT though around thee blazes 
 
 No fiery rallying sign ? 
 From all thy own high places, 
 Give heaven the light of thine . 
 
 
202 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 But when, with thine uniting, 
 
 Come voices long and loud, 
 And far off hills are writing 
 
 Thy fire-words on the cloud ; 
 When from Penobscot s fountains 
 
 A deep response is heard, 
 And across the Western mountains 
 
 Rolls back thy rallying word ; 
 
 Shall thy line of battle falter, 
 
 With its allies just in view ? 
 O, by hearth and holy altar, 
 
 My fatherland, be true ! 
 Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom ! 
 
 Speed them onward far and fast ! 
 Over hill and valley speed them, 
 
 Like the sibyl s on the blast ! 
 
 Lo ! the Empire State is shaking 
 The shackles from her hand ; 
 
THE PINE TREE. 203 
 
 With the rugged North is waking 
 
 The level sunset land ! 
 On they come, the free battalions ! 
 
 East and West and North they come, 
 And the heart-beat of the millions 
 
 Is the beat of Freedom s drum. 
 
 " To the tyrant s plot no favor ! 
 
 No heed to place-fed knaves ! 
 Bar and bolt the door forever 
 
 Against the land of slaves ! " 
 Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it, 
 
 The Heavens above us spread ! 
 The land is roused, its spirit 
 
 Was sleeping, but not dead ! 
 
 THE PINE-TREE. 
 
 LIFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State s 
 rusted shield, 
 Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner s 
 
 tattered field. 
 Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round 
 
 the board. 
 Answering England s royal missive with a firm, " THUS 
 
 SAITH THE LORD ! " 
 Rise again for home and freedom ! set the battle in 
 
 array ! 
 What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do 
 
 to-day. 
 
204 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Tell us not of banks and tariffs, cease your paltry 
 
 pedler cries, 
 Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling 
 
 stocks may rise ? 
 Would ye barter man for cotton? That your gains 
 
 may sum up higher, 
 Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children 
 
 through the fire ? 
 Is the dollar only real ? God and truth and right a 
 
 dream ? 
 Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood 
 
 kick the beam ? 
 
 O my God ! for that free spirit, which of old in Boston 
 
 town 
 Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest 
 
 of Andros down ! 
 For another strong-voiced Adams in the city s streets 
 
 to cry, 
 " Up for God and Massachusetts ! Set your feet on 
 
 Mammon s lie ! 
 Perish banks and perish traffic, spin your cotton s 
 
 latest pound, 
 But in Heaven s name keep your honor, keep the 
 
 heart o the Bay State sound ! " 
 
 Where s the MAN for Massachusetts ? Where s the 
 voice to speak her free ? 
 
 Where s the hand to light up bonfires from her moun 
 tains to the sea ? 
 
 Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer T -S>t? she dumb 
 in her despair ? 
 
 Has she none to break the silence ?- - Has she none to 
 do and dare ? 
 
LINES. 
 
 = 05 
 
 O my God ! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted 
 
 shield, 
 And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner s 
 
 tattered field ! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, 
 IN THE I2TH MONTH OF 1845. 
 
 WITH a cold and wintry noon-light, 
 On its roofs and steeples shed, 
 Shadows weaving with the sunlight 
 
 From the gray sky overhead, 
 
 Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town 
 outspread. 
 
 Through this broad street, restless ever, 
 
 Ebbs and flows a human tide, 
 Wave on wave a living river ; 
 
 Wealth and fashion side by side ; 
 
 Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick cur 
 rent glide. 
 
 Underneath yon dome, whose coping 
 Springs above them, vast and tall, 
 Grave men in the dust are groping 
 For the largess, base and small, 
 
 Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which 
 from its table fall. 
 
_L 
 
 206 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Base of heart ! They vilely barter 
 Honor s wealth for party s place : 
 Step by step on Freedom s charter 
 
 Leaving footprints of disgrace ; 
 
 For to-day s poor pittance turning from the great hope 
 of their race. 
 
 Yet. where festal lamps are throwing 
 
 Glory round the dancer s hair, 
 Gold-tressed, like an angel s, flowing 
 
 Backward on the sunset air ; 
 
 And the low quick pulse of music beats its measures 
 sweet and rare : 
 
 There to-night shall woman s glances, 
 
 Star-like, welcome give to them, 
 Fawning fools with shy advances 
 
 Seek to touch their garments hem, 
 With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God 
 and Truth condemn. 
 
 From this glittering lie my vision 
 Takes a broader, sadder range, 
 Full before me have arisen 
 
 Other pictures dark and strange ; 
 
 From the parlor to the prison must the scene and wit 
 ness 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. 
 
4 
 
 LINES. 207 
 
 Pitying God ! Is that a WOMAN 
 
 On whose wrist the shackles clash ? 
 Is that shriek she utters human, 
 Underneath the stinging lash ? 
 
 Are they MEN whose eyes of madness from that sad 
 procession flash ? 
 
 Still the dance goes gayly onward ! 
 
 What is it to Wealth and Pride 
 That without the stars are looking 
 
 On a scene which earth should hide ? 
 That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Poto 
 mac s tide ! 
 
 Vainly to that mean Ambition 
 
 Which, upon a rival s fall, 
 Winds above its old condition, 
 With a reptile s slimy crawl, 
 
 Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in 
 anguish call. 
 
 Vainly to the child of Fashion, 
 
 Giving to ideal woe 
 Graceful luxury of compassion, 
 
 Shall the stricken mourner go ; 
 
 Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the hollow 
 show ! 
 
 Nay, my words are all too sweeping : 
 
 In this crowded human mart, 
 Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; 
 
 Man s strong will and woman s heart, 
 In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their 
 generous part. 
 
208 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 
 
 And from yonder sunny valleys, 
 
 Southward in the distance lost, 
 Freedom yet shall summon allies 
 
 Worthier than the North can boast, 
 With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at 
 severer cost. 
 
 Now, the soul alone is willing : 
 
 Faint the heart and weak the knee ; 
 And as yet no lip is thrilling 
 
 With the mighty words, " BE FREE ! " 
 Tarrieth long the land s Good Angel, but his advent 
 is to be ! 
 
 Meanwhile, turning from the revel 
 
 To the prison-cell my sight, 
 For intenser hate of evil, 
 
 For a keener sense of right, 
 
 Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, 
 to-night ! 
 
 " To thy duty now and ever ! 
 
 Dream no more of rest or stay ; 
 Give to Freedom s great endeavor 
 
 All thou art and hast to-day " : 
 Thus, above the city s murmur, saith a Voice, or se ims 
 to say. 
 
 Ye with heart and vision gifted 
 To discern and love the right, 
 Whose worn faces have been lifted 
 
 To the slowly-growing light, 
 
 Where from Freedom s sunrise drifted slowly back the 
 murk of night ! 
 
LINES. 209 
 
 Ye who through long years of trial 
 
 Still have held your purpose fast, 
 
 While a lengthening shade the dial 
 
 From the westering sunshine cast, 
 And of hope each hour s denial seemed an echo of the 
 last ! 
 
 O my brothers ! O my sisters ! 
 
 Would to God that ye were near, 
 Gazing with me down the vistas 
 
 Of a sorrow strange and drear ; 
 
 Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I 
 seem to hear ! 
 
 With the storm above us driving, 
 
 With the false earth mined below, 
 Who shall marvel if thus striving * * 
 
 We have counted friend as foe ? 
 
 Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for 
 blow. 
 
 Well it may be that our natures 
 
 Have grown sterner and more hard, 
 And the freshness of their features 
 
 Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, 
 And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely 
 jarred. 
 
 Be it so. It should not swerve us 
 From a purpose true and brave ; 
 Dearer Freedom s rugged service 
 Than the pastime of the slave ; 
 
 Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the 
 grave. 
 
210 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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 forgi veth in his brother is most just 
 
 From the eternal shadow rounding 
 
 All our sun and starlight here, 
 Voices of our lost ones sounding 
 Bid us be of heart and cheer, 
 
 Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the 
 inward ear. 
 
 Know we not our dead are looking 
 
 Downward with a sad surprise, 
 All our strife of words rebuking 
 
 With their mild and loving eyes ? 
 
 Shall we grieve the holy angels ? Shall we cloud their 
 blessed skies ? 
 
 Let us draw their mantles o er us 
 Which have fallen in our way ; 
 Let us do the work before us, 
 
 Cheerly, bravely, while we may, 
 
 Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is not 
 day! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND. 
 
 A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire, 
 A faith which doubt can never dim, 
 A heart of love, a lip of fire, 
 
 O Freedom s God ! be thou to him ! 
 
LINES. 2ii 
 
 Speak through him words of power and fear, 
 As through thy prophet bards of old, 
 
 And let a scornful people hear 
 
 Once more thy Sinai-thunders rolled. 
 
 For lying lips thy blessing seek, 
 And hands of blood are raised to Thee, 
 
 And on thy children, crushed and weak, 
 The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. 
 
 Let then, O God ! thy servant dare 
 
 Thy truth in all its power to tell, 
 Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear 
 
 The Bible from the grasp of hell ! 
 
 From hollow rite and narrow span 
 
 Of law and sect by Thee released, 
 O, teach him that the Christian man 
 
 Is holier than the Jewish priest. 
 
 Chase back the shadows, gray and old, 
 
 Of the dead ages, from his way, 
 And let his hopeful eyes behold 
 
 The dawn of thy millennial day ; 
 
 That day when fettered livnb and mind 
 Shall know the truth which maketh free, 
 
 And he alone who loves his kind 
 Shall, childlike, claim the love of Thee ! 
 
212 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 YORKTOWN. 88 
 
 Yorktown s ruins, ranked and still, 
 Two lines stretch far o er vale and hill : 
 Who curbs his steed at head of one ? 
 Hark ! the low murmur : Washington ! 
 Who bends his keen, approving glance 
 Where down the gorgeous line of France 
 Shine knightly star and plume of snow ? 
 Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! 
 
 The earth which bears this calm array 
 Shook with the war-charge yesterday, 
 Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, 
 Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel ; 
 October s clear and noonday sun 
 Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, 
 And down night s double blackness fell, 
 Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. 
 
 Now all is hushed ; the gleaming lines 
 Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; 
 While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, 
 The conquered hosts of England go : 
 O Hara s brow belies his dress, 
 Gay Tarleton s troop rides bannerless : 
 Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, 
 Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes ! 
 
 Nor thou alone : with one glad voice 
 Let all thy sister States rejoice ; 
 
YORK TOWN. 213 
 
 Let Freedom, in whatever clime 
 
 She waits with sleepless eye her time, 
 
 Shouting from cave and mountain wood 
 
 Make glad her desert solitude, 
 
 While they who hunt her quail with fear ; 
 
 The New World s chain lies broken here ! 
 
 But who are they who, cowering, wait 
 Within the shattered fortress gate ? 
 Dark tillers of Virginia s soil, 
 Classed with the battle s common spoil, 
 With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, 
 With Indian weed and planters wine, 
 With stolen beeves and foraged corn, 
 Are they not men, Virginian born ? 
 
 O, veil your faces, young and brave ! 
 Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave ! 
 Sons of the Northland, ye who set 
 Stout hearts against the bayonet, 
 And pressed with steady footfall near 
 The moated battery s blazing tier, 
 Turn your scarred faces from the sight, 
 Let shame do homage to the right ! 
 
 Lo ! threescore years have passed ; and where 
 The Gallic timbrel stirred the air, 
 With Northern drum-roll, and the clear, 
 Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer, 
 While Britain grounded on that plain 
 The arms she might not lift again, 
 As abject as in that old day 
 The slave still toils his life away. 
 
2i 4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 O, fields still green and fresh in story, 
 
 Old days of pride, old names of glory, 
 
 Old marvels of the tongue and pen, 
 
 Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, 
 
 Ye spared the wrong ; and over all 
 
 Behold the avenging shadow fall ! 
 
 Your world-wide honor stained with shame, 
 
 Your freedom s self a hollow name ! 
 
 Where s now the flag of that old war ? 
 
 Where flows its stripe ? Where burns its star ? 
 
 Bear witness, Palo Alto s day, 
 
 Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey, 
 
 Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak, 
 
 Fleshes the Northern eagle s beak : 
 
 Symbol of terror and despair, 
 
 Of chains and slaves, go seek it there ! 
 
 Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks ! 
 Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva s banks 
 Brave sport to see the fledgling born 
 Of Freedom by its parent torn ! 
 Safe now is Speilberg s dungeon cell, 
 Safe drear Siberia s frozen hell : 
 With Slavery s flag o er both unrolled, 
 What of the New World fears the Old ? 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 
 
 ON page of thine I cannot trace 
 The cold and heartless commonplace, 
 A statue s fixed and marble grace. 
 
LINES. 
 
 For ever as these lines I penned, 
 
 Still with the thought of thee will blend 
 
 That of some loved and common friend, 
 
 Who in life s desert track has made 
 His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed 
 Beneath the same remembered shade. 
 
 And hence my pen unfettered moves 
 In freedom which the heart 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 ? 
 
 O, more than specious counterfeit 
 
 Of sentiment or studied wit, 
 
 A heart like thine should value it. 
 
 Yet half I fear my gift will be 
 Unto thy book, if not to thee, 
 Of more than doubtful courtesy. 
 
 A banished name from fashion s sphere, 
 
 A lay unheard of Beauty s ear, 
 
 Forbid, disowned, what do they here ? 
 
 Upon my ear not all in vain 
 
 Came the sad captive s clanking chain, 
 
 The groaning from his bed of pain. 
 
 And sadder still, I saw the woe 
 
 Which only wounded spirits know 
 
 When Pride s strong footsteps o er them go. 
 
 2I 5 
 
2i6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Spurned not alone in walks abroad, 
 But from the " temples of the I_ord " 
 Thrust out apart, like things abhorred. 
 
 Deep as I felt, and stern and strong, 
 
 In words which Prudence smothered long, 
 
 My soul spoke out against the wrong ; 
 
 Not mine alone the task to speak 
 Of comfort to the poor and weak, 
 And dry the tear on Sorrow s cheek ; 
 
 But, mingled in the conflict warm, 
 To pour the fiery breath of storm 
 Through the harsh trumpet of Reform ; 
 
 To brave Opinion s settled frown, 
 From ermined robe and saintly gown, 
 While wrestling reverenced Error down. 
 
 Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, 
 Cool shadows on the greensward lay, 
 Flowers swung upon the bending spray. 
 
 And, broad and bright, on either hand. 
 Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land, 
 With Hope s eternal sunbow spanned ; 
 
 Whence voices called me like the flow, 
 Which on the listener s ear will grow, 
 Of forest streamlets soft and low. 
 
 And gentle eyes, which still retain 
 Their picture on the heart and brain, 
 Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. 
 
 
LINES. 
 
 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, 
 f o 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 t 
 
 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." 
 
 217 
 
218 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Yet, if the spirit gazing through 
 
 The vista of the past can view 
 
 One deed to Heaven and virtue true, 
 
 If through the wreck of wasted powers, 
 Of garlands wreathed from Folly s bowers, 
 Of idle aims and misspent hours, 
 
 The eye can note one sacred spot 
 
 By Pride and Self profaned not, 
 
 A green place in the waste of thought, 
 
 Where deed or word hath rendered less 
 " The sum of human wretchedness," 
 And gratitude looks forth to bless, 
 
 The simple burst of tenderest feeling 
 From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, 
 For blessing on the hand of healing, 
 
 Better than Glory s pomp will be 
 That green and blessed spot to me, 
 A palm-shade in Eternity ! 
 
 Something of Time which may invite 
 The purified and spiritual sight 
 To rest on with a calm delight. 
 
 And when the summer winds shall sweep 
 With their light wings my place of sleep. 
 And mosses round my headstone creep, 
 
 If still, as Freedom s rallying sign, 
 Upon the young heart s altars shine 
 The very fires they caught from mine, 
 
219 
 
 3f 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-enwoven bay, 
 My sad and sombre gift I lay. 
 
 And if it deepens in thy mind 
 
 A sense of suffering human-kind, 
 
 The outcast and the spirit-blind : 
 
 
 
 Oppressed and spoiled on every side, 
 By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, 
 r -ife s common courtesies denied ; 
 
 Sad mothers mourning o er their trust, 
 Children by want and misery nursed, 
 Tasting life s bitter cup at first ; 
 
 If to their strong appeals which come 
 From fireless hearth, and crowded room, 
 And the close alley s noisome gloom, 
 
220 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 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. 
 
 TVT OW, joy and thanks forevermore ! 
 * ^ The dreary night has wellnigh passed, 
 The slumbers of the North are o er, 
 The giant stands erect at last ! 
 
 More than we hoped in that dark time, 
 When, faint with watching, few and worn, 
 
 We saw no welcome day-star climb 
 The cold gray pathway of the morn ! 
 
 O weary hours ! O night of years ! 
 
 What storms our darkling pathway swept, 
 Where, beating back our thronging fears, 
 
 By Faith alone our march we kept. 
 
 How jeered the scoffing crowd behind, 
 How mocked before the tyrant train, 
 
 As, one by one, the true and kind 
 Fell fainting in our path of pain ! 
 
22 r 
 
 They died, their brave hearts breaking slow, 
 
 But, self-forgetful to the last, 
 In words of cheer and bugle blow 
 
 Their breath upon the darkness passed. 
 
 A mighty host, on either hand, 
 
 Stood waiting for the dawn of day 
 To crush like reeds our feeble band ; 
 
 The morn has come, and where are they > 
 
 Troop after troop their line forsakes ; 
 
 With peace-white banners waving free, 
 And from our own the glad shout breaks, 
 
 Of Freedom and Fraternity ! 
 
 Like mist before the growing light, 
 
 The hostile cohorts melt away ; 
 Our frowning foemen of the night 
 
 Are brothers at the dawn of day ! 
 
 As unto these repentant ones 
 
 We open wide our toil-worn ranks, 
 Along our line a murmur runs 
 
 Of song, and praise, and grateful thanks. 
 
 Sound for the onset ! Blast on blast ! 
 
 Till Slavery s minions cower and quail ; 
 One charge of fire shall drive them fast 
 
 Like chaff before our Northern gale ! 
 
 O prisoners in your house of pain, 
 
 Dumb, toiling millions, bound and sold, 
 
 Look ! stretched o er Southern vale and plain, 
 The Lord s delivering hand behold ! 
 
222 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Above the tyrant s pride of power, 
 His iron gates and guarded wall, 
 
 The bolts which shattered Shinar s tower 
 Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! my Fatherland ! 
 
 It is thy Northern light that shines ; 
 This stirring inarch of Freedom s band 
 
 The storm-song of thy mountain pines. 
 
 Wake, dwellers where the day expires ! 
 
 And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes 
 And fan your prairies roaring fires, 
 
 The signal-call that Freedom makes ! 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. 
 
 GONE to thy Heavenly Father s rest ! 
 The flowers of Eden round thee blowing, 
 And on thine ear the murmurs blest 
 
 Of Siloa s waters softly flowing ! 
 Beneath that Tree of Life which gives 
 To all the earth its healing leaves 
 In the white robe of angels clad, 
 
 And wandering by that sacred river, 
 Whose streams of holiness make glad 
 
 The city of our God forever ! 
 
 Gentlest of spirits ! not for thee 
 
 Our tears are shed, our sighs are given ; 
 
 Why mourn to know thou art a free 
 Partaker of the joys of Heaven ? 
 
IN MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. 223 
 
 Finished thy work, and kept thy faith 
 In Christian firmness unto death ; 
 And beautiful as sky and earth, 
 
 When autumn s sky is downward going 
 The blessed memory of thy worth 
 
 Around thy place of slumber glowing ! 
 
 But woe for us ! who linger still 
 
 With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, 
 And minds less steadfast to the will 
 
 Of Him whose every work is holy. 
 For not like thine, is crucified 
 The spirit of our human pride : 
 And at the bondman s tale of woe, 
 
 And for the outcast and forsaken, 
 Not warm like thine, but cold and slow, 
 
 Our weaker sympathies awaken. 
 
 Darkly upon our struggling way 
 
 The storm of human hate is sweeping ; 
 Hunted and branded, and a prey, 
 
 Our watch amidst the darkness keeping, 
 O for that hidden strength which can 
 Nerve unto death the inner man ! 
 O for thy spirit, tried and true, 
 
 And constant in the hour of trial, 
 Prepared to suffer, or to do, 
 
 In meekness and in self-denial. 
 
 O for that spirit, meek and mild, 
 
 Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining, 
 
 By man deserted and reviled, 
 Yet faithful to its trust remaining. 
 
 Still prompt and resolute to save 
 
224 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 From scourge and chain the hunted slave ; 
 Unwavering in the Truth s defence, 
 
 Even where the fires of Hate were burning, 
 The unquailing eye of innocence 
 
 Alone upon the oppressor turning ! 
 
 O loved of thousands ! to thy grave, 
 Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee. 
 The poor man and the rescued slave 
 
 Wept as the broken earth closed o er thee ; 
 And grateful tears, like summer rain, 
 Quickened its dying grass again ! 
 And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine, 
 
 Shall come the outcast and the lowly, 
 Of gentle deeds and words of thine 
 
 Recalling memories sweet and holy ! 
 
 O for the death the righteous die ! 
 
 An end, like autumn s day declining, 
 On human hearts, as on the sky, 
 
 With holier, tenderer beauty shining ; 
 As to the parting soul were given 
 The radiance of an opening heaven ! 
 As if that pure and blessed light, 
 
 From off the Eternal altar flowing, 
 Were bathing, in its upward flight, 
 
 The spirit to its worship going ! 
 
TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. 
 
 225 
 
 TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN. 
 1846. 
 
 IS this thy voice, whose treble notes of fear 
 Wail in the wind ? And dost thou shake to hear, 
 Acteeon-like, the bay of thine own hounds, 
 Spurning the leash, and leaping o er their bounds ? 
 Sore-baffled statesman ! when thy eager hand, 
 With game afoot, unslipped the hungry pack, 
 To hunt down Freedom in her chosen land, 
 Hidst thou no fear, that, erelong, doubling back, 
 These dogs of thine might snuff on Slavery s track ? 
 Where s now the boast, which even thy guarded tongue, 
 Cold, calm, and proud, in the teeth o the Senate flung, 
 O er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan, 
 Like Satan s triumph at the fall of man ? 
 How stood st thou then, thy feet on Freedom planting, 
 And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, 
 Whence all could see, through the south windows slant 
 ing, 
 
 Crimson as blood, the beams of that Lone Star ! 
 The Fates are just ; they give us but our own ; 
 Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown. 
 There is an Eastern story, not unknown, 
 Doubtless, to thee, of one whose magic skill 
 Called demons up his water-jars to fill ; 
 Deftly and silently, they did his will, 
 But, when the task was done, kept pouring still. 
 In vain with spell and charm the wizard wrought, 
 Faster and faster were the buckets brought, 
 Higher and higher rose the flood around, 
 
226 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Till the fiends clapped their hands above their master 
 
 drowned ! 
 
 So, Carolinian, it may prove with thee, 
 For God still overrules man s schemes, and takes 
 Craftiness in its self-set snare, and makes 
 The wrath of man to praise Him. It may be, 
 That the roused spirits of Democracy 
 May leave to freer States the same wide door 
 Through which thy slave-cursed Texas entered in, 
 From out the blood and fire, the wrong and sin, 
 Of the stormed city and the ghastly plain, 
 Beat by hot hail, and wet with bloody rain, 
 A myriad-handed Aztec host may pour, 
 And swarthy South with pallid North combine 
 Back on thyself to turn thy dark design. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE ADOPTION OF PINCKNEY S RESOLU 
 TIONS, IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, AND 
 THE PASSAGE OF CALHOUN S " BILL FOR EXCLUDING 
 PAPERS, WRITTEN OR PRINTED, TOUCHING THE SUB 
 JECT OF SLAVERY FROM THE U. S. POST-OFFICE," IN 
 THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 A /TEN of the North-land! where s the manly spirit 
 1V Qf f^ true-hearted and the unshackled gone? 
 Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit 
 
 Their names alone ? 
 
 Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched within us, 
 
 Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low, 
 That Mammon s lure or Party s wile can win us 
 
 To silence now ? 
 
LINES. 227 
 
 Now, when our land to ruin s brink is verging, 
 
 In God s name, let us speak while there is time ! 
 Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging, 
 
 Silence is crime ! 
 
 What ! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors 
 
 Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter, 
 For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us, 
 
 God and our charter ? 
 
 Here shall the statesman forge his human fetters, 
 
 Here the false jurist human rights deny, 
 And, in the church, their proud and skilled abettors 
 
 Make truth a lie ? 
 
 Torture the pages of the hallowed Bible, 
 
 To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood ? 
 And, in Oppression s hateful service, libel 
 
 Both man and God ? 
 
 Shall our New England stand erect no longer, 
 
 But stoop in chains upon her downward way, 
 Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger 
 
 Day after day ? 
 
 O no ; methinks from all her wild, green mountains, 
 
 From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie, 
 From her blue rivers and her welling fountains, 
 
 And clear, cold sky, 
 
 From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean 
 
 Gnaws with his surges, from the fisher s skiff, 
 With white sail swaying to the billows motion 
 
 Round rock and cliff, 
 
228 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 From the free fireside of her unbought farmer, 
 From her free laborer at his loom and wheel, 
 From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer, 
 
 Rings the red steel, 
 
 From each and all, if God hath not forsaken 
 
 Our land, and left us to an evil choice, 
 Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken 
 
 A People s voice. 
 
 Startling and stern ! the Northern winds shall bear it 
 
 Over Potomac s to St. Mary s wave ; 
 And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it 
 
 Within her grave. 
 
 O, let that voice go forth ! The bondman sighing 
 
 By Santee s wave, in Mississippi s cane, 
 Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying, 
 
 Revive again. 
 
 Let it go forth ! The millions who are gazing 
 
 Sadly upon us from af.ir shall smile, 
 And unto God devout thanksgiving raising, 
 
 Bless us the while. 
 
 O for your ancient freedom, pure and holy, 
 For the deliverance of a groaning earth, 
 For the wronged captive, bleeding, crushed, and lowly, 
 
 Let it go forth ! 
 
 Sons of the best of fathers ! will ye falter 
 
 With all they left ye perilled and at stake ? 
 Ho ! once again on Freedom s holy altar 
 
 The fire awake i 
 
CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS. 229 
 
 Prayer-strengthened for the trial, come together, 
 
 Put on the harness for the moral fight, 
 And, with the blessing of your Heavenly Father, 
 
 MAINTAIN THE RIGHT ! 
 
 THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS. 37 
 
 T N Westminster s royal halls, 
 
 J- Robed in their pontificals, 
 England s ancient prelates stood 
 For the people s right and good. 
 
 Closed around the waiting crowd, 
 Dark and still, like winter s cloud ; 
 King and council, lord and knight, 
 Squire and yeoman, stood in sight, 
 
 Stood to hear the priest rehearse, 
 In God s name, the Church s curse, 
 By the tapers round them lit, 
 Slowly, sternly uttering it. 
 
 " Right of voice in framing laws, 
 Right of peers to try each cause ; 
 Peasant homestead, mean and small, 
 Sacred as the monarch s hall, 
 
 " Whoso lays his hand on these, 
 England s ancient liberties, 
 Whoso breaks, by word or deed, 
 England s vow at Runnymede, 
 
230 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 " Be he Prince or belted knight, 
 Whatsoe er his rank or might, 
 If the highest, then the worst, 
 Let him live and die accursed. 
 
 " Thou, who to thy Church hast gfven 
 Keys alike, of hell and heaven, 
 Make our word and witness sure, 
 Let the curse we speak endure ! " 
 
 Silent, while that curse was said, 
 Every bare and listening head 
 Bowed in reverent awe, and then 
 All the people said, Amen ! 
 
 Seven times the bells have tolled, 
 For the centuries gray and old, 
 Since that stoled and mitred band 
 Cursed the tyrants of their land. 
 
 Since the priesthood, like a tower, 
 Stood between the poor and power ; 
 And the wronged and trodden down 
 Blessed the abbot s shaven crown. 
 
 Gone, thank God, their wizard spell, 
 Lost, their keys of heaven and hell ; 
 Yet I sigh for men as bold 
 As those bearded priests of old. 
 
 Now, too oft the priesthood wait 
 At the threshold of the state, 
 Waiting for the beck and nod 
 Of its power as law and God. 
 
CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS. 231 
 
 Fraud exults, while solemn words 
 Sanctify his stolen hoards ; 
 Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips 
 Bless his manacles and whips. 
 
 Not on them the poor rely, 
 
 Not to them looks liberty, 
 
 Who with fawning falsehood cower 
 
 To the wrong, when clothed with power. 
 
 O, to see them meanly cling, 
 Round the master, round the king, 
 Sported with, and sold and bought, 
 Pitifuller sight is not ! 
 
 Tell me not that this must be : 
 God s true priest is always free ; 
 Free, the needed truth to speak, 
 Right the wronged and raise the weak. 
 
 Not to fawn on wealth and state, 
 Leaving Lazarus at the gate, 
 Not to peddle creeds like wares, j 
 Not to mutter hireling prayers, 
 
 Nor to paint the new life s bliss 
 On the sable ground of this, 
 Golden streets for idle knave, 
 Sabbath rest for weary slave I 
 
 Not for words and works like these, 
 Priest of God, thy mission is ; 
 But to make earth s desert glad, 
 In its Eden greenness clad ; 
 
232 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 And to level manhood bring 
 Lord and peasant, serf and king ; 
 And the Christ of God to find 
 In the humblest of thy kind ! 
 
 Thine to work as well as pray, 
 Clearing thorny wrongs away ; 
 Plucking up the weeds of sin, 
 Letting heaven s warm sunshine in, 
 
 Watching on the hills of Faith ; 
 Listening what the spirit saith, 
 Of the dim-seen light afar, 
 Growing like a nearing star. 
 
 God s interpreter art thou, 
 To the waiting ones below ; 
 Twixt them and its light midway 
 Heralding the better day, 
 
 Catching gleams of temple spires, 
 Hearing notes of angel choirs, 
 Where, as yet unseen of them, 
 Comes the New Jerusalem ? 
 
 Like the seer of Patmos gazing, 
 On the glory downward blazing ; 
 Till upon Earth s grateful sod 
 Rests the City of our God ! 
 
THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 233 
 
 THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A DAGUERREOTYPE FROM A FRENCH 
 ENGRAVING. 
 
 "D EAMS of noon, like burning lances, through the 
 -L tree-tops flash and glisten, 
 
 As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look 
 and listen. 
 
 Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient Jewish 
 
 song: 
 Scarcely has the toil of task-fields done her graceful 
 
 beauty wrong. 
 
 He, the strong one and the manly, with the vassal s garb 
 
 and hue, 
 Holding still his spirit s birthright, to his higher nature 
 
 true ; 
 
 Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman in 
 
 his heart, 
 As the greegree holds his Fetich from the white man s 
 
 gaze apart. 
 
 Ever foremost of his comrades, when the driver s morn 
 ing horn 
 
 Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the fields of cane 
 and corn : 
 
234 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Fall the keen and burning lashes never on his back or 
 
 limb ; 
 Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the driver 
 
 unto him. 
 
 Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is hard 
 
 and stern ; 
 Slavery s last and humblest lesson he has never deigned 
 
 to learn. 
 
 And, at evening, when his comrades dance before their 
 
 master s door, 
 Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he silent 
 
 evermore. 
 
 God be praised for every instinct which rebels against 
 
 a lot 
 Where the brute survives the human, and man s upright 
 
 form is not ! 
 
 As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold on 
 
 fold 
 Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in his 
 
 hold ; 
 
 Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the fell 
 
 embrace, 
 Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in its 
 
 place, 
 
 So a base and bestial nature round the vassal s man 
 hood twines, 
 
 And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked 
 with vines. 
 
THE SLA VES OF MA R TIA r fQ UE. 235 
 
 God is Love, saith the Evangel ; and our world of woe 
 
 and sin 
 Is made light and happy only when a Love is shining 
 
 in. 
 
 Ye whose lives are free as sunshine, finding, wheresoe ef 
 
 ye roam, 
 Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all the 
 
 world like home ; 
 
 In the veins of whose affections kindred blood is but a 
 
 part, 
 Of one kindly current throbbing from the universal 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Can ye know the deeper meaning of a love in Slavery 
 nursed, 
 
 Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil ac 
 cursed ? 
 
 Love of Home, and Love of Woman ! dear to all, but 
 
 doubly dear 
 To the heart whose pulses elsewhere measure only hate 
 
 and fear. 
 
 All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen 
 
 sky, 
 Only one green spot remaining where the dew is never 
 
 dry ! 
 
 From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere of 
 
 hell, 
 Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks his 
 
 bell. 
 
236 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 T is the fervid tropic noontime ; faint and low the sea- 
 waves beat ; 
 
 Hazy rise the inland mountains through the glimmer of 
 the heat, 
 
 Where, through mingled leaves and blossoms, arrowy 
 
 sunbeams flash and glisten, 
 Speaks her lover to the slave-girl, and she lifts her head 
 
 to listen : 
 
 " We shall live as slaves no longer ! Freedom s hour is 
 
 close at hand ! 
 Rocks her bark upon the waters, rests the boat upon the 
 
 strand ! 
 
 " I have seen the Haytien Captain ; I have seen his 
 
 swarthy crew, 
 Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color 
 
 true. 
 
 " They have sworn to wait our coming till the night has 
 
 passed its noon, 
 And the gray and darkening waters roll above the 
 
 sunken moon ! " 
 
 O the blessed hope of freedom ! how with joy and glad 
 
 surprise, 
 For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant beam 
 
 her eyes ! 
 
 But she looks across the valley, where her mother s hut 
 is seen, 
 
 Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon- 
 leaves so green. 
 
THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 237 
 
 And she answers, sad and earnest : " It were wrong 
 
 for thee to stay ; 
 
 God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his finger 
 , points the way. 
 
 " Well I know with what endurance, for the sake of me 
 
 and mine, 
 Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant for 
 
 souls like thine. 
 
 " Go ; and at the hour of midnight, when our last fare 
 well is o er, 
 
 Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee from 
 the shore. 
 
 " But for me, my mother, lying on her sick-bed all the 
 
 day, 
 Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through the 
 
 twilight gray. 
 
 u Should I leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, 
 
 shared with thee, 
 Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and 
 
 stripes to me. 
 
 "For my heart would die within me, and my brain 
 
 would soon be wild ; 
 I should hear my mother calling through the twilight 
 
 for her child ! " 
 
 Blazing upward from the ocean shines the sun of morn 
 
 ing-time, 
 Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green hedges 
 
 of the lime. 
 
238 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover and 
 
 the maid ; 
 Wherefore looks he o er the waters, leaning forward on 
 
 his spade ? 
 
 Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he : J t is the Haytien s 
 
 sail he sees, 
 Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven seaward 
 
 by the breeze ! 
 
 But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a low 
 
 voice call : 
 Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier 
 
 than all. 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 WRITTEN ON LEARNING THE TERMS OF THE TREATY 
 WITH MEXICO. 
 
 A CROSS the Stony Mountains, o er the desert s 
 ** drouth and sand, 
 The circles of our empire touch the Western Ocean s 
 
 strand ; 
 
 From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free, 
 Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California s sea ; 
 And from the mountains of the East to Santa Rosa s 
 
 shore, 
 The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. 
 
 O Vale of Rio Bravo ! Let thy simple children weep ; 
 Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos 
 keep; 
 
THE CRISIS. 239 
 
 Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre s pines, 
 And Algodones toll her bells amidst her corn and vines ; 
 For lo ! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes 
 
 of gain, 
 Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada s 
 
 plain. 
 
 Let Sacramento s herdsmen heed what sound the winds 
 
 bring down 
 Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada s 
 
 crown ! 
 Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel 
 
 slack, 
 And, bending o er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his 
 
 back ; 
 
 By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine, 
 On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine. 
 
 O countrymen and brothers ! that land of lake and 
 
 plain, 
 
 Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain ; 
 Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, 
 
 cold, serene, 
 On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in 
 
 softest green ; 
 Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o er many a 
 
 sunny vale, 
 Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison s dusty trail ! 
 
 Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic 
 
 shores 
 
 The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars ; 
 Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds 
 
 that none have tamed, 
 
240 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon 
 
 never named ; 
 Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature s 
 
 chemic powers 
 Work out the Great Designer s will ; all these ye say 
 
 are ours ! 
 
 Forever ours ! for good or ill, on us the burden lies ; 
 
 God s balance, watched by angels, is hung across the 
 skies. 
 
 Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and 
 trembling scale ? 
 
 Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong pre 
 vail? 
 
 Shall the broad land o er which our flag in starry splen 
 dor waves 
 
 Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of 
 slaves ? 
 
 The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets 
 
 told, 
 And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age 
 
 of Gold ; 
 Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly 
 
 pen, 
 Earth s monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand 
 
 up as men ; 
 
 The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born, 
 And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul s 
 
 Golden Horn ! 
 
 Is this, O countrymen of mine ! a day for us to sow 
 The soil of new-gained empire with slavery s seeds of 
 woe? 
 
THE CRISIS. 241 
 
 To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World s cast- 
 off crime, 
 
 Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the 
 tired lap of Time ? 
 
 To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, 
 
 And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of 
 man ? 
 
 Great Heaven ! Is this our mission ? End in this the 
 prayers and tears, 
 
 The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, 
 better years ? 
 
 Still as the Old Word rolls in light, shall ours in shadow 
 turn, 
 
 A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer dark 
 ness borne ? 
 
 Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in 
 the air? 
 
 Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail 
 of despair ? 
 
 The Crisis presses on us ; face to face with us it stands, 
 With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt s 
 
 sands ! 
 
 This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin ; 
 This clay for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin ; 
 Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal s cloudy crown, 
 We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing 
 
 down ! 
 
 By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and 
 
 shame ; 
 By all the warning words of truth with which the 
 
 prophets came 
 
242 
 
 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 By the Future which awaits us ; by all the hopes which 
 
 cast 
 Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness 
 
 of the Past ; 
 And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth s 
 
 freedom died, 
 O my people ! O my brothers ! let us choose the 
 
 righteous side. 
 
 So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way ; 
 To wed Penobscot s waters to San Francisco s bay ; 
 To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales 
 
 with grain ; 
 
 And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train : 
 The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall 
 
 answer sea, 
 And mountain unto mountain call, PRAISE GOD, FOR 
 
 WE ARE FREE ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF ST. 
 
 T^ RE down yon blue Carpathian hilk 
 * The sun shall sink again, 
 Farewell to life and all its ills, 
 Farewell to cell and chain. 
 
 These prison shades are dark and cold, - 
 
 But darker far than they 
 The shadow of a sorrow old 
 
 Is on my heart alway. 
 
 For since the day when Warkworth wood 
 
 Closed o er my steed and I, 
 An alien from my name and blood, 
 
 A weed cast out to die, 
 
 When, looking back in sunset light, 
 
 I saw her turret gleam, 
 And from its casement, far and white, 
 
 Her sign of farewell stream, 
 
246 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Like one who, from some desert shore, 
 Doth home s green isles descry, 
 
 And, vainly longing, gazes o er 
 The waste of wave and sky ; 
 
 So from the desert of my fate 
 
 I gaze across the past ; 
 Forever on life s dial-plate 
 
 The shade is backward cast ! 
 
 I Ve wandered wide from shore to shore, 
 I ve knelt at many a shrine ; 
 
 And bowed me to the rocky floor 
 Where Bethlehem s tapers shine ; 
 
 And by the Holy Sepulchre 
 
 I Ve pledged my knightly sword 
 
 To Christ, his blessed Church, and her, 
 The Mother of our Lord. 
 
 O, vain the vow, and vain the strife ! 
 
 How vain do all things seem! 
 My soul is in the past, and life 
 
 To-day is but a dream ! 
 
 In vain the penance strange and long, 
 And hard for flesh to bear ; 
 
 The prayer, the fasting, and the thong 
 And sackcloth shirt of hair. 
 
 The eyes of memory will not sleep, - 
 
 Its ears are open still ; 
 And vigils with the past they keep 
 
 Against my feeble will. 
 
THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 247 
 
 And still the loves and joys of old 
 
 Do evermore uprise ; 
 I see the flow of locks of gold, 
 
 The shine of loving eyes 1 
 
 Ah me ! upon another s breast 
 
 Those golden locks recline ; 
 I see upon another rest 
 
 The glance that once was mine. 
 
 " O faithless priest ! O perjured knight I" 
 
 I hear the Master cry ; 
 " Shut out the vision from thy sight, 
 
 Let Earth and Nature die. 
 
 "The Church of God is now thy spouse, 
 
 And thou the bridegroom art ; 
 Then let the burden of thy vows 
 
 Crush down thy human heart ! " 
 
 In vain ! This heart its grief must know, 
 
 Till life itself hath ceased, 
 And falls beneath the selfsame blow 
 
 The lover and the priest ! 
 
 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. 
 
248 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE HOLY LAND. 
 
 FROM LAMARTINE. 
 
 I HAVE not felt, o er seas of sand, 
 The rocking of the desert bark ; 
 Nor laved at Hebron s fount my hand, 
 
 By Hebron s palm-trees cool and dark; 
 Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, 
 
 On dust where Job of old has lain, 
 Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall 
 
 The dream of Jacob o er again. 
 One vast world-page remains unread ; 
 
 How shine the stars in Chaldea s sky, 
 How sounds the reverent pilgrim s tread, 
 
 How beats the heart with God so nigh! 
 How round gray arch and column lone 
 
 The spirit of the old time broods, 
 And sighs in all the winds that moan 
 
 Along the sandy solitudes ! 
 
 In thy tall cedars, Lebanon, 
 
 I have not heard the nations cries, 
 Nor seen thy eagles stooping down 
 
 Where buried Tyre in ruin lies. 
 The Christian s prayer I have not said 
 
 In Tadmor s temples of decay, 
 Nor startled, with my dreary tread, 
 
 The waste where Memnon s empire lay. 
 
 Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, 
 O Jordan ! heard the low lament, 
 
PALESTINE. 249 
 
 Like that sad wail along thy side 
 
 Which Israel s mournful prophet sent! 
 
 Nor thrilled within that grotto lone 
 
 Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings 
 
 Felt hands of fire direct his own, 
 And sweep for God the conscious strings. 
 
 I have not climbed to Olivet, 
 
 Nor laid me where my Saviour lay, 
 And left his trace of tears as yet 
 
 By angel eyes unwept away ; 
 Nor watched, at midnight s solemn time, 
 
 The garden where his prayer and groan, 
 Wrung by his sorrow and our crime, 
 
 Rose to One listening ear alone. 
 
 I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot 
 
 Where in his Mother s arms he lay 
 Nor knelt upon the sacred spot 
 
 Where last his footsteps pressed the clay ; 
 Nor looked on that sad mountain head, 
 
 Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide 
 His arms to fold the world he spread, 
 
 And bowed his head to bless and died ! 
 
 PALESTINE. 
 
 OLEST land of Judaea I thrice hallowed of song, 
 *- Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng ; 
 In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, 
 On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. 
 ii* 
 
250 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, 
 Where piljrim and prophet have lingered before ; 
 With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod 
 Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. 
 
 Blue sea of the hills ! in my spirit I hear 
 
 Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear ; 
 
 Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, 
 
 And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown. 
 
 "Beyond are Bethulia s mountains of green, 
 And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene ; 
 And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see 
 The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee ! 
 
 Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong, 
 Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along ; 
 Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, 
 And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. 
 
 There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, 
 And Naphtali s stag, with his eyeballs of flame, 
 And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, 
 For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam s son ! 
 
 There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rahg 
 To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, 
 When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, 
 And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. 
 
 Lo, Bethlehem s hill-site before me is seen, 
 With the mountains around and the valleys between ; 
 There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there 
 The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. 
 
PALESTINE. 251 
 
 And Bethany s palm-trees in beauty still throw 
 Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; 
 But where are the sisters who hastened to greet 
 The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet ? 
 
 I tread where the TWELVE in their wayfaring trod ; 
 I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF GOD, 
 Where his blessing was heard and his lessons were 
 
 taught, 
 Where the blind were restored and the healing was 
 
 wrought. 
 
 O, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came, 
 These hills he toiled over in grief are the same, 
 The founts where he drank by the wayside still flow, 
 And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his 
 brow ! 
 
 And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, 
 But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet ; 
 For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, 
 And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. 
 
 But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode 
 Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God ? 
 Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, 
 It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him ! 
 
 Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, 
 In love and in meekness, He moved among men ; 
 And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the 
 
 sea 
 In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me I 
 
 - 
 
252 
 
 M ISC ELL A NEO US. 
 
 And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, 
 Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee s flood, 
 Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear, 
 Nor ir.y knees press Gethsemane s garden of prayer. 
 
 Yet, Loved of the Father, thy Spirit is near 
 To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here ; 
 And the voice of thy love is the same even now 
 As at Bethany s tomb or on Olivet s brow. 
 
 O, the outward hath gone ! but in glory and power, 
 The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour ; 
 Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame 
 Ou the heart s secret altar is burning the same 1 
 
 EZEKIEL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 30-33. 
 
 THEY hear thee not, O God ! nor see ; 
 Beneath thy rod they mock at thee ; 
 The princes of our ancient line 
 Lie drunken with Assyrian wine ; 
 The priests around thy altar speak 
 The false words which their hearers seek ; 
 And hymns which Chaldea s wanton maids 
 Have sung in Dura s idol-shades 
 Are with the Levites chant ascending, 
 With Zion s holiest anthems blending ! 
 
 On Israel s bleeding bosom set, 
 The heathen heel is crushing yet ; 
 
EZEKIEL. 
 
 The towers upon our holy hill 
 Echo Chaldean footsteps still. 
 Our wasted shrines, who weeps for them ? 
 Who mourneth for Jerusalem ? 
 Who turneth from his gains away ? 
 Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray ? 
 Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, 
 Takes Zion s lamentation up ? 
 
 A sad and thoughtful youth, I went 
 With Israel s early banishment ; 
 And, where the sullen Chebar crept, 
 The ritual of my fathers kept. 
 The water for the trench I drew, 
 The firstling of the flock I slew, 
 And, standing at the altar s side, 
 I shared the Levite s lingering pride, 
 That still, amidst her mocking foes, 
 The smoke of Zion s offering rose. 
 
 In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, 
 The Spirit of the Highest came ! 
 Before mine eyes a vision passed, 
 A glory terrible and vast ; 
 With dreadful eyes of living things, 
 And sounding sweep of angel wings, 
 With circling light and sapphire throne, 
 And flame-like form of One thereon, 
 And voice of that dread Likeness sent 
 Down from the crystal firmament ! 
 
 The burden of a prophet s power 
 Fell on me in that fearful hour ; 
 From off unutterable woes 
 
 253 
 
254 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The curtain of the future rose ; 
 
 I saw far down the coming time 
 
 The fiery chastisement of crime ; 
 
 With noise of mingling hosts, and jar 
 
 Of falling towers and shouts of war, 
 
 I saw the nations rise and fall, 
 
 Like fire-gleams on my tent s white walL 
 
 In dream and trance, I saw the slain 
 Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain ; 
 I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre 
 Swept over by the spoilers fire ; 
 And heard the low, expiring moan 
 Of Edom on his rocky throne ; 
 And, woe is me ! the wild lament 
 From Zion s desolation sent ; 
 And felt within my heart each blow 
 Which laid her holy places low. 
 
 In bonds and sorrow, day by day, 
 
 Before the pictured tile I lay ; 
 
 And there, as in a mirror, saw 
 
 The coming of Assyria s war, 
 
 Her swarthy lines of spearmen pass 
 
 Like locusts through Bethhoron s grass ; 
 
 I saw them draw their stormy hem 
 
 Of battle round Jerusalem ; 
 
 And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail 
 
 Blend with the victor-trump of Baal ! 
 
 Who trembled at my warning word ? 
 Who owned the prophet of the Lord ? 
 How mocked the rude, how scoffed the vile, 
 How stung the Levites scornful smile, 
 
EZEKIEL. 
 
 As o er my spirit, dark and slow, 
 The shadow crept of Israel s woe, 
 As if the angel s mournful roll 
 Had left its record on my soul, 
 And traced in lines of darkness there 
 The picture of its great despair ! 
 
 Yet ever at the hour I feel 
 My lips in prophecy unseal. 
 Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, 
 And Salem s daughters kaste to hear, 
 On Chebar s waste and alien shore, 
 The harp of Judah" swept once more. 
 They listen, as in Babel s throng 
 The Chaldeans to the dancer s song, 
 Or wild sabbeka s nightly play, 
 As careless and as vain as they. 
 
 255 
 
 And thus, O Prophet-bard of old, 
 Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told ! 
 The same which earth s unwelcome seers 
 Have felt in all succeeding years. 
 Sport of the changeful multitude, 
 Nor calmly heard nor understood, 
 Their song has seemed a trick of art, 
 Their warnings but the actor s part. 
 With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, 
 The world requites its prophets still. 
 
 So was it when the Holy One 
 The garments of the flesh put on ! 
 Men followed where the Highest led 
 For common gifts of daily bread, 
 
256 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And gross of ear, of vision dim, 
 Owned not the godlike power of Him. 
 Vain as a dreamer s words to them 
 His wail above Jerusalem, 
 And meaningless the watch He kept 
 Through which his weak disciples slept. 
 
 Yet shrink not thou, whoe er thou art, 
 For God s great purpose set apart, 
 Before whose far-discerning eyes 
 The Future as the Present lies ! 
 Beyond a narrow-bounded age 
 Stretches thy prophet-heritage, 
 Through Heaven s dim spaces angel-trod, 
 Through arches round the throne of God ! 
 Thy audience, worlds ! all Time to be 
 The witness of the Truth in thee 1 
 
 THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 A GAINST the sunset s glowing wall 
 ** The city towers rise black and tall, 
 Where Zorah, on its rocky height, 
 Stands like an armed man in the light 
 
 Down Eshtaol s vales of ripened grain 
 Falls like a cloud the night amain, 
 And up the hillsides climbing slow 
 The barley reapers homeward go. 
 
 Look, dearest ! how our fair child s head 
 The sunset light hath hallowed, 
 Where at this olive s foot he lies, 
 Uplooking to the tranquil skies. 
 
WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 O, while beneath the fervent heat 
 
 Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat, 
 
 I Ve watched, with mingled joy and dread, 
 
 Our child upon his grassy bed. 
 
 Joy, which the mother feels alone 
 Whose morning hope like mine had flown, 
 When to her bosom, over blessed, 
 A dearer life than hers is pressed. 
 
 Dread, for the future dark and still, 
 Which shapes our dear one to its will ; 
 Forever in his large calm eyes, 
 I read a tale of sacrifice. 
 
 The same foreboding awe I felt 
 
 When at the altar s side we knelt, 
 
 And he, who as a pilgrim came, 
 
 Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame. 
 
 I slept not, though the wild bees made 
 A dreamlike murmuring in the shade, 
 And on me the warm-fingered hours 
 Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers. 
 
 Before me, in a vision, rose 
 The hosts of Israel s scornful foes, 
 Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, 
 Glittered in noon s hot atmosphere. 
 
 I heard their boast, and bitter word, 
 Their mockery of the Hebrew s Lord, 
 I saw their hands his ark assail, 
 Their feet profane his holy veil. 
 
 257 
 
258 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 No angel down the blue space spoke, 
 No thunder from the still sky broke ; 
 But in their midst, in power and awe, 
 Like God s waked wrath, OUR CHILD I saw ! 
 
 A child no more ! harsh-browed and strong, 
 He towered a giant in the throng, 
 And down his shoulders, broad and bare, 
 Swept the black terror of his hair. 
 
 He raised his arm ; he smote amain ; 
 As round the reaper falls the grain, 
 So the dark host around him fell, 
 So sank the foes of Israel ! 
 
 Again I looked. In sunlight shone 
 The towers and domes of Askelon. 
 Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd, 
 Within her idol temple bowed. 
 
 Yet one knelt not ; stark, gaunt, and blind, 
 His arms the massive pillars twined, 
 An eyeless captive, strong with hate, 
 He stood there like an evil Fate. 
 
 The red shrines" smoked, the trumpets pealed : 
 He stooped, the giant columns reeled, 
 Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall, 
 And the thick dust-cloud closed o er all ! 
 
 Above the shriek, the crash, the groan 
 Of the fallen pride of Askelon, 
 I heard, sheer down the echoing sky, 
 A voice as of an angel cry, 
 
WIFE OF MA NO A II TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 The voice of him, who at our side 
 Sat through the golden eventide, 
 Of him who, on thy altar s blaze, 
 Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise J 
 
 "Rejoice o er Israel s broken chain, 
 Gray mother of the mighty slain ! 
 Rejoice ! " it cried, " he vanquisheth I 
 The strong in life is strong in death ! 
 
 " To him shall Zorah s daughters raise 
 Through coming years their hymns of praise, 
 And gray old men at evening tell 
 Of all he wrought for Israel. 
 
 " And they who sing and they who hear 
 Alike shall hold thy memory dear, 
 And pour their blessings on thy head, 
 
 mother of the mighty dead ! " 
 
 It ceased ; and though a sound I heard 
 As if great wings the still air stirred, 
 
 1 only saw the barley sheaves 
 And hills half hid by olive leaves. 
 
 I bowed my face, in awe and fear, 
 
 On the dear child who slumbered near. 
 
 " With me, as with my only son, 
 
 O God," I said, " THY WILL BE DONE 1" 
 
 259 
 
260 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. 
 
 ET ye up from the wrath of God s terrible day : 
 
 Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away ! 
 T is the vintage of blood, t is the fulness of time, 
 And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime ! " 
 
 The warning was spoken ; the righteous had gone, 
 And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone ; 
 All gay was the banquet ; the revel was long, 
 With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song. 
 
 T was an evening of beauty ; the air was perfume, 
 The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom ; 
 And softly the delicate viol was heard, 
 Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. 
 
 And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, 
 With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance ; 
 And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free 
 As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree. 
 
 Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, 
 And wantonness tempted the lust of the eye ; 
 Midst rites of obsceneness, strange, loathsome, ab 
 horred, 
 The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. 
 
 Hark ! the growl of the thunder, the quaking of earth ! 
 Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth ! 
 The black sky has opened, there s flame in the air, - 
 The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare ! 
 
TPIE CRUCIFIXION-. 261 
 
 Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song 
 And the low tone of love had been whispered along! 
 For the fierce flames went lightly o er pal ice and bower, 
 Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour ! 
 
 Down, down on the fallen the red ruin rained, 
 And the reveller sank with his wine-cup undrained ; 
 The foot of the dancer, the music s loved thrill, 
 And the shout and the laughter grew suddenly still. 
 
 The last throb of anguish was fearfully given ; 
 The last eye glared forth in its madness on Heaven ! 
 The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain, 
 And death brooded over the pride of the Plain ! 
 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 SUNLIGHT upon Judaea s hills ! 
 And on the waves of Galilee, 
 On Jordan s stream, and on the rills 
 
 That feed the dead and sleeping sea ! 
 Most freshly from the green wood springs 
 The light breeze on its scented wings ; 
 And gayly quiver in the sun 
 The cedar tops of Lebanon ! 
 
 A few more hours, a change hath come I 
 The sky is dark without a cloud ! 
 
 The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb, 
 And proud knees unto earth are bowed. 
 
 A change is on the hill of Death, 
 
 The helme d watchers pant for breath, 
 
262 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And turn with wild and maniac eyes 
 From the dark scene of sacrifice ! 
 
 That Sacrifice ! the death of Him, 
 
 The High and ever Holy One ! 
 Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim. 
 
 And blacken the beholding Sun. 
 The wonted light hath fled away, 
 Night settles on the middle day, 
 And earthquake from his caverned bed 
 Is waking with a thrill of dread! 
 
 The dead are waking underneath ! 
 
 Their prison-door is rent away ! 
 And, ghastly with the seal of death, 
 
 They wander in the eye of day ! 
 The temple of the Cherubim, 
 The House of God is cold and dim ; 
 A curse is on its trembling walls, 
 Its mighty veil asunder falls ! 
 
 Well may the cavern-depths of Earth 
 Be shaken, and her mountains nod ; 
 Well may the sheeted dead come forth 
 
 To gaze upon a suffering God ! 
 Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, 
 And shadows veil the Cherubim, 
 When He, the chosen One of Heaven, 
 A sacrifice for guilt is given ! 
 
 And shall the sinful heart, alone, 
 Behold unmoved the atoning hour, 
 
 When Nature trembles on her throne, 
 And Death resigns his iron power ? 
 
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 263 
 
 O, shall the heart, whose sinfulness 
 Gave keenness to his sore distress, 
 And added to his tears of blood, 
 Refuse its trembling gratitude ! 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 WHERE Time the measure of his hours 
 By changeful bud and blossom keeps, 
 And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, 
 Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps ; 
 
 Where, to her poet s turban stone, 
 
 The Spring her gift of flowers imparts, 
 
 Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown 
 In the warm soil of Persian hearts : 
 
 There sat the stranger, where the shade 
 Of scattered date-trees thinly lay, 
 
 While in the hot clear heaven delayed 
 The long and still and weary day. 
 
 Strange trees and fruits above him hung, 
 Strange odors filled the sultry air, 
 
 Strange birds upon the branches swung, 
 Strange insect voices murmured there. 
 
 And strange bright blossoms shone around, 
 Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, 
 
 As if the Gheber s soul had found 
 A fitting home in Iran s flowers. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Whate er he saw, whate er he heard, 
 Awakened feelings new and sad, 
 
 No Christian garb, nor Christian .word, 
 
 Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad, 
 
 But Moslem graves, with turban stones, 
 And mosque-spires gleaming white, in v>ew, 
 
 And graybeard Mollahs in low tones 
 Chanting their Koran service through. 
 
 The flowers which smiled on either hand, 
 Like tempting fiends, were such as they 
 
 Which once, o er all that Eastern land, 
 As gifts on demon altars lay. 
 
 As if the burning eye of Baal 
 
 The servant of his Conqueror knew, 
 
 From skies which knew no cloudy veil, 
 The Sun s hot glances smote him through. 
 
 "Ah me ! " the lonely stranger said, 
 " The hope which led my footsteps on, 
 
 And light from heaven around them shed ? 
 O er weary wave and waste, is gone ! 
 
 " Where are the harvest fields all white, 
 For Truth to thrust her sickle in ? 
 
 Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, 
 From the dark hiding-place of sin ? 
 
 " A silent horror broods o er all, 
 The burden of a hateful spell, 
 
 The very flowers around recall 
 The hoary magi s rites of hell I 
 
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 26$ 
 
 " And what am I, o er such a land 
 
 The banner of the Cross to bear ? 
 Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand, 
 
 Thy strength with human weakness share ! 5: 
 
 He ceased ; for at his very feet 
 
 In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, 
 
 How thrilled his sinking heart to greet 
 The Star-flower of the Virgin s Child 1 
 
 Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew 
 
 Its life from alien air and earth, 
 And told to Paynim sun and dew 
 
 The story of the Saviour s birth. 
 
 From scorching beams, in kindly mood, 
 The Persian plants its beauty screened, 
 
 And on its pagan sisterhood, 
 
 In love, the Christian floweret leaned. 
 
 With tears of joy the wanderer felt 
 
 The darkness of his long despair 
 Before that hallowed symbol melt, 
 
 Which God s dear love had nurtured there 
 
 From Nature s face that simple flower 
 The lines of sin and sadness swept ; 
 
 And Magian pile and Paynim bower 
 In peace like that of Eden slept. 
 
 Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, 
 Looked holy through the sunset air ; 
 
 And, angel-like, the Muezzin told 
 
 From tower and mosque the hour of prayen 
 
2 66 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 With cheerful steps, the morrow s dawn 
 From Shiraz saw the stranger part; 
 
 The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born 
 Still blooming in his hopeful heart 1 
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. 
 
 ONE hymn more, O my lyre ! 
 Praise to the God above, 
 Of joy and life and love, 
 Sweeping its strings of fire ! 
 
 O, who the speed of bird and wind 
 
 And sunbeam s glance will lend to me, 
 That, soaring upward, I may find 
 
 My resting-place and home in Thee ? 
 Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloonr. 
 
 Adoreth with a fervent flame, 
 Mysterious spirit ! unto whom 
 
 Pertain no sign nor name ! 
 
 Swiftly my lyre s soft murmurs go, 
 
 Up from the cold and joyless earth, 
 Back to the God who bade them flow, 
 
 Whose moving spirit sent them forth. 
 But as for me, O God ! for me, 
 
 The lowly creature of thy will, 
 Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, 
 
 An earth-bound pilgrim still ! 
 
HYMNS. 26] 
 
 Was not my spirit born to shine 
 
 Where yonder stars and suns are glowing ? 
 To breathe with them the light divine 
 
 From God s own holy altar flowing ? 
 To be, indeed, whate er the soul 
 
 In dreams hath thirsted for so long, 
 A portion of Heaven s glorious whole 
 
 Of loveliness and song ? 
 
 O, watchers of the stars at night, 
 
 Who breathe their fire, as we the air, 
 Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 
 
 O, say, is He, the Eternal, there ? 
 Bend there around his awful throne 
 
 The seraph s glance, the angel s knee ? 
 Or are thy inmost depths his own, 
 
 O wild and mighty sea ? 
 
 Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go ! 
 
 Swift as the eagle s glance of fire, 
 Or arrows from the archer s bow, 
 
 To the far aim of your desire ! 
 Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, 
 
 Like spring-doves from the startled wood. 
 Bearing like them your sacrifice 
 
 Of music unto God ! 
 
 And shall these thoughts of joy and love 
 
 Come back again no more to me ? 
 Returning like the Patriarch s dove 
 
 Wing-weary from the eternal sea, 
 To bear within my longing arms 
 
 The promise-bough of kindlier skies, 
 Plucked from the green, immortal palms 
 
 Which shadow Paradise ? 
 
2 68 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 All-moving spirit ! freely forth 
 
 At thy command the strong wind, goes ; 
 Its errand to the passive earth 
 
 Nor art can stay nor strength oppose, 
 Until it folds its weary wing 
 
 Once more within the hand divine ; 
 So, weary from its wandering, 
 
 My spirit turns to thine ! 
 
 Child of the sea, the mountain stream, 
 
 From its dark caverns, hurries on. 
 Ceaseless, by night and morning s beam, 
 
 By evening s star and noontide s sun, 
 Until at last it sinks to rest, 
 
 O erwearied, in the waiting sea, 
 And moans upon its mother s breast, 
 
 So turns my soul to Thee ! 
 
 O Thou who bid st the torrent flow, 
 
 Who lendest wings unto the wind, 
 Mover of all things ! where art thou ? 
 
 O, whither shall I go to find 
 The secret of thy resting-place ? 
 
 Is there no holy wing for me, 
 That, soaring, I may search the space 
 
 Of highest heaven for Thee ? 
 
 O. would I were as free to rise 
 
 As leaves on autumn s whirlwind borne, 
 The arrowy light of sunset skies, 
 
 Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, 
 Which melts in heaven at twilight s close, 
 
 Or aught which soars unchecked and free 
 Through Earth and Heaven ; that I might lose 
 
 Myself in finding Thee ! 
 
HYMNS. 269 
 
 WHEN the BREATH DIVINE is flowing, 
 Zephyr-like o er all things going, 
 And, as the touch of viewless lingers, 
 Softly on my soul it lingers, 
 Open to a breath the lightest, 
 Conscious of a touch the slightest, 
 As some calm, still lake, whereon 
 Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, 
 And the glistening water-rings 
 Circle round her moving wings : 
 When my upward gaze is turning 
 Where the stars of heaven are burning 
 Through the deep and dark abyss, 
 Flowers of midnight s wilderness, 
 Blowing with the evening s breath 
 Sweetly in their Maker s path : 
 
 When the breaking day is flushing 
 All the east, and light is gushing 
 Upward through th2 horizon s haze, 
 Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, 
 Spreading, until all above 
 Overflows with joy and love, 
 And below, on earth s green bosom, 
 All is changed to light and blossom < 
 
 When my waking fancies over 
 Forms of brightness flit and hover, 
 Holy as the seraphs are, 
 Who by Zion s fountains wear 
 On their foreheads, white and broad, 
 " HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD ! " 
 When, inspired with rapture high, 
 
2 7 o MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 It would seem a single sigh 
 Could a world of love create, 
 That my life could know no date, 
 And my eager thoughts could fill 
 Heaven and Earth, o erfiowing still ! 
 
 Then, O Father ! thou alone, 
 
 From the shadow of thy throne, 
 
 To the sighing of my breast 
 
 And its rapture answerest 
 
 All my thoughts, which, upward winging. 
 
 Bathe where thy own light is springing, 
 
 All my yearnings to be free 
 
 Are as echoes answering thee ! 
 
 Seldom upon lips of mine, 
 Father ! rests that name of thine, 
 Deep within my inmost breast, 
 In the secret place of mind, 
 Like an awful presence shrined, 
 Doth the dread idea rest ! 
 Hushed and holy dwells it there, 
 Prompter of the silent prayer, 
 Lifting up my spirit s eye 
 And its faint, but earnest cry, 
 From its dark and cold abode, 
 Unto thee, my Guide and God 1 
 
THE FEMALE MARTYR. 2 J1 
 
 THE FEMALE MARTYR. 
 
 [MARY G , agcfl eighteen, a " SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of 
 
 our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while in 
 voluntary attendance upoii the sick.] 
 
 " "O RING out your dead . " The midnight street 
 U Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ; 
 
 Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, 
 
 Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, 
 Her coffin and her pall. 
 
 " What only one ! " the brutal hackman said, 
 
 As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. 
 
 How sunk the inmost hearts of all, 
 
 As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, 
 With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall ! 
 The dying turned him to the wall, 
 
 To hear it and to die ! 
 Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed, 
 And hoarsely clamored, " Ho ! bring out your dead." 
 
 It paused beside the burial-place ; 
 
 " Toss in your load ! " and it was done. 
 With quick hand and averted face, 
 Hastily to the grave s embrace 
 
 They cast them, one by one, 
 Stranger and friend, the evil and the just, 
 Together trodden in the churchyard dust ! 
 
 And thou, young martyr ! thou wast there, - 
 No white-robed sisters round thee trod, 
 
272 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer 
 Rose through the damp and noisome air, 
 
 Giving thee to thy God ; 
 
 Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave 
 Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave ! 
 
 
 Yet, gentle sufferer ! there shall be, 
 
 In every heart of kindly feeling, 
 A rite as holy paid to thee 
 As if beneath the convent-tree 
 
 Thy sisterhood were kneeling, 
 At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping 
 Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. 
 
 For thou wast one in whom the light 
 
 Of Heaven s own love was kindled well. 
 Enduring with a martyr s might, 
 Through weary day and wakeful night 
 
 Far more than words may tell : 
 Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown, 
 Thy mercies measured by thy God alone ! 
 
 Where manly hearts were failing, where 
 The throngful street grew foul with death, 
 
 O high-souled martyr ! thou wast there, 
 
 inhaling, from the loathsome air, 
 Poison with every breath. 
 
 Yet shrinking not from offices of dread 
 
 For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead. 
 
 And, where the sickly taper shed. 
 
 Its light through vapors, damp, confined, 
 
 Hushed as a seraph s fell thy tread, 
 
 A new Electra by the bed 
 Of suffering human-kind 1 
 
THE FEMALE MARTYR. 273 
 
 Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, 
 To that pure hope which fadeth not away. 
 
 Innocent teacher of the high 
 
 And holy mysteries of Heaven ! 
 How turned to thee each glazing eye, 
 In mute and awful sympathy, 
 
 As thy low prayers were given ; 
 And the o er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, 
 An angel s features, a deliverer s smile ! 
 
 A blessed task ! and worthy one 
 
 Who, turning from the world, as thou, 
 Before life s pathway had begun 
 To leave its spring-time flower and sun, 
 
 Had sealed her early vow ; 
 Giving to God her beauty and her youth, 
 Her pure affections and her guileless truth. 
 
 Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here 
 
 Could be for thee a meet reward ; 
 Thine is a treasure far more dear, 
 Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear 
 
 Of living mortal heard, 
 
 The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, 
 The holy presence of Eternal Love ! 
 
 Sleep on in peace. The earth has not 
 
 A nobler name than thine shall be. 
 The deeds by martial manhood wrought, 
 The lofty energies of thought, 
 
 The fire of poesy, 
 
 These have but frail and fading honors ; thine 
 Shall Time unto Eternity consign. 
 
 13 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, 
 
 And human pride and grandeur fall, 
 The herald s line of long renown, 
 The mitre and the kingly crown, 
 
 Perishing glories all ! 
 The pure devotion of thy generous heart 
 Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. 
 
 THE FROST SPIRIT. 
 
 HE comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes \ 
 You may trace his 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 fear 
 ful breath went past. 
 
THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 375 
 
 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 mournful 
 
 silence pass. 
 
 He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes ! let 
 
 us meet him as we may, 
 And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power 
 
 away ; 
 And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light 
 
 dances high, 
 And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his 
 
 sounding wing goes by ! 
 
 THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 38 
 
 "(~\ LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and 
 
 ^-^ rare, 
 The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty s 
 
 queen might wear ; 
 And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with 
 
 whose radiant light they vie ; 
 I have brought them with me a weary way, will my 
 
 gentle lady buy ? " 
 
276 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 And the lady smiled on the worn old man thr* agh 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 ! " 
 
 " O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre 
 
 flings, 
 Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the 
 
 lofty brow of kings, 
 A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall 
 
 not decay, 
 Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on 
 
 thy way ! " 
 
 The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form 
 of grace was seen, 
 
 Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved 
 their clasping pearls between ; 
 
 " Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou travel 
 ler 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 ! 
 keep thy gold I ask it not, for the word of God 
 
 is free!" 
 
THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 277 
 
 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 lowli 
 ness 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 maid 
 ens of her bower ; 
 
 And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet 
 untrod, 
 
 Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the 
 perfect love of God ! 
 
 THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 NOT always as the whirlwind s rush 
 On Horeb s mount of fear, 
 Not always as the burning bush 
 
 To Midian 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 ! 
 
278 M1SCELLANEO US. 
 
 Awaking in the human heart 
 Love for the true and right, 
 
 Zeal for the Christian s better part, 
 Strength for the Christian s fight. 
 
 Not unto manhood s heart alone 
 
 The holy influence steals : 
 Warm with a rapture not its own, 
 
 The heart of woman feels ! 
 As she who by Samaria s wall 
 
 The Saviour s errand sought, 
 As those who with the fervent Paul 
 
 And meek Aquila wrought : 
 
 Or, those meek ones whose martyrdom 
 
 Rome s gathered grandeur saw : 
 Or those who in their Alpine home 
 
 Braved the Crusader s war, 
 When the green Vaudois, trembling, heard 
 
 Through all its vales of death, 
 The martyr s song of triumph poured 
 
 From woman s failing breath. 
 
 And gently, by a thousand things 
 
 Which o er our spirits pass, 
 Like breezes o er the harp s fine strings, 
 
 Or vapors o er a glass, 
 Leaving their token strange and new 
 
 Of music or of shade, 
 The summons to the right and true 
 
 And merciful is made. 
 
 O, then, if gleams of truth and light 
 Flash o er thy waiting mind, 
 
MY SOUL AND 1. 279 
 
 Unfolding to thy mental sight 
 
 The wants of human-kind ; 
 If, brooding over human grief, 
 
 The earnest wish is known 
 To soothe and gladden with relief 
 
 An anguish not thine own ; 
 
 Though heralded with naught of fear, 
 
 Or outward sign or show ; 
 Though only to the inward ear 
 
 It whispers soft and low ; 
 Though dropping, as the manna fell, 
 
 Unseen, yet from above, 
 Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, 
 
 Thy Father s call of love 1 
 
 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!" 
 
2 8o MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 What hast thou done, O soul of mine, 
 
 That thou tremblest so ? 
 Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line 
 
 He bade thee go ? 
 
 What, silent all ! art sad of cheer ? 
 
 Art fearful now ? 
 When God seemed far and men were near, 
 
 How brave wert thou ! 
 
 Aha ! thou tremblest ! well I see 
 
 Thou rt craven grown. 
 Is it so hard with God and me 
 
 To stand alone ? 
 
 Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 
 
 O wretched sprite ! 
 Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black 
 
 Abysmal night. 
 
 What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, 
 
 For God and Man, 
 From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth 
 
 To life s mid span ? 
 
 Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, 
 
 But weak and low, 
 Like far sad murmurs on my ear 
 
 They come and go. 
 
 " I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, 
 
 And borne the Right 
 From beneath the footfall of the throng 
 
 To life and light. 
 
MY SOUL AND I. 2 8i 
 
 " Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, 
 
 God speed, quoth I ; 
 To Error amidst her shouting train 
 
 I give the lie." 
 
 Ah, soul of mine ! ah, soul of mine ! 
 
 Thy deeds are well : 
 Were they wrought for Truth s sake or for thine ? 
 
 My soul, pray tell. 
 
 " Of all the work my hand hath wrought 
 
 Beneath the sky, 
 Save a place in kindly human thought, 
 
 No gain have I." 
 
 Go to, go to ! for thy very self 
 
 Thy deeds were done : 
 Thou for fame, the miser for pelf, 
 
 Your end is one ! 
 
 And where art thou going, soul of mine ? 
 
 Canst see the end ? 
 And whither this troubled life of thine 
 
 Evermore doth tend ? 
 
 What daunts thee now? what shakes thee so? 
 
 My sad soul say. 
 " I see a cloud like a curtain low 
 
 Hang o er my way. 
 
 "Whither I go I cannot tell : 
 
 That cloud hangs black, 
 High as the heaven and deep as hell 
 
 Across my track. 
 
282 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 " I see its shadow coldly enwrap 
 
 The souls before. 
 Sadly they enter it, step by step, 
 
 To return no more. 
 
 I 
 
 " They shrink, they shudder, dear God ! they kneel 
 
 To thee in prayer. 
 They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel 
 
 That it still is there. 
 
 "In vain they turn from the dread Before 
 
 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. 
 
 " I call on the souls who have left the light 
 
 To reveal their lot ; 
 I bend mine ear to that wall of night, 
 
 And they answer not. 
 
 " But I hear around me sighs of pain 
 
 And the cry of fear, 
 And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain, 
 
 Each drop a tear ! 
 
MY SOUL AND I. 283 
 
 " Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day 
 
 I am moving thither : 
 I must pass beneath it on my way 
 
 God pity me ! WHITHER ? " 
 
 Ah, soul of mine ! so brave and wise 
 
 In the life-storm loud, 
 
 Fronting so calmly all human eyes 
 In the sunlit crowd ! 
 
 Now standing apart with God and me 
 
 Thou art weakness all, 
 Gazing vainly after the things to be 
 
 Through Death s dread wall. 
 
 But never for this, never for this 
 
 Was thy being lent ; 
 For the craven s fear is but selfishness, 
 
 Like his merriment. 
 
 Folly and Fear are sisters twain : 
 
 One closing her eyes, 
 The other peopling the dark inane 
 
 With spectral lies. 
 
 Know well, my soul, God s hand controls 
 
 Whate er thou fearest ; 
 Round him in calmest music rolls 
 
 Whate er thou hearest. 
 
 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. 
 
284 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Man sees no future, a phantom show 
 
 Is alone before him : 
 Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, 
 
 And flowers bloom o er him. 
 
 Nothing before, nothing behind; 
 
 The steps of Faith 
 Fall on the seeming void, and find 
 
 The rock beneath. 
 
 The Present, the Present is all thou hast 
 
 For thy sure possessing ; 
 Like the patriarch s angel hold it fast 
 
 Till it gives its blessing. 
 
 Why fear the night ? why shrink from Death, 
 
 That phantom wan ? 
 There is nothing in heaven or earth beneath 
 
 Save God and man. 
 
 Peopling the shadows we turn from Him 
 
 And from one another ; 
 All is spectral and vague and dim 
 
 Save God and our brother ! 
 
 Like warp and woof all destinies 
 
 Are woven fast, 
 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. 
 
MY SOUL AND I. 285 
 
 O restless spirit ! wherefore strain 
 
 Beyond thy sphere ? 
 Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, 
 
 Are now and here. 
 
 Back to thyself is measured well 
 
 All thou hast given ; 
 Thy neighbor s wrong is thy present hell, 
 
 His bliss, thy heaven. 
 
 And in life, in death, in dark and light, 
 
 All are in God s care ; 
 Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, 
 
 And he is there ! 
 
 All which is real now remaineth, 
 
 And fadeth never : 
 The hand which upholds it now 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. 
 
f 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Then of what is to be, and of what is done, 
 
 Why queriest thou ? 
 The past and the time to be are one, 
 
 And both are NOW ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 
 
 HOW smiled the land of France 
 Under thy blue eye s glance, 
 Light-hearted rover ! 
 Old walls of chateaux gray, 
 Towers of an early day, 
 Which the Three Colors play 
 Flauntingly over. 
 
 Now midst the brilliant train 
 Thronging the banks of Seine : 
 
 Now midst the splendor 
 Of the wild Alpine range, 
 Waking with change on change 
 Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 
 
 Lovely, and tender. 
 
 Vales, soft Elysian, 
 Like those in the vision 
 
 Of Mirza, when, dreaming, 
 He saw the long hollow dell, 
 Touched by the prophet s spell, 
 Into an ocean swell 
 
 With its isles teeming. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 287 
 
 Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, 
 Splintering with icy spears 
 
 Autumn s blue heaven : 
 Loose rock and frozen slide, 
 Hung on the mountain-side, 
 Waiting their hour to glide 
 
 Downward, storm-driven ! 
 
 Rhine stream, by castle old, 
 Baron s and robber s hold, 
 
 Peacefully flowing ; 
 Sweeping through vineyards green, 
 Or where the cliffs are seen 
 O er the broad wave between 
 
 Grim shadows throwing. 
 
 Or, where St. Peter s dome 
 Swells o er eternal Rome, 
 
 Vast, dim, and solemn, 
 Hymns ever chanting low, 
 Censers swung to and fro, 
 Sable stoles sweeping slow 
 
 Cornice and column ! 
 
 O, as from each and all 
 Will there not voices call 
 
 Evermore back again ? 
 In the mind s gallery 
 Wilt thou not always see 
 Dim phantoms beckon thee 
 
 O er that old track again ? 
 
 New forms thy presence haunt, 
 New voices softly chant, 
 New faces greet thee ! 
 
288 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Pilgrims from many a shrine 
 Hallowed by poet s line, 
 At memory s magic sign, 
 Rising to meet thee. 
 
 And when such visions come 
 Unto thy olden home, 
 
 Will they not waken 
 Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
 Led thee o er sea and land 
 Back to the household band 
 
 Whence thou wast taken ? 
 
 While, at the sunset time, 
 Swells the cathedral s chime, 
 
 Yet, in thy dreaming, 
 While to thy spirit s eye 
 Yet the vast mountains lie 
 Piled in the 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 who, as staff and stay, 
 Watched o er thy wandering way, 
 
 Freshly remember. 
 
 So, when the call shall be 
 Soon or late unto thee, 
 
 As to all given, 
 Still may that picture live, 
 All its fair forms survive, 
 And to thy spirit give 
 
 Gladness in heaven ! 
 
THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 289 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 
 
 A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. 
 
 TO weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
 God s meekest Angel gently comes : 
 No power has he to banish pain, 
 Or give us back our lost again ; 
 And yet in tenderest love, our dear 
 And Heavenly Father sends him here. 
 
 There s quiet in that Angel s glance, 
 
 There s rest in his still countenance ! 
 
 He mocks no grief with idle cheer, 
 
 Nor wounds with words the mourner s ear ; 
 
 But ills and woes he may not cure 
 
 He kindly trains us to endure. 
 
 Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
 Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; 
 To lay the storms of hope and fear, 
 And reconcile life s smile and tear ; 
 The throbs of wounded pride to still, 
 And make our own our Father s will ! 
 
 O thou who mournest on thy way, 
 With longings for the close of day ; 
 He walks with thee, that Angel kind, 
 And gently whispers, " Be resigned : 
 Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
 The dear Lord ordereth all things well ! " 
 
20.0 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 FOLLEN. 
 
 ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE." 
 
 FRIEND of my soul ! as with moist eye 
 I look up from this page of thine, 
 Is it a dream that thou art nigh, 
 Thy mild face gazing into mine ? 
 
 That presence seems before me now, 
 A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, 
 
 When, dew-like, on the earth below 
 Descends the quiet of the skies. 
 
 The calm brow through the parted hair, 
 The gentle lips which knew no guile, 
 
 Softening the blue eye s thoughtful care 
 With the bland beauty of their smile. 
 
 Ah me ! at times that last dread scene 
 Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea, 
 
 Will cast its shade of doubt between 
 The failing eyes of Faith and thee. 
 
 Yet, lingering o er thy charmed page, 
 Where through the twilight air of earth, 
 
 Alike enthusiast and sage, 
 
 Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth ; 
 
 Lifting the Future s solemn veil ; 
 
 The reaching of a mortal hand 
 To put aside the cold and pale 
 
 Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land ; 
 

 POLLEN. 291 
 
 In thoughts which answer to my own, 
 In words which reach my inward ear, 
 
 Like whispers from the void Unknown, 
 I feel thy living presence here. 
 
 The waves which lull thy body s rest, 
 The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, 
 
 Unwasted, through each change, attest 
 The fixed economy of God. 
 
 Shall these poor elements outlive 
 
 The mind whose kingly will they wrought ? 
 Their gross unconsciousness survive 
 
 Thy godlike energy of thought ? 
 
 THOU LIVEST, FOLLEN ! not in vain 
 
 Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne 
 The burthen of Life s cross of pain, 
 
 And the thorned crown of suffering worn. 
 
 O, while Life s solemn mystery gipoms 
 Around us like a dungeon s wall, 
 
 Silent earth s pale and crowded tombs, 
 Silent the heaven which bends o er all ! 
 
 While day by day our loved ones glide 
 In spectral silence, hushed and lone, 
 
 To the cold shadows which divide 
 The living from the dread Unknown ; 
 
 While even on the closing eye, 
 
 And on the lip which moves in vain, 
 
 The seals of that stern mystery 
 Their undiscovered trust retain ; 
 
292 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And only midst the gloom of death, 
 
 Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, 
 
 Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, 
 Smile dimly on us through their tears ; 
 
 T is something to a heart like mine 
 
 To think of thee as living yet ; 
 To feel that such a light as thine 
 
 Could not in utter darkness set. 
 
 Less dreary seems the untried way 
 Since thou hast left thy footprints there, 
 
 And beams of mournful beauty play 
 Round the sad Angel s sable hair. 
 
 Oh ! at this hour when half the sky 
 Is glorious with its evening light, 
 
 And fair broad fields of summer lie 
 
 Hung o er with greenness in my sight ; 
 
 While through these elm-boughs wet with rain 
 The sunset s golden walls are seen, 
 
 With clover-bloom and yellow grain 
 
 And wood-draped hill and stream between ; 
 
 I long to know if scenes like this 
 Are hidden from an angel s eyes ; 
 
 If earth s familiar loveliness 
 
 Haunts not thy heaven s serener skies. 
 
 For sweetly here upon thee grew 
 The lesson which that beauty gave, 
 
 The ideal of the Pure and True 
 In earth and sky and gliding wave. 
 
POLLEN. 293 
 
 And it may be that all which lends 
 
 The soul an upward impulse here, 
 With a diviner beauty blends, 
 
 And greets us in a holier sphere. 
 
 Through groves where blighting never fell 
 The humbler flowers of earth may twine ; 
 
 And simple draughts from childhood s well 
 Blend with the angel-tasted wine. 
 
 But be the prying vision veiled, 
 And let the seeking lips be dumb, 
 
 Where even seraph eyes have failed 
 Shall mortal blindness seek to come ? 
 
 We only know that thou hast gone, 
 
 And that the same returnless tide 
 Which bore thee from us still glides on, 
 
 And we who mourn thee with it glide. 
 
 On all thou lookest we shall look, 
 And to our gaze erelong shall turn 
 
 That page of God s mysterious book 
 We so much wish yet dread to learn. 
 
 With Him, before whose awful power 
 Thy spirit bent its trembling knee ; 
 
 Who, in the silent greeting flower, 
 And forest leaf, looked out on thee, 
 
 We leave thee, with a trust serene, 
 
 Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, 
 While with thy childlike faiUi we lean 
 
 On Him whose dearest name is Love ! 
 
294 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 
 
 TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND 
 
 GOD bless ye, brothers ! in the fight 
 Ye re waging now ye cannot fail, 
 For better is your sense of right 
 Than king-craft s triple mail. 
 
 Than tyrant s law or bigot s ban, 
 More mighty is your simplest word ; 
 
 The free heart of an honest man 
 Than crosier or the sword. 
 
 Go, let your bloated Church rehearse 
 The lesson it has learned so well ; 
 
 It moves not with its prayer or curse 
 The gates of heaven or hell. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Hie great hearts of your olden time 
 Are beating with you, full and strong 
 
 Vll holy memories and sublime 
 And glorious round ye throng. 
 
 The bluff, bold men of Runnymede 
 Are with ye still in times like these ; 
 
 The shades of England s mighty dead, 
 Your cloud of witnesses ! 
 
TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 295 
 
 The truths ye urge are borne abroad 
 
 By every wind and every tide ; 
 The voice of Nature and of God 
 
 Speaks out upon your side. 
 
 The weapons which your hands have found 
 Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, 
 
 Light, Truth, and Love ; your battle-ground 
 The free, broad field of Thought. 
 
 No partial, selfish purpose breaks 
 
 The simple beauty of your plan, 
 Nor lie from throne or altar shakes 
 
 Your steady faith in man. 
 
 The languid pulse of England starts 
 
 And bounds beneath your words of power, 
 
 The beating of her million hearts 
 Is with you at this hour! 
 
 O ye who, with undoubting eyes, 
 
 Through present cloud and gathering storm, 
 Behold the span of Freedom s skies, 
 
 And sunshine soft and warm, 
 
 Press bravely onward ! not in vain 
 Your generous trust in human-kind ; 
 
 The good which bloodshed could not gain 
 Your peaceful zeal shall find. 
 
 Press on ! the triumph shall be won 
 Of common rights and equal laws, 
 
 The glorious dream of Harrington, 
 And Sidney s good old cause. 
 
290 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Blessing the cotter and the crown, 
 Sweetening worn Labor s bitter cup ; 
 
 And, plucking not the highest down, 
 Lifting the lowest up. 
 
 Press on ! and we who may not share 
 The toil or glory of your fight 
 
 May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, 
 God s blessing on the right ! 
 
 THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 T^HE Quaker of the olden time! 
 -- How calm and firm and true, 
 Unspotted by its wrong and crime, 
 
 He walked the dark earth through. 
 The lust of power, the love of gain, 
 
 The thousand lures of sin 
 Around him, had no power to stain 
 
 The purity within. 
 
 With that deep insight which detects 
 
 All great things in the small, 
 And knows how each man s life affects 
 
 The spiritual life of all, 
 He walked by faith and not by sight, 
 
 By love and not by law ; 
 The presence of the wrong or right 
 
 He rather felt than saw. 
 
 He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, 
 That nothing stands alone, 
 
THE REFORMER. 297 
 
 That whoso gives the motive makes 
 
 His brother s sin his own. 
 And, pausing not for doubtful choice 
 
 Of evils great or small, 
 He listened to that inward voice 
 
 Which called away from all. 
 
 O Spirit of that early day, 
 
 So pure and strong and true, 
 Be with us in the narrow way 
 
 Our faithful fathers knew. 
 Give strength the evil to forsake, 
 
 The cross of Truth to bear, 
 And love and reverent fear to make 
 
 Our daily lives a prayer ! 
 
 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. 
 13* 
 
298 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 " Spare," Art implored, " yon holy pile ; 
 
 That grand, old, time-worn turret spare " ; 
 Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, 
 Cried out, "Forbear!" 
 
 Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, 
 Groped for his old accustomed stone, 
 Leaned on his staff, and wept to rind 
 His seat o erthrown. 
 
 Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, 
 
 O erhung with paly locks of gold, 
 "Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, 
 "The fair, the old?" 
 
 Yet louder rang the Strong One s stroke, 
 
 Yet nearer flashed his axe s gleam ; 
 Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, 
 As from a dream. 
 
 I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled, 
 The Waster seemed the Builder too ; 
 Up springing from the ruined Old 
 
 I saw the New. 
 
 T was but the ruin of the bad, 
 
 The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
 Whate er of good the old time had 
 Was living still. 
 
 Calm grew the brows of him I feared ; 
 
 The frown which awed me passed away. 
 And left behind a smile which cheered 
 Like breaking day. 
 

 299 
 
 THE REFORMER. 
 
 The grain grew green on battle-plains, 
 
 O er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; 
 The slave stood forging from his chains 
 The spade and plough. 
 
 Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay 
 
 And cottage windows, flower-entwined, 
 Looked out upon the peaceful bay 
 And hills behind. 
 
 Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, 
 
 The lights on brimming crystal fell, 
 Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head 
 And mossy well. 
 
 Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope, 
 Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, 
 And with the idle gallows-rope 
 The young child played. 
 
 Where the doomed victim in his cell 
 Had counted o er the weary hours, 
 Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, 
 Came crowned with flowers. 
 
 Grown wiser for the lesson given, 
 
 I fear no longer, for I know 
 That, where the share is deepest driven, 
 The best fruits grow. 
 
 The outworn rite, the old abuse, 
 
 The pious fraud transparent grown, 
 The good held captive in the use 
 Of wrong alone, 
 
3 oo MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 These wait their doom, from that great law 
 Which makes the past time serve to-day ; 
 And fresher life the world shall draw 
 From their decay. 
 
 O, backward-looking son of time ! 
 The new is old, the old is new, 
 The cycle of a change sublime 
 Still sweeping through. 
 
 So wisely taught the Indian seer ; 
 
 Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, 
 Who wake by turns Earth s love and fear 
 Are one and same 
 
 Idly as thou, in that old day 
 
 Thou mournest, did thy sire repine ; 
 So, in his time, thy child grown gray 
 Shall sigh for thine. 
 
 But life shall on and upward go ; 
 
 Th eternal step of Progress beats 
 To that great anthem, calm and slow, 
 Which od 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 : 
 Wake thou and watch ! the world is gray 
 With morning light 1 
 
PRISONER FOR DEBT. 301 
 
 THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 
 
 LOOK on him ! through his dungeon grate 
 Feebly and cold the morning light 
 Comes stealing round him, dim and late, 
 
 As if it loathed the sight. 
 Reclining on his strawy bed, 
 His hand upholds his drooping head, 
 His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, 
 Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 
 And o er his bony fingers flow 
 His long, dishevelled locks of snow. 
 
 No grateful fire before him glows, 
 And yet the winter s breath is chill ; 
 
 And o er his half-clad person goes 
 The frequent ague thrill ! 
 
 Silent, save ever and anon, 
 
 A sound, half murmur and half groan, 
 
 Forces apart the painful grip 
 
 Of the old sufferer s bearded lip ; 
 
 O sad and crushing is the fate 
 
 Of old age chained and desolate ! 
 
 Just God ! why lies that old man there ? 
 
 A murderer shares his prison bed, 
 Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, 
 
 Gleam on him, fierce and red ; 
 And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
 Fall ever on his loathing ear, 
 And, or in wakefulness or sleep, 
 Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep 
 
302 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 kk Freedom ! " till your lisping ones 
 
 Give back their cradle-shout ; 
 Let boastful eloquence declaim 
 Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 
 Still let the poet s strain be heard, 
 With glory for each second word, 
 And everything with breath agree 
 To praise " our glorious liberty ! " 
 
LINES. 303 
 
 But when the patron cannon jars 
 That prison s cold and gloomy wall, 
 
 And through its grates the stripes and stars 
 Rise on the wind and fall, 
 
 Think ye that prisoner s aged ear 
 
 Rejoices in the general cheer ? 
 
 Think ye his dim and failing eye 
 
 Is kindled at your pageantry ? 
 
 Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, 
 
 What is your carnival to him ? 
 
 Down with the LAW that binds him thus ! 
 
 Unworthy freemen, let it find 
 No refuge from the withering curse 
 
 Of God and human kind ! 
 Open the prison s living tomb, 
 And usher from its brooding gloom 
 The victims of your savage code 
 To the free sun and air of God ; 
 No longer dare as crime to brand 
 The chastening of the Almighty s hand. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON READING PAMPHLETS PUBLISHED BY 
 CLERGYMEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THE GAL 
 LOWS. 
 
 I. 
 
 HP HE suns of eighteen centuries have shone 
 
 -L 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 ; 
 
304 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew, 
 And broke with publicans the bread of shame, 
 And drank, with blessings in his Father s name, 
 The water which Samaria s outcast drew, 
 Hath now his temples upon every shore, 
 
 Altar and shrine and priest, and incense dim 
 Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, 
 From lips which press the temple s marble floor, 
 Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet as of old, when, meekly " doing good," 
 He fed a blind and selfish multitude, 
 And even the poor companions of his lot 
 With their dim earthly vision knew him not, 
 
 How ill are his high teachings understood ! 
 Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest 
 
 At his own altar binds the chain anew ; 
 Where He hath bidden to Life s equal feast, 
 
 The starving many wait upon the few ; 
 Where He hath spoken Peace, his name hath been 
 The loudest war-cry of contending men ; 
 Priests, pale with vigils, in his name have blessed 
 The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, 
 Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, 
 And crossed its blazon with the holy sign ; 
 Yea, in his name who bade the erring live, 
 And daily taught his lesson, to forgive ! 
 
 Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel ; 
 And, with his words of mercy on their lips, 
 Hung gloating o er the pincer s burning grips, 
 
 And the grim horror of the straining wheel ; 
 Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim s limb. 
 Who saw before his searing eyeballs swim 
 
LINES. 
 
 305 
 
 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-accurse d flame 
 Which Calvin kindled by Geneva s lake, 
 New England s scaffold, and the priestly sneer 
 Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, 
 
 When guilt itself a human tear might claim, 
 Bear witness, O thou wronged and merciful One ! 
 That Earth s most hateful crimes have in thy name 
 been done 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thank God ! that I have lived to see the time 
 When the great truth begins at last to find 
 An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, 
 
 Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE is CRIME ! 
 
 That man is holier than a creed, that all 
 Restraint upon him must consult his good, 
 
 Hope s sunshine linger on his prison wall, 
 And Love look in upon his solitude. 
 
 The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught 
 
306 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought 
 Into the common mind and popular thought ; 
 And words, to which by Galilee s lake shore 
 The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, 
 Have found an echo in the general heart, 
 And of the public faith become a living part 
 
 V. 
 
 Who shall arrest this tendency? Bring back 
 The cells of Venice and the bigot s rack ? 
 Harden the softening human heart again 
 To cold indifference to a brother s pain ? 
 Ye most unhappy men ! who, turned away 
 From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, 
 
 Grope in the shadows of Man s twilight time, 
 What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood, 
 O er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, 
 
 Permitted in another age and clime ? 
 Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew 
 Rebuked the Pagan s mercy, when he knew 
 No evil in the Just One ? Wherefore turn 
 To the dark cruel past ? Can ye not learn 
 From the pure Teacher s life, how mildly free 
 Is the great Gospel of Humanity ? 
 The Flamen s knife is bloodless, and no more 
 Mexitli s altars soak with human gore, 
 No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke 
 Through the green arches of the Druid s oak ; 
 And ye of milder faith, with your high claim 
 Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, 
 Will ye become the Druids of our time ! 
 Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, 
 And, consecrators of Law s darkest crime, 
 
 Urge to its loathsome work the hangman s hand ? 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 307 
 
 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 ! 
 
 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE 
 
 FAR from his close and noisome cell, 
 By grassy lane and sunny stream, 
 Blown clover field and strawberry dell, 
 And green and meadow freshness, fell 
 
 The footsteps of his dream. 
 Again from careless feet the dew 
 
 Of 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 
 
308 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Upon his mother s knees was laid, 
 And sweetly lulled to slumber there, 
 With evening s holy hymn and prayer! 
 
 II. 
 
 He woke. At once on heart and brain 
 The present Terror rushed again, 
 Clanked on his limbs the felon s chain I 
 He woke, to hear the church-tower tell 
 Time s footfall on the conscious bell, 
 And, shuddering, feel that clanging din 
 His life s LAST HOUR had ushered in ; 
 To see within his prison-yard, 
 Through the small window, iron barred, 
 The gallows shadow rising dim 
 Between the sunrise heaven and him, 
 A horror in God s blessed air, 
 
 A blackness in his morning light, 
 Like some foul devil-altar there 
 
 Built up by demon hands at night. 
 
 And, maddened by that evil sight, 
 Dark, horrible, confused, and strange, 
 A chaos of wild, weltering change, 
 All power of check and guidance gone, 
 Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on. 
 In vain he strove to breathe a prayer, 
 
 In vain he turned the Holy Book, 
 He only heard the gallows-stair 
 
 Creak as the wind its timbers shook. 
 No dream for him of sin forgiven, 
 
 While still that baleful spectre stood, 
 
 With its hoarse murmur, " Blood for Blood!" 
 Between him and the pitying Heaven ! 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 309 
 
 III. 
 
 Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, 
 
 And smote his breast, and on his chain, 
 
 Whose iron clasp he always felt, 
 His hot tears fell like rain ; 
 
 And near him, with the cold, calm look 
 And tone of one whose formal part, 
 Unwarmed, unsoftened of the heart, 
 
 Is measured out by rule and book, 
 
 With placid lip and tranquil blood. 
 
 The hangman s ghostly ally stood, 
 
 Blessing with solemn text and word 
 
 The gallows-drop and strangling cord ; 
 
 Lending the sacred Gospel s awe 
 
 And sanction to the crime of Law. 
 
 He saw the victim s tortured brow, 
 
 The sweat of anguish starting there, 
 The record of a nameless woe 
 In the dim eye s imploring stare, 
 Seen hideous through the long, damp hair, 
 Fingers of ghastly skin and bone 
 Working and writhing on the stone ! 
 And heard, by mortal terror wrung 
 From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, 
 The choking sob and low hoarse prayer ; 
 As o er his half-crazed fancy came 
 A vision of the eternal flame, 
 Its smoking cloud of agonies, 
 Its demon-worm that never dies, 
 The everlasting rise and fall 
 Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; 
 
MIS CELL A NEO US. 
 
 While high above that dark red flood, 
 Black, giant-like, the gallows stood ; 
 Two busy fiends attending there ; 
 One with cold mocking rite and prayer, 
 The other with impatient grasp, 
 Tightening the death-rope s strangling clasp 
 
 . 
 v. 
 
 The unfelt rite at length was done, 
 
 The prayer unheard at length was said, 
 An hour had passed : the noonday sun 
 
 Smote on the features of the dead ! 
 And he who stood the doomed beside, 
 Calm gauger of the swelling tide 
 Of mortal agony and fear, 
 Heeding with curious eye and ear 
 Whate er revealed the keen excess 
 Of man s extremest wretchedness : 
 And who in that dark anguish saw 
 
 An earnest of the victim s fate, 
 The vengeful terrors of God s law, 
 
 The kindlings of Eternal hate, 
 The first drops of that fiery rain 
 Which beats the dark red realm of pain, 
 Did he uplift his earnest cries 
 
 Against the crime of Law, which gave 
 
 His brother to that fearful grave, 
 Whereon Hope s moonlight never lies. 
 
 And Faith s white blossoms never wave 
 To the soft breath of Memory s sighs ; 
 Which sent a spirit marred and stained, 
 By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, 
 In madness and in blindne^ stark, 
 Into the silent, unknown dark ? 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 No, from the wild and shrinking dread 
 With which he saw the victim led 
 
 Beneath the dark veil which divides 
 Ever the living from the dead, 
 
 And Nature s solemn secret hides, 
 The man of prayer can only draw 
 New reasons for his bloody law ; 
 New faith in staying Murder s hand 
 By murder at that Law s command ; 
 New reverence for the gallows-rope, 
 As human Nature s latest hope ; 
 Last relic of the good old time, 
 When Power found license for its crime, 
 And held a writhing world in check 
 By that fell cord about its neck ; 
 Stifled Sedition s rising shout, 
 Choked the young breath of Freedom out, 
 And timely checked the words which sprung 
 From Heresy s forbidden tongue ; 
 While, in its noose of terror bound, 
 The Church its cherished union found, 
 Conforming, on the Moslem plan, 
 The motley-colored mind of man, 
 Not by the Koran and the Sword, 
 But by the Bible and the Cord ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 O Thou ! at whose rebuke the grave 
 Back to warm life its sleeper gave, 
 Beneath whose sad and tearful glance 
 The cold and changed countenance 
 Broke the still horror of its trance, 
 And, waking, saw with joy above, 
 A brother s face of tenderest love ; 
 
312 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, 
 The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, 
 And from thy very garment s hem 
 Drew life and healing unto them, 
 The burden of thy holy faith 
 Was love and life, not hate and death, 
 Man s demon ministers of pain. 
 
 The fiends of his revenge were sent 
 
 From thy pure Gospel s element 
 To their dark home again. 
 Thy name is Love ! What, then, is he, 
 
 Who in that name the gallows rears, 
 An awful altar built to thee, 
 
 With sacrifice of blood and tears ? 
 O, once again thy healing lay 
 
 On the blind eyes which knew thee not. 
 And let the light of thy pure day 
 
 Melt in upon his darkened thought. 
 Soften his hard, cold heart, and show 
 
 The power which in forbearance lies, 
 And let him feel that mercy now 
 
 Is better than old sacrifice ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 As on the White Sea s charmed shore, 
 
 The Parsee sees his holy hill 
 With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o er 
 Yet knows beneath them, evermore, 
 
 The low, pale fire is quivering still; 
 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, 
 
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 313 
 
 And early beauty, linger there, 
 And o er its wasted desert blow 
 
 Faint breathings of its morning air, 
 O, never yet upon the scroll 
 Of the sin-stained but priceless soul, 
 
 Hath Heaven inscribed "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 ! 
 
 RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 
 
 O MOTHER EARTH ! upon thy lap 
 Thy weary ones receiving, 
 And o er them, silent as a dream, 
 
 Thy grassy mantle weaving, 
 Fold softly in thy long embrace 
 
 That heart so worn and broken, 
 And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
 Thy shadows old and oaken. 
 
 Shut out from him the bitter word 
 
 And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
 Nor let the storms of yesterday 
 
 Disturb his quiet morning. 
 Breathe over him forgetfulness 
 
 Of all save deeds of kindness, 
 And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, 
 
 Press down his lids in blindness. 
 
3 T 4 M ISC ELL A NEO US. 
 
 There, where with living ear and eye 
 
 He heard Potomac s flowing, 
 And, through his tall ancestral trees, 
 
 Saw autumn s sunset glowing, 
 He sleeps, still looking to the west, 
 
 Beneath the dark wood shadow, 
 As if he still would see the sun 
 
 Sink down on wave and meadow. 
 
 Bard, Sage, and Tribune ! in himself 
 
 All moods of mind contrasting, 
 The tenderest wail of human woe, 
 
 The scorn-like lightning blasting ; 
 The pathos which from rival eyes 
 
 Unwilling tears could summon, 
 The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
 
 Of hatred scarcely human ! 
 
 Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower ; 
 
 From lips of life-long sadness ; 
 Clear picturings of majestic thought 
 
 Upon a ground of madness ; 
 And over all Romance and Song 
 
 A classic beauty throwing, 
 And laurelled Clio at his side 
 
 Her storied pages showing. 
 
 All parties feared him : each in turn 
 
 Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
 As right or left his fatal glance 
 
 And spectral finger pointed. 
 Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 
 
 With trenchant wit unsparing, 
 And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 
 
 The robe Pretence was wearing. 
 
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 3x5 
 
 Too honest or too proud to feign 
 
 A love he never cherished, 
 Beyond Virginia s border line 
 
 His patriotism perished. 
 While others hailed in distant skies 
 
 Our eagle s dusky pinion, 
 He only saw the mountain bird 
 
 Stoop o er his Old Dominion ! 
 
 Still through each change of fortune strange, 
 
 Racked nerve, and brain all burning. 
 His loving faith in Mother-land 
 
 Knew never shade of turning ; 
 By Britain s lakes, by Neva s wave, 
 
 Whatever sky was o er him, 
 He heard her rivers rushing sound, 
 
 Her blue peaks rose before him. 
 
 He held his slaves, yet made withal 
 
 No false and vain pretences, 
 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. 
 
3 r 6 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And when the old and wearied man 
 
 Lay down for his last sleeping, 
 And at his side, a slave no more, 
 
 His brother-man stood weeping, 
 His latest thought, his latest breath, 
 
 To Freedom s duty giving, 
 With failing tongue and trembling hand 
 
 The dying blest the living. 
 
 O, never bore his ancient State 
 
 A truer son or braver ! 
 None trampling with a calmer scorn 
 
 On foreign hate or favor. 
 He knew her faults, yet never stooped 
 
 His proud and manly feeling 
 To poor excuses of the wrong 
 
 Or meanness of concealing. 
 
 But none beheld with clearer eye 
 
 The plague-spot o er her spreading, 
 None heard more sure the steps of Doom 
 
 Along her future treading. 
 For her as for himself he spake, 
 
 When, his gaunt frame upbracing, 
 He traced with dying hand REMORSE ! " 
 
 And perished in the tracing. 
 
 As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 
 
 From Vernon s weeping willow, 
 And from the grassy pall which hides 
 
 The Sage of Monticello, 
 So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 
 
 Of Randolph s lowly dwelling, 
 Virginia ! o er thy land of slaves 
 
 A warning voice is swelling ! 
 
DEMOCRACY. 3 
 
 And hark ! from thy deserted fields 
 
 Are sadder warnings spoken, 
 From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons 
 
 Their household gods have broken. 
 The curse is on thee, wolves for men, 
 
 And briers for corn-sheaves giving ! 
 O, more than all thy dead renown 
 
 Were now one hero living ! 
 
 DEMOCRACY. 
 
 " All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even 
 so to them." MATTHEW vii. 12. 
 
 ID EARER of Freedom s holy light, 
 L Breaker of Slavery s chain and rod, 
 The foe of all which pains the sight, 
 Or wounds the generous ear of God ! 
 
 
 
 Beautiful yet thy temples rise, 
 
 Though there profaning gifts are thrown ; 
 And fires unkindled of the skies 
 
 Are glaring round thy altar-stone. 
 
 Still sacred, though thy name be breathed 
 By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 
 
 And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed 
 Around the haughty brows of Pride. 
 
 O, ideal of my boyhood s time ! 
 
 The faith in which my father stood, 
 Even when the sons of Lust and Crime 
 
 Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood ! 
 
318 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 By misery unrepelled, unawed 
 
 By pomp or power, thou seest a MAN 
 
 In prince or peasant, slave or lord, 
 Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 
 
 Through all disguise, form, place, or name, 
 Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, 
 
 Through poverty and squalid shame, 
 Thou lookest on the man within. 
 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 Howe er debased and soiled and dim, 
 
 The crown upon his forehead set, 
 The immortal gift of God to him. 
 
DEMOCRACY. 319 
 
 And there is reverence in thy look ; 
 
 For that frail form which mortals wear 
 The Spirit of the Holiest took, 
 
 And veiled his perfect brightness there. 
 
 Not from the shallow babbling fount 
 
 Of vain philosophy thou art ; 
 He who of old on Syria s mount 
 
 Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener s heart, 
 
 In holy words which cannot die, 
 In thoughts which angels leaned to know, 
 
 Proclaimed thy message from on high, 
 Thy mission to a world of woe. 
 
 That voice s echo hath not died ! 
 
 From the blue lake of Galilee, 
 And Tabor s lonely mountain-side, 
 
 It calls a struggling world to thee. 
 
 Thy name and watchword o er this land 
 
 I hear in every breeze that stirs, 
 And round a thousand altars stand 
 
 Thy banded party worshippers. 
 
 Not to these altars of a day, 
 
 At party s call, my gift I bring ; 
 But on thy olden shrine I lay 
 
 A freeman s dearest offering : 
 
 The voiceless utterance of his will, 
 His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, 
 
 That manhood s heart remembers still 
 The homage of his generous youth. 
 
 Election Day, 1843. 
 
3 20 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO RONGE. 
 
 STRIKE home, strong-hearted man ! Down to the 
 root 
 
 Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. 
 Thy work is to hew down. In God s name then 
 Put nerve into thy task. Let other men 
 Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit 
 The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. 
 Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows 
 Fall heavy as the Suabian s iron hand, 
 On crown or crosier, which shall 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 
 
CHALKLEY HALL. ^ 2 \ 
 
 The rusted chain of ages, help to bind 
 His hands for whom thou claim st the freedom of the 
 mind ! 
 
 CHALKLEY HALL. 39 
 
 T T OW bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze 
 -*- J- To him who flies 
 
 From crowded street and red wall s weary gleam, 
 Till far behind him like a hideous dream 
 The close dark city lies ! 
 
 Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng 
 
 The marble floor 
 
 Of Mammon s altar, from the crush and din 
 Of the world s madness let me gather in 
 
 My better thoughts once more. 
 
 O, once again revive, while on my ear 
 
 The cry of Gain 
 
 And low, hoarse hum of Traffic die away, 
 Ye blessed memories of my early day 
 
 Like sere grass wet with rain ! 
 
 Once more let God s green earth and sunset air 
 
 Old feelings waken ; 
 
 Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, 
 O, let me feel that my good angel still 
 
 Hath not his trust forsaken. 
 
 And well do time and place befit my mood : 
 
 Beneath the arms 
 
 Of this embracing wood a good man made 
 His home, like Abraham resting in the shade 
 
 Of Mamre s lonely palms. 
 14* 
 
3 2 2 MISCELLA NEOUS. 
 
 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, 
 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 : 
 
CHALKLEY HALL. 323 
 
 How the armed warrior sat him down to hear 
 
 Of Peace and Truth, 
 
 And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, 
 Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty, came, 
 
 And fair and bright-eyed youth. 
 
 O, far away beneath New England s sky, 
 
 Even when a boy, 
 
 Following my plough by Merrimack s green shore, 
 His simple record I have pondered o er 
 
 With deep and quiet joy. 
 
 And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm, 
 
 Its woods around, 
 
 Its still stream winding on in light and shade, 
 Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade, - 
 
 To me is holy ground. 
 
 And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps 
 
 His vigils still ; 
 
 Than that where Avon s son of song is laid, 
 Or Vaucluse hallowed by its 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 ? 
 
324 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO J. P. 
 
 JVJ OT 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 
 Life all too earnest, and its time too short 
 For dreamy ease and Fancy s graceful sport ; 
 
 And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, 
 Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought 
 
 The broken walls of Zion, even thy song 
 Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought ! 
 
 THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. 
 
 [!BN BATUTA, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth 
 century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the 
 natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and 
 he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was restored, at 
 once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable JOGEKS, 
 or saints, sitting silent and motionless undw the tree, patiently awaiting 
 the falling of a leaf.] 
 
 sat in silent watchfulness 
 The sacred cypress-tree about, 
 And, from beneath old wrinkled brows 
 Their failing eyes looked out. 
 
THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. 325 
 
 Gray Age and Sickness waiting there 
 
 Through weary night and lingering day, 
 
 Grim as the idols at their side, 
 And motionless as they. 
 
 Unheeded in the boughs above 
 The song of Ceylon s birds was sweet ; 
 
 Unseen of them the island flowers 
 Bloomed brightly at their feet. 
 
 O er them the tropic night-storm swept, 
 The thunder crashed on rock and hill , 
 
 The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed. 
 Yet there they waited still ! 
 
 What was the world without to them ? 
 
 The Moslem s sunset-call, the dance 
 Of Ceylon s maids, the passing gleam 
 
 Of battle-flag and lance ? 
 
 They waited for that falling leaf 
 
 Of which the wandering Jogees sing : 
 
 Which lends once more to wintry age 
 The greenness of its spring. 
 
 O, if these poor and blinded ones 
 In trustful patience wait to feel 
 
 O er torpid pulse and failing limb 
 A youthful freshness steal ; 
 
 Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree 
 Whose healing leaves of life are shed, 
 
 In answer to the breath of prayer, 
 Upon the waiting head ; 
 
326 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Not to restore our failing forms, 
 And build the spirit s broken shrine, 
 
 But, on the fainting SOUL to shed 
 A light and life divine ; 
 
 Shall we grow weary in our watch, 
 And murmur at the long delay ? 
 
 Impatient of our Father s time 
 And his appointed way ? 
 
 Or shall the stir of outward things 
 Allure and claim the Christian s eye, 
 
 When on the heathen watcher s ear 
 Their powerless murmurs die ? 
 
 Alas ! a deeper test of faith 
 
 Than prison cell or martyr s stake, 
 
 The self-abasing watchfulness 
 Of silent prayer may make. 
 
 We gird us bravely to rebuke 
 
 Our erring brother in the wrong, 
 
 And in the ear of Pride and Power 
 Our warning voice is strong. 
 
 Easier to smite with Peter s sword 
 
 Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer. 
 
 Life s "great things," like the Syrian lord, 
 Our hearts can do and dare. 
 
 But oh ! we shrink from Jordan s side, 
 From waters which alone can save ; 
 
 And murmur for Abana s banks 
 And Pharpar s brighter wave. 
 
A DREAM OF SUMMER. 
 
 Thou, who in the garden s shade 
 Didst wake thy weary ones again, 
 
 Who slumbered at that fearful hour 
 Forgetful of thy pain ; 
 
 Bend o er us now, as over them, 
 And set our sleep-bound spirits free, 
 
 Nor leave us slumbering in the watch 
 Our souls should keep with Thee ! 
 
 A DREAM OF SUMMER. 
 
 BLAND as the morning breath of June 
 The southwest breezes play ; 
 And, through its haze, the winter noon 
 
 Seems warm as summer s day. 
 The snow-plumed Angel of the North 
 
 Has dropped his icy spear ; 
 Again the mossy earth looks forth, 
 Again the streams gush clear. 
 
 The fox his hillside cell forsakes, 
 
 The muskrat leaves his nook, 
 The bluebird in the meadow brakes 
 
 Is singing with the brook. 
 " Bear up, O Mother Nature ! " cry 
 
 Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; 
 "Our winter voices prophesy 
 
 Of summer days to thce ! " 
 
 So, in those winters of the soul. 
 By bitter blasts and drear 
 
 327 
 
328 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 O erswept from Memory s frozen pole, 
 
 Will sunny days appear. 
 Reviving Hope and Faith, they show 
 
 The soul its living powers, 
 And how beneath the winter s snow 
 
 Lie germs of summer flowers ! 
 
 The Night is mother of the Day, 
 
 The Winter of the Spring, 
 And ever upon old Decay 
 
 The greenest mosses cling. 
 Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 
 
 Through showers the sunbeams fall ; 
 For God, who loveth all his works, 
 
 Has left his Hope with all ! 
 
 4/A ist montht 1847. 
 
 TO , 
 
 WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN S JOURNAL. 
 Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Essays of Eliet, 
 
 TV/T AIDEN ! 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. 
 
JL 
 
 TO . 32 g 
 
 Ever in the New rejoicing, 
 
 Kindly beckoning back the Old, 
 Turning, with the gift of Midas, 
 
 All things into gold. 
 
 And the passing shades of sadness 
 
 Wearing even a welcome guise, 
 As, when some bright lake lies open 
 
 To the sunny skies, 
 
 Every wing of bird above it, 
 
 Every light cloud floating on, 
 Glitters like that flashing mirror 
 
 In the selfsame sun. 
 
 But upon thy youthful forehead 
 
 Something like a shadow lies ; 
 And a serious soul is looking 
 
 From thy earnest eyes. 
 
 With an early introversion, 
 
 Through the forms of outward things 
 Seeking for the subtle essence, 
 
 And the hidden springs. 
 
 Deeper than the gilded surface 
 
 Hath thy wakeful vision seen, 
 Farther than the narrow present 
 
 Have thy journeyings been. 
 
 Thou hast midst Life s empty noises 
 
 Heard the solemn steps of Time, 
 And the low mysterious voices 
 
 Of another clime. 
 
330 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 All tne mystery of Being 
 
 Hath upon thy spirit pressed, 
 
 Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, 
 Find no place of rest : 
 
 That which mystic Plato pondered, 
 That which Zeno heard with awe, 
 
 And the star-rapt Zoroaster 
 In his night-watch saw. 
 
 From the doubt and darkness springing 
 
 Of the dim, uncertain Past, 
 Moving to the dark still shadows 
 
 O er the Future cast, 
 
 Early hath Life s mighty question 
 Thrilled within thy heart of youth, 
 
 With a deep and strong beseeching : 
 WHAT and WHERE is TRUTH ? 
 
 Hollow creed and ceremonial, 
 Whence the ancient life hath fled, 
 
 Idle faith unknown to action, 
 Dull and cold and dead. 
 
 Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings, 
 Only wake a quiet scorn, 
 
 Not from these thy seeking spirit 
 Hath its answer drawn. 
 
 But, like some tired child at even, 
 On thy mother Nature s breast, 
 
 Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking 
 Truth, and peace, and rest. 
 
O er that mother s rugged features 
 Thou art throwing Fancy s veil, 
 
 Light and soft as woven moonbeams, 
 Beautiful and frail ! 
 
 O er the rough chart of Existence, 
 Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, 
 
 Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, 
 And cool fountains flow. 
 
 And to thee an answer cometh 
 From the earth and from the sky, 
 
 And to thee the hills and waters 
 And the stars reply. 
 
 But a soul-sufficing answer 
 
 Hath no outward origin ; 
 More than Nature s many voices 
 
 May be heard within. 
 
 Even as the great Augustine 
 
 Questioned earth and sea and sky, 40 
 
 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. 
 
332 M ISC ELL A NEO US. 
 
 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 WOOLMAN S feet ! 
 
 And his brief and simple record 
 How serenely sweet ! 
 
 O er life s humblest duties throwing 
 Light the earthling never knew, 
 
 Freshening all its dark waste places 
 As with Hermon s dew. 
 
 All which glows in Pascal s pages, 
 All which sainted Guion sought, 
 
 Or the blue-eyed German Rahel 
 Half-unconscious taught : 
 
333 
 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 ! 
 
334 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 If with readier ear thou heedest 
 What the Inward Teacher saith, 
 
 Listening with a willing spirit 
 And a childlike faith, 
 
 Thou mayst live to bless the giver, 
 Who, himself but frail and weak, 
 
 Would at least the highest welfare 
 Of another seek ; 
 
 And his gift, though poor and lowly 
 It may seem to other eyes, 
 
 Yet may prove an angel holy 
 In a pilgrim s guise. 
 
 LEGGETT S MONUMENT. 
 
 " Ye build the tombs of the prophets." Holy Writ. 
 
 \7ES, 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 ! 
 
SONGS OF LABOR, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 i 850. 
 
SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 I 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 WOULD the gift I offer here 
 
 Might graces from thy favor take, 
 And, seen through Friendship s atmosphere, 
 On softened lines and coloring, wear 
 The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. 
 
 Few leaves of Fancy s spring remain : 
 
 But what I have I give to thee, 
 The o er-sunned bloom of summer s plain, 
 And paler flowers, the latter rain 
 Calls from the westering slope of life s autumnal lea. 
 
 Above the fallen groves of green, 
 
 Where youth s enchanted forest stood. 
 
 Dry root and mosse d trunk between, 
 
 A sober after-growth is seen, 
 
 As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple 
 wood ! 
 
 Yet birds will sing, and breezes play 
 Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
338 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 ; 41 
 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 work 
 ing brain. 
 
 The doom which to the guilty pair 
 
 Without the walls of Eden came, 
 Transforming sinless ease to care 
 And rugged toil, no more shall bear 
 The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. 
 
 A blessing now, a curse no more ; 
 
 Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, 
 The coarse mechanic vesture wore, 
 A poor man toiling with the poor, 
 In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. 
 
THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 
 
 THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 
 
 r I ^HE 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 gnarldd oak, 
 
 The mallet to the pin ! 
 
 Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast 
 
 The sooty smithy jars, 
 And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 
 
 Are fading with the stars. 
 All day for us the smith shall stand 
 
 Beside that flashing forge ; 
 All day for us his heavy hand 
 
 The groaning anvil scourge. 
 
 From far-off hills, the panting team 
 
 For us is toiling near ; 
 For us the raftsmen down the stream 
 
 Their island barges steer. 
 Rings out for us the axe-man s stroke 
 
 In forests old and still, 
 For us the century-circled oak 
 
 Falls crashing down his hill. 
 
 Up ! up ! in nobler toil than ours 
 No craftsmen bear a part : 
 
340 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 We make of Nature s giant powers 
 
 The slaves of human Art. 
 
 Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 
 
 And drive the treenails free ; 
 Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 
 
 Shall tempt the searching sea ! 
 
 Where er the keel of our good ship 
 
 The sea s rough field shall plough, 
 Where er her tossing spars shall drip 
 
 With salt-spray caught below, 
 That ship must heed her master s beck. 
 
 Her helm obey his hand, 
 And seamen tread her reeling deck 
 
 As if they trod the land. 
 
 Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 
 
 Of Northern ice may peel ; 
 The sunken rock and coral peak 
 
 May grate along her keel ; 
 And know we well the painted shell 
 
 We give to wind and wave 
 Must float, the sailor s citadel, 
 
 Or sink, the sailor s grave ! 
 
 Ho ! strike away the bars and blocks, 
 
 And set the good ship free ! 
 Why lingers on these dusty rocks 
 
 The young bride of the sea ? 
 Look ! how she moves adown the grooves. 
 
 In graceful beauty now ! 
 How lowly on the breast she loves 
 
 Sinks down her virgin prow ! 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS. 34 r 
 
 God bless her ! wheresoe er the breeze 
 
 Her snowy wing shall fan, 
 Aside the frozen Hebrides, 
 
 Or sultry Hindostan ! 
 Where er, in mart or on the main, 
 
 With peaceful flag unfurled, 
 She helps to wind the silken chain 
 
 Of commerce round the world ! 
 
 Speed on the ship ! But let her bear 
 
 No merchandise of sin, 
 No groaning cargo of despair 
 
 Her roomy hold within ; 
 No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, 
 
 Nor poison-draught for ours ; 
 But honest fruits of toiling hands 
 
 And Nature s sun and showers. 
 
 Be hers the Prairie s golden grain, 
 
 The desert s golden sand, 
 The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 
 
 The spice of Morning-land ! 
 Her pathway on the open main 
 
 May blessings follow free, 
 And glad hearts welcome back again 
 
 Her white sails from the sea ! 
 
 THE SHOEMAKERS. 
 
 T_T O ! workers of the old time styled 
 - -* The Gentle Craft of Leather ! 
 Young brothers of the ancient guild, 
 Stand forth once more together ! 
 
342 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Call out again your long array, 
 In the olden merry manner ! 
 
 Once more, on gay St. Crispin s day, 
 Fling out your blazoned banner ! 
 
 Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 
 
 How falls the polished hammer ! 
 Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 
 
 A quick and merry clamor. 
 Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 
 
 The glossy vamp around it, 
 And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 
 
 Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 
 
 For you, along the Spanish main 
 
 A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
 For you, the Indian on the plain- 
 
 His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
 For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 
 
 The woodman s fire is lighting ; 
 For you, upon the oak s gray bark, 
 
 The woodman s axe is smiting. 
 
 For you, from Carolina s pine 
 
 The rosin-gum is stealing ; 
 For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 
 
 Her silken skein is reeling ; 
 For you, the dizzy goatherd roams 
 
 His rugged Alpine ledges ; 
 For you, round all her shepherd homes. 
 
 Bloom England s thorny hedges. 
 
 The foremost still, by day or night, 
 On moated mound or heather. 
 
THE SHOEMAKERS. 343 
 
 Where er the need of trampled right 
 
 Brought toiling men together ; 
 Where the free burghers from the wall 
 
 Defied the mail-clad master, 
 Than yours, at Freedom s trumpet-call, 
 
 No craftsmen rallied faster. 
 
 Let foplings sneer, let fools deride, 
 
 Ye heed no idle scorner ; 
 Free hands and hearts are still your pride, 
 
 And duty done, your honor. 
 Ye dare to trust, for honest fame, 
 
 The jury Time empanels, 
 And leave to truth each noble name 
 
 Which glorifies your annals. 
 
 Thy songs, Han Sachs, are living yet, 
 
 In strong and hearty German ; 
 And Bloomfield s lay, and Gifford s wit, 
 
 And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
 Still from his book, a mystic seer, 
 
 The soul of Behmen teaches, 
 And England s priestcraft shakes to hear 
 
 Of Fox s leathern breeches. 
 
 The foot is yours ; where er it falls, 
 
 It treads your well- wrought leather, 
 On earthen floor, in marble halls, 
 
 On carpet, or on heather. 
 Still there the sweetest charm is found 
 
 Of matron grace or vestal s, 
 As Hebe s foot bore nectar round 
 
 Among the old celestials ! 
 
344 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Rap, rap ! your stout and bluff brogan, 
 
 With footsteps slow and weary. 
 May wander where the sky s blue span 
 
 Shuts down upon the prairie. 
 On Beauty s foot, your slippers glance, 
 
 By Saratoga s fountains, 
 Or twinkle down the summer dance 
 
 Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 
 
 The red brick to the mason s hand, 
 
 The brown earth to the tiller s, 
 The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 
 
 Like fairy Cinderella s ! 
 As they who shunned the household maid 
 
 Beheld the crown upon her, 
 So all shall see your toil repaid 
 
 With hearth and home and honor. 
 
 Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 
 
 In water cool and brimming, 
 " All honor to the good old Craft, 
 
 Its merry men and women ! " 
 Call out again your long array, 
 
 In the old time s pleasant manner; 
 Once more, on gay St. Crispin s day, 
 
 Fling out his blazoned banner ! 
 
 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. 
 
THE DROVERS. 345 
 
 But see ! the day is closing cool, 
 
 The woods are dim before us ; 
 The white fog of the wayside pool 
 
 Is creeping slowly o er us. 
 
 The night is falling, comrades mine, 
 
 Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 
 And through yon elms the tavern sign 
 
 Looks out upon us cheery. 
 The landlord beckons from his door, 
 
 His beechen fire is glowing ; 
 These ample barns, with feed in store, 
 
 Are filled to overflowing. 
 
 From many a valley frowned across 
 
 By brows of rugged mountains ; 
 From hillsides where, through spongy moss, 
 
 Gush out the river fountains ; 
 From quiet farm-fields, green and low, 
 
 And bright with blooming clover ; 
 From vales of corn the wandering crow 
 
 No richer hovers over ; 
 
 Day after day our way has been 
 
 O er many a hill and hollow ; 
 By lake and stream, by wood and glen, 
 
 Our stately drove we follow. 
 Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, 
 
 As smoke of battle o er us, 
 Their white horns glisten in the sun, 
 
 Like plumes and crests before us. 
 
 We see them slowly climb the hill, 
 As slow behind it sinking ; 
 15* 
 
346 
 
 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Or, thronging close, from roadside rill. 
 
 Or sunny lakelet, drinking. 
 Now crowding in the narrow road, 
 
 In thick and struggling masses, 
 They glare upon the teamster s load 
 
 Or rattling coach that passes. 
 
 Anon, with toss of horn and tail, 
 
 And paw of hoof, and bellow, 
 They leap some farmer s broken pale, 
 
 O er meadow-close or fallow. 
 Forth comes the startled goodman ; forth 
 
 Wife, children, house-dog, sally, 
 Till once more on their dusty path 
 
 The baffled truants rally. 
 
 We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, 
 
 Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, 
 Like those who grind their noses down 
 
 On pastures bare and stony, 
 Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, 
 
 And cows too lean for shadows, 
 Disputing feebly with the frogs 
 
 The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 
 
 In our good drove, so sleek and fair, 
 
 No bones of leanness rattle; 
 No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, 
 
 Or Pharaoh s evil cattle. 
 Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 
 
 That fed him unrepining ; 
 The fatness of a goodly land 
 
 In each dun hide is shining. 
 
THE DROVERS. 347 
 
 We ve sought them where, in warmest nooks, 
 
 The freshest feed is growing, 
 By sweetest springs and clearest brooks 
 
 Through honeysuckle flowing ; 
 Wherever hillsides, sloping south, 
 
 Are bright with early grasses, 
 Or, tracking green the lowland s drouth, 
 
 The mountain streamlet passes. 
 
 But now the day is closing cool, 
 
 The woods are dim before us, 
 The white fog of the wayside pool 
 
 Is creeping slowly o er us. 
 The cricket to the frog s bassoon 
 
 His shrillest time is keeping ; 
 The sickle of yon setting moon 
 
 The meadow-mist is reaping. 
 
 The night is falling, comrades mine, 
 
 Our footsore beasts are weary, 
 And through yon elms the tavern sign 
 
 Looks out upon us cheery. 
 To-morrow, eastward with our charge 
 
 We 11 go to meet the dawning, 
 Ere yet the pines of Kdarsarge 
 
 Have seen the sun of morning. 
 
 When snow-flakes o er the frozen earth, 
 
 Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
 When children throng the glowing hearth, 
 
 And quiet wives are knitting; 
 While in the fire-light strong and clear 
 
 Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 
 To tales of all we see and hear 
 
 The ears of home shall listen. 
 
34 8 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 By many a Northern lake and hill, 
 
 From many a mountain pasture, 
 Shall Fancy play the Drover still, 
 
 And speed the long night faster. 
 Then let us on, through shower and sun. 
 
 And heat and cold, be driving ; 
 There s life alone in duty done, 
 
 And rest alone in striving. 
 
 THE FISHERMEN. 
 
 HURRAH ! the seaward breezes 
 Sweep down the bay amain ; 
 Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! 
 
 Run up the sail again ! 
 L j.ive 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. 
 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, 
 
THE FISHERMEN. 
 
 Floating spectral in the moonshine, 
 Along the low, black shore ! 
 
 Where like snow the gannet s feathers 
 On Brador s rocks are shed, 
 
 And the noisy murr are flying, 
 Like black scuds, overhead ; 
 
 Where in mist the rock is hiding, 
 
 And the sharp reef lurks below, 
 And the white squall smites in summer, 
 
 And the autumn tempests blow ; 
 Where, through gray and rolling vapor, 
 
 From evening unto morn, 
 A thousand boats are hailing, 
 
 Horn answering unto horn. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the Red Island, 
 
 With the white cross on its crown ! 
 Hurrah ! for Meccatina, 
 
 And its mountains bare and brown ! 
 Where the Caribou s tall antlers 
 
 O er the dwarf-wood freely toss, 
 And the footstep of the Mickmack 
 
 Has no sound upon the moss. 
 
 There we 11 drop our lines, and gather 
 
 Old Ocean s treasures in, 
 Where er the mottled mackerel 
 
 Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
 The sea s our field of harvest, 
 
 Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
 We 11 reap the teeming waters 
 
 As at home they reap the plain I 
 
350 
 
 SOA GS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 reel ; 
 Though the fog be dark around us, 
 
 And the storm blow high and loud, 
 We will whistle down the wild wind, 
 
 And laugh beneath the cloud ! 
 
 In the darkness as in daylight, 
 
 On the water as on land, 
 God s eye is looking on us, 
 
 And beneath us is his hand ! 
 Death will find us soon or later, 
 
 On the deck or in the cot ; 
 And we cannot meet him better 
 
 Than in working out our lot. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the west- wind 
 
 Comes freshening down the bay, 
 The rising sails are filling, 
 
 Give way, my lads, give way ! 
 Leave the coward landsman clinging 
 
 To the dull earth, like a weed, 
 The stars of heaven shall guide us, 
 
 The breath of heaven shall speed ! 
 
THE HUSKERS. 351 
 
 THE HUSKERS. 
 
 T T 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 wood 
 lands gay 
 
 With the hues of summer s rainbow, or the meadow- 
 flowers of May. 
 
 Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose 
 
 broad and red, 
 
 At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped ; 
 Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, 
 On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly pictured 
 
 wood. 
 
 And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, 
 He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light ; 
 Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the 
 
 hill; 
 And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener 
 
 still. 
 
 And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimp 
 ses of that sky, 
 
 Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they 
 knew not why ; 
 
 A-nd school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 
 meadow brooks, 
 
 Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet 
 looks. 
 
35 2 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient weath- 
 
 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. 
 
 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 yel 
 low 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 creak 
 ing 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. 
 
THE HUSKERS. 353 
 
 And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 
 
 stream, and pond, 
 
 Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, 
 Slovvly o er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, 
 And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one ! 
 
 As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, 
 
 And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shad 
 ows lay ; 
 
 From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet with 
 out name, 
 
 Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry 
 huskers came. 
 
 Swung o er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in 
 the mow, 
 
 Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene 
 below ; 
 
 The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears be 
 fore, 
 
 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 chil 
 dren played. 
 
 Urged by the" gocd host s daughter, a maiden young 
 
 and fair, 
 Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft 
 
 brown hair, 
 
354 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 
 
 smooth of tongue, 
 To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad 
 
 sung. 
 
 THE CORN-SONG. 
 
 HEAP high the farmer s wintry hoard ! 
 Heap high the golden corn ! 
 No richer gift has Autumn poured 
 From out her lavish horn ! 
 
 Let other lands, exulting, glean 
 
 The apple from the pine, 
 The orange from its glossy green, 
 
 The cluster from the vine ; 
 
 We better love the hardy gift 
 
 Our rugged vales bestow, 
 To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
 
 Our harvest-fields with snow. 
 
 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers 
 Our ploughs their furrows made, 
 
 While on the hills the sun and showers 
 Of changeful April played. 
 
 We dropped the seed o er hill and plain, 
 
 Beneath the sun of May, 
 And frightened from our sprouting grain 
 
 The robber crows away. 
 
THE CORN-SONG. 
 
 All through the long, bright days of June 
 Its leaves grew green and fair, 
 
 And waved in hot midsummer s noon 
 Its soft and yellow hair. 
 
 And now, with autumn s moonlit eves, 
 
 Its harvest-time has come, 
 We pluck away the frosted leaves, 
 
 And bear the treasure home. 
 
 There, richer than the fabled gift 
 
 Apollo showered of old, 
 Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
 
 And knead its meal of gold. 
 
 Let vapid idlers loll in silk 
 
 Around their costly board ; 
 Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 
 
 By homespun beauty poured ! 
 
 Where er the wide old kitchen hearth 
 
 Sends up its smoky curls, 
 Who will not thank the kindly earth, 
 
 And bless our farmer girls ! 
 
 Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
 
 Whose folly laughs to scorn 
 The blessing of our hardy grain, 
 
 Our wealth of golden corn ! 
 
 Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
 
 Let mildew blight the rye, 
 Give to the worm the orchard s fruit, 
 
 The wheat-field to the fly : 
 
 35, 
 
356 SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 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 1 
 
 THE LUMBERMEN. 
 
 WILDLY round our woodland quarters 
 Sad-voiced Autumn grieves ; 
 Thickly down these swelling waters 
 
 Float his fallen leaves. 
 Through the tall and naked timber, 
 
 Column-like and old, 
 Gleam the sunsets of November 
 From their skies of gold. 
 
 O er us, to the southland heading, 
 
 Screams the gray wild-goose ; 
 On the night-frost sounds the treading 
 
 Of the brindled moose. 
 Noiseless creeping, while we re sleeping, 
 
 Frost his task-work plies ; 
 Soon, his icy bridges heaping, 
 
 Shall our log-piles rise. 
 
 When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 
 
 On some night of rain, 
 Lake and river break asunder 
 
 Winter s weakened chain, 
 Down the wild March flood shall bear them 
 
 To the saw-mill s wheel, 
 
JffE LUMBERMEN. 357 
 
 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 
 
 AH our blows repeat. 
 
 Where the crystal Ambijejis 
 
 Stretches broad and clear, 
 And Millnoket s pine-black ridges 
 
 Hide the browsing deer : 
 Where, through lakes and wide morasses. 
 
 Or t 1 rough rocky walls, 
 Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 
 
 White with foamy falls ; 
 
 Where, through clouds, are glimpses given 
 
 Of Katahdin s sides, 
 Rock and forest piled to heaven, 
 
 Torn and ploughed by slides ! 
 Far below, the Indian trapping, 
 
 In the sunshine warm ; 
 Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping 
 
 Half the peak in storm ! 
 
 Where are mossy carpets better 
 
 Than the Persian weaves, 
 And than Eastern perfumes sweeter 
 
 Seem the fading leaves ; 
 
358 SONGS OF LABOR, 
 
 And a music wild and solemn, 
 From the pine-tree s height, 
 
 Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 
 On the wind of night ; 
 
 Make we here our camp of winter ; 
 
 And, through sleet and snow, 
 Pitchy knot and beechen splinter 
 
 On our hearth shall glow. 
 Here, with mirth to lighten duty, 
 
 We shall lack alone 
 Woman s smile and girlhood s beauty. 
 
 Childhood s lisping tone. 
 
 But their hearth is brighter burning 
 
 For our toil to-day ; 
 And the welcome of returning 
 
 Shall our loss repay, 
 When, like seamen from the waters, 
 
 From the woods we come, 
 Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, 
 
 Angels of our home ! 
 
 Not for us the measured ringing 
 
 From the village spire, 
 Not for us the Sabbath singing 
 
 Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
 Ours the old, majestic temple, 
 
 Where God s brightness shines 
 Down the dome so grand and ample, 
 
 Propped by lofty pines ! 
 
 Through each branch-enwoven skylight 
 Speaks He in the breeze, 
 
THE LUMBERMEN. 359 
 
 As of old beneath the twilight 
 
 Of lost Eden s trees ! 
 For his ear, the inward feeling 
 
 Needs no outward tongue ; 
 He can see the spirit kneeling 
 
 While the axe is swung. 
 
 Heeding truth alone, and turning 
 
 From the false and dim, 
 Lamp of toil or altar burning 
 
 Are alike to Him. 
 Strike, then, comrades ! Trade is waiting 
 
 On our rugged toil ; 
 Far ships waiting for the freighting 
 
 Of our woodland spoil ! 
 
 Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, 
 
 Bleak and cold, of ours, 
 With the citron-planted islands 
 
 Of a clime of flowers ; 
 To our frosts the tribute bringing 
 
 Of eternal heats ; 
 In our lap of winter flinging 
 
 Tropic fruits and sweets. 
 
 Cheerly on the axe of labor 
 
 Let the sunbeams dance, 
 Better than the flash of sabre 
 
 Or the gleam of lance ! 
 Strike ! With every blow is given 
 
 Freer sun and sky, 
 And the long-hid earth to heaven 
 
 Looks, with wondering eye ! 
 
SONGS OF LABOR. 
 
 Loud behind us grow the murmurs 
 
 Of the age to come ; 
 Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers. 
 
 Bearing harvest home ! 
 Here her virgin lap with treasures 
 
 Shall the green earth fill ; 
 Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 
 
 Crown each beechen hill. 
 
 Keep who will the city s alleys, 
 
 Take the smooth-shorn plain, 
 Give to us the cedar valleys, 
 
 Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
 In our North-land, wild and woody, 
 
 Let us still have part ; 
 Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 
 
 Hold us to thy heart ! 
 
 O, our free hearts beat the warmer 
 
 For thy breath of snow ; 
 And our trend 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 ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
IT may be known to Whittier collectors 
 generally (although it is by no means 
 certain) that one of the early productions 
 of the Quaker poet was "A New Year s 
 Address to the Patrons of the Essex Ga 
 zette" of Haverhill, in 1828. But it cannot 
 be generally known that it was to Dr. E. 
 Weld of Hallowell, Me., that Whittier made 
 acknowledgment of that inspiring stimulus 
 which led him to write verse. Charles E. 
 Goodspeed of this city recently came into 
 possession of a letter in which this ac 
 knowledgment is made, and he was stimu 
 lated to look up the carrier s address of 
 the Essex Gazette, which Is not included 
 in Whittier s published works. As a re- 
 eult there soon will be issued sixty copies 
 of the letter and the ad-dress to which it 
 refers, not because the poem adds in the 
 slightest to Whittier s literary fame, but 
 because it makes Whittier collections more 
 complete. The letter, which by the cour 
 tesy of the publisher is here printed for 
 the first time, is as follows: 
 
 Haverihill 5th of 3rd Mo., 1828. 
 
 Friend Weld I rece ed thy letter a few 
 days ago, and am very much oibliig d to thee 
 for it. I am happy to think that I am not 
 entirely forgotten by those for whom I have i 
 always entertained thie most sincere regard. ! 
 I recollect perfectly well that (on one oc- } 
 casion in particular) after hearing thy ani- 
 mated praises of Milton and Thomson, I 
 attempted to bring a few words to rhyme j 
 and measure: but whether it was poetry, or 
 prose run mad, or as Burns says "some- j 
 thing that was rightly neither," I cannot 
 now ascertain. Certain I am, however, that 
 it was in a great measure owing to thy ad 
 miration of those poets, that I ventur d on 
 that path which their memory has hallow d, 
 In pursuit of I myself hardly know what 
 Time, alone, must determine. The Rocks 
 Bridge will I suppose be completed this 
 year. I am really glad of it, but it un 
 fortunately happens that I have incurr d 
 the displeasure o-f some of the worthies of 
 that Village. 
 
 An unlucky New Year s Address pub- 
 lish d in the Ess. Gaz. has oall d down 
 upon me the anathemas of some half a 
 dozen, wiho felt that they or their follies 
 were alluded to. I have learn d, however, 
 that it is an unthankful task to lash vice 
 and prejudice, for 
 
 "None e er felt the halter draw 
 With good opinion of the law." 
 
 I really do not know of any thing to tell 
 thee of, which will make my scrawl inter- 
 esting. My sister Mary is married to Capt. I 
 Caldwell and, forgive my egotism, I am a 
 tall, dark-complexion d, and I am sorry to 
 say rather ordinary-looking fellow, bashful, 
 yet proud as any poet should be, and believ 
 ing with the honest Scotchman that "I hae 
 muckle reason to be thankful that I a.m as 
 I a>m." If I should have an opportunity to 
 visit thee I should rejoice at it. If thou 
 shouldst come this way do not fail to call 
 & see us, for, believe me, all would be ex 
 tremely glad to see thee. A letter from 
 thee would be thankfully rece i d by 
 Thy friend, 
 
 J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 P. S. Please send the Prospectus as soon 
 as possible. J. G. W. 
 
 Dr. E. Weldt Hallowell, Me. 
 
N OT E S d 
 
 NOTE i, page 3. 
 
 MOGG MEGONE, or Hegone, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in 
 the bloody war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black 
 Point, October i2th of that year ; and cut off, at the same time, a party of 
 Englishmen near Saco River. From a deed signed by this Indian in 
 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems that, previous to the war, he 
 had mingled much with the colonists. On this account, he was probably 
 selected by the principal sachems as their agent in the treaty signed in 
 
 November, 1676. 
 
 NOTE 2, page 4. 
 
 Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1644. Leaving his civilized 
 companions, he plunged into the great wilderness, and settled among the 
 Penobscot Indians, near the mouth of their noble river. He here took for 
 his wives the daughters of the great Modocawando, the most powerful 
 sachem of the East. His castle was plundered by Governor Andros, dur 
 ing his reckless administration ; and the enraged Baron is supposed to 
 have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English. 
 
 NOTE 3, page 4. 
 
 The owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which Mogg 
 attacked and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the 
 tale relates. 
 
 NOTE 4, page 5. 
 
 Major Phillips, one of the principal men of the Colony. His garrison 
 sustained a long and terrible siege by the savages. As a magistrate and a 
 gentleman, he exacted of his plebeian neighbors a remarkable degree of 
 deference. The Court Records of the settlement inform us that an indi 
 vidual was fined for the heinous offence of saying that " Major Phillips s 
 mare was as lean as an Indian dog." 
 
364 NOTES. 
 
 NOTE 5, page 5 
 
 Captain Harmon, of Georgeana, now York, was, for many years, ths 
 terror of the Eastern Indians. In one of his expeditions up the Kennebec 
 River, at the head of a party of rangers, he discovered twenty of the sav 
 ages asleep by a large fire. Cautiously creeping towards them until he 
 was certain of his aim, he ordered his men to single out their objects. 
 The first discharge killed or mortally wounded the whole number of the 
 unconscious sleepers. 
 
 NOTE 6, page 5. 
 
 Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur 
 de Monts and Champlain, in 1603. The following extract, from the jour 
 nal of the latter, relates to it : " Having left the Kennebec, we ran along 
 the coast to the westward, and cast anchor under a small island, near the 
 main-land, where we saw twenty or more natives. I here visited an 
 island, beautifully clothed with a fine growth of forest trees, particularly 
 of the oak and walnut ; and overspread with vines, that, in their season, 
 produce excellent grapes. We named it the island of Bacchus." Let 
 Voyages de Sieur Cham^iain, Liv. 2, c. 8. 
 
 NOTE 7, page 5. 
 
 John Bonython was the son of Richard Bonython, Gent., one of the 
 most efficient and able magistrates of the Colony. John proved to be "a 
 degenerate plant." In 1635 we find, by the Court Records, that, for some 
 offence, he was fined 405. In 1640 he was fined for abuse toward R. Gib 
 son, the minister, and Mary his wife. Soon after he was fined for disor 
 derly conduct in the house of his father. In 1645 the " Great and 
 General Court " adjudged " John Bonython outlawed, and incapable 
 of any of his Majesty s laws, and proclaimed him a rebel." (Court Rec 
 ords of the Province, 1645 ) In 1651 he bade defiance to the laws of 
 Massachusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of all 
 law and authority ; and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of " The 
 Sagamore of Saco," which has come down to the present generation in the 
 following epitaph : 
 
 " Here lies Bonython ; the Sagamore of Saco, 
 He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomoko." 
 
 By some means or other, he obtained a large estate. In this poem, I have 
 taken some liberties with him, not strictly warranted by historical facts, 
 although the conduct imputed to him is in keeping with his general char 
 acter. Over the last years of his life lingers a deep obscurity. Even the 
 manner of his death is uncertain. He was supposed to have been killed 
 by the Indians ; but this is doubted by the able and indefatigable author 
 of the History of Saco and Biddeford. Part I. p. 115. 
 
NOTES. 365 
 
 NOTE 8, page 6. 
 
 Foxwell s Brook flows from a marsh or bog, called the ^eath," in 
 Saco, containing thirteen hundred acres. On this brook, an wvrounded 
 by wild and romantic scenery, is a beautiful waterfall, of mo>^ vhan sixty 
 feet. 
 
 NOTE 9, page 8. 
 
 Hiacoomes, the first Christian preacher on Martha s Vineyard ; for a 
 biography of whom the reader is referred to Increase Mayhew s account 
 of the Praying Indians, 1726. The following is related of him: "One 
 Lord s day, after meeting, where Hiacoomes had been preaching, there 
 came in a Powwaw very angry, and said, I know all the meeting Indians 
 are liars. You say you don t care for the Powwaws ; then calling two 
 or three of them by name, he railed at them, and told them they were 
 deceived, for the Powwaws could kill all the meeting Indians, if they set 
 about it. But Hiaccomes told him that he would be in the midst of all 
 the Powwaws in the island, and they should do the utmost they could 
 against him ; and when they should do their worst by their witchcraft to 
 kill him, he would without fear set himself against them, by remembering 
 Jehovah. He told them also he did put all the Powwaws under his heel. 
 Such was the faith of this good man. Nor were these Powwaws ever able 
 to do these Christian Indians any hurt, though others were frequently hurt 
 and killed by them." Mayhew, pp. 6, 7, c. i. 
 
 NOTE 10, page 12. 
 
 " The toothache," says Roger Williams in his observations upon the 
 language and customs of the New England tribes, " is the only paine 
 which will force their stoute hearts to cry." He afterwards remarks that 
 even the Indian women never cry as he has heard " some of their men in 
 
 this paine." 
 
 NOTE u, page 14. 
 
 Wuttamuttata, " Let us drink." Weekan, " It is sweet." Vide Roper 
 Williams s Key to the Indian Language, " in that parte of America called 
 New England." London, 1643, p. 35. 
 
 NOTE 12, page 16. 
 
 Wetuomanit, a house god, or demon. " They the Indians have 
 given me the names of thirty-seven gods, which I have, all which in their 
 solemne Worships they invocate ! " R. Williams s Briefe Observations 
 of the Customs, Manners, Worships, &c., of the Natives, in Peace and 
 Warre, in Life and Death : on all which is added Spiritual Observations, 
 General and Particular, of Chiefe and Special use upon all occasions 
 to all the English inhabiting these parts ; yet Pleasant and Profitable tft 
 the view of all Mene. p. izo, c. 21. 
 
366 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTE 13, page 19. 
 
 Mt. Desert Island, the Bald Mountain upon which overlooks French 
 man s and Penobscot Bay. It was upon this island that the Jesuits made 
 their earliest settlement. 
 
 NOTE 14, page 21. 
 
 Father Hennepin, a missionary among the Iroquois, mentions that the 
 Indians believed him to be a conjurer, and that they were particularly 
 afraid of a bright silver chalice which he had in his possession. " The 
 Indians," says Pere Jerome Lallamant, "fear us as the greatest sorcerers 
 
 on earth." 
 
 NOTE 15, page 23. 
 
 Bomazeen is spoken of by Penhallow, as " the famous warrior and chief 
 tain of Norridgewock." He was killed in the attack of the English upon 
 Norridgewock, in 1724. 
 
 NOTE 1 6, page 24. 
 
 Pere Ralle, or Rasles, was one of the most zealous and indefatigable of 
 that band of Jesuit missionaries, who, at the beginning of the seventeenth 
 century, penetrated the forests of America with the avowed object of con 
 verting the heathen. The first religious mission of the Jesuits, to the sav 
 ages in North America, was in 1611. The zeal of the fathers for the con 
 version of the Indians to the Catholic faith knew no bounds. For this, 
 they plunged into the depths of the wilderness ; habituated themselves to 
 all the hardships and privations of the natives ; suffered cold, hunger, and 
 some of them death itself, by the extremest tortures. Pere Brebeuf, after 
 laboring in the cause of his mission for twenty years, together with his 
 companion, Pere Lallamant, was burned alive. To these might be added 
 the names of those Jesuits who were put to death by the Iroquois, 
 Daniel, Gamier, Buteaux, La Riborerde, Goupil, Constantin, and Liege- 
 ouis. "For bed," says Father Lallamant, in his Relation de ce qui s est 
 dans le fays des Hurons, 1640, c. 3, "we have nothing but a miserable 
 piece of bark of a tree ; for nourishment, a handful or two of corn, either 
 roasted or soaked in water, which seldom satisfies our hunger ; and after 
 all, not venturing to perform even the ceremonies of our religion, without 
 being considered as sorcerers." Their success among the natives, how 
 ever, by no means equalled their exertions. Pere Lallamant says : "With 
 respect to adult persons, in good health, there is little apparent suc 
 cess ; on the contrary, there have been nothing but storms and whirlwinds 
 from that quarter." 
 
 Sebastian Ralle established himself, some time about the year 1670, at 
 Norridgewock, where he continued more than forty years. He was ac 
 cused, and perhaps not without justice, of exciting his praying Indians 
 against the English, whom he looked upon as the enemies not only of his 
 
NOTES. 367 
 
 king, but also of the Catholic religion. He was killed by the English, in 
 1724, at the foot of the cross which his own hands had planted. This 
 Indian church was broken up, and its members either killed outright or 
 dispersed. 
 
 In a letter written by Ralle to his nephew he gives the following account 
 of his church, and his own labors : " All my converts repair to the church 
 regularly twice every day ; first, very early in the morning, to attend mass, 
 and again in the evening, to assist in the prayers at sunset. As it is ne 
 cessary to fix the imagination of savages, whose attention is easily dis 
 tracted, I have composed prayers, calculated to inspire them with just 
 sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars : they chant, or at least re 
 cite them aloud, during mass. Besides preaching to them on Sundays and 
 saints days, I seldom let a working-day pass, without making a concise 
 exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those vices to 
 which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some 
 particular virtue." Vide Lettres Edifianies et Cur., Vol. VI. p. 127. 
 
 NOTE 17, page 34. 
 
 The character of Ralle has probably never been correctly delineated. 
 By his brethren of the Romish Church, he has been nearly apotheosized. 
 On the other hand, our Puritan historians have represented him as a 
 demon in human form. He was undoubtedly sincere in his devotion to 
 the interests of his church, and not over-scrupulous as to the means of ad 
 vancing those interests. "The French," says the author of the History 
 of Saco and Biddeford, "after the peace of 1713, secretly promised to 
 supply the Indians with arms and ammunition, if they would renew hos 
 tilities. Their principal agent was the celebrated Ralle, the French 
 Jesuit." p. 215. 
 
 NOTE 1 8, page 37. 
 
 Hertel de Rouville was an active and unsparing enemy of the English. 
 He was the leader of the combined French and Indian force which de 
 stroyed Deerfield and massacred its inhabitants, in 1703. He was after 
 wards killed in the attack upon Haverhill. Tradition says that, on exam 
 ining his dead body, his head and face were found to be perfectly smooth, 
 without the slightest appearance of hair or beard. 
 
 NOTE 19, page 38. 
 Cowesass ? tawhich wessaseen ? Are you afraid ? why fear you ? 
 
 NOTE 20, page 47. 
 
 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 cere- 
 
 
3 68 NOTES, 
 
 monies closed with a great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, 
 Passaconaway ordered a select number of his men to accompany the new 
 ly-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 es 
 corted his wife to her father s house in a style that became a chief, and 
 that now if she wished to return, her father must send her back in the 
 same way. This Passaconaway refused to do, and it is said that here ter 
 minated the connection of his daughter with the Saugus chief. Vid* 
 Morton s New Canaan. 
 
 NOTE 21, page 54. 
 
 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 ac 
 knowledged 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, &c. He was, 
 undoubtedly, one of those shrewd and powerful men whose achievements 
 are always regarded by a barbarous people as the result of supernatural 
 aid. The Indians gave to such the names of Powahs or Panisees." 
 
 " The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and to these the 
 Devill appeareth more familiarly than to others." Winslow s Relation. 
 
 NOTE 22, page 59. 
 
 "The Indians," says Roger Williams, "have a god whom they call 
 Wetuomanit, who presides over the household." 
 
 NOTE 23, page 63. 
 
 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. 
 
 NOTE 24, page 66. 
 
 The Spring God. See Roger Williams s Key, &c. 
 
 NOTE 25, page 71. 
 
 " Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her no more. 
 Vide Roger Williams s Key to the Indian Language, 
 
 NOTE 26, page 72. 
 " The Great South West God." See Roger Williams s Observations, 
 
 to. 
 
NOTES. 369 
 
 NOTE 27, page 76. 
 
 The Celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the government of the 
 Colony in Virginia, in his capacity of " Admiral of New England," made 
 a careful survey of the coast from Penobscot to Cape Cod, in the summer 
 
 of 1614, 
 
 NOTE 28, page 76. 
 
 Lake Winnipiseogee, The Smile of the Great Spirit, the source 
 of one of the branches of the Merrimack. 
 
 NOTE 29, page 77. 
 
 Captain Smith gave to the promontory, now called Cape Ann, the name 
 of Tragabizanda, in memory of his young and beautiful mistress of lhat 
 name, who, while he was a captive at Constantinople, like Desdemona, 
 " loved him for the dangers he had passed." 
 
 NOTE 30, page 78. 
 
 Some three or four years since, a fragment of a statue, rudely chiselled 
 iroin dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on the Merri- 
 inack. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact that the 
 ancient Northmen visited New England, some centuries before the dis 
 coveries of Columbus, is now very generally admitted. 
 
 NOTE 31, page 107. 
 
 De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds of the new 
 world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth. 
 
 NOTE 32, page 125. 
 
 TOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE, the black chieftain of Hayti, was a slave on 
 the plantation " de Libertas," belonging to M. BAYOU. When the rising 
 of the negroes took place, in 1791, TOUSSAINT refused to join them until 
 he had aided M. BAYOU and his family to escape to Baltimore. The 
 white man had discovered in Toussaint many noble qualities, and had in 
 structed him in some of the first branches of education ; and the preserva 
 tion of his life was owing to the negro s gratitude for this kindness. 
 
 In 1797 Toussaint POuverture was appointed, by the French govern 
 ment, General-in-Chief of the armies of St. Domingo, and, as such, signed 
 the Convention with General Maitland for the evacration of the island by 
 the British. From this period, until 1801, the island, under the govern 
 ment of Toussaint, was happy, tranquil, and prosperous. The miserable 
 attempt of Napoleon to re-establish slavery in St. Domingo, although it 
 failed of its intended object, proved fatal to the negro chieftain. Treach 
 erously seized by Leclerc, he was hurried on board a vessel by night, and 
 conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold subterranean dun 
 geon, at Besaa^on, where, in April, 1803, he died. The treatment of 
 
370 NOTES. 
 
 Toussaint finds a parallel only in the murder of the Duke d Enghein. Iv 
 was the remark of Godwin, in his lectures, that the West Indian Islands, 
 since their first discovery by Columbus, could not boast of a single name 
 which deserves comparison with that of Toussaint 1 Ouverture. 
 
 NOTE 33, page 132. 
 
 The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of William 
 Wordsworth, addressed to Toussaint 1 Ouverture, during his confinement 
 in France. 
 
 " Toussaint I thou most unhappy man of men I 
 Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thou liest now 
 Buried in some deep dungeon s earless den : 
 O miserable chieftain ! where and when 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet, die not, do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow ; 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 
 Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies, 
 There s not a breathing of the common wind 
 That will forget thee : thou hast great allies. 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
 And love, and man s unconquerable mind" 
 
 NOTE 34, page 133. 
 
 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 obsti 
 nate disease of the eyes, contagious, and altogether beyond the re 
 sources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among 
 the slaves (only half a wineglass per day being allowed to an indi 
 vidual), and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed. 
 By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck occasion 
 ally ; 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 re 
 mained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not preclude cal 
 culation : 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 ! 
 
 In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary individual, whose 
 
NOTES. 371 
 
 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 Consta?it, in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 
 1820. 
 
 NOTE 35, page 182. 
 
 The Northern author of the Congressional rule against receiving peti 
 tions of the people on the subject of Slavery. 
 
 NOTE 36, page 212. 
 
 Dr. Thacher, surgeon in ScammePs regiment, in his description of the 
 siege of Yorktown, says : "The labor on the Virginia plantations is per 
 formed altogether by a species of the human race cruelly wrested from 
 their native country, and doomed to perpetual bondage, while their mas 
 ters are manfully contending for freedom and the natural rights of man. 
 Such is the inconsistency of human nature*" Eighteen hundred slaves 
 were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, and restored to their masters. 
 Well was it said by Dr. Barnes, in his late work on Slavery : " No slave 
 was any nearer his freedom after the surrender of Yorktown than when 
 Patrick Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the hills and 
 vales of Virginia." 
 
 NOTE 37, page 229. 
 
 The rights and liberties affirmed by MAGNA CHARTA were deemed of 
 such importance, in the thirteenth century, that the Bishops, twice a year, 
 with tapers burning, and in their pontifical robes, pronounced, in the pres 
 ence of the king and the representatives of the estates of England, the 
 greater excommunication against the infringer of that instrument. The 
 imposing ceremony took place in the great Hall of Westminster. A copy 
 of the curse, as pronounced in 1253, declares that, " by the authority of 
 Almighty God, and the blessed Apostles and Martyrs, and all the saints 
 in heaven, all those who violate the English liberties, and secretly or 
 openly, by deed, word, or counsel, do make statutes, or observe them 
 being made, against said liberties, are accursed and sequestered from the 
 company of heaven and the sacraments of the Holy Church." 
 
 WILLIAM PENN, in his admirable political pamphlet, " England s Pres 
 ent Interest considered," alluding to the curse of the Charter-breakers, 
 says : " I am no Roman Catholic, and little value their other curses ; yet 
 I declare I would not for the world incur this curse, as every man deserv 
 edly doth, who offers violence to the fundamental freedom thereby re 
 peated and confirmed." 
 
37 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTE 38, page 275. 
 
 " The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated 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 commodities far more valuable than these, inestimable jewels, 
 which they would show if they could be protected from the clergy. They 
 would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament; and thereby 
 many were deluded into heresy." R. Saccho. 
 
 NOTE 39, page 321. 
 
 Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of THOMAS CHALK- 
 LEY, 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 and bustle of the city, 
 
 NOTE 40, page 331. 
 August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi. " Interrogavi Terram," &c. 
 
 NOTE 41, page 338. 
 
 For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, in his inimitable 
 Bonnet to the Rhodora, 
 
 " If eyes were made for seeing, 
 Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." 
 
HARRIET TUBMAN 
 
 The History and Character of a Remark 
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 The G 
 
 [Anne Fitzhugh Miller, in American Magazine! 
 
 No one knows exactly when Harriet Ross 
 was born, but it was on the eastern shore 
 of Maryland and not much less than a 
 hundred years ago. She knows that her 
 mother s mother was brought in a slave 
 ship from Africa, that her mother was the 
 daughter of a white man, an American, 
 and her father a full-blooded Negro. 
 
 Harriet was not large, but she. was very 
 strong. The most strenuous slave labor 
 was demanded of her; summer and winter 
 she drove oxcarts; she ploughed; with her 
 father she cut timber and drew heavy logs 
 like a patient mule. About the year 1844 
 she was married to a freedman named 
 Tubman.. He proved unworthy and de 
 serted her. She determined to try to es 
 cape from slavery, and induced her two 
 brothers to go with her. The three started 
 together, but the brothers soon became 
 frightened and turned back. Harriet went 
 on alone. All through the night she 
 walked and ran alone. When she reached 
 a place of safety it was morning. She 
 says: "I looked at my hands to see if T 
 was the same person now I was free- 
 there was such a glory over everything, 
 the sun came like gold through the trees 
 and over the fields, and I felt like I was in 
 heaven!" Not one to enjoy heaven alone 
 was that generous heart. Nineteen times 
 did she return to the land of slavery, and 
 each time brought away to Canada groups 
 of men, women and children, her parents 
 and brothers among them, about three hun 
 dred in all. A prize of $40,000 was offered 
 for her capture, but Harriet was never 
 caught. She delights to recall the fact 
 that on all those long and perilous journeys 
 on the "Underground Railroad" she never 
 lost a passenger! Her belief that she was 
 and is sustained and guided by "de spent 
 of de Lord" is absolute. Governor An 
 drew of Massachusetts appointed her scout 
 and nurse during the war. She is now re 
 ceiving a pension. 
 
 One of the most important episodes in 
 which Harriet took a leading part and 
 proved the saving factor was Colonel Mont- 
 gomerie s exploit on the Combahee River. 
 General Hunter secured Harriet s assist- 
 a&ce for the great undertaking. The plan 
 was to send several gunboats and a few 
 men up the river, in an attempt to collect 
 th3 slaves living near the shores and carry 
 them down to Beaufort, within the Union 
 lines. It is worth a day s journey to h*ear 
 
 w. 
 
 ites. 
 tion. 
 
 2.00. 
 4to, 
 ions, 
 nd." 
 
 :cep- 
 The 
 latic 
 
 and 
 
 r .00. 
 
 ding 
 s in 
 
General ttunter secured Marriet s assist- 
 afcce for the great undertaking. The plan 
 was to send several gunboats and a few 
 men up the river, in an attempt to collect 
 the slaves living near the shores and carry 
 them down to Beaufort, within the Union 
 lines. It is worth a day s journey to Wear 
 Harriet herself describe the vivid scene- 
 throngs of hesitating refugees, a motley 
 -ciowd, men, women, children, babies 
 ("Peers like I nebber see so many twins in 
 my life") and pigs and chickens, and such 
 domestic necessities as could be "toted 
 along. The slave-drivers had used their 
 whips in vain to get the poor refugees back 
 tD their quarters, and yet the blacks were 
 almost as much in dread of the stranger 
 soldiers. How deal with this turbulent 
 mass of humanity? The colonel realized 
 the danger of delay, and calling Harriet to 
 the upper deck in a voice of command said: 
 "Moses, you ll have to give em a song!" 
 Then the power of the woman poured forth 
 Harriet lifted up a voice full of emotional 
 fervor in verse after verse of prophetic 
 pi omise. She improvised both words and 
 melody: 
 
 Of all the whole creation in the East or in the 
 
 West 
 The glorious Yankee nation is the greatest and 
 
 the best! 
 
 Come along! Come along! Don t be alarm, 
 Uncle Sam s rich enough to give us all a farm! 
 
 Come along! Come along! Don t be a fool, 
 Uncle Sam s rich enough to send us all to school! | 
 etc., etc. 
 
 As she chanted to refrain "Come alonff! 
 Come along!" she raised her long arms 
 with an imperious gesture impossible to 
 resist. The crowd responded with shouts 
 of "Glory! Glory!" The victory was won 
 about eight hundred souls eagerly scrambled 
 on board the gunboats and were trans 
 ported to freedom. 
 
 Among the many men of note who trusted 
 and encouraged the intrepid little woman 
 were Wendell Phillips, William Lloyd Gar 
 rison, Thomas Garrett, William H. Seward, 
 Emerson, Alcott, Dr. Howe and Gerrit 
 Smith. Frederick Douglass wrote of her, 
 "Excepting John Brown, I know no one 
 who has encountered more perils and hard 
 ships to serve our enslaved people." John 
 Brown said, "Mr. Phillips, I bring you one 
 of the best and bravest persons on this 
 continent, General Tubman, as we call 
 her." He also said. "She i<^ the most rf a 
 man, naturally, that I ever met with." 
 This war-time general now speaks \v th 
 reverence "John Brown, my dearest 
 friend" and she whom he called "the most 
 of a man" is also more of a mother l.han 
 most women. She founded and maintains 
 a home for colored men and women. She 
 "dwells in the midst of them, singing." 
 
3uoz reino am jo 
 m ssnosip o> uorpsudoaddy uo ea* 
 ,-uiioD esnoH ^ o,eq add* o, L si TOt 
 - * aouBJ-eaddu rensn siq 30 OU-BA 
 
 r^r-^nwiraoo ----- ?.em -> 
 
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 V - c^ ; X t* 
 
 
 
 

 *" ******* 
 
 =!? - - . 
 
 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
AN UNCOLLECTED POEM OF 
 WHITTIER S 
 
 [There are hundreds of Whittier s early 
 poems which were never placed by him in 
 any collection of his works. They are to 
 be found in the papers he edited and to 
 which he contributed in th6 days before 
 he consecrated all hie powers to humani 
 tarian work. . They grave him a measuro 
 of literary reputation which must have 
 gratified him at the time; but when he 
 was baptized into the new spirit which in 
 formed all his later work ne took pains 
 to prevent the collection of the verses 
 written in the vein of an outgrown ambi 
 tion. His wish in this matter should be 
 respected. And yet, while studying his early 
 work, I find some poems which I fancy 
 he would have preserved if they had not 
 been overlooked when making- his selec 
 tions. Among- these is this paraphrase from 
 the German, which I find in the Liberator 
 of Aug. 10, 1888. S. T. Packard.] 
 
 LINES FROM THE GERMAN OF LAMI- 
 
 TER. 
 
 Thought a fter thought ye thronging rise. 
 
 Like spring doves from the startled wood, 
 Bearing like them your Sacrifice 
 
 Of music unto God! 
 And shall those thoughts of joy a.nd love 
 
 Come ba-ck a^ain no more to me 
 Returning like the patriarch s dove, 
 
 Wing-weary from the eternal sea 
 To bear within my longing arms 
 
 The promise-bough, of kindlier skies, 
 Plucked from the green immortal palms 
 
 Which shad the bowers cxf Paradise? 
 
 Child of the sea, tire mountain stream 
 Prom its dark cavern hurries on, 
 
 Ceaseless by night and morning s beam, 
 By evening s star and noontide s sun 
 
 Until a/t last it sinks to rest 
 Overwearied in the waiting sea. 
 
 And moans upon its mother s breast- 
 So tuirns my soul to Thee. 
 
 [John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 The Independent. 
 
 The town of Shunrway, 111., has no need 
 of an extensive excise bureau. It has one 
 saloon, which pays a license of $700 for the 
 exclusive privilege of selling drinks. This 
 money is used in building brick sidewalks. 
 The town has no regular policemen, but 
 each alderman, the mayor and the saloon 
 keeper have police powers. The only 
 salaried official is the city clerk, who gets 
 $18 a year.