THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Htbrar^ €hition ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAVURES BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY MDCCCC 75841 Litirckry of Coiigre-»| T»o Copies Recl I NOV 161900 fiopj right entry { RRSE COPV. Xirf: Co^y EMvefed to , ftSDe&DivisiuN i DEC 13 190 U I COPYRIGHT, 1848, 1850, 1853, 1856, 1857, 1860, 18G3, 1865, 1866, 1867, 18G8, 1869, 1870, 1872, 1874, 1875, 1876, 1878, 1881, 1883, 1884, 1886, 1887, 1888; 1890, 1891, I'JOO, BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, TICKNOR AND FIELDS, JAMES R. OSGOOD AND CO., AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. COPYRIGHT, 1802, BY GEORGE F. BAGLEY AND GEORGE W. CATE, EXECOTORS AND TRUSTEES. All rights reserved. The RiversifJp Press, Cambridfje, 3Iass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. I PUBLISHERS' NOTE In 1888 Mr. Whittier supervised the preparation of a collective edition of his works, both poetry and prose, including everything written previous to that time which he wished to preserve. During the remainder of his life he continued to send out poems occasionally, and after his death in 1892 these were gathered under the title At Sundown. The present Library Edition contains all the poems that were presented in the River- side Edition of 1888, together with the pieces included in At Sundown, and a few that were collected still later and first used by Mr. S. T. Pickard in the authorized Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whittier. The publishers have prefixed a brief biographical sketch to what is thus a complete collection in one volume, and have illustrated the volume with wood-cuts and photogravures from designs by artists who have from time to time been led to marry their art to Mr. Whittier's. Boston, Autumn, 1900. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. John Greenleaf Whittier, of Quaker birth in Puritan surround- ings, was born at the homestead near Haverhill, Massachusetts, De- cember 17, 1807. Until his eighteenth year he lived at home, work- ing upon the farm and in the little shoemaker's shop which nearly every farm then had as a resource in the otherwise idle hours of winter. The manual, homely labor upon which he was employed was in part the foundation of that deep interest which the poet never has ceased to take in the toil and plain fortunes of the people. Throughout his poetry runs this golden thread of sympathy with honorable labor and enforced poverty, and many poems are directly inspired by it. While at work with his father he sent poems to the Haverhill Gazette, and that he was not in subjection to his work is very evident by the fact that he translated it and similar occupations into Songs of Labor. He had two years' academic ti'aining, and in 1829 became editor in Boston of the American Manufacturer, a paper published in the in- terest of the tariff. In 1831 he published his Legends of New Eng- land, prose sketches in a department of literature which always had strong claims upon his interest. No American writer, unless Irving be excepted, has done so much to throw a graceful veil of poetry and legend over the country of his daily life. Essex County, in Mas- sachusetts, and the beaches lying between Newburyport and Ports- mouth, blossom with flowers of Whittier's planting. He made rare use of the homely stories which he had heard in his childhood, and learned afterward from familiar intercourse with country people, and he used invention delicately and in harmony with the spirit of the New England coast. Although he came of a body of men who in earlier days had been persecuted by the Puritans of New England, his generous mind did not fail to detect all the good that was in the stern creed and life of the persecutors, and to bring it forward into the light of his poetry. VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. In 1836 he published Mogg Megone, a poem which stood first in the collected edition of his poems issued in 1857, and was admitted there with some reluctance, apparently, by the author. In that and The Bridal of Pennacook he draws his material from the relation held between the Indians and the settlers. His sympathy was always with the persecuted and oppressed, and while historically he found an ob- ject of pity and self-reproach in the Indian, his profoundest compas- sion and most stirring indignation were called out by African slavery. From the earliest he was upon the side of the abolition party. Year after year poems fell from his pen in which with all the eloquence of his nature he sought to enlist his countrymen upon the side of emanci- pation and freedom. It is not too much to say that in the slow devel- opment of public sentiment Whittier's steady song was one of the most powerful advocates that the slave had, all the more powerful that it was free from malignity or unjust accusation. Besides the poems already indicated, there are a number which owe their origin to Whittier's tender regard for domestic life and the simple experience of the men and women about him. Of these Stiow-Bound is the most memorable. Then his fondness for a story led him to use the ballad form in many cases, and Mabel Martin is one of a number, in which the narrative is blended with a fine and strong charity. His catholic mind and his instinct for discovering the pui'e moral in hu- man action are disclosed by a number of poems, drawn from a wide range of historical fact, dealing with a great variety of religious faiths and circumstances of life, but always pointing to some sweet and strong truth of the divine life. Of such are The Brother of Mercy, The Gift of Tritemius, The Two Rabbis, and others. Whittier's Prose Works are comprised in three volumes, and consist mainly of his contributions to journals and of Margaret Smith's Journal, a fictitious diary of a visitor to New England in 1678. Mr. Whittier died at Hampton Falls, N. H., September 7, 1892. His life has been written by his literary executor, Samuel T. Pickard, under the title Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whittier. PEOEM. I LOVE the old melodiovis lays "Wliich softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days, Arcadian Sidney's silvery plirase, 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 eyea Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind ; To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown ; A hate of tyranny intense. And hearty in its vehemence. As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. Freedom ! if to me belong Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine I AMESBURT, 11th OTO.,1847- co:n^tekts Page Uooo Megci^ Parti 1 Part II 7 PartUI 12 The Bridal of Pennacook 16 I. The Merrimack 18 n. The Bashaba 18 ni. The Daughter .20 nr. The Wedding 21 V. The New Home .' 22 VI. At Pennacook 23 vn. The Departure 25 vm. Song of Indian Women 25 Legend ART. The Merrimack ......••..•••.•26 The Norsemen 27 Cassandra Southwick ... 28 Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 31 St. John 32 Pentucket 34 The Familist's Hymn 35 The Fountain 36 The Exiles 87 The New Wife and the Old 40 PoiCEs OF Freedom. TouBsaint L'Ouverture 41 The Slave-Ships 43 Stanzas. Our Countrymen in Chains 45 The Yankee Girl 46 To William Lloyd Garrison ... 47 Song of the Free 47 The Hunters of Men 48 Clerical Oppressors .49 The Christian Slave 50 Stanzas for the Tunes 51 Lines, written on reading the Message of Governor Ritner, of Pennsylvania, 1836 . . 52 The Pastoral Letter 53 Lines, written for the Meeting of the Antislavery Society, at Chatham Street Chapel, N. Y.,1884 54 VIU CONTENTS. Lines, written for the Celebration of the Third Anniversary of British Emancipation , 1837 55 Lines, written for the Anniversary of the First of August, at Milton, 1846 ... 55 The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters sold into Southern Bondage . 56 The Moral Warfare 57 The World's Convention 57 New Hampshire 59 The New Year : addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman ... 60 Massachusetts to Virginia ............ 62 The ReUc .... . . 64 The Ei-anded Hand . 65 Texas .,66 To Faneuil Hall 67' To Massachusetts 67 ThePine-Tree 68 Lines, suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington in the 12th month of 1845 . 68 Lines, from a Letter to a young Clerical Friend 70 Yorktown 70 Lines, written in the Book of a Friend 71 Paean 73 To the Memory of Thomas Shipley 74 To a Southern Statesman 74 Lines, on the Adoption of Pinckney's Resolutions 75 The Curse of the Charter-Breakers 76 The Slaves of Martinique 77 The Crisis 79 Miscellaneous. The Knight of St. John 81 The Holy Land .... 81 Palestine 82 Ezekiel 83 The Wife of Manoah to her Husband 85 The Cities of the Plain 86 The Crucifixion 86 The Star of Bethlehem 87 Hymns 88 The Female Martyr 90 '"'^"•I'he Frost Spirit 91 The Vaudois Teacher .... 91 The Call of the Christian 92 My Soul and I 92 To a Friend, on her Return from Europe 95 The Angel of Patience 96 Follen 96 To the Reformers of England 97 The Quaker of the Olden Time 98 The Reformer 98 The Prisoner for Debt 99 Lines, written on reading Pamphlets published by Clergymen against the Abolition of the Gallows 100 The Human Sacrifice 102 Randolph of Roanoke 104 Democracy . . • 105 ToRonge 106 ChalkleyHaU 107 CONTENTS. IX ToJ. P 108 ^ — The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon . 108 A Dream of Summer 109 To ■ . 109 Leggett's Monument Ill ongs OF Labor, and other Poems. Dedication 112 The Ship-Builders ■ . 113 The Shoemakers . . 113 The Drovers 114 The Fishermen 115 The Huskers . 116 The Com Song • . . IIT The Lumbermen ...... IIS Miscellaneous. The Angels of Buena Vista .... 119 Forgiveness . • 121 Barclay of Ury 121 What the Toice said • . 122 To Delaware 123 Worship 123 The Demon of the Study 124 The Pumpkin 126 Extract from " A New England Legend " 127 Hampton Beach 127 Lines, written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright of New York . . . .128 Lines, accompanying Manuscripts presented to a Friend 129 The Reward 130 Raphael 180 Lucy Hooper 131 Channing 132 To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs 133 Lines on the Death of S. 0. Torrey 134 A Lament 135 Daniel Wheeler 136 Daniel Neall 137 To my Friend on the Death of his Sister 133 Gone 139 The Lake-side 139 The Hill-top 140 On receiring an Eagle's Quill from Lake Superior 141 Memories Ml The Legend of St. Mark 142 The Well of Loch Maree 143 To my Sister 144 Autumn Thoughts ,144 Calef in Boston. — 1692 144 To Pius IX 145 EUiott 146 Ichabod! . 146 The Christian Tourists .147 The Men of Old 148 The Peace ConTention at Brussels ..«-.»»... 149 X CONTENTS. TheWishofTo-Day - 150 Our State . 150 All 's weU 151 Seed-Time and Harvest 151 To Aris Keene . 151 The Chapel of the Hermit's, and other Poems. The Chapel of the Hermits , , l65 Miscellaneous. Questions of Life .167 The Prisoners of Naples 159 Moloch in State Street . 160 The Peace of Europe. — 1852 161 Wordsworth . 162 To 162 In Peace . 162 Benediclte 163 Pictures 163 Derne 164 Astraea 165 Invocation 166 The Cross 166 Eva 166 To Fredrika Bremer 167 April 167 Stanzas for the Times. — 1850 _ 168 A Sabbath Scene 168 Pemembrance 170 The Poor Voter on Election Day 170 Trust 170 Kathleen 171 First-day Thoughts 172 Kossuth 172 To my old Schoolmaster 173 Ihb Panorama, and other Poems. The Panorama 175 Miscellaneous. Summer by the Lakeside 18& The Hermit of the Thebaid 185 Burns •.... ..-. 186 William Forster t. 187 B^ntoul . 188 The Dream of Pio Nono .189 Tauler ,190 Lines ... 192 The Voices 192 The Hero 193 My Dream 195 The Barefoot Boy 195 Flowers in Winter ^96 The Rendition <. ' 197 Lines 198 CONTENTS. XI The Fruit-Gift 198 A Memory • 199 To Charles Sumner 199 The Kansas Emigrants 200 Song of SlaTcs m the Desert 200 Lines 200 The New Exodus ... 201 TheHaschish ... . 201 Ballads. Mary Garvin . 202 c^MaudMuUer 204 The Ranger 206 &&TER Poems. The Last Walk in Automn 208 The Mayflowers 211 Burial of Barber 211 To Pennsylvania C12 The Pass of the Sierra 212 The Conquest of Finland 213 A Lay of Old Tune 214 What of the Day? 214 The First Flowers 215 My Namesake 215 BOKE Ballads. The Witch's Daughter 218 The Garrison of Cape Ann . 221 The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall 223 Skipper Ireson's Ride • 225 TeUing the Bees . 226 The Sycamores 227 The Double-Headed Snake of Newbury 228 The Swan Song of Parson Avery . . 229 The Truce of Piscataqua 231 My Playmate 233 POBMS AND Lyrics. The Shadow and the Light ..234 The Gift of Tritemhis 235 The Eve of Election 236 The Over-Heart 237 In Remembrance of Joseph Sturgo 233, Trinitas 239 The Old Burying-Ground «, 240 The Pipes at Lucknow ... . 241 My Psahn . . • 242 Le Marais du Cygne 243 " The Rock " in El Gh(« 244 On a Prayer-Book 244 To James T. Fields < 245 The Palm-Tree 246 lines for the Bums Festivai .r,a47 The Eed River Voyageur •..,......- %17 xu CONTENTS. Keuoza Lake /..... 248 To George B. Cheever , . • » . 248 The Sisters ............ 249 Lines for an Agricultural Exhibition ^ » 249 The Preacher 24S The Quaker Alumni ........ ... 254 Brown of Ossawatomie 258 From I'erugia , . > 25E For an Autumn Festival .....-, . 26( In War Time. Thy Will be done ,261 A Word for the Hour . . 261 "Einfeste Burgist unsei Gott" , ,262 To John 0. Fremont . 263 The Watchers 263 To Englishmen , 264 Astraea at the Capitol 265 The Battle Autumn of 1862 « 265 Mithridates at Chios 266 The Proclamation . 266 Anniversary Poem .. 267 At Port Royal . 268 Barbara Frietchie 269 Ballads. Cobbler Keezar's Vision 270 Amy Wentworth 273 The Countess 275 Occasional Poems. Naples. — 1860 277 "■ The Summons 278 The Waiting 278 Mountain Pictures. I. Franconia from the Pemigewasset 278 n. Monadnock from Wachuset . . . . 27'J Our River 280 Andrew Rykman's Prayer 281 The Cry of a Lost Soul .283 Italy .283 The River Path 284 A Memorial. M. A. C . • . , 284 Hymn sung at Christmas by the Scholars of St. Helena's Island, S. C. . . , . 285 Bnow Bound 286 Tap. Tent on the Beach, and other Poems. The Tent on the Beach r . 294 The Wreck of Rivemiouth c , 297 The Grave by the Lake .... . 299 The Brother of Mercy 302 The Channeling .... 304 Che Maids of Attitash ..... 305 KaUundboig Church ... . .... 307 CONTENTS. xui The Dead Ship of Harpswell 309 ThePalatme , . 310 Abraham Davenport , . . . . 312 National Ltmcs. The Mantle of St. Johj De Matha o o 314 What the Birds said .315 Laus Deo '. 316 The Peace Autumn „ 317 To the Thirty-Ninth Congress , , 317 Occasional Poems. The Eternal Goodness 318 Our Master = 819 The Vanishers 321 Revisited 321 The Common Question 322 Bryant on his Birthday 328 Hymn for the Opening of Thomas Starr King's House of Worship, 1864 . . .323 Thomas Starr King 324 AjMeNG THE Hills, and other Poems. Prelude 825 Among the HUls 327 MiSCELLANEOnS POEMS. The Clear Vision . 331 The Dole of Jarl Thorkell 332 The Two Rabbis 333 The Meeting 334 The Answer 337 George L. Stearns 338 Freedom in Brazil 338 Divine Compassion 339 Lines on a Fly -Leaf 339 Hymn for the House of Worship at Georgetovm 340' Miriam, and other Poems. To Frederick A. P. Barnard .341 Miriam 341 MlSOELL-tNEOUS POEMS. Norembega „ 347 Nauhaught, the Deacon . • 348 /in School-Days . 350 Garibaldi 350 r After Election ., . 351 My Triumph „ 361 The Hive at Gettysburg ,352 Howard at Atlanta 353 To Lydia Maria Child 353 The Prayer-Seeker 354 Poems for Public Occasions. A Spiritual Manifestation . . . . . J . . . c 356 " The Laurels " ,356 Hymn . , . . 35? XIV CONTENTS. The Pennsylvanu Pilgeim, and othee Poems. Francis Daniel Pafitorius ....... .••*. 868 Prelude ^ .»..,. 859 The Pennsylyaula Pilgrim ...*..*..•.. S60 Miscellaneous. The Pageant 369 The Singer c . 371 tihicago 372 My Birthday 372 The Brewing of Soma 373 A Woman 374 Disarmament , 374 TheKobin 875 The Sisters 375 Marguerite ....• 376 King Volmer and Elsie ,377 The Three Bells 379 Hazel Blossoms. Sumner 381 Hazel Blossoms. The Prayer of Agassi* . . . . ; •. . . 383 The Friend's Burial 384 JohnUnderhill .385 In Quest 387 A Sea Dream . ... 388 A Mystery . . 389 Conductor Bradley 390 Child-Songs 391 The Golden Wedding of Longwood 391 Kinsman 392 Vesta 392 The Healer 893 A Christmas Carmen . . . • . • . 393 Hymn 394 Poems by Elizabeth H. Whittier. The Dream of Argyle 394 Lines written on the Departure of Joseph Sturge 395 John Quincy Adams 396 Dr. Kane in Cuba 396 Lady Franklin 396 Night and Death 397 The Meeting Waters . . ' 397 The Wedding VeU 898 Charity 398 Thb Vision of Eoharb, and other Poems. The Vision of Echard , . 399 The Witch of Wenham , . . 40i Sunset on the Bearcamp ..t 404 The Seeking of the Waterfall 404 June on the Merrimac . .•.••••••..409 CONTENTS. XV Hymn of the Dunkers .. ..'..•....407 In the " Old South " .408 Lexington .... 409 Centennial Hymn 409 Thiers , . 410 Fitz-Greene Halleck ,410 William Francis Bartlett ,411 The Two Angels ... c 411 The Library 412 The Henchman c . 412 King Solomon and the Ant* 413 Red Riding-Hood « . 413 The Pressed Gentian ...... 414 Overruled 414 Hymn 415 Giving and Taking 415 " I was a Strangei, and ye took me in " .......... 415 At School-Close 416 At Eventide 416 The Problem 417 Response 117 The King's Missive, and other PoEiia. The Prelude 419 The King's Missive 418 St. Martin's Summer e 42lf The Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk 421 The Lost Occasion 423 The Emancipation Group 423 The Jubilee Singers 423 Within the Gate 423 The Khan's Devil 424 Abram Morrison .. 425 Voyage of the Jettie ,. . 426 Our Autocrat 428 Garrison 428 Bayard Taylor ^_ 429 A Name ......... 430 The Minister's Daughter 430 My Trust 431 Trailing Arbutus 431 By their Works ,, > 432 The Word •...., c .. 432 The Book 432 Requirement ^ 432 Help * . ° , 433 Otterance . •....,,,... 433 Inscriptions. On a Sun-Dial ••••...,, 433 On a Fountain .. •»•••»»•,,,, 483 Hymn At Last . Our Country 434 CONTENTS. Oriental Maxims. The Inward Judge ° 434 Laying up Treasure Conduct ••••• The Bat of Seven Islands To Harriet Prescott Spofford jft The Bay of Seven Islands o 435 How the Women went from Dover ° ' ^ql A Summer Pilgrimage ^^^ The Rock-Tomb of Bradore „ . 441 440 Storm on Lake Asquam The Wishing Bridge ' n The Mystic's Christmas '^-^ What the Traveler said at Sunset ^^^ A Greeting *~ Wilson **; In Memory *2r The Poet and the Children ... ' ' t:? 445 Rabbi Ishmael Valuation ... ^" . 446 447 448 449 The " Story of Ida " .449 An Autograph • Saint Gbeqorv's Goest and Recent Poems. Saint Gregoiy's Guest • ' „ , .. 451 Revelation Adjustment The Wood Giant ^^ The Homestead Birchbrook Mill ^ How the Kobin came Sweet Fern ....■•• Banished from Massachusetts * 4'i7 The Two Elizabeths The Reunion ' ' 459 Requital .g„ — The Light that is felt The Two Loves „ An Easter Flower Gift ° 460 Mulford .„, An Artist of the Beautiful Hymns of the Brahmo Sciiaj ,.4 iT Sundown. TOE.C.S. ' ^l The Christmas of 1888 ' ' ' ' ° ' ' Tno The Vow of Washington ' atI The Captain's Well f^ An Outdoor Reception , . . . R. S. S.. At Deer Island on the Merrimac * dCT Burning Drift-Wood . ^ O. W. Holmes on his Eightiatn Birthday . ' ' * 468 James Russell Lowell . ' HaverhiU . . • 408 To G. a 470 Preston Powers, Inscription for Bass-Relief 470 Lydia H. Sigourney , Inscription on Tablet . 471 Milton, Inscription on Memorial Window 471 The Birthday Wreath 471 The Wind of March 471 To Oliver Wendell Holmes 472 Between the Gates 472 The Last Eve of Summer .473 The Brown Dwarf of RiJGEN and other Poems. The Brown Dwarf of Riigen 474 A Day 476 How Mary Grew • . 476 A Welcome to Lowell 476 To a Cape Ann Schooner 477 Samuel J. Tilden 477 The Landmarks 477 Norumbega Hall 479 The Bartholdi Statue 479 Oneof theSigoers 479 Pennsylvania Hall 480 The Sentence of John L. Brown 482 A Letter 484 Lines on the Portrait of a Celebrated Publisher 485 Letter from a Missionary of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, in Kansas, to a Distin- guished Politician .............. 486 A Song for the Time 487 A Song. Inscribed to the Fremont Clubs 488 To William H. Seward 488 The Disenthralled . 488 On the Big Horn 489 A Leij;acy 489 APPENDIX. I. Early and Uncollected Verses. The Exile's Departure 491 The Deity 492 The Vale of the Merrimac 402 Benevolence 49S Ocean 494 The Sicilian Vespers 494 The Spirit of the North 495 The Earthquake 495 Judith at the Tent of Holofernes 496 Metacom 496 Mount Agiochook 498 The Drunkard to His Bottle 498 The Fair Quakeress 499 Bolivar 499 Isabella of Austria 500 The Fratricide 501 Isabel 502 Stanzas 50.3 The Past and Coming Year 50.3 The Missionary . 504 Evening in Burmah 506 Massachusetts 507 xviii CONTENTS. n. Poems Printed in the "Life of Whither." The Home-Coming of the Bride 507 The Song of the Vermonters, 1779 508 To a Poetical Trio in the City of Gotham 509 Album Verses 511 What State Street said to South Carolina, and what South Carolina said to State Street 511 A FrtSmont Campaign Song 511 The Quakers are Out 512 A Legend of the Lake 512 Letter to Lucy Larcom 513 Lines on Leaving Appledore 514 Mrs. Choate's House-Warming 514 An Autograph 514 To Lucy Larcom 515 A Farewell . 515 On a Fly -Leaf of Longfellow's Poems 515 Samuel E. Sewall 515 Lines Written in an Album 515 A Day's Journey 516 A Fragment 516 III. Mabel Martin. A Harvest Idyl 516 Notes 521 Index of First Lines 537 Indsz of Xitlbs .....•> 543 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS John Greenleaf Whittier, at the age of 73 Frontispiece Etched byS.A. Schoff AETIST PAGE With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. Howard Pyle .... 24 Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! W. A. McCullough . 48 The surrender of Coruwallis at Yorktown . John Trumbull ... 70 Hampton Beach M. J. Burns . . . 128 Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! .... Edmund H. Oarrett . 196 And the young girl mused beside the well . Mary Hallock Foote . 204 Went drearily singing the chore-girl small . /. H. Caliga .... 226 She looks across the harbor bar W. L. Sheppard . . . 274 Snow-bound Edmund H. Oarrett . 288 Before him the church stood large and fair . Charles H. Woodbury 308 Chocorua's horn Of shadow pierced the water Charles H. Woodbury 328 The veil of sleep fell on him Howard Pyle .... 400 The Quakers Marcia Oakes Woodbury 420 " Why dig you here ?" asked the passer-by . Edmund H Garrett . 464 Her face, So fair, so young, so full of pain . . . . C. S. Reinart ... 518 MOGG MEGONE [The story of MooG Mboone has b«en considered by the author only as a framework for sketchee of the riceuery 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 mush of the romance vfhich poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man.] PART I. Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract spar- kles on high. Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Me- gone ? ^ Close to the verge of the rock is he, While beneath him the Saco its work is doing, Harrying down to its grave, the sea, And slow through the rock its path- way hewing ! Far down, through the mist of the fall- ing river, Which rises up like an incense ever. The splintered points of the crags are seen. With water howling and vexed between. While the scooping whirl of the pool be- neath Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! But Mogg Megone never trembled yet Wherever his eye or his foot was set. He is watcliful : each form in the moon- light dim. Of rock or of tree, is seen of him ; He listens ; each sound from afar is caught, The faintest shiver of leaf and limb : But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret, Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, — And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. The moonlight, through the open bough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root Coils like a serpent at his foot, Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair. Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife. When breast to breast and knee to knee. Above the fallen warrior's life Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping- kntfe. 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 ^ to Mogg Me- gone, 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 breach, and broad bright line Of beaded wampum around it hung. MOGG MEGONE. What seeks Megone ? His foes are near, — Grey Jocelyn's ^ eye is never sleeping, A.nd the garrison lights are burning clear. Where Phillips' * men their watch are keeping. Let him hie him away through the dank river fog. Never rustling the boughs nor dis- placing the rocks, For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg Are keener than those of the woLf or the fox. He starts, — there 's a rustle among the leaves : Another, — the click of his gun is heard ! A footstep, — is it the step of Cleaves, With Indian blood on his English sword ? Steals Harmon ^ down from the sands of York, With hand of iron and foot of cork ? Has Scanmian, versed in Indian wile, For vengeance left his vine-hung isle ?^ 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 ! '' A low, lean, swarthy man is he, With blanket-garb and buskined knee, And naught of English fashion on ; For he hates the race from whence he sprung, And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. " Hush, — let the Sachem's voice be weak ; The water-rat shall hear him speak, — The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear. That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here ! " He pauses, — dark, over cheek and brow, A flush, as of shame, is stealing now : " Sachem ! " he says, " let me have the land. Which stretches away upon either hand. As far about as my feet can^tray In the half of a gentle siunmer's day. From the leaping brook ^ to the Saco river, — And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me. Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be The wife of Mogg Megone forever." There 's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, A moment's trace of powerful feeling, Of love or triumjih, or both perchance, Over his proud, calm features steal- ing. "The words of my father are very good ; He shall have the land, and water, and wood ; And he who harms the Sagamore John, Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone ; But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast, And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." "But, father!" — and the Indian's hand Falls gently on the white man's ami, 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, stem eye of Bonython Flashes over the features of Mogg Me- gone, 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. MOGG MEGONE. 3 Hark ! — is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among ? — Or the hooting of the owl, On liis 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 d3'ing fall Lingering round some temple's wall ! Niche and cornice round and round Wailing like the ghost of sound ! Is not Nature's worship thus. Ceaseless ever, going on ? Hath it not a voice for us In the thunder, or the tone Of the leaf-harp faint and small. Speaking to the unsealed ear Words of blended love and fear, Of the mighty Soul of all ? Naught had the twain of thoughts like these As they wound along through the crowded trees. Where never had rungthe 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 grapevine. And lightly crossing the quaking bog Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog. And out of whose pools the ghostly fog Creeps into the chill moonshine ! Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard The preaching of the Holy Word : Sanchekantacket's isle of sand Was once his father's hunting land. Where zealous Hiacoomes ^ stood, — The wild apostle of the wood, Shook from his soul the fear of harm. And trampled 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, On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, A narrow lustre throwing. "Who's there?" a clear, firm voice demands ; "Hold, Ruth, —'tis 1, the Saga.- more ! " Quick, at the summons, hasty hands Unclose the bolted door ; And on the outlaw's daughter shine The fiashes 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 smiUng 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 ? " Hurried and light is the maiden's tone ; But a fearful meaning lurks within Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone, — An awful meaning of guilt and sin ! — The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair ! With hand upraised, with quick drawn breath. She meets that ghastly sign of death. MOGG MEGONE. 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 feaiful 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 v'oung Ceuci 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 Avith 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. 0, 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, Bums 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 aflfection blossom. Jolin Bonython's eyebrows together are drawTi With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn, — He hoarsely whispers, " Ruth, beware ! Isthisthetimetobe 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 iny 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 itgi-ew before. ' The moment's gust of grief is gone, — The lip is clenched, — the tears are still, — God pity thee, Ruth Bonython ! With what a strength of will Are nature's feelings in thy breast, As with an iron hand, repressed ! And how, upon that nameless woe, Quick as the pulse can come and go. While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet The bosom heaves, — the eye is wet, — Has thy dark spirit power to stay The heart's wild current on its way ? And whence that baleful strength of guile, Wliich over that still working brow And tearful eye and cheek can throw The mockery of a smile ? Warned by her father's blackening frown. With one strong efi'ort cmshing down Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again The savage murderer's sullen gaze. And scarcely look or tone betrays How the heart strives beneath its chain. " Is the Sachem angry, — angry with Ruth, Because she cries with an ache in her tooth, 10 Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry. And look about with a woman's eye ? No, — Ruth will sit in the Sachem's door And braid the mats for his wigwam floor, And broil his fish and tender fawn. And weave his wampum, and grind Me corn, — For she loves the brave and the wise^ and none Are braver and wiser than Mogg Megone' * MOGG MEGONE. 5 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, — With head averted, yet ready ear, She stands by the side of her austere sire, Feeding, at times, the unequal fire With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, WTiose flaring light, as they kindle, falls On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, A.nd over its inmates three. From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask The fire-water burns at the lip of Me- gone : *' Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? WiU 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 (Jo : " Wuttamuttata — weekan ! ^^ 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, — Saga- more John ! Wuttamuttata, — weekan ! our hearts will grow ! " He drinks yet deeper, — he mutters low, — He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, — His head falls down on his naked breast, — He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. " Humph — drunk as a beast ! " — and Bonython's brow Is darker than ever with evil thought — " The fool has signed his warrant ; but how And when shall the deed be wrought ? Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is there. To fix thy gaze in that empty air ? — Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought that tear. Which shames thyself and our purpose here. Were shed for that cursed and pale- faced dog, Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, — — this \" — h ke This — this!" — he dashes his hand upon The rattling stock of his loaded gun, — " Should send thee with him to do thy weeping ! " " Father ! " — the eye of Bonython Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone. Hollow and deep, as it were spoken By the unmoving tongue of death, — Or from some statue's lips had 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 ; MOGG MEGONE. 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 oft' 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 aU their subtle sympathies. He points her to the sleeping Mogg : '' Wliat 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, Save as thy hopeful bridegi-oom, 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 ■\Vetuomanit ^ 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 glar- ing eyes ! — " Wagh ! — Mogg vaU 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 liis 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." He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, — Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; — Kneeling down on one knee, by the In- dian'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 stonn came down from Agioo- chook. And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook, — And I strove, in the drifts of the rush- ing snow, Till my knees grew weak and I could not go, And I felt the cold to my vitals creep, And my heart's blood stifl'en, and pulseg sleep ! I cannot strike him — Ruth Bonython ! In the Devil's name, tell me — what's to be done ? " 0, M'hen 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. MOGG MEGONE. The strength to bear his evil part ; And, shielded by his very Vice, Escapes from Crime by Cowardice. Ruth starts erect, — with bloodshot eye, And lips drawn tight across her teeth. Showing their locked embrace beneath, In the red firelight : — "Mogg must die! Give me the knife ! " • — The outlaw turns, Shuddering in heartand limb, away, — But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns. And he sees on the wall strange shad- ows play. A lifted arm, a tremulous blade. Are dimly pictured in light and shade, Plungingdown 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 stand- ing alone By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone ! PART II. 'T IS morning over Norridgewoek, — 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, — And, stretching out, on either hand. O'er all that wide and unshorn land. Till, weary of its gorgeousness, The aching and the dazzled eye Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, — Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! The oak, upon the windy hill. Its dark green burthen upward heaves — The hemlock broods above its rill, Its cone-like foliage darker still. Against the birch's graceful stem. And the rough walnut-bough receives The sun upon its crowded leaves. Each colored like a topaz gem ; And the tall maple wears with them The coronal, which autumn gives. The brief, bright sign of ruin near, The hectic of a dying year ! The hermit priest, who lingers now On the Bald Mountain's shrubless brow, The gray and thunder-smitten pile Which marks afar the Desert Isle,!^ While gazing on the scene below, May half forget the dreams of home, That nightly with his slumbers come, — > The tranquil skies of sunny France, The peasant's harvest song and dance. The vines around the hillsides wreathing The soft airs midst their clusters breath- ing, The wings which dipped, the stars which shone Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! And round the Abbey's shadowed wall, At morning spring and even-fall, Sweet voices in the still air singing, — The chant of many a holy hymn, — The solemn bell of vespers ringing, — And hallowed torchlight 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 plantinggroundis 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 buskers, with a smile 8 MOGG MEGONE. 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 anow-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 Pfere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff. On which the Father's hut is seen, The Indian stays his rocking skiff. And peers the hemlock -boughs be- tween. Half trembling, as he seeks to look Upon the Jesuit's Cross and Book.i* There, gloomily against the sky The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare. Lifts its gray turrets in the air, — Seen from afar, like some stronghold Built by the ocean kings of old ; And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin. Swells in the north vast Katahdin : And, wandering from its marshy feet. The broad Penobscot comes to meet And mingle with his own bright bay. Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods. Arched over by the ancient woods. Which Time, in those dim solitudes, Wielding the dull axe of Decay, Alone hath ever shorn away. Not thus, within the woods which hide The beauty of thy azure tide. And with their falling timbers block Thy broken currents, Kennebec ! Gazes the white man on the wreck Of the down-trodden 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 stniggle of despair. Wounded and faint, but tameless yet i 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, To mimic, in his frightful play. The scalping of an English foe : Wreathes on his lip a horrid smile, Burns, like a snake's, his small eye, while Some bough or sapling meets his blow. The fisher, as he drops his line. Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver Along the margin of the river. Looks up and down the rippling tide, And grasps the firelock at his side. For Bomazeen ^^ from Tacconock Has sent his runners to 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, MOGG MEGONE. And the forest paths, to that chapel door ; And marvel to mark the naked knees And the dusky foreheads bending there, While, in coarse white vesture, over these In blessing or in prayer, Stretching abroad his thin pale hands, Like a shrouded ghost, the Jesuit ^^ stands, Two forms are now in that chapel dim. The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale, Anxiously heeding some fearful tale, Which a stranger is telling him. That stranger's garb is soiled and torn, And wet with dew and loosely worn ; Her fair neglected hair falls down O'er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown ; Yet still, in that disordered face, The Jesuit's cautious eye can trace Those elements of former grace Which, half effaced, seem scarcely less, Even now, than perfect loveliness. With drooping head, and voice so low That scarce it meets the Jesuit's ears, — While through her clasped fingers flow, From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, Her penitential tears, — She tells the story of the woe And evil of her years. " father, bear with me ; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain. Whose scorching links will never part, And never cool again. Bear mth 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 })reying Upon her very heart, repaying My brief repentance with a smile. "0, in her meek, forgiving eye There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity Was borrowed not of earth. Along her cheek a deepening red Told where the feverish hectic fed | And yet, each fatal token gave To the mild beauty of her face A newer and a dearer grace, Unwarning of the grave. 'T was like the hue which Autumn giveh 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 fount- ains. 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 ; 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 pilgi'im guise. The Promised One, so long foretold By holy seer and bard of old. Revealed before her wondering eyes I 10 MOGG MEGONE. " 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 stei'n 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 hoiTor of the mortal pang. The suffering look her brow had worn. The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, — She slept at last in death ! •' 0, 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, 0, 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 ! 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, — Hame o'er me with an icy thrill ; God ! I feel its presence still ! " The Jesuit makes the holy sign, — "How passed the vision, daughter mine ?" " All dimly in the wan moonshine. As a wreath of mist will twist and twine And scatter, and melt into the light, — So scattering, — melting on my sight. The pale, cold vision passed ; But those sad eyes were fixed on mine Mournfully to the last." " God help thee, daughter, tell me why That spirit passed before thine eye ! " " Father, I know not, save it be That deeds of mine have sunmioned hei From the unbreathing sepulchre. To leave her last rebuke with me. Ah, woe for me ! my niother 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, th e clear stream wh ere The idle fisher sets his wear. Or angles in the shade, far more Than that restraining awe I felt Beneath my gentle mothei-'s care. When nightly at her knee I knelt, With childhood's simple prayer. " There came a change. The wild, glad mood Of unchecked freedom Amid the ancient solitude Of unshorn grass and waving wood. And waters glancing bright and faat, 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 powei to wake Both fear and love, — to awe and charm ; 'T was as the wizard rattlesnake, Whose evil glances lure to harm — ^X MOGG MEGONE. 11 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 aU 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 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. " FuU 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 1 A new and fiercer feeling swept All lingering tenderness away ; Ajid tiger passions, which had slept In childhood's better day, Unknown, unfelt, arose at length In all their own demoniac strength "A youthful warrior of the wild, By words deceived, by smiles 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. " 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 ovl[j saw that victim's smile, — The still, green places where we met, — The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; I only felt, I only heard The greeting and the parting word, — The smile, — the embrace, — the tone, which made An Eden of the forest shade. " And oh, with what a loathing eye, With what a deadly hate, and deep, I saw that Indian murderer lie Before me, in his drunken sleep ! Wliat though for me the deed was don& And words of mine had sped him on ! Yet when he murmured, as he slept. The horrors of that deed of blood, The tide of utter madness swept O'er brain and bosom, like a flood. And, father, with this hand of mine — " " Ha ! what didst thou ? " the Jesuit cries, Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain, And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, 12 MOGG MEGONE. 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, — 1 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 ! Was he not pledged, by cross and vow. To lift the hatchet of his sii-e, 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, tiiin 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 stomi, the coming foe. " Save me, 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 ; — be- gone ! " With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form That writhes at his feet like a trodden 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 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. 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 knowm, 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 ciy. MOGG MEGONE. 13 Which summons the Norridgewock to die, And tells tliat the foe of his flock is nigh. He listens, and hears the rangers come, With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot). And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot, And taunt and menace, — answered well By the Indians' mocking cry and yell, — The bark of dogs,— the squaw's mad scream, — • The dash of paddles along the stream, — The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves Of the maples around the church's eaves, — • And the gride of hatchets fiercely thrown. On wigwam-log and tree and stone. Black with the grime of paint and dust. Spotted and streaked with human gore, A grim and naked head is thrust Within the chapel-door. "Ha — Bomazeen ! — In God's name say, What mean these sounds of Moody fray ?" Silent, the Indian points his hand To where across the echoing glen Sweep Harmon's dreaded ranger-hand, And Moulton with his men. " Where are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? Where are De Rouville ^^ and Castine, And where the braves of Sawga's queen ?" ' ' Let my father find the winter snow Which the sun drank up long moons ago ! 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, — Bquando 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 Jiis altar's foot to pray ; Over his beads his fingers stray, And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud On the Virgin and her Son ; For terrible thoughts his memory crowd Of evil seen and done, — Of scalps brought home by his 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 — ta which wessa seen? 19 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 gieat saga* more, When he paddles across the western lake, With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit's shore. "Cowesass — cowesass — ta which wessa- seen ? 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 ; V/hile at his side the Norridgewock, AVith failing breath, essays to mock And menace yet the hated foe, • — Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro Exultingly before their eyes, — Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow. Defiant still, he dies. " So fare all eaters of the frog ! Death to the Babylonish dog ! Down with the beast of Rome ! " With shouts like these, around the dead, Unconscious on his bloody bed, The rangers crowding come. Brave men ! the dead priest cannot hea? The unfeeling taunt, — thebrutal 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 strifi^ 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 I 14 MOGG ME&OA^E. 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 ! 0, by the widow's sore distress, The orphan's wailing wretchedness, By Virtue struggling in the accursed fimbraces 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. Besting on all its holy hills, And flowing with its crystal river, — Let Christian hands no longer bear In triumph on his crimson car The foul and idol god of war ; No more the purple wreaths prepare To bind amid his snaky hair ; Nor Christian bards his glories tell, Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. Through the gun-smoke wreathing white, Glimpses on the soldiers' 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 fiidt. Searching for the ground-nut's root, Peering in the she-wolfs den. Wading through the marshy fen, Where the sluggish water-snake Basks beside the sunny brake. Coiling in his slimy bed. Smooth and cold against thy tread, — Purposeless, thy mazy way Threading through the lingering day. And at night securely sleeping Where the dogwood's dews are wee pic g ! Still, though earth and man discard thefe. Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee ; He who spared the guilty Cain, Even when a brother's blood. Crying in the ear of God, Gave the earth its primal stain, — He whose mercy ever liveth. 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 springtime 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 khidly shower and sunshine bud The branches of the dull gray wood ; Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks The blue eye of the violet looks ; The southwest wind is warmly blowing, And odors from the springing grass, The pine-tree and the sassafras. Are with it on its errands going. A band is marching through the wood Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, — The warriors of the wilderness. Painted, and in their battle dress ; 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 thosfc Who perished in that fearful day. When Norridgewock became the prey Of all unspazing foes. Sadly and still, dark thoughts between, THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 15 Of coming vengeance mused Castine, Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, Who bade for him the Norridgewocks Dig up their buried tomahawks For iirm defence or swift attack ; And him whose friendship formed the tie Which held the suern 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, A.nd 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 fo.x' shark 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 tc bless The children of the wilderness. There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; And the birchen boats of the Nor- ridgewock. Tethered to tree and stump and rock Kotting along the river bank ! 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. EUTH BONYTHON IS DEAD ! THE BEIDAL OF PENITACOOK * We had been wandering for many days Through the rough northern countiy. We had seen f he sunset, with its bars of purple cloud, Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake Of Winnepiseogee ; and had felt The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles WTiich stoop their summer beauty to the lips Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds. Silent with wonder, where the mountaiD 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, 16 THE BllIDAL OF PENNACOOK. We had looked upward where the sum- mer 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. Wv> had passed The high source of the Saco ; and be- wildered la the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud. The horn of Fabyan sounding ; and atop Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick As meadow mole-hills, — the far sea of Casco, A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge lifting his Titan forehead to the sun ! 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, M'hitening 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 Avith a bridge of silver The Merrimack by Uncanoonuc's falls. Tliere were five souls of us Avhom trav- el'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, — • I Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see ! Life's sunniest side, ana with a neart to take Its chances all as godsends ; and his brother. Pale from long pulpit studies, yet re- taining The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, Whose mirror of the beautiful and true. In Man and Nature, was as yet un- dimmed By dust of theologic strife, or breath Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers, Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon, Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves, And tenderest nioonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study, To mark his spirit, alternating between A decent and professional gravity And an irreverent luirthfulness, Avhich often Laughed in the face of his divinity, Plucked off the sacred ephod, quite un- shrined 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 gi-eat 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 ]\Iassachu- setts Bay, With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening leaves And lifts her half-fomied flower-bell on its stem. Poisoning our seaside atmosphere. It chanced That as we turned upon our h ome\\ard way, A drear northeastern storm came howl. ing up The valley of the Saco ; and that girl THE BEIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 17 (Vho had stood with us upon Mount Wasliington, Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled In gusts around its sharp cold jnnnacle, Who had joined our gay trout -tishing 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 moun- tains piled Heavily against the horizon of the north, Lilce 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 stl'ove to cheer our gentle invalid. The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, re- turning. Recounted his adventures and misha]>s ; 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 A.S the flower-skirted streams of Stafford- shire, 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 ser- mons. His commentaries, articles and creeds, For the fair page of human loveliness, — The missal of young hearts, whose sa- cred text Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. He sang the songs she loved ; and in his low, Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page Of poetry, — the holiest, tenderest lines Of the sad bard of Olney^ — the sweet songs, Simple and beautiful as Truth and Na, ture. 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 li- brary, — A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them, — Watts' unmelodious psalms, -— Asti-ol= ogy's Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, And an old chronicle of border wars And Indian history. And, as I read A story of the marriage of the Chief Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt In the old time upon the Merrimack, Our fair one, in the plaj'ful 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 as- signing To each his part, and barring our excuses With absolute \\^ll. So, like the cavaliers AVhose voices still are heard in the Ro- mance 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 plaj'ful cen- sure. It may be that these fragments owe alone To the fair setting of their circum' stances, — The associations of time, scene, ana 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, Pilgi'ims of Romance o'er the olden world. That our broad land, — our sea-like lakes and mountains Piled to the clouds, — our rivers over- hung 18 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 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. From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone. From the anns 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 ti'ees 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 Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amos- keag's fall rty twin Uncftnoonucs rose stately and taU, Thy Nashua meadows lay gi-een and nn. shorn. And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with corn. But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, Andgi-eener 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 coun- cil-fire shone. And against the red war-post the hatchet v.-as 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 brighi wampum braid. Stream of the Mountains ! if answer of thine Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a moan Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone. Not for thee the duU 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 oi trees ! II. THE BASHABA." Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past, And, turning from familiar sight and sound, Sadly and full of reverence let us cast A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground. THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 19 Led by the few pale lights which, glim- mering round That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast ; And that which history gives not to the eye, The faded coloring of Time's tapestry. Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush, supply. Roof of bark and walls of pine, Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine, Tracing many a golden line On the ample floor within ; "Where, upon that earth-floor stark. Lay the gaudy mats of bark. With the bear's hide, rough and dark, And the red-deer's skin. Window-tracery, small and slight. Woven of the willow white, Lent a dimly checkered light. And the night-stars glimmered down. Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke. Slowly through an opening broke. In the low roof, ribbed with oak. Sheathed with hemlock brown. Gloomed behind the changeless shade. By the solemn pine-wood made ; Through the rugged palisade, In the open foreground planted. Glimpses came of rowers rowing. Stir of leaves and wild-flowers blow- ing, Steel-like gleams of water flowing. In the sunlight slanted. Here the mighty Bashaba Held his long-unquestioned sway, From the White Hills, far away. To the great sea's sounding shore ; Chief of chiefs, his regal word All the river Sachems heard. At his call the war-dance stirred, Or was still once more. There his spoils of chase and war, Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw, Panther's skin and eagle's claw. Lay beside his axe and bow ; And, adown the roof-pole hung. Loosely on a snake-skin strung. In the smoke his scalp-locks swung Grimly to and fro. Nightly down the river going, Swifter was the hunter's rowing. When he saw that lodge-fire glowing O'er the waters still and red ; And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter, And she drew her blanket tighter, As, with quicker step and lighter, From that door she fled. For that chief had magic skill. And a Panisee's dark will. Over powers of good and ill. Powers which bless and powers which ban, — Wizard lord of Pennacook, Chiefs upon their war-path shook, When they met the steady look Of that wise dark man. T^les of him the gray squaw told, When the winter night-wind cold Pierced her blanket's thickest fold. And her fire burned low and small. Till the very child abed, Drew its bear-skin over head. Shrinking from the pale lights shed On the trembling wall. All the subtle spirits hiding Under earth or wave, abiding In the caverned rock, or riding Misty clouds or morning breeze ; Every dark intelligence. Secret soul, and influence Of all things which outward sense Feels, or hears, or sees, — These the wizard's skill confessed, At his bidding banned or blessed, Stormful woke or lulled to rest Wind and cloud, and fire and flood , Burned for him the drifted snow. Bade through ice fi-esh lilies blow, And the leaves of summer grow Over winter's wood ! Not untrue that tale of old ! Now, as then, the wise and bold All the powers of Nature hold Subject to their kingly will ; From the wondering crowds ashore. Treading life's wild waters o'er, As upon a marble floor. Moves the strong man still. Still, to such, life's elements With their sterner laws dispense. 20 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. And the chain of consequence Broken in their pathway lies ; Time and change their vassals making, Flowers from icy pillows wakiug, Tresses of the sunrise shaking Over midnight skies. Still, to th' earnest soul, the sun Kests oii 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 yeU Ofwomenthrongingroundthebed, — The tinkling charm of ring and shell, — The Powah whispering o'er the dead ! — AH 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 feU ! The Indian's heart is hard and cold, — It closes darkly o'er its care. Ana formed in Nature' s sternest m ould. Is slow to, feel, and strong to bear. The war-paint on the Sachem's face, Unwet w'Ah tears, shone fierce and red, And, still in battle or in chase, Pry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath His foremost tread. Yet when her name was heard no more. And when the robe her mother gave, And small, light moccasin she wore, Had slowly wasted on her grave. Unmarked of him the dark maids sped Their sunset dance and moonlit play; No other shared his lonely bed, No other fair young head upon his bosom laj^ A lone, stem man. Yet, as sometimes The tempest-smitten tree receives From one small root the sap which climbs Its topmost spray and crowning leaves. So from his child the Sachem drew A life of Love and Hope, and felt His cold and rugged nature through The softness and the warmth of her young being melt. A laugh which in the woodland rang Bemocking April's gladdest bird, — A light and gi-aceful form which sprang To meet him when his step was heard, — Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark. Small fingers stringing bead and shell Orweavingmatsofbright-huedbark, — With these the household-god ^2 had graced his wigw^am well. • Child of the forest ! — strong and free, Sh'ght-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, thechidingfrown. The weary torture of the school, The taming of wild nature down. Her only lore, the legends told Around the hunter's fire at night ; Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled, Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight. Unknown to her the subtle skill With which the artist-eye can trace In rock and tree and lake and hill The outlines of divinest grace ; THE BKIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 21 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 comiiion, natural things a part. To feel, with bird and stream and tree, The pulses of the same gi-eat 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 ma}'' 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, 0"ntrained 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 gi-ound of her young dreams The light of a new home, — )e. tween, A broad, clear, mountain stream, th» Merrimack was seen. The hunter leaning on his bow undra'wn, 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 OfpaintedSaugus braves, their Weetamoo VI. AT rENNACOOK. The hills are dearest which our childish feet Have climbed the earliest ; and the streams most sweet 24 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. Are ever tliose 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 child- hood lie. Joy then for "Weetamoo, to sit once more A child upon her father's wigwam floor ! Once more with her old fondness to be- guile From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. The long bright days of summer swiftly The dry leaves whirled in autumn's ris- ing blast, And evening cloud and whitening sun- rise 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 ■i)ride ; " 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 Penuacook call out his warrior train. And send her back with wampum gifts 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, ' ' Or coward Nipmucks ! — may his scalp dry black In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean M'ave, While hoarse assent his listening coun- cil gave. Alas poor bride ! — can thy gi'im 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'er- 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. Wii/i arnnvy sivijtness sped that light canoe THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK 25 Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief ! Waste not on him the sacredness of grief ; Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights. The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights. Cold, crafty, proud of woman's weak distress, Her home-bound grief and pining lone- liness ? VII. THE DEPARTURE. The wild March rains had fallen fast and long The snowy mountains of the North among. Making each vale a watercourse, — each hill Bright with the cascade of some new- made rill. Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, Heaved underneath by the swollen cur- rent's strain. The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merri- mack Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. On that strong turbid water, a small boat Guided by one weak hand was seen to float; Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore. Too early voyager with too frail an oar ! Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide. The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side. The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view. With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. The trapper, moistening his moose's meat On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet. Saw the swift boat flash down the trou- bled stream — Slept he, or waked he ? — was it truth o dream ? Tlie 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 ! Sick and aweary of her lonely life, Heedless of peril the still faithful wife Had left her mother's grave, her fathers door. To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled. On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled. Empty and broken, circled the canoe In the vexed pool below — but, where was Weetamoo ? VIII. SONG OF INDIAN WOMEN. The Dark eye has left us. The Spring-bird has flown ; On the pathway of spirits She wanders alone. The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore, — Mat wonck kunna-monee / ^ — We hear it no more ! 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 hei no more ! Of the strange land she walks in No Powah has told : It may burn with the sunshine, Or freeze with the cold. Let us give to ou. lost one the robes that she wore, Mat wonck kunna-monee I — We see her no more ! The path she is treading Shall soon be our own ; Each gliding in shadow IT^nseen and alone ! — 26 LEGENDARY. In vain shall we call on the souls gone before, — Mai wonck kunna-monee I - — They hear us no more ! mighty Sowanna ! "^ Thy gateways unfold, From thy wigwam of sunset Lift curtains of gold ! T ake home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er, — MaJL wonck kunna-moncc ! — We see her no more ! So sang the Children of the Leaves besido The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide, Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, . Onthe high wind their voicesrose 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. lege:n^dart THE MERRIMACK. [" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimack." — SlEUR 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 smib. I see the windicg 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 tliy 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, N'o 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 slojjing to thy shores ; Nor farm-house with its maple shade, Or rigid poplar colonnade. But lies distinct and full in sight. Beneath this gush of sunset light. Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, Stretching its length of foam afar, And Salisbury's beach of sliining 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 voj'ager's eye. Weary of forest, sea, and sky, Breaking the dull continuous wood. The ilerrimack rolled down his flood ; Mingling that clear pellucid brook. Which channels vast Agioochook When spring-time's sun and shower un- lock 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, Jlidst 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. And weapons brandishing in air. He gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story ; ^ Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters. Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters, — Who, when the chance of war had bound THE NOKSEMEN. 27 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, wliite 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, 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 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 ; A.S, 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 iind the vision flown, — A phantom and a dream ^lone 1 THE NORSEMEN.'" Gift from the cold and silent Past ! A relic to the present cast ; Left on the ever-changing strand Of shifting and unstable sand, Which wastes beneath the steady chime And beating of the waves of Time ! Who from its bed of primal rock First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block? Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? The waters of my native stream Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : From sail-urged keel and flashing oar The circles widen to its shore : And cultured field and peopled town Slope to its willowed margin down. Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing The home-life sound of school-bells ring- ing, And roUing 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 thro'?' Its wild arms o'er the stream below. Unchanged, alone, the same bright river Flows on, as it will flow forever ! I listen, and I hear the low Soft ripple where its waters go ; I hear behind the panther's cry. The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by, And shyly on the river's brink The deer is stooping down to drink. But hark ! — from wood and rock flung back. What sound comes up the Merrimack ? What sea-worn barks are those which throw The light spray from each rushing prow ? 28 LEGENDARY. 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, Lesseningthroughdrivingmistandspray, 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, Streamsback the Norsemen's yellow hair. I see the gleam of axe and spear. The sound of smitten shields I hear. Keeping a harsh and fitting time To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme ; Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, His gray and naked isles among ; Or muttered low at midnight hour Round Odin's mossy stone of power. The wolf beneath the Arctic moon Has answered to that startling rune ; The Gael has heard its stoi'my 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 1 T is past, — the 'wildering vision dies In darkness on my dreaming eyes ! The forest vanishes in air, — Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare ; I hear the common tread of men. And hum of work-day life again : The mystic relic seems alone A broken mass of common stone ; And if it be the chiselled limb Of Berserker or idol grim, — A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, The stormy Viking's god of War^ Or Praga of the Runic lay, Or love-awakening Siona, I know not, — for no graven line, Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign. Is left me here, by which to trace Its name, or origin, or place, yet, for this vision of the Past, This glance upon its darkness oast, 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 ! CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 1658. To the God oC all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away, — Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three. And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid free ! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars. Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars ; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time. My grated casement whitened with au- tumn'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 ; AU night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the crael priest would mock me in my sorrow, CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK 29 Dragged to tteir place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a iieifer from the fold ! O, the weakness of the flesh was there, — the shrinking and the shame ; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : '' Why sit'st thou thus forlornly ! " the wicked murmur said, " Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed ? '-' Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street ? Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through. Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ? " Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra ? — Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth ; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair. On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken. Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken. No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autmnn the youth- ful hunters braid. " 0, weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; To leave a wholesome worship, and teach- ing pure and sound ; And mate with maniac women, loose- haired and sackcloth bound. " Mad scoff"ers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine. Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine ; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame. Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. " And what a fate awaits tnee ?-^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 scoS" and scorn of all ! " 0, 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, Helper of the weak ! that Thou indeed wert there ! I thought of Paul and Silas, withiii Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs thr prison-shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight Bless the Lord for all his mercies ! — for the peace and love I felt. Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt ; When "Get behind me, Satan !" was the language of my heart. And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sunshine fell. Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell ; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet. At length the heavy bolts fell lack, 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 : 30 LEGErDAKT. ''• 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 stiil His loving-kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sunUt waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly waU of rock ; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear fines 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 warn- ing spirit spoke. I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou tram- pier 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-empuvpled cheek the flush of anger spread ; " Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, per Master speaks within her, — the Deril owns his child ! " But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sher= iff, 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 highei price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again he cried, " Speak out, my worthy seamen ! " -^ no voice, no sign replied ; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear, — "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear ! " A weight seemed lifted from my heart, — a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye ; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me. Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea, — " Pile my ship vnth bars of silver, —pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold. By the living God who made me ! — I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away ! " " Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws ! " Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. " 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 ; FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 31 Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence bark, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the ruler and the priest. Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way ; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. O, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay. And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free ; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid. Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid ! Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on even- ing'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 miijlity men of wrong. The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay his hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in his aveng- ing 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 wiih 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. 1756. Around Sebago's lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore. The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, Are painted on its glassy floor. The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, The snowy mountain-tops which lie Piled coldly up against the sky. Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak. Wild winds have bared some 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. 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 honr 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 : 82 LEGEND AhY. And silent now the hunters stand, Grouped darkly, where a swell of land Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. Fire and the axe have swept it bare, Save one lone beech, unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air. With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, They break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root. They heave the stubborn trunk aside. The firm roots from the earth divide, — The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. And there the fallen chief is laid, In tasselled 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. 'Tis 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 ; 0, 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 ? Deem ye that mother loveth less These bronzed forms of the wilderness (She foldeth in her long caress ? oer them her wild-flowers blow As if with fairer hair and brow The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. What though the places of their re^t No priestly knee hath ever pressed, — No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed ! What though the bigot's ban be there, And thoughts of wailiug and despair, And cursing in the place of prayer J 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. 0, peeled, and hunted, and .reviled, Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild ! Great Nature owns her simple child 1 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 ; Not with our partial eye shall scan. Not with our pride and scorn shal^ ban, The spirit of our brother man ! ST. JOHN. 1647. " To the winds gfve 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 shallof) 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. ST. JOHN. 33 And had cursed her while passing, "With taper and bell, But the men of Monhegan, Of Papists abhorred, Had welcomed and feasted The heretic Lord. They had loaded his shallop "With dun-fish and ball, "With stores for his larder, And steel for his wall. Pemequid, from her bastions And turrets of stone,_ Had welcomed his coming With banner and gun. And the prayers of the elders Had followed his way. As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. 0, well sped La Tour ! For, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch. For his coming again. O'er the Isle of the Pheasant The morning sun shone, On the plane-trees which shaded The shores of St. John. "Now, why from yon battlements Speaks not my love ! "Why waves there no banner My fortress above ? " Dark and wild, from his deck St. Estienne gazed about. On fire-wasted dwellings. And silent redoubt ; From the low, shattered walls "Which the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner, There thundered no gun ! But beneath the low arch Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome, In his cloak and his hood. "With the bound of a lion, La Tour sprang to land, On the throat of the Papist He fastened his hand. " Speak, son of the "Woman Of scarlet and sin ! What wolf has been prowling My castle within ? " From the grasp of the soldier The Jesuit broke. Half in scorn, half in sorrow, He smiled as he spoke : " No wolf. Lord of Estienne, Has ravaged thy hall, But thy red-handed rival. With fire, steel, and ball ! On an errand of mercy I hitherward came, While the walls of thy castle Yet spouted with flame. " Pentagoet's dark vessels Were moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaring Aloud for their prey." " But what of my lady ? " Cried Charles of Estienne : " On the shot-crumbled turret Thy lady was seen : "Half- veiled in the smoke-cloud. Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayed In the hot breath of cannon ! But woe to the heretic. Evermore woe ! When the son of the church And the cross is his foe ! " In the track of the shell, In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept over The breach of the wall ! Steel to steel, gun to gun. One moment, — and then Alone stood the victor, Alone with his men ! " Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner Float over St. John." " Let the dastard look to it ! " Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulney King Louis, I 'd free her again ! " "Alas for thy lady ! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free t Nine days, in stern silence, Her thraldom she bore, 34 LEGENDARY. But the tenth morning came, And Death opened her door ! " As 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 ! " 0, the loveliest of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine. And green isles before him : But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on ; And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John ! PENTUCKET. 1708. How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone ! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still Mirror the forest and the hill. Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless west. Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of heaven. Left, by the spirit of the star Of sunset's holy hour, ajar ! Beside the river's tranquil flood The dark and low-walled dwellings stood. Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand. With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blackened stumps between. Behind, unbroken, deep and dread. The wild, untravelled forest spread, Back to those mountains, white and cold, Of which the Indian trapper told, Upon whose summits never yet VSTai - - ■ ^&s mortal foot in safety set. Quiet and calm, without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plough, — The milkmaid carolled by her cow, — From cottage door and household hearth Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. At length the murmur died away. And silence on that village lay, — So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, Ei'e 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, — 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, — Burstingthrough roof and -window came, Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame ; And blended fire and moonlight glared On still dead men and weapons bared. Themorningsun looked brightly through The river willows, wet with dew. No sound of combat filled the air, — Noshoutwas heard, — norgunshotthere; Yet still the thick and sxiUen smoke THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. 35 From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; And on the greensward many a stain, And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had sped Pentucket, on thy fated head ! Even now the villager can tell Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, S'Jll show the door of wasting oak. Through which the fatal death-shot broke, And point the curious stranger where De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare, — "Whose hideous head, in death still feared, Bore not a trace of hair or beard, — And still, within the churchyard ground, Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, Whose grass-grown surface overlies The victims of that sacrifice. THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. Father ! to thy suffering poor Strength and grace t^nd faith impart, And with thy own love restore Comfort to the broken heart ! 0, the failing ones confirm With a holier strength of zeal ! — Give thou not the feeble worm Helpless to the spoiler's heel ! Father ! for thy holy sake We are spoiled and hunted thus ; Joyful, for thy truth we take Bonds and burthens unto us : Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, Weary with our daily task. That thy truth may never fall Through our weakness, Lord, we ask Round our fired and wasted homes Flits the forest-bird unscared, And at noon the wild beast comes Where our frugal meal was shared ; For the song of praises there Shrieks the crow the livelong day ; For the sound of evening prayer Howls the evil beast of prey ! Sweet the songs we loved to sing Underneath thy holy sky, — Words and tones that used to bring Tears of joy in every eye, — Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, When we gathered knee to knee^ Blameless youth and hoary hair. Bowed. God, alone to thee. As thine early children. Lord, Shared their wealth and daily bread. Even so, with one accord. We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard. Not with us his grasping hand ; Equal round a common board, Drew our meek and brother band I 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 wi-ongs we bear. Draw us nearer. Lord, to thee ! Grateful '. — that where'er we toU, — By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle. Or by wild Neponset's tide, — Still, in spirit, we are near. And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here. Meet and mingle in the skies ! Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast, — Redden not thy bolts in store Through the blackness of thy skies ! For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise f Worn and wasted, oh ! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain t In thy name they bear the wrong, In thy cause the bonds of pain f Melt oppression's heart of steel. Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel, That in us they mock at Thee J In thy time, Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to save 36 LEGENDARY. WTiich 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, Ajid once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship thee ! THE FOUNTAm. •Traveller ! on thy journey toiling By the swift Powow, With the summer sunshine falling On thy heated brow. Listen, while all else is still, To the brooklet from tke 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, Ghishing up to sun and air. Brighter waters sparkled never In that magic well, Of whose gift of life forever Ancient legends tell, — In the lonely desert wasted. And by mortal lip untasted. Waters which the proud Castilian ^^ Sought with longing eyes. Underneath the bright pavilion Of the Indian skies ; Where his forest pathway lay Through the blooms of Florida. Vears 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 For an instant shone Something like a gleam of gladness, As he stooped him down To the fountain's grassy side, And his eager thirst supplied. With the oak its shadow throwing O'er his mossy seat, And the cool, sweet waters flowing Softly at his feet, Closely by the fountain's rim That lone Indian seated him. Autumn's earliest frost had given To the woods below Hues of beauty, such as heaven Lendeth to its bow ; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. Far behind was Ocean striving With his chains of sand ; Southward, sunny glimpses giving, '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 cliild of woe ? Naked lay, in sunshine glowing. Hills that once had stood Down their sides the shadows throw ing Of a mighty wood, "Where the deer his covert kept, And the eagle's pinion swept ! "Where the birch canoe had glided Down the swift Powow, Dark and gloomy bridges strided Those clear waters now ; And where once the beaver swam. Jarred the wheel and frowned the danu For the wood-bird's merry singing And the hunter's cheer. Iron clang and hammer's ringing Smote upon his ear ; THE EXILES. 37 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 ? 8adly, as the shades of even Gathered o'er the hill, While the western half of heaven Blushed with sunset still, From the fountain's mossy seat Turned the Indian's weary feet. Year on year hath flown forever. But he came no more To the hillside or the river Where he came before. But the villager can tell Of that strange man's visit well. And the merry children, laden With their fruits or flowers, — Roving boy and laughing maiden. In their school-day hours. Love the simple tale to tell Of the Indian and his well. THE EXILES. 1660. The goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon. With his young wife singing at his side An old and goodly tune. A glimmer of heat was in the air ; The dark green woods were still ; And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud Hung over the western hill. Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud Above the wilderness, As some dark world from upper air Were stooping over this. At times 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 autunm's moonlight, clothed His tranquil countenance. A look, like that his Master wore In Pilate's council-hall : It told of wrongs, — but of a love Meekly forgiving all. "Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?" The stranger meekly said ; And, leaning on his oaken staff. The goodman's features read. " My life is hunted, — evil men Are following in my track ; The traces of the torturer's whip Are on my aged back. "And much, I fear, 't will peril thee Within thy doors to take A hunted seeker of the Truth, Oppressed for conscience' sake." 0, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, — "Come in, old man ! " quoth she, — " We will not leave thee to the storm, Whoever thou mayst be." Then came the aged wanderer in, And silent sat him down ; While all within grew dark as night Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. But while the sudden lightning's blaze Filled every cottage nook. And with the jarring thunder-roll The loosened casements shook, A heavy tramp of horses' feet Came sounding up the lane. And half a score of horse, or more, Came plunging through the rain. "Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, — . We would not be house-breakers ; A rueful deed thou 'st done this day. In harboring banished Quakers." Out looked the cautious goodman then. With much of fear and awe. LEGENDARY. For there, with broad wig drenched with rain, The parish priest he saw. " Open thy door, thou wicked man, And let thy pastor in, And give God thanks, if forty stripes Kepay thy deadly sin." "What seek ye ? " quoth the goodman, — " The stranger is my guest : He is worn with toil and grievous wrong, — Pray let the old man rest." " Now, out upon thee, canting knave ! " And strong hands shook the door. " Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, — " Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore." Then kindled Macey's eye of fire : " No priest who walks the earth. Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth." Down from his cottage wall he caught The matchlock, hotly tried At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, By fiery Ireton's side ; Where Puritan, and Cavalier, With shout and psalm contended ; And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, With battle-thunder blended. Up rose the ancient stranger then : ' ' My spirit is not free To bring the wrath and violence Of evil men on thee : " And for thyself, I pray forbear, — Bethink thee of thy Lord, Who healed again the smitten ear, And sheathed his follower's sword. " I go, as to the slaughter led : Friends of the poor, farewell ! " Beneath his hand the oaken door Back on its hinges fell. '' Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," The reckless scoifers cried, ^s to a horseman's saddle-bow The old man's arms were tied. And of his bondage hard and long In Boston's crowded jail. Where suffering woman's prayer was heard. With sickening childhood's wail. It suits not with our tale to tell : Those scenes have passed away, — Let the dim shadows of the past Brood o'er that evil day. " Ho, sheriff ! " quoth the ardent priest, — " Take Goodman Macey too ; The sin of this day's heresy His back or purse shall rue." "Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macey cried, ■ She caught his manly arm : — Behind, the parson urged pursuit, With outcry and alarm. i 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 aU, " — he cried, — " The laggards upon the shore." Down through the crashing underwood, The burly sheriff came : — "Stand, Goodman Macey, — yield thy- self; Yield in the King's own name." " Now out upon thy hangman's face ! " Bold Macey answered then, — "Whip women, on the village green, But meddle not with men." The priest came panting to the shore, — His grave cocked hat was gone ; Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn. " Come back, — come back ! " the par- son cried, "The church's curse beware." THE EXILES. 39 "Curse, an' thou wilt," saidMacey, "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. 0, beautiful ! that rainbow span. O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; — One bright foot touched the eastern hills, And one with ocean blended. By green Pentucket's southern slope The small boat glided fast, — The watchers of "the Block-house " saw The strangers as they passed. That night a stalwart garrison Sat shaking in their shoes. To hear the dip of Indian oars, — The glide of birch canoes. The fisher- wives of Salisbury, (The men were all away,) Looked out to see the stranger oar Upon their waters play. Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw Their sunset-shadows o'er them, And Newbury's spire and weathercock Peered o'er the pines before them. Around the Black Rocks, on their left. The marsh lay broad and green ; And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, Plum Island's hills were seen. With skilful hand and wary eye The harbor-bar was crossed ; — A plaything of the restless wave, The boat on ocean tossed. The glory of the sunset heaven On land and water lay, — On the steep hills of Agawam, On cape, and bluff, and bay. They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, And Gloucester's harbor-bar ; The watch-fire of the garrison Shone like a setting star. How brightly broke the morning On Massachusetts Bay ! Blue wave, and bright green island, Rejoicing in the day. On passed the bark in safety Round isle and headland steep, — No tempest broke above them. No fog-cloud veiled the deep. Far round the bleak and stormy Cape The vent'rous Macey passed. And on Nantucket's naked isle Drew up his boat at last. And how, in log-built cabin. They braved the rough sea- weather i 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 ; How pale Want alternated With Plenty's golden smile ; Behold, is it not written In the annals of the isle ? And yet that isle remaineth A refuge of the free. As when true-hearted Macey Beheld it from the sea. Free as the winds that winnow Her shrubless hills of sand, — Free as the waves that batter Along her yielding land. Than hers, at duty's summons, No loftier spirit stirs, — For falls o'er human suffering A readier tear than hers. 40 LEGEND AEY, God bless the sea-beat island ! — And grant forevennore, 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 brideraaids, gone the priest : All is over, — all is done. Twain of yesterday are one ! Blooming girl and manhood gray, Autumn in the arms of May ! Hushed within and hushed without. Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout ; Dies the bonfire on the hill ; All is dark and all is still. Save the starlight, save the breeze Moaning through the graveyard trees ; And the great sea-waves below, Pulse of the midnight beating slow. From the brief dream of a bride She hath wakened, at his side. With half-uttered shriek and start, — Feels she not his beating heart ? And the pressure of his arm. And his breathing near and warm ? Lightly from the bridal bed Springs that fair dishevelled head. And a feeling, new, intense, Half of shame, half innocence. Maiden fear and wonder speaks Through her lips and changing cheeks. From the oaken 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, " Yet," she sighs, " he loves me well, More than these calm lips will tell. Stooping to my lowly state, He hath made me rich and great, And I bless him, though he be Hard and stern to all save me ! " While she speaketh, falls the light O'er her fingers small and white ; Gold and gem, and costly ring Back the timid lustre fling, — Love's selectest gifts, and rare, His proud hand had fastened there. Gratefully she marks the glow From those tapering lines of snow ; Fondly o'er the sleeper bending His black hair with golden blending. In her soft and light caress, Cheek and lip together press. Ha ! — that start of horror ! — Why That wild stare and wilder cry. Full of terror, full of pain ? Is there madness in her brain ? Hark ! that gasping, hoarse and low, " Spare me, — spare me, — let me go!" God have mercy ! — Icy cold Spectral hands her own enfold. Drawing silently from them Love's fair gifts of gold and gem, "Waken ! save me ! " still as death At her side he slumbereth. Ring and bracelet all are gone. And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ; But she hears a munnur 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 I" she sighs, "her hand was cold.'* TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTUKE. 41 Broken words of cheer he saith, But his dark lip quivereth. And as o'er the past he thinketh. From his young wife's arms he shrinketh ; Can those soft arms round him lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye ? She her fair young head can rest Soothed -and childlike on his breast, And in trustful innocence Draw new strength and courage thence : He, the proud man, feels within But the cowardice of sin ! She can murmur in her thought Simple prayers her mother taught. And His blessed angels call, Whose great love is over all ; He, alone, in prayerless pride. Meets the dark Past at her side ! One, who living shrank with dread From his look, or word, or tread, Unto whom her early grave Was as freedom to the slave. Moves him at this midnight hour. With the dead's unconscious power ! Ah, the dead, the unforgot ! From their solemn homes of thought. Where the cypress shadows blend Darkly over foe and friend. Or in love or sad rebuke. Back upon the living look. And the tenderest ones and weakest. Who their wrongs have borne the meekest; Lifting from those dark, still places. Sweet and sad-remembered faces, O'er the guilty hearts behind An unwitting triumph find. VOICES OF FEEEDOM. TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.32 'T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down Its beauty on the Indian isle, — On broad green field and white-walled town ; And inland waste of rock and wood. In searching sunshine, wild and rude. Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam, Soft as the landscape of a dream. All motionless and dewy wet. Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met : The myrtle with its snowy bloom, Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom, — The white cecropia's silver rind Relieved by deeper green behind, — The orange with its fruit of gold, — The lithe paullinia's verdant fold, — The passion-flower, with symbol holy. Twining its tendrils long and lowly, — The rhexias dark, and cassia tall, And proudly rising over all. The kingly palm's imperial stem. Crowned with its leafy diadem, Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade. The fiery-winged cucullo played ! 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 stOI, 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 1 Hark to that cry !— long, loud, and shrill, From field and forest, rock and hill. 42 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Thrilling and horrible it rang, Around, beneath, above ; — The wild beast from his cavern sprang, The wild bird from her grove ! Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony Were mingled in that midnight cry ; But like the lion's growl of wrath. When falls that hunter in his patla Whose barbed arrow, deeply set. Is rankling in his bosom yet. It told of hate, full, deep, and strong, Of vengeance kindling out of wrong ; It was as if the crimes of years — The unrequited toil, the tears. The shame and hate, which liken well Earth's garden to the nether hell — Had found in nature's self a tongue, On which the gathered horror hung ; As if from cliS', and stream, and glen Burst on the startled ears of men That voice which rises unto God, Solemn and stern, — the crj' of blood ! It ceased, — and all was still once more, Save ocean chafing on his shore, The sighing of the wind between The broad banana's leaves of green. Or bough by restless plumage shook, Or murmuring voice of mountain brook. Brief was the silence. Once again Pealed to the skies that frantic yell. Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain, And flashes rose and fell ; And painted on the blood-red sky, Dark, naked arms were tossed on high ; And, round the white man's lordly hall, Trod, fierce and free, thehrute he made; And those who crept along the wall, And answered to his lightest call With more than sjianiel dread, — The creatures of his lawless beck, — Were trampling on his very neck ! And on the night-air, wild and clear. Rose woman's shriek of more than fear ; For bloodied armswere round her thrown, And dark cheeks pressed against her own ! Then, injured Afric ! — for the shame • Of thy OAATi 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 WTong ? Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding ; Now, when oppression's heart is bleed- ing ; Now, when the latent curse of Time Is raining down in fire and blood, — That curse which, through long years of crime. Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood, — - Why strikes he not, the foremost one, Where murder's sternest deeds are done s 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 I'Ouverture . What marvel that his heart beat high ! The blow for freedom had been given. And blood had answered to the cry Which Earth sent up to Heaven ! What marvel that a fierce delight Smiled grimly o'er his brow of night, — As groan and shout and bursting flame Told where the midnight tempest came, With blood and fire along its van. And death behind ! — he was a JIan ! Yes, dark-souled chieftain! — if the light Of mild Religion's heavenly ray Unveiled net to thy mental sight The lowlier and the purer way. In which the Holy Sufl'erer 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 martjT, kneeling For mercy on the evil-dealing, — Let not the favored white man name Thy stern appeal, with words of blame. Has he not, with the light of heaven Broadly around him, made the same ? Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven, And gloried in his ghastly shame ? — Kneeling amidst his brother's blood, To offer mockery unto God, As if the High and Holy One Could smile on deeds of murder done ! — As if a human sacrifice Were purer in his Holy eyes. Though off'ered up by Christian hands, Than the foul rites of Pagan lands ! Sternly, amidst his household band, I His carbine grasped within his hand* THE SLAVE-SHIPS. 43 The white man stood, prepared and still, Waiting the shock of maddened men. Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when The horn winds tlu'ough 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 spumed, — the chain is broken ; On all the hills our fires are glowing, — Through all the vales red blood is flowing! No more the mocking White shall rest His foot upon the Negro's breast ; No more, at morn or eve, shall drip The warm blood from the driver's whip: Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn Forall 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 iU 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 isopen 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 Besan9on's alien sky. Dark Haytien ! — for the time shall come, Yea, even now is nigh, — When, every^vhere, thy name shall be Redeemed from color's infamy ; And uen shall learn to speak of thee, As one of earth's gi'eat spirits, bom 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 spumed the base control Of tyrants through all time ! Far other hands than mine may wreathe The laurel round thy brow of death. And speak thy praise, as one whose word A thousand fiery spirits stirred, — Who crushed his foeman as a worm, — Whose step on human hearts fell firm : — ^ Be mine the better task to find A tribute for thy lofty mind. Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shonw 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.3* " That fatal aud perfidiou? bark, Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." MiliorCs 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 : 44 VOICES OF FREEDOM. ■ Now let the sharks look to it, — Toss up the dead ones first ! " Corpse after corpse came up, — Death had been busy there ; Where every blow is mercy, Why should the spoiler spare ? Corpse after corpse they cast Sullenly from the ship. Yet bloody with the traces Of fetter-link and whip. Gloomily stood the captain. With his arms upon his breast. With his cold brow sternly knotted. And his iron lip compressed. "Are all the dead dogs over ? " Growled through that matted lip, ■ " The blind ones are no better. Let 's lighten the good ship." Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom, The very sounds of hell ! The ringing clank of iron, — The maniac's short, sharp yell ! — The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled, The starving infant's moan, — The horror of a breaking heart Poured through a mother's groan. Up from that loathsome prison The stricken blind ones came : Below, had all been darkness, — Above, was still the same. Yet the holy breath of heaven Was sweetly breathing there, And the heated brow of fever Cooled in the soft sea air. " Overboard with them, shipmates ! Cutlass and dirk were plied ; Fettered and blind, one after one, Plunged down the vessel's side. The sabre smote above, — Beneath, the lean shark lay. Waiting with wide and bloody jaw His quick and human prey. God of the earth ! what cries Rang upward unto thee ? Voices of agony and blood, From ship-deck and from sea. The last dull plunge was heard, — The last wave caught its stain, — And the unsated shark looked up For human hearts in vain. Red glowed the western waters, -~ The setting sun was there, Scattering alike on wave and cloud 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 sufi'ering Alone were at his side. Night settled on the waters, And on a stormy heaven, While fiercely on that lone ship's track The thunder-gust was driven. " A sail ! — thank God, a sail ! " And as the helmsman spoke, Up through the stormy murmur A shout of gladness broke. Down came the stranger vessel, Unheeding on her way. So near that on the slaver's deck Fell off her driven spray. " Ho ! for the love of mercy, — We 're perishing and blind ! " A wail of utter agony Came back upon the wind : " Help us I for we are stricken With blindness every one ; Ten days we 've floated fearfully, Unnoting star or sun. Our ship 's the slaver Leon, — We 've but a score on board, — Our slaves are all gone over, — Help, — for the love of God ! " On livid brows of agony The broad red lightning shone, — But the roar of wind and thunder Stifled the answering groan ; Wailed from the broken waters A last despairing cry. As, kindling in the stormy light, "The stranger ship went by. In the sunny Guadaloupe A dark-huUed vessel lay, — STANZAS. 45 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 arclily deep. And her smiles as fuU as ever Of passion and of sleep. But vain were bird and blossom, The green earth and the sky, And the smile of human faces. To the slaver's darkened eye ; At the breaking of the morning. At the star-lit evening time. O'er a world of light and beauty Fell the blackness of his crime. STANZAS. [" The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has ap- plied 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. Fallen's Address. " Genius of America '. — Spirit of our free in- stitutions ! — where art thou ? — How art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! son of the morning, — how art thou fallen from Heaven I Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming! — The kings of the earth cry out to thee. Aha! Aha ! — ART THOU BECOME LIKE UNTO US ? " — Speech of Samuel J. May.] Our fellow-countrymen in chains ! Slaves — in a land of light and law ! Slaves — crouching on the very plains Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war ! A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, — A wail where Camden's martyrs fell, — By every shrine of patriot blood, From Moultrie's wall and Jaspar's well! By storied hill and hallowed grot. By mossy wood and marshy glen. Whence rang of old the rifle-shot. And hurrying shout of Marion's men '. The groan of breaking hearts is there, — The falling lash, — the fetter's clank ! Slaves, — SLAVES are breathing in that air. Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank \ What, ho ! — our countrymen in chains ! The whip on woman's shrinking flesh ! Our soil yet reddening with the stains Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh ! What ! mothers from their children riven ! What ! God's own image bought and sold! Americans to market driven. And bartered as the brute for gold ! Speak ! shall their agony of prayer Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ? To us whose fathers scorned to bear The paltry menace of a chain ; To us, whose boast is loud and long Of holy Liberty and Light, — Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong Plead vainly for their plundered Right ? What ! shall we send, with lavish breath. Our sympathies across the wave. Where Manhood, on the field of death, Strikes for his freedom or a grave ? Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, And millions had with pen and tongue Our light on all her altars burning ? Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall. And Poland, gasping on her lance. The impulse of our cheering call ? And shall the slave, beneath our eye. Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ! And toss his fettered arms on high. And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain f 0, 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. 46 VOICES OF FEEEDOM. 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 mth 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 i;urbaned Turk, and scornful Russ : " Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, Then turn, and ask the like of us ! " Just God ! and shall we calmly rest, The Christian's scorn, — the heathen's mirth, — Content to live the lingering jest And by-word of a mocking Earth ? Shall our own glorious land retain That curse which Europe scorns to bear ? Shall our own brethren drag the chain Which^iot 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 3^et The shadow of our fame is growing ! Up, — while ye pause, our sun nay set In blood, around our altars flowing ! Oh ! rouse ve, 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 ! 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 cot' tage-door. Which the long evening shadow is stretching before. With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams ! How brilUant 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 cot- tage-door, — The haughty and rich to the humble and poor ? 'T is the gi'eat Southern planter, — the master who waves His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. " Nay, Ellen, — for shame ! Let those Yankee fools spin. Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin ; Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel! *' But thou art too lovely and precious a gem To be bound to their burdens and sul- lied by them, — For shame, Ellen, shame, — cast thy bondage aside. And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. " 0, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, SONG OF THE FREE. 47 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 ! " 0, come to my home, where my ser- vants shall all Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call; They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe, And each wish of thy heart shall be felt 0, could ye have seen her — that pride of our girl's — 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 moun- tains which raves. Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves ! " Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel. With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel ; Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee ! " TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand : In view of penury, hate, and death, I see thee fearless stand. Still bearing up thy lofty brow. In the steadfast strength of truth, In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth. Go on, — for thou hast chosen weU ; 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 1 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 thins, And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine And flash of kindred swords ! They tell me thou art rash and vain, — • A searcher after fame ; That thou art striving but to gain A long-enduring name ; That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand. And rend his chain apart. Have I not known thee well, and read Thy mighty purpose long ? And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong ? And shall the slanderer's demon breatn 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 shaU kneel. And God alone be Lord ! SONG OF THE FREE. Pride of New England ! Soul of our fathers ! Shrink we all craven-like. When the storm gathers ? 48 VOICES OF FREEDOM. What though the tempest be Over us lowering, 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 Ocean-ward going, — Free as the breezes are Over us blowing. Up to our altars, then, Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness. Manhood and woman ! Deep let our pledges be : Freedom forever ! Truce with oppression. Never, 0, never ! By our own birthright-gift, Granted of Heaven, — Freedom for heart and lip, Be the pledge given ! If we have whispered truth, Whisper no longer ; Speak as the tempest does, Sterner and stronger ; Still be the tones of truth Louder and firmer, Startling the haughty South With the deep murmur ; God and our charter's right, Freedom forever ! Truce with oppression, Never, 0, never ! THE HUNTERS OF MEN. Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men ? 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 ! — th« crack of the v/hip, 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 be- hind, — 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 ! 0, 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 theii purpose and prey ? Will their hearts fail within them I ^ their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men? JJ^l)/\ 1107V. to till' JlUlltt'll . CLEKICAL OPPRESSORS. 49 Ho ! — ALMS for our hunters ! all weary and faint, Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. The horn is wound faintly, — the echoes are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste, — alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore : What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Free- dom and Right ? Ho ! — alms for the hunters ! or never again WiU they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men ! Alms, — alms for our hunters ! why will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are melting away ? The parson has turned ; for, on charge of Ms 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. 0, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. 0, haste, ere he leave us ! for who will ride then. For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ? 1835. CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. [In the report of the celebrated proslavery meeting in Charlestown, S. C. , on the 4th of the 9th month, 1835, published in the Courier of that city, it is stated : " The CLERGY of all denominations attended in a ftorf;/, lending their SANCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impressive character of the scene ! "] Just God ! — and these are they Whoministeratthinealtar, GodofKight ! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay On Israel's Ark of light ! What ! preach and kidnap men ? Give thanks, — and rob thy own af- flicted 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, — fetter- ing down The tasked and plundered slave ! Pilate and Herod, friends ! Chief priests and rulers, as of old, com- bine ! Just God and holy ! is that church, which lends Strength to the spoiler, thine ? Paid hypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and roli 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 uttei need, Ye pile your own full board. How long, 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 aU who grind Their brethren of a common Fathei 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 o. blood, — Perverting, darkening, changing, as thej go. The searching truths of God ! 50 VOICES OF FEEEDOM. 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. 0, 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. P. Tasistro — " Random Shots and Southern Breezes " — is a descriptioa of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as " a good Christian ! " ] A Christian ! going, gone ! Who bids for God's own image ? — for his grace, Which that poor victim of the market- place Hath in her suffering won ? My God ! can such things be ? Hast thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one Is even done to thee ? In that sad victim, then. Child of thy pitying love, I see thee stand, — Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, Bound, sold, and scourged again ! A Christian up for sale ! Wet with her blood your whips, o'er- task her frame, Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame. Her patience shall not fail ! A heathen hand might deal Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years : But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears, Ye neither heed nor feel. Con well thy lesson o'er. Thou prudent teacher, — teU 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, Thy chui-ch 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. 0, shame ! the Moslem thrall, Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels. While turning to the sacred Kebla feels His fetters break and fall. Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne Their inmates into day : But our poor slave in vain Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes, — Its rites will only swell his market price, And rivet on his chain. God of all right ! how long Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand. Lifting in prayer to thee, the bloody hand And haughty brow of wrong ? 0, from the fields of cane. From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell, — From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell. And coffle's weary chain, — Hoarse, horrible, and strong. Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry. Filling the arches of the hollow sky, How LONG, God, how long ? STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 51 STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. Is tliis the land our fathers loved. The freedom which they toiled to win ? Is this the soil whereon they moved ? Are these the graves they slumber in ? Are we the sons by whom are borne The mantles which the dead have worn ? And shall we crouch above these graves, With craven soul and fettered lip ? Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, And tremble at the driver's whip ? Bend to the earth our pliant knees. And speak — but as our masters please ? Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ? Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow ? Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel, — The dungeon's gloom, — the assas- sin's blow, Turn back the spirit roused to save The Truth, our Country, and the Slave ? Of human skulls that shrine was made, Round which the priests of Mexico Before their loathsome idol prayed ; — Is Freedom's altar fashioned so ? And must we yield to Freedom's God, As ofi"ering 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 suc- cumb ? 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 Oris wold's stained and shattered wall, — By Warren's ghost, — by Langdon's shade, — By all the memories of our dead ! By their enlarging souls, which burst The bands and fetters round them set, — By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed Within our inmost boscms, yet, — By all above, around, below, Be ours the indignant answer, — NO ! No ; — guided by our country's laws, Fortruth, and right, and suffering man, Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause. As Christians may, — as freemen can I Still pouring on unwilling ears That truth oppression only fears. What ! shall we guard our neighbor stiU, 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 enoiigh that this is borne ? And asks our haughty neighbor more ? Must fetters which his slaves have worn Clank round the Yankee farmer's door? Must he be told, beside his plough, What he must speak, and when, and how? Must he be told his freedom stands On Slavery's dark foundations strong, — On breaking hearts and fettered hands, On robbery, and crime, and wrong ? That all his fathers taught is vain, — That Freedom's emblem is the chain ? Its life, its soul, from slavery drawn ? False, foul, profane ! Go, — teach a 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 th« South," — Ye shall not hear the truth the less ;^ No seal is on the Yankee's mouth, No fetter on the Yankee's press 1 From our Greeii Mountains to the sea. One voice shall thunder, — We abjs FREE ! 52 VOICES OF FEEEDOM. LINES, WHITTEN ON READING THE MESSAGE OF GOVERNOR RITNER, OF PENN- 8YLVANIA, 1836. Thank God for tlie token ! — one lip is still free, — One spirit untrammelled, — unbending one knee ! Like the oak of tlie mountain, deep- rooted and firm, Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm ; When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God, Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood ; When the recreant North has forgotten her trust, And the Hp of her honor is low in the dust, — Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has broken ! Thank God, that one man as a freeman has spoken ! O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown ! Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the mur- mur has gone ! To the land of the South, — of the char- ter 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, speed it ! Wherever the blood Of the wronged and the guiltless is cry- ing to God ; Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining ; Wherever the lash of the driver is twin- ing ; Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart, Comes the sorrowful waU 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 0, will the land where the free soul of Penn Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen, — Will the land where a Benezet's spirit went forth To the peeled and the meted, and outcast of Earth, — Where the words of the Charter of Lib- erty first From the soul of the sage and the pa- triot burst, — Where first for the -wronged and the weak of their kind. The Christian and statesman their efi'orta 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 ; UnappaUed by the danger, the shame, and the pain. And counting each trial for Truth as their gain ! And that bold-hearted yeomanry, hon- est and true. Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due; Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine, THE PASTORAL LETTER. 53 Un the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine, — The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave The scorn of the proud is the cause of the slave : — Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the South One brow for the brand, — for the pad- lock one mouth ? They cater to tyrants ? — They rivet the chain. Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again ? No, never ! — one voice, like the sound in the cloud. When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more loud, Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the West, On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below ! The voice of a people, — uprisen, — awake, — Pennsylvania's watchword, with Free- dom at stake. Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each height, " OtTR Country and Liberty ! — God FOR THE Right ! " THE PASTORAL LETTER. So, this is all, — the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter ! When laymen think — when women preach — A war of words — a "Pastoral Let- ter ! " Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes ! Was it thus with those, your prede- cessors, Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes Their loving-kindness to 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. Pe- ter's I 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. 0, glorious days, — when Church and State Were wedded by your spiritual fathers 1 And on submissive shoulders sat Your Wilsons and your Cotton Ma- thers. No vile " itinerant " then could mar The beauty of your tranquil Zion, But at his peril of the scar Of hangman's whip and branding-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 Qua- ker ! 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 teacL- ers ; 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 scomer 1 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 sufl'ering and heroic woman. No, — for yourselves alone, I turn The pages of intolerance over. That, in their spirit, dark and stem, Ye haply may your own discover !^ For, if ye claim the "pastoral right," To silence Freedom's voice of waminft 54 VOICES OF FREEDOM. And from your precincts shut the light Of Freedom's day around ye dawn- ing ; If when an earthquake voice of power, And signs in earth and heaven, are showing That forth, in its appointed hour. The Spuit of the Lord is going ! And, with that Sjiirit, Freedom's hght On kindred, tongue, and people break- ing, "Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, In glory and in strength are waking ! When for the sighing of the poor, And for the needy, God hath risen. And chains are breaking, and a door Is opening for the souls in prison ! If then ye would, with puny hands, Arrest the very work of Heaven, And bind anew the evil bands Which God's right arm of power hath riven, — What marvel that, in many a mind. Those darker deeds of bigot 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 foun- tains, 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. 0, 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 Agamst the ark of his salvation. Moved by the breath of praj^er abroad. With blessings for a dying nation ? What, but the stubble and tlie hay To perish, even as flax consuming, With aU that bars his glorious way. Before the brightness of his coming ? And thou, sad Angel, who so long Hast waited for the glorious token, That Earth from all her bonds of wrong To Liberty and light has broken, — Angel of Freedom ! soon to thee The sounding trumpet shall be given. And over Earth's full jubilee Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven ! LINES, WHITTEN FOK THE MEETING OF THE ANTISLAVERY SOCIETY, AT CHAT- HAM STREET CHAPEL, N. Y., HELD ON THE 4th of THE 7tH MONTH. 1834. Thou, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, As with thy chosen moved of yore The fire by night, the cloud by day t 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 2 Thy children all, — though hue and fonn Are varied in thine own good will, — With thy own holy breathings wann. And fashioned in thine image still. We thank thee, Father ! — hill and plain Around us wave their fruits once more, And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, Are bending round each cottage door. And peace is here ; and hope and love Are round us as a mantle thrown. LINES. 55 A.nd unto Thee, supreme above, The knee of prayer is bowed alone. But 0, 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, — 0, be thy gracious love inclined. Who, as a Father, pitiest all ! And grant, Father ! that the time Of Earth's deliverance may be near. When every land and tongue and clime The message of thy love shall hear, — When, smitten as with fire from heaven. The captive's chain shall sink in dust. And to his fettered soul be given The glorious freedom of the just ! LINES, WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BRIT- ISH EMANCIPATION AT THE BROAD- WAY TABERNACLE, N. Y., " FIRST OF AUGUST," 1837. Holy Father ! — just and true Are all thy works and words and ways, ^nd unto thee alone are due Thanksgiving and eternal praise ! ^s 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, 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 ! A.nd 0, we feel thy presence here, — Thy awful arm in judgment bare ! Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear,— Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer. Praise ! — for the pride of man is low. The counsels of the wise are naught, The fountains of repentance flow ; What hath our God in mercy wrought ? Speed on thy work. Lord God of Hosts ! And when the bondman's chain is riven, And swells from all our guilty coasts The anthem of the free to Heaven, 0, 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 CEL- EBRATION 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 bone? man's veins. Though long delayed, and far, and slow, The Briton's triumph shall be ours : Wears slavery here a prouder brow Than that which twelve short years ago Scowled darkly from her island bow- ers ? Mighty alike for good or ill With mother-land, we fuUy 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 laud. 56 VOICES OF FKEEDOM. 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 ! 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 d speaking from his cloud ! — And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves. And soft, warm days of golden light. The glory of her forest leaves, And hai'vest-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 i)assion's fires. Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast. And lofty aims and low desires By turns disturbed his itjst. The wailing of the newly-born Has mingled with the funeral knell ; And o'er the dying's ear has gone The merry marriage-beU. And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, Wliile Want, in many a humble shed. Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth. The live-long night for bread. And worse than all, — the human slave, — The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! Plucked oS" the crown his Maker gave, — His regal manhood gone ! 0, still, my country ! o'er thy plains. Blackened with slavery's blight and ban. That human chattel drags his chains, — An uncreated man ! And stUl, where'er to sun and breeze, My country, is thy flag unrolled, With scorn, the gazing stranger sees A stain on everv fold. THE NEW YEAR. 61 0, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! It gathers scorn from every eye, And despots srnile and good men frown Whene'er it passes by. Shame ! shame ! its starry splendors glow Above the slaver's loathsome jail, — Its folds are ruffling even now His crimson flag of sale. Still round our country's proudest hall The trade in human flesh is driven, And at each careless hammer-fall A human heart is riven. And this, too, sanctioned by the men Vested with power to shield the right, And throw each vile and robber den Wide open to the light. Yet, shame upon them ! — there they sit, Men of the North, .subdued and still ; Meek, j^liant poltroons, only St To work a master's will. Sold, — bargained ofiF for Southern votes, — A passive herd of Northern mules. Just braying through their purchased throats Whate'er their owner rules. And he,^ — the basest of the base. The Wlest 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 jiublic view, — k mark for every passing blast Of scorn to whistle through ; There let him hang, and hear the boast Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool, — A new Stylites on his post, " Sacred to ridicule ! " Look we at home ! — our noble hall, To Freedom's holy purpose given, Now rears its black and ruined wall, Beneath the wintry heaven, — Telling the story of its doom, — The fiendish mob, — the prostrate law, — The fiery jet through midnight's gloom. Our gazing thousands saw. Look to our State, — the poor man's right Torn from him : — and the sons of those Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight Sprinkled the Jersey snows. Outlawed within the land of Penn, That Slavery's guilty fears might ceaae. And those whom God created men Toil on as brutes in peace. Yet o'er the blackness of the storm A bow of jtromise Itends 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 laurellecl crest, O'er ]akesandp>rairies, streams andglades, It shines upon the West Speed on the light to those who dwell In Slavery's land of woe and ^in. And through the blackness of that hell. Let Heaven's own light break in. So shall the Southern conscience quake Before that light poured full and strong. So shall the Southern heart awake To aU 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, 62 VOICES OF FKEEDOM. 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, aad fear, And unto both alike shall dawn A New and Happy Year, MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. [Written on reading an account of the pro- ceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, Va., in refer- ence to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SoMEESET in England, in 1772.] The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way, Bears gi-eeting to Virginia from Massa- chusetts Bay : — No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal. Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel. No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go, — Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far, A thousand sails of commerce swell, but for war. We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy words and high. Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky ; Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor here, No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear. Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank, — Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank ; Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the hearts which man The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of Cape Ann. The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms, Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the storms ; Free as the winds they drive betore, rough as the waves they roam, They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home. What means the Old Dominion ? Hath she forgot the day When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array ? How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts men Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis, then ? Forgets she how the Bay State, in an- swer to the call Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall ? When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on each breath Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of " Liberty or Death ! " What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons have proved False to their fathers' memory, — false to the faith they loved. If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter spurn. Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty turn ? We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell, — Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell, — We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' graves. From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves ! Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massa- chusetts bow ; The spirit of her early time is with her even now ; Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow and calm and cool, She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool ! All that a sister State should do, all that a, free State may. Heart, hand, and purse we proff'er, as in our early day ; But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone. And reap the bitter harvest which ya yourselves have sown ! MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 63 Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's free air "With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild despair ; Cling closer to the ' ' cleaving curse " that writes upon your plains The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains. Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old, By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold, — ' Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market value, when The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den ! Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginia name ; Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of shame ; Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe, — We wash our hands forever of your sin and shame and curse. A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been, Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men : The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still In all our sunny valleys, on every wind- swept hill. And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray, How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning spoke ; How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke ! A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on high, — A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud reply ; Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling summons rang, And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics sprang ! The voice of free, broad Middlesex, — oi thousands as of one, — The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexington, — From Norfolk's ancient villages, from Plymouth's rocky bound To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round ; — From rich and raral Worcester, where through the calm repose Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua flows. To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir. Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of " God save Latimer ! " And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray, — And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay ! Along the broad Connecticut old Hamp- den 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 tipon her land / Look to it well, Virginians ! In calm. ness we have borne. In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn ; You 've spurned our kindest counsels, — you 've hunted for our lives, — And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves ! We wage no war, — we lift no arm, — we fling no torch within The fire-damps of the quaking mine be- neath 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-Mmt in our borders, — no pirate on our strand ! No fetters in the Bay State, — no slave upon our land I 64 VOICES OF FREEDOM. THE RELIC. [Pennstlvanu Hall, dedicated to Free Discus- sion and the cause of human liberty, was de- stroyed by a mob in 1838. The following was written on receiving a cane wrought from a frag- ment of the wood-work which the fire had spared.] Token of friendship true and tried, From one whose fiery heart of youth With mine has beaten, side by side, For Liberty and Tinth ; 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 iuAvrought ! Pare 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 bui-ning ! — let it be Dear as a jewel from the hand Of a lost friend to me ! — Flower of a perished garland lef^, Of life and beauty unbereft ! 0, 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 ThermopyljB : 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 Bannockbum, — Or Eunnjrmede's wild English rose. Or lichen plucked from Sempach s If it be tnie 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, improfaned, — Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, Lifting on high, with hands unstained, Thanksgiving unto God ; Wliere Mercy's voice of love was plead- ing For human hearts in bondage bleeding !— Where, midst the sound of rushing feet And curses on the night-air flung, That pleading voice rose calm and sweet From woman's earnest tongue ; And Riot turned his scowling glance, Awed, from her tranquil countenance ! That temple now in ruin lies ! — The fire-stain on its shattered wall. And open to the changing skies Its black and roofless hall. It stands before a nation's sight, A gravestone over buried Right ! But from that ruin, as of old, The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying. And from their ashes white and cold Its timbers are replying ! A voice which slavery cannot kill Speaks from the crumbling arches still ! And even this relic from thy shrine, 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. 65 THE BRANDED HAND. 1846. Welcome home again, brave seaman ! with thy thoughtful brow and gray, And the oUl heroic spirit of our earlier, better day, — With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve in vain Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain ! Is the tyrant's brand upon thee ? Did the brutal cravens aim To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy shame ? When, all blood-quenched, from the tor- ture the iron was withdrawn. How laughed their evU angel the baffled fools to scorn ! They change to wrong the duty which God hath written out On the great heart of humanity, too legible for doubt ! Tliey, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from footsole up to crown, Give to shame what G od 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 A\-ith pride the story of their father's branded hand ! As the Templar home was welcome, bear- ing 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 an- gels trod. Thou for the true Shechinah, the pres- ent home of God ! I 5 For, while the jurist, sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swung, From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery wrung. And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God-deserted shrine, Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the bondman's blood for "Wliile the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour knelt. And spurned, the while, the temple where a present Saviour dwelt ; Thou beheld' st him in the task-field, in the prison shadows dim. And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto him ! In thy lone and long night-watches, sky above and wave below. Thou didst learn a higher wisdom than the babbling schoolmen know ; God's stars and silence taught thee, as his angels only can. That the one sole sacred thing beneath the cope of heaven is Man ! That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and creed, In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy in his need ; But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain and rod. And herds with lower natures the awful form of God ! Then lift that manly right-hand, bold ploughman of the wave ! Its branded palm shall prophesy, " Sal- vation TO THE Slave ! " Hold up its fire-wrought langi;age, that Avhoso reads may feel His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel. Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our Northern air, — Ho ! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God, look there ! Take it henceforth for your standard, like the Bruce's heart of yore. In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be seen before ! And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign. 66 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 ENGLA^^D. TJp the hillside, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen ; Summon out the might of men ! Like a lion growling low, — Like a night-storm rising slow, — Like the tread of unseen foe, — It is coming, — it is nigh ! Stand your homes and altars hy ; 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. 0, 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, l^rand the craven on his brow ! Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race, — None for traitors false and base. Perish party, — perish clan ; Strike together while ye can, Like the arm of one strong man. Like that angel's voice sublime. Heard above a world of crime, Crying of the end of time, — With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North unto the South Speak the word befitting both : " What though Issachar be strong ! Ye may load his back with wrong Overmuch and over long : " Patience with her cup o'errun, With her weary thread outspun, Munnurs 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 tlie blood-wrought chain apart ; Break the Union's mighty heart ; " Work the ruin, if ye will ; Pluck upon j'our heads an ill Which shall grow and deepen still. " With your bondman's right arm bare, With his heart of black despair. Stand alone, if stand ye dare ! "Onward with your fell design ; Dig the gulf and draw the line : Fire beneath your feet the mine ; "Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your land and this, Shall ye feel your helple " 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 skiee, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, f As the lost on Paradise 1 TO MASSACHUSETTS. 67 " "We hut ask our rocky strand, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand, "Valleys by the slave imtrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessed of our fathers' God ! " TO FANEUIL HALL. 1844. Men ! — if manhood still ye claim. If the Northern pulse can thrill, Roused by wrong or stung by shame. Freely, strongly still, — Let the sounds of traffic die : Shut the mill -gate, — leave the stall, — Fling the axe and hammer by, — Throng to Faneuil Hall ! "Wrongs which freemen never brooked, — Dangers gi'im 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 Pilgi-im 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 j^our footsteps wake Echoes from that holy wall ; Once again, for Freedom's sake, Rock your fathers' hall ! Up, and tread beneath your feet Every cord by party spun : Let your hearts together beat As the heart of one. Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade, Let them rise or let them fall : Freedom asks your common aid, — Up, to Faneuil Hall ! Up, and let each voice that speaks Ring from thence to Southern plains, Shai-ply as the blow which breaks Prison-bolts and chains ! Speak as well becomes the free •. Dreaded more than steel or balL Shall your calmest utterance be, Heard from Faneuil Hall 1 Have they wi'onged 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 I Up, to Faneuil Hall ! TO MASSACHUSETTS, 1844. "What though around thee blazes No fiery rallying sign ? From all thy own high places. Give heaven the light of thine ! "What though unthrilled, unmoving, The statesman stand apart. And comes no warm approving From Mammon's crowded mart 1 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 foimtains A deep response is heard, And across the "\\''estern mountainn Rolls back thy rallying word ; Shall thy line of battle falter, "With its allies just in view ? 0, by hearth and holy altar, My fatherland, be true ! Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom ! Speed them onward far and fast I Over hill and valley speed them, Like the sibyl's on the blast ! Lo ! the Empire State is shaking The shackles from her hand ; "With the rugged North is waking The level sunset land ! On they come, — the free battalions ! East and "West and North they corner And the heart-beat of the millions Is the beat of Freedom's dmm. 68 VOICES OF FKEEDOM. " 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 J THE PINE-TREE. 1846. Lift again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield. Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field. Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board. Answering England's royal missive with aiirm, "Thus saith the Lord !" Rise again for home and freedom ! — set the battle in array ! — "What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day. Tell us not of banks and tariffs, — cease your paltry pedler cries, — Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise ? Would ye barter man for cotton ? — That your gains may sum up higher. Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the fire ? Is the dollar only real ? — God and truth and right a dream ? Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam ? my God ! — for that free spirit, which of old in Boston to^vn 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, — Butin Heaven's namekeepyour honor, — keep the heart o' the Bay State sound ! " Where 's the man for Massachusetts ? — Where's the voice to speak her free? — Where 's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to the sea ? Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer ? — Sits she dumb in her despair ? — Has she none to break the silence ? — Has she none to do and dare ? 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 12tH MONTH OF 1845. With a cold and wintry noon-light, On its roofs and steeples shed. Shadows weaving with the sunlight From the gray sky overhead, Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread. Through this broad street, restless ever, Ebbs and flows a human tide, Wave on wave a living river ; Wealth and fashion side by side •. Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide. Underneath yon dome, whose coping Springs above them, vast and tall, Grave men in the dust are groping For the largess, base and small. Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its table fall. Base of heart ! They vilely barter Honor's wealth fo.- party's place : Step by step on Freedom's charter Leaving footprints of disgrace ; For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their race. Yet, where festal lamps are throwing Glory round the dancer's hair, Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing Backward on the sunset air ; And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and rare : There to-night shall woman's glances, Star-like, welcome give to them. Fawning fools wdth shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn LINES. 69 From this glittering lie my vision Takes a broader, sadder range, Full before me have arisen Other pictures dark and strange ; From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change. Hark ! the heavy gate is swinging On its hinges, harsh and slow ; One pale prison lamp is flinging On a fearful group below Such a light as leaves to terror whatso- e'er it does not show. Pitying God ! — Is that a vi^oman On whose wrist the shackles clash ? Is that shriek she utters human, Underneath the stinging lash ? A.re they men whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash 1 Still the dance goes gayly onward ! What is it to Wealth and Pride That without the stars are looking On a scene which earth should hide ? That the slave-ship lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide ! Vainly to that mean Ambition Which, upon a rival's fall. Winds above its old condition. With a reptile's slimy crawl. Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call. Vainly to the child of Fashion, Giving to ideal woe Graceful luxury of compassion, Shall the stricken mourner go ; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beau- tiful the hollow show ! Nay, my words are all too sweeping : In this crowded human mart, Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; Man's strong will and woman's heart. In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous part. And from yonder sunny valleys. Southward in the distance lost. Freedom yet shall summon allies Worthier than the North can boast, With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost. Now, the soul alone is willing .• Faint the heart and weak the knee ; And as yet no lip is thrilling With the mighty words, " BeFree !" Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be ! Meanwhile, turning from the revel To the prison-cell my sight. For intenser hate of evil. For a keener sense of right. Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee. City of the Slaves, to-night ! " To thy duty now and ever ! Dream no more of rest or stay ; Give to Freedom's great endeavor All thou art and hast to-day " : — Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or seems to say. Ye with heart and vision gifted To discern and love the right. Whose worn faces have been lifted To the slowly-growing light, Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night ! — Ye who through long years of trial Still have held your purpose fast, While a lengthening shade the dial From the westering sunshine cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last ! — my brothers ! 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 over- tasked and rudely jarred. Be it so. It should not swerve us From a purpose trae and brave ; 70 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Dearer Freedom's rugged service Than the pastime of the slave ; Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the grave. Let us then, uniting, bury All our idle feuds in dust, And to future conflicts carry- Mutual faith and common trust ; Always he who most forgiveth in his brother is most just. From the eternal shadow rounding All our sun and starlight here, Voices of our lost ones sounding Bid us be of heart and cheer, Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the inward ear. Know we not our dead are looking Downward with a sad surprise, All our strife of words rebuking With their mild and loving eyes ? Shall we giieve the holy angels ? Shall we cloud their blessed skies ? Let us draw their mantles o'er us Which have fallen in our way ; Let us do the work before us, Cheerly, bravely, while we may, Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is not day ! LINES, FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERI- CAL FRIEND. A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire, — A faith which doubt can never dim, — A heart of love, a lip of fire, — Freedom's God ! be thou to him ! Speak through him words of power and fear. As through thy prophet bards of old, And let a scornful people hear Once more thy Sinai-thunders rolled. For lying lips thy blessing seek. And hands of blood are raised to Thee, And on thy children, crushed and weak. The oppressor plants hiskneelingknee. Let then, 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 I From hollow rite and naiTow span Of law and sect by Thee released, 0, teach him that the Christian man Is holier than the Jewish priest. Chase back the shadows, gray and old, Of the dead ages, from his way. And let his hopeful eyes behold The dawn of thy millennial day ; — That day when fettered limb and mind Shall know the truth which maketh free. And he alone who loves his kind Shall, childlike, claim the love of Thee ! YORKTOWN.36 From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still. Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill : Who curbs his steed at head of one ? Hark ! the low munnur : Washington ! Who bends his keen, approving glance Where down the gorgeous line of France Shine knightly star and plume of snow ? Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! The earth which bears this calm array Shook with the war-charge yesterday, Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel. Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel ; October's clear and noonday sun Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, And down night's double blackness fell, Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, The conquered hosts of England go : O'Hara's brow belies his dress, Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless : Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes ! Nor thou alone : with one glad voice Let all thy sister States rejoice ; Let Freedom, in whatever" clime She waits with sleepless eye her time. Shouting from cave and mountain wood Make glad her desert solitude, 21ie surrender of Ctirmvallis at Yorktoum LINES. 71 While they who hunt her quail with fear ; The New World's chain lies broken here ! But who are they, who, cowering, wait Within tiie 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 ? 0, 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. 0, 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, Vl^RITTEN 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. For ever as these lines I penned, StiU with the thought of thee will blend That of some loved and common friend, — • Who in life's desert track bas 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 ? — 0, 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 there go- Spurned not alone in walks abroad, But from the " temples of the Lord" Thrust out apart, like things abhorred. Deep as I felt, and stern and strong. In words which Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong ; 72 VOICES OF FEEEDOM. Kot 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 pilgi-im way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray. And, broad and bright, on either hand. Stretched the green slopes of Fairy -land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ; Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's ear will grow. Of forest streamlets soft and low. And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain. Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. In vain ! — nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause. From youthful hopes, — from each green spot Gf young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not, — From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng, — With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom's struggling band, — To the sad Helots of our land. Wliat marvel then that Fame should turn Her notes of praise to those of scorn, — Her gifts reclaimed, — her smiles with- drawn ? What matters it ! — a few years more. Life's surge so restless heretofore Shall break upon the unknown shore ! In that far land shall disappear The shadows which we follow here, — The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere ! Before no work of mortal hand. Of human will or strength expand The pearl gates of the Better Land ; Alone in that great love which gave Life to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to "seek and save." Yet, if the spirit gazing through The vista of the past can view One deed to Heaven and virtue true, — • If through the wreck of wasted powers, Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers. Of idle aims and misspent hours, — The eye can note one sacred spot By Pride and Self profaned not, — A green place in the waste of thought, — Where deed or word hath rendered less "The sum of human wretchedness," And Gratitude looks forth to bless, — The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing, — ■ Better than Glory's pomp will be That green and blessed spot to me, A palni-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, — If words my lips once uttered still, In the calm faith and steadfast will Of other hearts, their work fulfil, — Perchance with joy the soul may learn These tokens, and its eye discern The fires which on those altars burn, — P^AK 73 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, Life's common courtesies denied ; Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, Children by want and misery nursed. Tasting life's bitter cup at first ; If to their strong appeals which come From fireless hearth, and crowded room. And the close alley's noisome gloom, — Though dark the hands upraised to thee In mute beseeching agony. Thou lend'st thy woman's sympatliy, — Not vainly on thy gentle shrine. Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine riieir varied gifts, I offer mine. PJIAN. 1848. Now, joy and thanks forevermore The dreary night has wellnigh 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 ! weary hours ! night of years \ What storms our darkling pathway swept, Where, beating back our thronging fears, By Faith alone our march we kept How jeered the scoffing crowd behind. How mocked before the tyrant train, As, one by one, the true and kind Fell fainting in our path of pain ! They died, — their brave hearts breaking slow, — But, self-forgetful to the last. In words of cheer and bugle blow Their breath upon the darkness passed. A mighty host, on either hand. Stood waiting for tlie dawn of day To crush like reeds our feeble band ; The mom 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, toihng millions, bound and sold. Look ! stretched o'er Southern vale a\id plain. The Lord's delivering hand behold ! Above the tyrant's pride of power. His iron gates and guarded wall. The bolts which shattered Shinar's tower Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall. Awake ! awake ! my Fatherland ! It is thy Northern light that shines ; This stirring march of Freedom's band The storm-song of thy mountain pines. 74 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 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 blow- ing, And on thine ear the murmurs blest Of Siloa's waters softly flowing ! Beneath that Tree of Life which gives To aU the earth its healing leaves In the white robe of angels clad. And wandering by that sacred river, Whose streams of holiness make glad The city of our God forever ! Gentlest of spirits ! — not for thee Our tears are shed, our sighs are given ; Why mourn to know thou art a free Partaker of the joys of Heaven ? Finished thy work, and kept thy faith Jn Christian firmness unto death ; And beautiful as sky and earth. When autumn's sun is downward go- ing, 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 stonn of human hate is sweeping ; .Hunted and branded, and a prey, - Our watch amidst the darkness keep- ing, ' for that hidden strength which can Nerve unto death the inner man ! for thy spirit, tried and true. And constant in the hour of trial, Prepared to suffer, or to do. In meekness and in seK-denial. for that spirit, meek and mild, Derided, spumed, yet uncomplain- ing, — By man deserted and reviled. Yet faithful to its tnist remaining. Still prompt and resolute to save From scourge and chain the hunted slave ; Unwavering in the Truth's defence. Even where the fires of Hate were burning. The unquailing eye of innocence Alone upon the oppressor turning ! O loved of thousands ! to thy grave. Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee. The poor man and the rescued slave Wept as the broken earth closed o'er tbee ; 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 word^ of thine Recalling memories sweet and holy ! 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. 1846. Is this thy voice, whose treble notes of fear Wail in the wind ? And dost thou sliake to hear, Actaeon-like, the bay of thine own hounds. Spurning the leash, and leaping o'er their bounds ? Sore-baffled statesman ! when thy eager hand. With game afoot, unslipped the hungry pack. To hunt down Freedom in her chosen land. LINES. 75 Hadst thou no fear, that, erelong, doubling back, These doge, of thine might snuff on Slavery's track ? Where 's now the boast, which even thy guarded tongue, Cold, calm, and proud, in the teeth o' the Senate flung. O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan. Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man ? How stood'st thou then, thy feet on Freedom planting. And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, Whence all could see, through the south windows slanting, Crimson as blood, the beams of that Lone Star ! The Fates are just ; they give us but our own ; Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown. There is an Eastern story, not unknown. Doubtless, to thee, of one whose magic skill Called demons up his water-jars to fill ; Deftly and silently, they did his will. But, when the task was done, kept pouring still. In vain with spell and charm the wizard wrought, Faster and faster were the buckets brought. Higher and higher rose the flood around, Till the fiends clapped their hands above their master drowned ! So, CaroUnian, 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 T xas 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 PINCK- NET'S RESOLUTIONS, IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, AND THE DE- BATE ON Calhoun's "bill for EXCLUDING PAPERS WRITTEN OR PRINTED, TOUCHING THE SUBJECT OF SLAVERY, FROM THE U. S. POST- OFFICE," IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES. Men of the North-land ! where 's ihe manly spirit Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone ? Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit Their names alone ? Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched with- in us. Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low. That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us To sUence now ? Now, when our land to ruin's brink is verging. In God's name, let us speak while there is time ! Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging, Silence is crime ! What ! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors Rights all our own ? In madness shall we barter. For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us, God and our charter ? Here shall the statesman forge his hu- man 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 Ubel Both man and God ? 76 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Shall our New England stand erect no longer, But stoop in chains upon her down- ward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger Day after day ? no ; methinks from all her wild, green mountains, — From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie, — From her blue rivers and her welling fountains. And clear, cold sky, — From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean Gnaws with his surges, — from the fisher's skiff, "With white sail swaying to the billows' motion Round rock and cliff, — From the free fireside of her unbought farmer, — From her free laborer at his loom and wheel, — From the brown smith-shop, where, be- neath the hammer. Kings 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 bond- man sighing By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane, Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying. Revive again. Let it go forth ! The millions who are gazing Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile, \ And unto God devout thanksgiving raising. Bless us the while. 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 ai stake ? Ho ! once again on Freedom's holy altar The fire awake ! Prayer-strengthened for the trial, come together. Put on the harness for the moral fight. And, with the blessing of your Heav- enly Father, Maintain the right ! THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER^ BREAKERS.!" In "Westminster's royal halls, Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood For the people's right and good. Closed around the waiting crowd. Dark and still, like winter's cloud ; King and council, lord and knight, Squire and yeoman, stood in sight, ^. Stood to hear the priest rehearse. In God's name, the Church's curse, By the tapers round them lit. Slowly, sternly uttering it. *' Right of voice in framing laws, Right of peers to try each cause ; Peasant homestead, mean and small, Sacred as the monarch's hall, — " "Whoso lays his hand on these, England's ancient liberties, — "Whoso breaks, by word or deed, England's vow at Runnymede, — " Be he Prince or belted knight, "Whatsoe'er his rank or might, If the highest, then the worst, Let him live and die accursed. THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 77 " Thou, who to thy Church hast given Keys alike, of hell and heaven, Make our word and witness sure, Let the curse we speak endure ! " Silent, while that curse was said, Every bare and listening head Bowed in reverent awe, and then All the people said. Amen ! Seven times the bells have tolled, For the centuries gray and old, Since that stoled and mitred band Cursed the tyrants of their land. Since the priesthood, like a tower, Stood between the poor and power ; And the wronged and trodden down Blessed the abbot's shaven crown. Gone, thank God, their wizard spell, Lost, their keys of heaven and hell ; Yet I sigh for men as bold As those bearded priests of old. Now, too oft the priesthood wait At the thresliold of the state, — Waiting for the beck and nod Of its power as law and God. Fraud exults, while solemn words Sanctify his stolen hoards ; Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips Bless his manacles and whips. Not on them the poor rely, Not to them looks liberty. Who with fawning falsehood cower To the wrong, when clothed with power. 0, to see them meanly cling. Round the master, round the king. Sported with, and sold and bought, — Pitifuller sight is not ! Tell me not that this must be : God's true priest is always free ; Free, the needed truth to speak. Right the wronged, and raise the weak. Not to fawn on wealth and state. Leaving Lazarus at the gate, — Not to peddle creeds like wares, — Not to mutter hireling prayers, — Nor to paint the new life's bliss On the sable ground of this, — Golden streets for idle knave, Sabbath rest for weary slave ! Not for words and works like thes«, Priest of God, thy mission is ; But to make earth's desert glad, In its Eden greenness clad ; And to level manhood bring Lord and peasant, serf and king ; And the Christ of God to find In the humblest of thy kind ! Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away ; Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in, - Watching on the hills of Faith ; Listening what the spirit saith, Of the dun-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 MARTINIQUK SUGGESTED BY A DAGUERREOTYPE FROM A FRENCH ENGRAVING. Beams of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash and glisten. As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and listen. Dark, but comely, like the maiden io 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. 78 VOICES OF FREEDOM. Holding still his spirit's birthriglit, 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 th» driver's morning horn Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the fields of cane and corn : Fall the keen and burning lashes never on his back or limb ; Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the driver unto him. y^t, 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 ^nd bestial nature round the vassal's manhood twines. And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked with vines. God is Love, saith the Evangel ; and our world of woe and sin Is made light and happy only when a Love is shining in. Y"e whose lives are free as sunshine, find- ing, wheresoe'er ye roam, Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all the world like home ; In the veins of whose affections kindred blood is but a part, Of one kindly current throbbing from the universal heart ; Can ye know the deeper meaning of a love in Slavery nursed. Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil accursed ? Love of Home, and Love of Woman ! — dear to all, but doubly dear To the heart whose pulses elsewhert measure only hate and fear. All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen sky. Only one green spot remaining where the dew is never dry ! From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere of hell. Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks his bell. 'T is the fervid tropic noontime ; faint and low the sea-waves beat ; Hazy rise the inland mountains through the glimmer of the heat, — Where, through mingled leaves and blos- soms, 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 ; 1 have seen his swarthy crew, Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color true. " They have sworn to wait our coming till the night has passed its noon. And the gray and darkening waters roll above the sunken moon ! " the blessed hope of freedom ! how with joy and glad surprise. For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant beam her eyes ! THE CRISIS. 79 But she looks across the valley, where her mother's hut is seen, Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon-leaves so green. And she answers, sad and earnest : " It were wrong for thee to stay ; God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his finger points the way. * Well I know with what endurance, for the sake of me and mine, Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant for souls like thine. " Go ; and at the hour of midnight, when our last farewell is o'er, Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee from the shore. " But for me, my mother, lying on her sick-bed all the day. Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through the twilight gray. ' ' Should I leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, shared with thee, "Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and stripes to me. " For my heart would die within me, and my brain would soon be wild ; I should hear my mother calling through the twilight for her child ! " Blazing upward from the ocean, shines the sun of morning-time, Tlirough the coffee-trees in blossom, and green hedges of the lime. Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover and the maid ; Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, lean- ing forward on his spade ? Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he : 't is the Haytien's sail he sees. Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven seaward by the breeze ! But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a low voice call : Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier than a)l. THE CRISIS. WRITTEN ON LEARNING THE TERMS OF THE TREATY WITH MEXICO. Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the West- ern Ocean's strand ; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free. Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to Cali- fornia's sea ; And from the mountains of the East, to Santa Rosa's shore. The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air Vale of Rio Bravo ! Let thy simple children weep ; Close watch about their holy fii-e let maids of Pecos keep ; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines. And Algodones toU 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. 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 bi- son's dusty trail ! 80 VOICES OF FKEEDOM. Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars ; Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed, Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named ; Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers Work out the Great Designer's will ; — all these ye say are ours ! Forever ours ! for good or ill, on us the burden lies ; God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies. Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale ? Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail ? Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves. Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves ? The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told, A.nd 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, countiymen of mine ! a day for us to sow The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe ? To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-ofl" crime, Dropped, like somemonstrousearly 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 1 End in this the prayers and tears. The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years ? Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn, A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne ? Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air ? Where for words of hope they listened the long wail of despair ? The Crisis presses on us ; face to fact with us it stands. With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands ! This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin ; This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin ; Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown. We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down ! By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame ; By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came ; By the Future which awaits us ; by all the hopes which cast Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past ; And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died, my people ! my brothers ! let U9 choose the righteous side. So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way ; To wed Penobscot's waters to San Fran- cisco'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 > THE HOLY LAND. 81 miscella:n^eous THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. Ere down yon blue Carpathian hills 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. 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 tlie Holy Sepulchre I 've pledged my knightly sword To Christ, his blessed Church, and her. The Mother of our Lord. 0, vain the vow, and vain the strife ! How vain do all things seem ! My soul is in the past, and life To-day is but a dream ! In vain the penance strange and long. And hard for flesh to bear ; The prayer, the fasting, and the thong And sackcloth shirt of hair. The eyes of memory will not sleep,- Its ears are open still ; And vigils with the past they keep Against my feeble will. And still the loves and joys of old Do evermore uprise ; I see the flow of locks of gold. The shine of loving eyes ! Ah me ! upon another's breast Those golden locks recline ; I see upon another rest The glance that once was mine. ' ' faithless priest ! perjured knight!" 1 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 self-same blow The lover and the priest ! pitying Mother ! souls of light. And saints, and martyrs old ! Pray for a weak and sinful knight, A suff"ering man uphold. Then let the Paynim work his will, And death unbind my chain. Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill The sun shall fall again. THE HOLY LAND. FROM LAMARTINE. I HAVE not felt, o'er seas of sand. The rocking of the desert bark ; Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand, By Hebron's palm-trees cool an dark ; 82 MISCELLANEOUS. 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, 1 have not heard the nations' cries. Nor seen thy eagles stooping down Where buried Tyre in ruin lies. The Christian's prayer I have not said In Tadmor's temples of decay, Nor startled, with my dreary tread, The waste where Memnon's empire lay. Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, O Jordan ! heard the low lament. Like that sad wail along thy side Which Israel's mournful prophet sent ! Nor thrilled within that grotto lone Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings Felt hands of fire direct his own, And sweep for God the conscious strings. I have not climbed to Olivet, Nor laid me where my Saviour lay. And left his trace of tears as yet By angel eyes unwept away ; Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time. The garden where his prayer and groan, Wrung by his sorrow and our crime, Rose to One listening ear alone. I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot Where in his Mother's arms he lay. Nor knelt upon the sacred spot Where last his footsteps pressed the clay ; Nor looked on that sad mountain head. Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide H'S arms to fold the world he spread, And bowed his head to bless — and died) PALESTINE. Blest land of Judsea ! 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. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, Where pilgiim and prophet have lin- gered before ; With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. Blue sea of the hills ! — in my spirit I hear Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear ; Where the Lowly and Just with the peo- ple sat down, And thy spray on the dust of his san- dals was thrown. Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green. And the desolate hills of the wild Gad- arene ; And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see The gleam of thy waters, dark Galilee ! Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong. Thy liver, Kishon, is sweeping along ; Where the Canaanite strove with Je- hovah in vain. And thy torrent gi'ew 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 harm- lessly on. For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's There sleep the still rocks and the cav- ems which rang To the song which the beautiful proph* etess sang. 83 When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, With the mountains around, and the valleys between ; There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; But where are the sisters who hastened to gi-eet The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet ? 1 tread where the twelve in their way- faring trod ; 1 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. 0, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came, — - These hills he toiled over in gi-ief are the same, — The founts where he drank by the way- side 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 Shechiuah 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 ! And what if my feet may not tread where He stood. Nor my ears hear the dashing of Gal- ilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear. Nor my knees press Gethsemane's gar- den of prayer. Yet, Loved of the Father, thy Spirit is near To the meek, and the lowly, and peni- tent here ; And the voice of thy love is the same even now As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow. 0, the outward hath gone ! — but in glory and power, The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour ; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame On the heart's secret altar is burning the same ! EZEKIEL. CHAPTER XXXIII. 30-33. They hear thee not, 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 simg in Dura's idol-shades Are with the Levites' chant ascending, With Zion's holiest anthems blending ! On Israel's bleeding bosom set. The heathen heel is crushing yet ; The towers upon our holy hill Echo Chaldean footsteps still. 84 MISCELLANEOUS. Our wasted shrines, — who weeps for them? Who mourneth for Jerusalem ? Who turiieth from his gains away ? Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray ? Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, Takes Zion's lamentation up ? A sad and thoughtful youth, I went With Israel's early banishment ; And where the sullen Chebar crept, The ritual of my fathers kept. The water for the trench I drew, The firstling of the flock I slew, And, standing at the altar's side, I shared the Levites' lingering pride. That still, amidst her mocking foes. The smoke of Zion's offering rose. In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, The Spirit of the Highest came ! Before mine eyes a vision passed, A glory tenible and vast ; With dreadful eyes of Uving things, And sounding sweep of angel wings. With circling light and sapphire throne, And flame-like form of One thereon. And voice of that dread Likeness sent Down from the crystal firmament ! The burden of a prophet's power Fell on me in that fearful hour ; From off" unutterable woes The curtain of the future rose ; I saw far down the coming time The fiery chastisement of crime ; With noise of mingling hosts, and jar Of falling towers and shouts of war, I saw the nations rise and fall. Like fire-gleams on my tent's white wall. In dream and trance, I saw the slain Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain. I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre Swept over by the spoiler's fire ; And heard the low, expiring moan Of Edom on his rocky throne ; And, woe is me ! the wUd 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 j 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 scofl'ed the vile, — How stung the Levites' scornful smile, As o'er my sjiirit, 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 Unes of darkness there The picture of its great despair ! Yet ".ver at the hour I feel My lips in prophecy unseal. Prince, priest, and Levite gather near. And Salem's daughters haste to hear. On Chebar's waste and alien shore. The harp of Judah swept once more. They listen, as in Babel's throng The Chaldeans to the dancer's song, Or wild sabbeka's nightly play. As careless and as vain as they. And thus, Prophet-bard of old. Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told ! The same which earth's unwelcome seem 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 ])ut on ! Men followed where the Highest led For common gdfts of daily bread, And gross of ear, of vision dim. Owned not the godlike power of him. Vain as a dreamer's words to them His wail above Jerusalem, And meaningless the watch he kept Through which his weak disciples slept Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art. For God's great purpose set apart. Before whose far-discerning eyes. The Future as the Present lies ! THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. 85 Beyond a narrow-bounded age Stretches thy prophet-heritage, Through Heaven's dim spaces angel-trod, Through arches round the throne of God! Thy audience, worlds ! — all Time to be The witness of the Truth in thee ! THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. Against the sunset's glowing wall The city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah, on its rocky height, 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. 0, while beneath the fervent heat Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat, I 've watched, with mingled joy and dread. Our child upon his grassy bed. Joy, which the mother feels alone Whose morning hope like mine had flown. When to her bosom, over-blessed, A dearer life than hers is pressed. Dread, for the future dark and still, Which shapes our dear one to its will ; Forever in his large calm eyes, I read a tale of sacrifice. — The same foreboding awe I felt When at the altar's side we knelt. And he, who as a pilgrim came. Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame. I slept not, though the wild bees made A dreamlike murmuring in the shade, And on me the warm-fingered hours Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers. Before me, in a vision, rose The hosts of Israel's scornful foes, — Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, Glittered in noon's hot atmosphere. I heard their boast, and bitter word, Their mockery of the Hebrew's Lord, I saw their hands his ark assail. Their feet profane his holy veil. No angel down the blue space spoke, No thunder from the still sky broke ; But in their midst, in power and awe. Like God's waked wrath, our child I 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 stinlight 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, — The voice of him, who at our side Sat through the golden eventide, — Of him who, on thy altar's blaze. Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise. "Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain, Gray mother of the mighty slain 1 86 MISCELLANEOUS. Rejoice !" it cried, "he vanquisheth ! 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, God," I said, "thy will be done ! " THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. "Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day ! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away ! 'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the ful- ness of time. And vengeance shall gather the 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 «f glance ; And white arms wreathed lightly, ap'J 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, abhorred. The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. Hark ! the growl of the thunder, — the quaking of earth ! Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth ! The black sky has opened, — there 's flame in the air, — The red ai-m of vengeance is lifted and bare ! Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song And the low tone of love had been whis- pered along ; For the fierce flames went lightly o'er palace 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 1 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 87 Most freshly from the green wood springs The light breeze on its scented wings ; And gayly quiver in the sun The cedar tops of Lebanon ! A few more hours, — a change hath come ! The sky is dark without a cloud ! The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb, And proud knees unto earth are bowed. A change is on the hill of Death, The helmed watchers pant for breath, And turn with wild and maniac eyes From the dark scene of sacrifice ! That Sacrifice ! — the death of Him, — The High and ever Holy One ! Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim. And blacken the beholding Sun. The wonted light hath fled away, Night settles on the middle day, And earthquake from his caverned bed Is waking with a thrill of dread ! The dead are waking underneath ! Their prison door is rent away ! And, ghastly with the seal of death. They wander in the eye of day ! The temple of the Cherubim, The House of God is cold and dim ; A curse is on its trembling walls. Its mighty veil asunder falls ! Well may the cavern-depths of Earth Be shaken, and her mountains nod ; Well may the sheeted dead come forth To gaze upon a suffering God ! Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, Aind 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 ? 0, 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 keejis. 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. 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 view, And graybeard Mollahs in low tones Chanting their Koran service through. The flowers which smiled on either hand. Like tempting fiends, were such a3 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 ) 88 MISCELLANEOUS. "Where are the harvest fields all white, For Truth to thrust her sickle in ? Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, From the dark hiding-place of sin ? "A silent horror broods o'er all, — The burden of a hateful spell, — The very flowers around recall The hoary magi's rites of hell ! " And what am I, o'er such a land The banner of the Cross to bear ? Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand. Thy strength with human weakness share ! " He ceased ; for at his very feet In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, — How thrilled his sinking heart to greet The Star-flower of the Virgin's child ! Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew Its life from alien air and earth. And told to Paynim "sun and dew The story of the Saviour's birth. From scorching beams, in kindly mood. The Persian plants its beauty screened, And on its pagan sisterhood. In love, the Christian floweret leaned. With tears of joy the wanderer felt The darkness of his long despair Before tliat 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 ; A.nd Magian pile and Paynim bower In peace like that of Eden slept. Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, Looked holy through the sunset air ; And, angel-like, the Muezzin told From tower and mosque the hour of prayer. With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn From Shiraz saw the stranger part ; The Star-flower of the Virgin-Bom Still blooming in his hopeful heart ! HYMNS. FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. One h3Tnn more, my lyre ! Praise to the God above, ^ Of joy and life and love. Sweeping its strings of fire ! 0, who the speed of bird and wind And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may find My resting-jilace and home in Thee ? — Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame, — Mysterious spirit ! unto whom Pertain nor sign nor name ! S-iviftly my Ijrre'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, God ! for me, The lowly creature of thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still ! Was not my spirit born to shine Where yonder stars and suns are glow- ing ? 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 ? 0, watchers of the stars at night. Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 0, 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, 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 I ind shall these thoughts of joy and love Come bacfe 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 ? 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 ! Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow. Who lendest wings unto the wind, — Mover of all things ! where art thou ? 0, 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 ? 0, would I were as free to rise As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, — The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven ; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee ! When the breath divine is flowing, ZephjT-like o'er all things going. And, as the touch of viewless fingers, Softly on my soul it lingers. Open to a breath the lightest, Conscious of a touch the slightest, — As some calm, still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings : When my upward gaze is turning Where the stars of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss, — Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path : When the breaking day is flushing All the east, and light is gushing Upward through the horizon's haze. Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green All is changed to light and blossom : When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and horer, Holy as the seraphs are. Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, " Holiness unto the Lord ! " When, inspired with rapture high. It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love create, — That my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still ! — - Then, Father ! thou alone, From the shadow of thy throne, To the sighing of my breast And its rapture answerest. All my thoughts, which, upward wing, ing, Bathe where thy own light is spring- ing, — All my yearnings to be free Are as echoes answering thee I 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 ! 90 MISCELLANEOUS. THE FEMALE MARTYR. [Mart G , aged 18, a " Sister of Charity," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while in volun- tary attendance upon the sick.] "Bring out your dead!" The raid- night street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, — Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, — Her coffin and her pall. " What — only one ! " the brutal hack- man said. As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. How sunk the inmost hearts of all, As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, "With creaking wheel and harsh hoof- fall ! The dying turned him to the wall. To hear it and to die ! — Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed. And hoarsely clamored, "Ho! — bring out your dead." 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 martjT ! — thou wast there, — No white-robed sisters round thee trod, — Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer Rose through the damp and noisome air. Giving thee to thy God ; Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave ! Yet, gentle sufferer ! there shall be. In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as iioly paid to thee As if beneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels^ keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well. Enduring with a martyr's might, Through weary day and wakeful night Far more than words may tell : Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and un- known, — Thy mercies measured by thy God alone ! Where manly hearts were failing, — where The throngful street grew foul with death, high-souled martyi' ! — thou wast there, Inhaling, from the loathsome air. Poison with every breath. Yet shrinking not from offices of dread For the wrung d)dng, and the uncon- scious dead. And, where the sickly taper shed Its light through vapors, damp, con- fined. Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, — A new Electra by the bed Of suffering human-kind ! Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay. To that pure hope whichfadeth 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 : THE VAUDOIS TEACHEK. 91 Thine is a treasure far more dear, — Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard, — The joys prepared, — the promised bliss above, — The holy presence of Eternal Love ! Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrought. The lofty energies of thought. The fire of poesy, — These have but frail and fading hon- ors ; — thine Shall Time unto Eternity consign. Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall, — The herald's line of long renown, — The mitre and the kingly crown, — Perishing glories all ! The pure devotion of thy'generous heart Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. THE FROST SPIRIT. He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! You may trace his foot- steps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth. He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — from the frozen Labrador, — From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wan- ders o'er, — Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, .and the luckless fonns below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow ! He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — on the rushing Northern blast. And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. "With an unscorched wing he has hur- ried 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 lean- ing 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 firelight dances high. And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by .' THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.88 "0 LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, — The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear ; And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie ; I have brought them with me a weary way, — will my gentle lady buy ?" And the lady smiled on the worn old man through the dark and clustering curls 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 caU, — " My gentle lady, stay ! " *' 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 92 MISCELLANEOUS. 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, Wtere her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their clasping pearls between ; "Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray and old, — And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall count thy gold." The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he took ! ' ' Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to thee ! Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for the word of God is free ! " The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's mind. And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of truth, And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of youth ! And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had power. The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower ; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod. Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God ! THE CALL OF THE 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 1 Awaking in the human heart Love for the true and right, — Zeal for the Christian's better part. Strength for the Christian's fight. Nor unto manhood's heart alone The holy influence steals : Warm with a rapture not its own. The heart of woman feels ! As she who by Samaria's wall The Saviour's errand sought, — As those who with the fervent Paul And meek Aquila wrought : Or those meek ones whose martyrdom Rome's gathered grandeur saw : Or those who in their Alpine home Braved the Crusader's war, When the green Vaudois, trembling heard. Through all its vales of death, The martyr's song of triumph poured From woman's failing breath. And gently, by a thousand things Which o'er our spirits pass, Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, Or vapors o'er a glass, Leaving their token strange and new Of music or of shade. The summons to the right and true And merciful is made. 0, then, if gleams of truth and light Flash o'er thy waiting mind, Unfolding to thy mental sight The wants of human-kind ; If, brooding over human grief, The earnest wish is known To soothe and gladden with relief An anguish not thine own ; Though heralded with naught of fear. Or outward sign or show ; Though only to the inward ear It whispers soft and low ; Though dropping, as the manna fell. Unseen, yet from above, Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well, — Thy Father's call of love ! MY SOUL AND I. Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark I would question thee, MY SOUL ANb I. 93 Alone in the shadow drear and stark With God and me 1 What, my soul, was thy errand here ? Was it mirth or ease. Or heaping up dust from year to year ? " Nay, none of these 1 " Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight Whose eye looks still And steadily on thee through the night : " To do his will ! " What hast thou done, soul of mine, That thou tremblest so ? — Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line He bade thee go ? Wliat, silent all ! — art sad of cheer ? Art fearful now ? When God seemed far and men were near, How brave wert thou ! 4ha .' 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, wretched sprite ! Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black Abysmal night. What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, For God and Man, From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth To life's mid span ? Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear. But weak and low, Like far sad murmurs on my ear They come and go. " I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, And borne the Right From beneath the footfall of the throng To life and light. " Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, God speed, quoth I ; To Error amidst her shouting train 1 gave the lie." Ah, soul of mine 5 ah, soul of mine 1 Thy deeds are well : Were they wrought for Truth's sake oi 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 L" 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. " Wliither I go I cannot tell : That cloud hangs black, High as the heaven and deep as hell Across my track. "I see its shadow coldly enwrap The souls before. Sadly they enter it, step by step, To return no more. " They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel 'To thee in prayer. They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel That it still is there. "In vain they turn from the dread Before 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 prai^er. 94 MISCELLANEOUS. As if somewhat of awe, but more of love Fall on the seeming void, and find ik.nd hope were there. The rock beneath. " 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 ! " Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day 1 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 aU 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. 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 The Present, the Present is all thou has) For thy sure possessing ; Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast Till it gives its ' ' ' Why fear the night ? why shrink from Death, That phantom wan ? There is nothing in heaven or earth be» neath Save God and man. Peopling the shadows we turn from Hinj 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 jai Through all will run. 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 nowsustaineth 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 ; TO A FRIEND. 95 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 UproUing thin, Its thickest folds when about thee drawn Let sunlight in. Then of what is to be, and of what is done, Why queriest thou ? — The past and the time to be are one, And both are now ! TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover ! Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day. Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over. Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine : Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range. Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender. Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell. Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swell With its isles teeming. Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spears Autumn's blue heaven : Loose rock and frozen slide. Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glide Downward, storm-driven ! Rhine-stream, by castle old, Baron's and robber's hold. Peacefully flowing ; Sweeping through vineyards green, Or where the clitfs 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 ! 0, as from each and all WiU there not voices call Evermore back again ? In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again ? New forms thy presence haunt, -.- New voices softly chant, — New faces greet thee ! — Pilgrims from many a shrine Hallowed by poet's line. At memory's magic sign, Rising to meet thee. And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hancB 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, 96 MISCELLANEOUS. Still may that picture live, All its fair fonns survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven ! THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. A. FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes : "No power has he to banish pain. Or give us back our lost again ; And yet in tenderest love, our dear And Heavenly Father sends him here. There 's quiet in that Angel's glance. There 's rest in his still countenance ! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Norwounds 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 ! 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 ! " FOLLEN. ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE " FU- TURE STATE." Friend of my soiil ! — 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. Wherethrough the twilight air of earth. Alike enthusiast and sage. Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth j Lifting the Future's solemn veil ; The reaching of a mortal hand To put aside the cold and pale Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land ; In thoughts which answer to my own. In words which reach my inward ear, Like whispers from the void 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 Avill they wrought ? Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy godlike energy of thought ? Thou livest, Follen ! — not in vain Hath thy line spirit meekly borne The burthen of Life's cross of pain. And the thorned crown of suffering worn. 0, while Life's solemn mystery glooms Around us like a dungeon's wall, — Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, Silent the heaven whicli 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 ; — 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 ; TO THE REFORMEES OF ENGLAND. 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 be- tween ; I long to know if scenes like this Are hidden from an angel's eyes ; If earth's familiar loveliness Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies. For sweetly here upon thee grew The lesson which that beauty gave. The ideal of the Pure and True In earth and sky and gliding wave. And it may be that all which lends The soul an upward impulse here. With a diviner beauty blends, And greets us in a holier sphere. Through gi'oves 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. I With Him, before whose awful power I Thy spirit bent its trembling knee ; — Who, in the silent greeting flower. And forest leaf, looked out on thee, — We leave thee, with a trust serene. Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we lean On Him whose dearest name is Love S TO THE REFORMERS OF ENG- LAND. 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 T'he lesson it has learned so well ; It moves not with its prayer or curse The gates of heaven or hell. Let the State scaff"old rise again, — Did Freedom die when Russell died ?• Forget ye how the blood of Vane From earth's green bosom cried ? The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong All holy memories and sublime And glorious round ye throng. The bluff, bold men of Runnymede Are with ye still in times like these ; The shades of England's mighty dead, Your cloud of witnesses ! The truths ye urge are borne abroad By every wind and every tide ; The voice of Nature and of God Speaks out upon your side. The weapons which your hands have found Are those which Heaven itself has wrought. Light, Truth, and Love ; — your battle« ground The free, broad field of Thought. 98 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 ! ye who, with undoubting eyes, Through present cloud and gathering storm, Behold the span of Freedom's skies, And sunshine soft and warm, — Press bravely onward ! — not in vain Your generous trust in human-kind ; The good which bloodshed could not gain Your peaceful zeal shall find. Press on ! — the triumph shall be won Of common rights and equal laws, The glorious dream of Harrington, And Sidney's good old cause. Blessing the cotter and the crown, Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup ; And, plucking not the highest down, Lifting the lowest up. Press on ! — and we who may not share Tlie toil or glory of your fight May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, God's blessing on the right ! THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. The Quaker of the olden time ! — How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime. He walked the dark earth through. The lust of power, the love of gain. The thousand lures of sin Around him, had no power to stain The purity within. With that deep insight which detects AU great things in the small. And knows how each man's life affects The spiritual life of all. He walked by faith and not by sight, By love and not by law ; The presence of the wrong or right He rather felt than saw. He felt that wrong with wrong partakes^ That nothing stands alone, That whoso gives the motive, makes His brother's sin his own. And, pausing not for doubtful choice Of evils great or small, He listened to that inward voice Which called away from all. 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 gi-im 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 fi-om his secret chambers fled Before the sunlight bursting in : Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head To drown the din. " Spare," Art implored, " yon holy pile ; That gi-and, old, time-worn turret spare " ; Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, Cried out, " Forbear ! " Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind. Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find His seat o'erthrown. Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes. O'erhung with paly locks of gold, — • " Why smite," he asked in sad surprise^ "The fair, the old?" Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke. As from a dream. THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 99 I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled^ — The Waster seemed the Builder too ; CTp springing from the ruined Old I saw the New. 'T was but the ruin of the bad, — The wasting of the wrong and ill ; "Wliate'er of good the old time had Was .^iving still. Calm gi-ew the brows of him I feared ; The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered Like breaking day. The grain grew green on battle-plains, O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough. Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay And cottage windows, flower-entwined. Looked out upon the peaceful bay And hills behind. Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red. The lights on brimming crystal fell. Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head And mossy well. Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope. Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed. And with the idle gallows-rope The young child played. Where the doomed victim in his cell Had counted o'er the weary hours, Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, Came crowned with flowers. Grown wiser for the lesson given, I fear no longer, for I know That, where the share is deepest driven. The best fruits grow. The outworn rite, the old abuse, The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use Of wrong alone, —- These wait their doom, from that great law Which makes th»5 past time serve to- dav ; And fresher life the world shall draw From their decay. 0, 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 Brahim, Who wake by turns Earth's love smd fear. Are one, the same. Idly as thou, in that old day Thou mournest, did thy sire repine ; So, in his time, thy child grown gray Shall sigh for thine. But life shall on and upward go ; Th' eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow. Which God repeats. Take heart ! — the Waster builds again, — . A charmed life old Goodness 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 ia gray With morning light 1 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 stra^vy bed. His hand upholds his drooping head, — His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, Unshorn his gi'ay, 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. 100 MISCELLANEOUS. Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer's bearded lip ; sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chained and desolate ! Just God ! why lies that old man there ? A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair. Gleam on him, fierce and red ; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear, And, or in wakefulness or sleep, Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, Crimson with murdei-, 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 Von monument upreared to thee, — Filed granite and a prison cell, — The land repays thy service well ! Go, ring the bells and fire the guns. And fling the starry banner out ; Shout "Freedom!" tiU your lisping ones Give back their cradle-shout ; Let boastful eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame ; Still let the poet's strain be heard. With glory for each second word. And everything with breath agree To praise "our glorious liberty ! '' But when the patron cannon jars That prison's cold and gloomy wall, A.nd through its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind, and fall, — Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer ? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry ? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, What is your carnival to him ? Down with the law that binds him thus ! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of God and human kind ! Open the prison's living tomb. And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code To the free sun and air of God ; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Almighty's hand. LINES, WRITTEN ON READING PAMPHLETS PUBLISHED BY CLERGYMEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THE GALLOWS. The suns of eighteen centuries have shone Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone, And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; And He, who wandered with the peas- ant Jew, And broke %\'ith publicans the bread of shame. And drank, with blessings in his Fa- ther's name. The water which Samaria's outcast drew, Hath now his temples upon every shore. Altar and shrine and priest, — and in- cense dim Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn. From lips which press the temple's mar- ble floor. Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore. Yet as of old, when, meekly "doing good," He fed a blind and selfish multitude. LINES. And even the poor companions of his lot With their dim earthly vision knew him not, How ill are his high teachings under- stood ! Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest At his own altar binds the chain anew ; Where He hath bidden to Life's equal feast, The starving many wait upon the few ; Where He hath spoken Peace, his name hath been The loudest war-cry of contending men ; Priests, pale with vigils, in his name have blessed The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, And crossed its blazon with the holy sign ; Yea, in his name who bade the erring live, And daily taught his lesson, — to for- give ! — Twisted the cord and edged the mui • derous steel ; And, with his words of mercy on their lips, Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips, And the grim horror of the straining wheel ; Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, "Who saw before his searing eyeballs swim The image of their Christ in cruel zeal. Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly to him ! The blood which mingled with the des- ert 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, — 101 Malta's sea. Goa's dark dungeons, 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-ac- cursed flame Which Cahdn kindled by Geneva's lake, — New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer Which mocked its victims in that houi of fear. When guilt itself a human tear might claim, — Bear witness, thou wronged and mer- ciful One ! That Earth's most hateful crimes have in thy name been done 1 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 Kevenge 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 soli= tude. The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought Into the common mind and popular thought ; And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore The humble fishers listenefd with hushed oar. Have found an echo in the general heart, And of the public faith become a living part. 102 MISCELLAI^EOUS, 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 indifierence to a brother's pain ? Ye most unhappy men ! — who, turned away From the mild sunsliine of the Gospel day, Grope in the shadows of Man's twi- light time. What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood, O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, Permitted in another age and clime ? Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew No evil in the Just One ? — 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 hang- man's hand ' Beware, — lest human nature, roused at last. From its peeled shoulder your encum- brance cast. And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, Rank ye with those who led their vic- tims round The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, Abhorred of Earth and Heaven, — a pagan brotherhood I ' 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 Upon his mother's knees was laid. And sweetly lulled to slumber there, With evening's holy hjmin and prayer J He woke. At once on heart and brain The present Terror rushed again, — Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain ! He woke, to hear the church-tower teU 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, THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 103 With its hoarse murmur, " Blood for Blood I " Between liim and the pitying Heaven ! Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, And smote his breast, and on his chain, Whose iron clasp lie 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 wi'ithing on the stone ! — And heard, by mortal terror wrung Fromheavingbreastand stiffened tongue. The choking sob and low hoarse prayer ; As o'er his half-crazed fancy came A vision of the eternal flame, — Its smoking cloud of agonies, — Its demon-worm that never dies, — The everlasting rise and fall Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; While high above that dark red flood. Black, giant-like, the gallows stood ; Two busy fiends attending there : One with cold mocking rite and prayer, The other with impatient grasp, Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp. V. The unfelt rite at length was done, — The prayer unheard at length, was said, — An hour had passed : — the noonday sun Smote on the features of the dead ! And he who stood the doomed beside, Calm ganger of the swelling tide Of mortal agony and fear, Heeding with curious eye and ear Whate'er revealed the ke Of man's extremest wretchedness ! And who in that dark anguish saw An earnest of the \ictim'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 reahn of paiilg Did he uplift his earnest cries Against the crime of Law, which gav« His brother to that fearful grave, Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies. And Faith's white blossoms never wave To the soft breath of Memory's sighs ; — Which sent a spirit marred and stained. By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, In madness and in blindness stark, Into the silent, unknown dark ? No, — from the wild and shrinking dreaij With wliich he saw the victim led Beneath the dark veil which divides Ever the living from the dead. And Nature's solemn secret liides. 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 whicll 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 J VI. 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 A brother's face of tenderest love ; Thou, unto whom the blind and lamesi Tlie sorrowing and the sin-sick came. And from thy very gannent's hem Drew life and healing unto them. 104 MISCELLANEOUS. 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 ? 0, 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 1 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. And early beauty, linger there, And o'er its wasted desert blow Faint breathings of its morning au-, 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 fforbade 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 Ms quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of gi-ateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness. There, where with living ear and eye He heard Potomac's flowing. And, through his tall ancestral trees. Saw autumn's sunset glowing. He sleeps, — still looking to the west. Beneath the daik wood shadow, As i* 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 pictuiings 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 xum Beheld its schemes disjointed. As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing. And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretence was wearing. Too honest or too proud to feign A love he never cherished. Beyond Virginia's border line His patriotism perished. While others hailed in distant skies Our eagle's dusky pinion, He only saw the mountain bird Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! Still through each change of fortune strange, Racked nerve, and brain all burning, DEMOCRACY. 105 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 Ijdng priest to seek For Scriptural defences. His harshest words of proud rebuke, His bitterest taunt and scorning. Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning. He held his slaves ; yet kept the while His reverence for the Human ; In the dark vassals of his will He saw but Man and Woman ! No hunter of God's outraged poor His Roanoke valley entered ; No trader in the souls of men Across his threshold ventured. And when the old and wearied man Lay down for his last sleeping. And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping. His latest thought, his latest breath, To Freedom's duty giving. With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living. 0, 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 djdng hand "Remorse ' " And perished in the tracing. So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves A warning voice is swelling ! And hark ! from thy deserted fields Are sadder warnings spoken, From quenched hearths, where thy ex- iled sons Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee, — wolves for meu, And briers for corn -sheaves giving ! 0, more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living ! DEMOCRACY. All things whatsoeyer ye would that men should do to you, do ye even bo to them. — Matthew vU. 12. Bearer of Freedom's holy light, Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod. The foe of all which pains the sight. Or wounds the generous ear of God ! Beautiful yet thy temples rise. Though there profaning gifts ara 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 de- ride ; And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed Around the haughty brows of Pride. 0, ideal of my boyhood's time ! The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood ! Still to those courts my footsteps turn, For through the mists which darken there, I see the flame of Freedom burn, — The Kebla of the patriot's prayer ! As from the grave where Henry sleeps, The generous feeling, pure and warm. From Vernon's weeping willow, W^ch owns the rights of all divine, - And from the grassy pall wliich Mdes t The pitying heart, — the helping arm, — The Sage of MonticeUo, | The prompt self-sacrifice, — are thine. 106 MISCELLANEOUS, Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the lines of caste and birth ! How equal in their suffering lie The groaning multitudes of earth ! Still to a stricken brother true. Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; As stooped to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper of Gerizim. By misery unrepelled, unawed By pomp or power, thou seest a Man In prince or peasant, — slave or lord, — Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. Through all disguise, form, place, or name. Beneath the flaunting robes of sin. Through poverty and squalid shame. Thou lookest on the man within. On man, as man, retaining yet, Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim. The crown upon his forehead set, — The immortal gift of God to him. And there is reverence in thy look ; For that frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took. And veiled his perfect brightnessthere. Kot from the shallow babbling fount Of vain philosophy thou art ; He who of old on Syria's mount Thrilled, wanned, by turns, the lis- tener'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 stniggling world to thee. Thy name and watchword o'er this land I hear in every breeze that stirs, And round a thousand altars stand Thy banded party worshippers. Not to these altars of a day. At party's call, my gift I bring ; • But on thy olden shrine I lay A freeman's dearest offering : The voiceless utterance of his will, — His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, That manhood's heart remembers still The homage of his generous youth. Election Day, 1843. TO RONGE. Strike home, strong - hearted man £ Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy Avork is to hew down. In God's name then Put nerve into thy task. Let other men Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand. On crown or crosier, which shall inter- pose Between thee and the weal of Father- land. 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 glad- dened 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 out 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 CHALKLEY HALL. 107 Be warued by Luther's error. Nor like iiim, When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb The rusted chain of ages, help to bind His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind ! CHALKLEY HALL. 89 How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous dream The close dark city lies ! Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng The marble floor Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din Of the world's madness let me gather in My better thoughts once more. 0, once again revive, while on my ear The cry of Gain And low hoarse hum of Trafiic 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, 0, 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 Manure's lonely palms. Here, rich with autumn gifts of count- less years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil. Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, Weary and worn, He came to meet his children and to bless The Giver of all good in thankfulness And praise for his return. And here his neighbors gathered in tc 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 : 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. 0, 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 ioy 108 MISCELLANEOUS. 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, Of 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 ! TO J. P. Not as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine. Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine, — Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless *.rust my offering : How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Vet 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 NehemiaVi fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought ! THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. [Ibn Batuta , the celebrated Mussulman trar- eller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cy- press-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to faU only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was re- stored, at once, to youth and vigor. The trav- eller saw several venerable Joqees, or saints, sit- ting silent and motionless under the tree, pa- tiently -■j^aiting the falling of a leaf] They sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cyjiress-tree about. And, from beneath old wrinkled browg. Their failing eyes looked out. Gray Age and Sickness waiting there Through weary night and lingering day, — Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they. Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet O'er them the tropic night-storm swept. The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, Yet there they waited still ! What was the world without to them ? The Moslem's sunset-call, — the dance Of Ceylon's maids, — the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance ? They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wandering Jogees sing : Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring. 0, 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 j TO 109 Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken skrine, 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, Wlien 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. 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 fi'ee, 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, Mother Nature ! " cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; " Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee ! " So, in those winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers. And how beneath the winter's snow Lie germs of summer flowers ! 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 j For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all ! ith 1st month, 1847. TO WITH A COPT OF WOOLMAN S JOURNAL, " Get the writings of John Woohnan fes heart." — Essays of Elia. Maiden ! with the fair brown tresse* 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 piace of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide. Ever in the New rejoicing. Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold. And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise. As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies. Every wing of bird above it. Every light cloud floating on. no MISCELLANEOUS. Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun. But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies ; And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes. With an early introversion, Through the fomis of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence. And the hidden springs. Deeper than the gilded surface H(.th thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the naiTow present Have thy joumeyings been. fhou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime. Ail the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed, Hath upon luy spun, presseu, — which, like the Deluge wan- Thoughts ... derer, 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, Eocks 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 soid-sufiicing answer Hath no outward origin ; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within. Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky,** And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy. But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught, -.* More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought. Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came. 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 oif truth assailing Every form of wrong. Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet J LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. Ill A.nd his brief and simple record i How serenely sweet ! O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew. All which glows in Pascal's pages, — All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught : — Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head. Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real. Seen and felt and known. When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue. All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one, — Glorious, like the seer- seen angel Standing in the sun ! Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee, — Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be. If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good. For the fount of living waters And diviner food ; If the pride of humaa reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look ! — If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith. Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith, — Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak. Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek ; And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes. Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise. LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. " Ye build the tombs of the prophets." Holy Writ Yes, — pile the marble o'er him ! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stem 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 raiso 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 ! 112 t>OJSGS OF LABOE. SOI^GS OF LABOR, AND OTHER POEMS. DEDICATION. I WOULD the gift I offer here Might graces from thy favor take, And, seen through Friendship'^ at- mosphere, 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 CaUs from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea. Above the fallen groves of green. Where youth's enchanted forest stood. Dry root and mossed trunk between, A sober after-gro^vth is seen, &.S springs the pine where falls the gay- leafed maple wood ! Yet birds will sing, and breezes play Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; And through the bleak and wintry day It keeps its steady green alway, — So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. Art's perfect forms no moral need. And beauty is its own excuse ; *i 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 andtasselled maize That skirt and gladden duty's ways, The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. Haply from them the toiler, bent Above las fovge or plough, may gain. A manlier spirit of content, And feel that life is wisest spent Where the strong working hand maket strong the working brain. The doom which to the guilty pair Without the walls of Eden came, Transforming sinless ease to care And rugged toil, no more shall bear The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. A blessing now, — a curse no more ; Since He, whose name we breathe with awe. The coarse mechanic vesture wore, — A poor man toiling with the poor, In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the sama law. THE SHIP-BUILDERS. The sky is i-uddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist. The ship's white timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin ; The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, The maUet 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. Eings out for us the axe-man's stroke In forests old and still, — For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his MIL THE SHOEMAKEES. 113 Up ! — up ! — in nobler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part : We make of Nature's giant powers The slaves of human Art. Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, And drive the treenails free ; Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam Shall tempt the searching sea ! Where'er the keel of our good ship The sea's rough field shall plough, — Where'er her tossing spars shall drip With salt-spray caught below, — That ship must heed her master's beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land. Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel ; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel ; And know we well the painted sheU We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor's citadel. Or sink, the sailor's grave ! Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks. And set the good ship free ! Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride of the sea ? Look ! how she moves adown the grooves. In graceful beauty now ! How lowly on the breast she loves Sinks down her virgin prow ! God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze Her snowy wing sliall 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. Ho ! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather ! Young brothers of the ancient guild. Stand forth once more together ! Call out again your long array. In the olden merry manner ! Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, Fling out your blazoned banner ! Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone How falls the polished hammer ! Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown A quick and merry clamor. Now shape the sole ! npw 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-guin is stealing ; For you, the dark-eyed Florentine Her silken skein is reeling ; For you, the dizzy goatherd roams His rugged Alpine ledges ; For you, round all her shepherd homes. Bloom England's thorny hedges. The foremost still, by day or night, On moated mound or heather, Where'er the need of trampled right Brought toiling men together ; Where the free burghers from the wall Defied the mail-clad master, Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call. No craftsmen rallied faster. Let foplings sneer, let fools deride, — Ye heed no idle scorner ; Free hands and hearts are still your pride. And duty done, your honor. 114 SONGS OF LABOR. 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 ! 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 tiUer'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. IThrough heat and cold, and shower and sun. Still onward cheerly driving ! There 's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving. But see ! the day is closing cdol, The woods are dim before us ; The white fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o'er us. The night is falling, comrades mine, Our footsore beasts are weary. And through yon elms the tavern sign Looks out upon us cheery. The landlord beckons from his door, His beechen fire is glowing ; These ample barns, with feed in store, Ai-e filled to overflowing. From many a valley frowned across By brows of rugged mountains ; From hillsides where, through spongji moss. Gush out the river fountains ; From quiet farm-fields, green and low, And bright with blooming clover ; From vales of corn the wandering crow No richer hovers over ; Day after day our way has been. O'er many a hill and hollow ; By lake and stream, by wood and glen, Our stately drove we follow. Through dust- clouds rising thick and dun, As smoke of battle o'er us, Their white horns glisten in the sun. Like plumes and crests before us. We see them slowly climb the hill, As slow behind it sinking : Or, thronging close, from roadside rill. Or sunny lakelet, drinking. Now crowding in the narrow road, In thick and struggling masses. They glare upon the teamster's load, Or rattling coach that passes. Anon, with toss of horn and tail. And paw of hoof, and bellow. They leap some farmer's broken pale. O'er meadow-close or fallow. Forth comes the startled goodman ; forth Wife, children, house-dog, sally. Till once more on their dusty path The baffled truants rally. We drive no starvelings, scraggy gi-own, 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. THE FISHEKxMEN. 115 Disputing feebly with the frogs The crop of saw-grass meadows ! In our good drore, so sleek and fair, No bones of leanness rattle ; No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand That fed him unrepining ; The fatness of a goodly land In each dun hide is shining. We 've sought them where, in warmest nooks. The freshest feed is growing, By sweetest springs and clearest brooks Through honeysuckle flowing ; Wherever hillsides, sloping south, Are bright with early grasses, Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth, ■The mountain streamlet passes. But now the day is closing cool, The woods are dim before us. The white fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o'er us. The cricket to the frog's bassoon His shrillest time is keeping ; The sickle of yon setting moon The meadow-mist is reaping. The night is falling, comrades mine. Our footsore beasts are weary. And through yon elms the tavern sign Looks out upon us cheery. To-morrow, eastward with our charge We '11 go to meet the dawning. Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge Have seen the sun of morning. When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth. Instead of birds, are flitting ; When children throng the glowing hearth, And quiet wives are knitting ; While in the fire-light strong and clear Young eyes of pleasure glisten, To tales of all we see and hear The ears of home shall listen. By many a Northern lake and hill, From many a mountain pasture. Shall Fancy play the Drover still. And speed the long night faster. Then let us on, through shower and sun, And heat and cold, be driving ; There 's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving. THE FISHEEMEN. Hurrah ! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain ; Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! Run up the sail again ! Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail- car and the steed ; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed. From the hill-top looks the steeple, And the lighthouse from the sand ; And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us. For the homes we leave one sigh. Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky. Now, brothers, for the icebergs Of frozen Labrador, Floating spectral in the moonshine, Along the low, black shore ! Where like snow the gannet's feathers On Brador's rocks are shed. And the noisy murr are flying, Like black scuds, overhead ; Where in mist the rock is hiding, And the sharp reef lurks below. And the white squall smites in sui»> mer. And the autumn tempests blow ; Where, through gi'ay 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 ; 1 We '11 reap the teeming waters I As at home they reap the plain ! 116 SONGS OF LABOR. Out wet hands spread the carpet, And light the hearth of home ; From our fish, as in the old time, The silver coin shaU come. As the demon fled the chamber Where the fish of Tobit lay. So ours from all our dwellings ShaU frighten Want away. Though the mist upon our jackets In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly From off the frozen reels ; Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud. We will whistle down the wild wind. And laugh beneath the cloud ! In the darkness as in daylight. On the water as on land, God's eye is looking on us, And beneath us is his hand ! Death will find us soon or later, On the deck or in the cot ; And we cannot meet him better Than in working out our lot. Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west-wind Comes freshening down the bay. The rising sails are filling, — Give way, my lads, give way ! Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth, like a weed, — The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed ! THE HUSKERS. It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again ; The first sharp frosts had faflen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May. Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, At first a rayless disk of fire, he bright- ened as he sped ; Yet, even his noontide glory fell chas- tened and subdued, On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. And all that quiet afternoon, slow slop. ing to the night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light ; Slstnting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill ; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky. Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why ; And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. From spire and barn looked westerly th« patient weathercocks ; But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell. The summer grains were harvested ; the « stubble-fields lay dry. Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye ; But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear ; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain ; Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond. Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, THE LUMBERMEN. 117 Slowly o'er the eastern sea-blufiFs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one ! As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay ; From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry buskers came. Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow. Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below ; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before. And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart. Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart ; While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade. At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair. Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair. The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue. To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung. THE CORN-SONG. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard J 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 show, era Of changeful April played. We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain. Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away. All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair. And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves. And bear the treasure home. There, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old. Fair hands the broken grain shall sift. And knead its meal of gold. Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board ; Give us the. bowl of samp and milk. By homespun beauty poured ! Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls. Who will not thank the kindly earth. And bless our farmer girls ! Then shame on all the proud and vain. Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn ! Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye. Give to the worm the orchard's fruit. The wheat-field to the fly : But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod ; Still let us, for his golden com. Send up our thanks to God I 118 SONGS OF LABOR. 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 thun- der. On some night of rain. Lake and river break asunder Winter's weakened chain, Down the wild March flood shall bear them To the saw-miU's wheel. Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel. Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below. When the earliest beams of sunlight Streak the mountain's snow. Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, To our hurrying feet. And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat. Where the crystal Ambijejis Stretches broad and clear, (^nd Millnoket's pine-black ridges Hide the browsing deer : Where, through lakes and wide morasses. Or through rocky walls, Swift and strong, Penobscot passes White with foamy falls ; Where, through clouds, are glimpses given Of Katahdin's sides, — Rock and forest piled to heaven, Torn and ploughed by slides ! Far below, the Indian trapping, In the sunshine warm j Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping Half the peak in storm ! Where are mossy carpets better Than the Persian weaves. And than Eastern perfumes sweeter Seem the fading leaves ; And a music wild and solemn, From the pine-tree's height, RoUs 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 beanty, 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 -en woven skylight. Speaks He in the breeze, As of old beneath the twilight Of lost Eden's trees ! For his ear, the inward feeling Needs no outward tongue ; He can see the spirit kneeling While the axe is swung. Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim. Lamp of toil or altar burning Are alike to Him. Strike, then, comrades ! — Trade t| waiting On our rugged toil ; Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil i THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 119 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 fraits and sweets. Cheerly, on the axe of labor. Let the sunbeams dance. Better than the flash of sabre Or the gleam of lance ! Strike ! — With every blow is given Freer sun and sky, And the long-hid earth to heaven Looks, with wondering eye ! Loud behind us grow the murmurs Of the age to come ; Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, Bearing harvest home ! Here her virgin lap with treasures Shall the green earth fill ; Waving wheat and golden maize-ears Crown each beechen hill. Keep who will the city's alleys, Take the smooth-shorn plain, — Give to us the cedar valleys, Rocks and hills of Maine ! In our North-land, wild and woody, Let us still have part : Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, Hold us to thy heart ! 0, our free hearts beat ths warmer For thy breath of snow ; And our tread is all the firmer For thy rocks below. Freedom, hand in hand with labor, Walketh strong and brave ; On the forehead of his neighbor No man writeth Slave ! Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's Pine-trees show its fires. While from these dim forest gardens Rise their blackened spires. Up, my comrades ! up and doing 1 Manhood's rugged play Still renewing, bravely hewing Through the world our way I MISCELLANEOUS. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away. O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Wlio is losing ? who is winning ? are they far or come they near ? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. " Do^vn the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their souls ! " Who is losing ? who is winning ? — " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, i Ximena, look once more. " Still I see the fearful whirlwir»d rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse. Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain Look forth once more, Ximena I "Ah t the smoke has rolled away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. " Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now re. treat and now advance ! Right against the blazing cannfjn shivers Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall ; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." 120 MISCELLANEOUS. Nearer came the storm and nearer, roll- ing fast and frightful on ! Speak, Xiniena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won ? " Alas' alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for them all ! " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise ; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! " my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my knee : Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear me '> canst thou ray husband, brave and gentle ! my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er ! " Dry thy tears, ray poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said : To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay. Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt. She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain. And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child ? All his stranger words witli meaning her woman's heart supplied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died! " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth. From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North ! " Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid hini with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind ; Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels I O thou Christ of God, forgive ! " Sink, O Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, gray shadows fall ; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued. Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food. Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender caie they hung, And the dying foeman hle.ssed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer. And still thy white-winged angels hovei dimly in our air ! BARCLAY OF UEY. 121 FORGIVENESS. My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; So, turning gloomily from my fellow- men. One summer Sabbath day I stroUed ' among The green mounds of the village burial- place ; Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late, "Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, Andcold hands folded over a stillheart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave. Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart. Awed for myself, and pitying my race. Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trem\)ling I forgave ! BARCLAY OF URY." Up the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green, Rode the Laird of Ury ; Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed. Pressed the mob in fury. Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master ; And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, Cursed him as he passed her. Yet, with calm and stately mien. Up the streets of Aberdeen Came he slowly riding • And, to all he saw and heard. Answering not with bitter word. Turning not for chiding. Came a troop with broadswords swin^ng, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and froward ; Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down ! Push him ! prick him ! through the town Drive the Quaker coward ! '' But from out the thickening crowd Cried a sudden voice and loud : " Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried. Scarred and sunburned darkly : Who with ready weapon bare. Fronting to the troopers there. Cried aloud : " God save us, Call ye coward him who stood Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood. With the brave Gustavus ? " " Nay, I do not need thy sword. Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; " Put it up, I pray thee : Passive to his holy will, Trust I in my Master still. Even though he slay me. " Pledges of thy love and faith. Proved on many a iield cf death. Not by me are needed." Marvelled much that henchman bold. That his laird, so stout of old. Now so meekly pleaded. " Woe 's the day ! " he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head, And a look of pity ; " Ury's honest lord reviled. Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city ! "Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line, And his Walloon lancers. Smiting through their midst we '11 teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers ! " " Marvel not, mine ancient friend. Like beginning, like the end " : Quoth the Laird of Ury, ' ' Is the sinful servant more Than his gracious Lord who bore Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? " Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame. All these vain ones offer ; Wliile for them He suffereth long. Shall I answer wrong with wrong, Scoffing with the scoffer ? 122 MISCELLANEOUS. " Happier 1, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me. "When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door ; And the suooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down. Smiled on him who bore renown From red fields of slaughter. •' Hard to feel the stranger's scofiF, Hard the old friend's falling off, Hard to learn forgiving : But the Lord his own rewards. And his love with theirs accords, Wai-m and fresh and liviug. " Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking ; Knowing God's own time is best. In a patient hope 1 rest For the full day-breaking ! " So the Laird of Ury said. Turning slow his horse's head Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron grates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen ! Not in vain. Confessor old. Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial ; Every age on him, who strays From its broad and beaten ways. Pours its sevenfold vial. Happy he whose inward ear Angel comfortings can hear, O'er the rabble's laughter ; And while Hatred's fagots burn. Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter. Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow ; After hands shall sow the seed. After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow. Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the Future borrow ; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain, Paint the golden morrow ! WHAT THE VOICE SAID. Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, ' ' Lord ! " 1 cried in sudden ire, "From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire ! ' ' Love is lost, and Faith is dying ; With the brute the man is sold ; And the dropping blood of labor Hardens into gold. " Here the dying wail of Famine, There the battle's groan of pain ; And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon Reaping men like grain. " 'Where is God, that we should feaT Him?' Thus the earth-born Titans say ; ' God ! if thou art living, hear us ! ' Thus the weak ones pray." "Thou, the patient Heaven upbraid- ing," Spake a solemn Voice within ; " Weary of our Lord's forbearance, Art thou free from sin ? " Fearless brow to Him uplifting. Canst thou for his thunders call, Knowing that to guilt's attraction Evermore they fall ? " Know'st thou not all germs of evil In thy heart await their time ? Not thyself, but God's restraining, Stays their growth of crime. " Couldst thou boast, child of weak« ness ! O'er the sons of wi'ong and strife, Were their strong^temptations planted In thy path of life ? " Thou hast seen two streamlets gush, ing From one fountain, clear and free. But by widely varying channels Searching for the sea. WORSHIP. 123 " Glideth one through greenest valleys, Kissing them with lips still sweet ; One, mad roaring down the mountains. Stagnates at their feet. " Is it choice whereby the Parsee Kneels before his mother's fire ? In his black tent did the Tartar Choose his wandering sire ? *' He alone, whose hand is bounding Human power and human will. Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill. " For thyself, while wrong and sorrow Make to thee their strong appeal, Coward wert thou not to utter "What the heart must feel. " Earnest words must needs be spoken When the warm heart bleeds or burns With its scorn of wrong, or pity For the wronged, by turns. " But, by aU thy nature's weakness. Hidden faults and follies known. Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own. " Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty To thy lips her trumpet set. But with harsher blasts shall mingle WaiUngs of regret." Cease not, Voice of holy speaking. Teacher sent of God, be near. Whispering through the day's cool silence, Let my spirit hear ! So, when thoughts of evil-doers Waken scorn, or hatred move. Shall a mournful fellow-feeling Tamper all with love. TO DELAWARE. [Written during the discussion in the Legisla- ture of that State, in the winter of 1846 - 47, of a bill for the abolition of slavery.] Thrice welcome to thy sisters of the East, To the strong tillers of a rugged home, With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, An'i hardy feet o'erswept by ocea/^ s foam; And to the young nymphs of the golden West, Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom, Trail in the sunset, — redeemed and blest. To the warm welcome of thy sisters come ! Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail- white bay Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains. And the great lakes, where echo, free . alway. Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains, Shall weave new sun-bows in their toss ing spray. And aU their waves keep grateful holiday. And, smiling on thee through her moun- tain rains, Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, And vast Katahdm o'er his woods, shall wear Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air ; And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, When, at thy bidding, the electric wire Shall tremble northward with its words of fire ; Glory and praise to God ! another State is free ! WORSHIP. " Pure religion, and undefiled, before God and the Father is this : To Tisit the widows and the fetherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted fi^m the world." — James i. 27. The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken. And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan Round fane and altar overthrown and broken. O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood. 124 MISCELLANEOUS. With mother's offering, to the Fiend's embraces, , i. t. • Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. Eed altars, kindling through that night of eri'or, Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, Throned on the circle of a pitUess sky ; Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcast- ing All heaven above, and blighting earth below, The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting. And man's oblation was his fear and woe ! Then through great temples swelled the dismal moaning Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning. Swung their white censers in the bur- dened air : A.S if the pomp of rituals, and the savor Of gums and spices could the Unseen One please ; Aj5 if his ear could bend, with childish favor, To the poor flattery of the organ keys ! Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy, With trembling reverence : and the oppressor there, Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly, Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. Not such the service the benignant Father Requireth at his earthly children's hands : Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather The simple duty man from man de- mands. For Earth he asks it : the full joy of Heaven Knoweth no change of waning or in- crease ; The great heart of the Infinite beats even. Untroubled flows the river of his peace, He asks no taper lights, on high sur- rounding The priestly altar and the saintly grave,) No dolorous chant nor organmusic sound- ing, Nor incense clouding up the twilight nave. For he whom Jesus loved hath tmly spoken : The holier worship which he deigns to bless Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, And feeds the widow and the fatherless ! Types of our human weakness and our sorrow ! "Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead? Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow From stranger eyes the home lights which have fled ? brother man ! fold to thy heart thj- brother ; Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there ; To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hynm, each kindly deed a prayer. Follow with reverent steps the great ex- ample Of Him whose holy work was " doing good " ; So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. Then shall aU shackles fall ; the stormy clangor Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace ! THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room. And eats his meat and drinks his ale, THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 125 And beats the maid with her unused broom, And the lazy lout with his idle flail, But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn. And hies him away ere the break of dawn. The shade of Denmark fled from the sun. And the Cocklane ghost from the barn- loft cheer. The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, Agrippa's demon wrought in fear. And the devil of Martin Luther sat By the stout monk's side in social chat. The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him Who seven times crossed the deep, Twined closely each lean and withered limb. Like the nightmare in one's sleep. But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast The evil weight from his back at last. But the demon that cometh day by day To my quiet room and fireside nook, Where the casement light falls dim and gray On faded painting and ancient book. Is a sorrier one than any whose names Are chronicled well by good King James. No bearer of burdens like Caliban, No runner of errands like Ariel, He comes in the shape of a fat old man. Without rap of knuckle or puU of bell ; And whence he comes, or whither he goes, I know as I do of the wind which blows. A. stout old man with a greasy hat Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose. And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, Looking through glasses with iron bows. Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can. Guard well your doors from that old He eomes with a careless " How d' ye do ? " And seats himself in my elbow-chair ; And my morning paper and pamphlet new Fall forthwith under his special care And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, And, button by button, unfolds his coat. And then he reads from paper and book, In a low and husky asthmatic tone, With the stohd sameness of posture and look Of one who reads to himself alone ; And hour after hour on my senses come That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. The price of stocks, the auction sales. The poet's song and the lover's glee. The horrible murders, the seaboard gales. The marriage list, and the jeio d' esprit. All reach my ear in the self-same tone, — I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on ! 0, sweet as the lapse of water at noon O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree. The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea. Or the low soft music, perchance, which To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone. Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone. And we read by turns from the self- same book, — Some tale perhaps of the olden time, Some lover's romance or quaint old rhjrme. Then when the story is one of woe, — Some prisoner's plaint through his dun- geon-bar. Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; And Iseem to hear that prisoner's wail. And his face looks on me worn and pale, And when she reads some merrier song, Her voice is glad as an April bird's. And when the tale is of war and wrong, A trumpet's summons is in her words. And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear ! — 0, pity me then, when, day by day. The stout fiend darkens my pari or door; And reads me perchance the self- same lay Which melted in music, the night be- fore, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet. And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! 126 MISCELLANEOUS. I cross my floor with a nervous tread, I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, I flourish my cane above his head, And stir up the fire to roast him out ; I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane. And press my hands on my ears, in vain ! I 've studied Glanville and James the wise. And wizard black-letter tomes which treat Of demons of every name and size. Which a Christian man is presumed to meet. But never a hint and never a line Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. I 've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, And laid the Primer above them all, I 've nailed a horseshoe over the grate. And hung a wig to my parlor wall Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, At Salem court in the witchcraft day ! •* Conjuro te, sceleraf.issime, Abire ad tuum locum / " — still Like a visible nightmare he sits by me, — The exorcism has lost its skill ; And 1 hear again in my haunted room The husky wheeze and the dolorous himi ! Ah ! — commend me to Mary Magdalen With her sevenfold plagues, — to the wandering Jew, To the terrors which haunted Orestes when The furies his midnight curtains drew. But charm him off", ye who charm him can, That reading demon, that fat old man ! THE PUMPKIN. 0, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cot- tage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold. Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew. While he waited to know that his warn- ing was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold ; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yel- low fruit shines. And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Ah ! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest. When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection re- stored. When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more. And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what bright- ens the eye ? What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ? 0, — fruit loved of boyhood ! — the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling ! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune. Our chair a broad pumpkin, — our lan- tern the moon. Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, In a pumpkin-shell coach, w^th two rats for her team 1 HAMPTON BEACH. 127 Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine ! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express. Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less. That the days of thy lot may be length- ened below. And the fame of thy worth like a pump- kin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Solden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie S EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENG- LAND LEGEND." How has New England's romance fled, Even as a vision of the morning ! Its rites foredone, —its guardians dead, — Its priestesses, bereft of dread. Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! Gone like the Indian wizard's yell And fire-dance round the magic rock. Forgotten like the Druid's spell At moonrise by his holy oak ! No more along the shadowy glen. Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; No more the unquiet churchyard dead Glimpse upward from their turfy bed. Startling the traveller, late and lone ; As, on some night of starless weather, rhey silently commune together. Each sitting on his own head-stone ! The roofless house, decayed, deserted, Its living tenants all departed. No longer rings with mi^kiight revel Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; No pale blue flame sends out its flashes Through creviced roof and shattered sashes ! — The witch-grass round the hazel spring May sharply to the night-an sing, But there no more shall withered hags Refresh at ease their broomstick nags. Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters As beverage meet for Satan's daughters ; No more their mimic tones be heard, — The mew of cat, — the chirp of bird, — Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter Of the fell demon following after ! The cautious goodman nails no more A horseshoe on his outer door. Lest some unseemly hag should fit To his own mouth her bridle-bit, — The goodwife's churn no more refuses Its wonted culinary uses Until, with heated needle burned, The witch has to her place returned i Our -witches are no longer old And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, But young and gay and laughing ere tures. With the heart's sunshine on their fea- tures, — Their sorcery — the light which danceo Where +he raised lid unveils its glances; Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, The music of Love's twilight hours, Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan Above her nightly closing flowers, Sweeter than that which sighed of yore, Along the charmed Ausonian shore t Even she, our own weird heroine, Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, Sleeps calmly where thelivinglaid her ; And the wide realm of sorcery, Left by its latest mistress free. Hath found no gray and skilled in- vader : So perished Albion's "glammarye," With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping His charmed torch beside his knee, That even the dead himself might see The magic scroll within his keeping. And now our modern Yankee sees Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; And naught above, below, around, Of life or death, of sight or sound, Whate'er its nature, form, or look. Excites his terror or surprise, — All seeming to his knowing eyes Familiar as his " catechize," Or " Webster's Spelling- Book." HAMPTON BEACH. The sunlight glitters keen and bright. Where, miles away. Lies stretching to my dazzled sight A luminous belt, a misty light, Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray. The tremulous shadow of the Sea 1 Against its gi-ound 128 MISCELLANEOUS. Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, Still as a picture, clear and free, W^ith varying outline mark the coast for miles around. On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein Our seaward way, Through dark-green fields and blos- soming grain, Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray. Ha 1 like a kind hand on my brow Comes this fresh breeze. Cooling its dull and feverish glow. While through my being seems to flow The breath of a new life, — the healing of the seas ! Now rest we, where this grassy mound His feet hath set In the great waters, which have bound His granite ankles greenly round With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet. Good by to pain and care ! I take Mine ease to-day : Here where these sunny waters break, And ripples this keen breeze, I shake All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. I draw a freer breath — I seem Like all I see — Waves in the sim — the white-winged gleam Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free. So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, The soul may know No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, Nor sink the weight of mystery under, But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow. -And all we shrink from now may seem No new revealing ; Familiar as our childhood's stream, Or pleasant memory of a dream fhe loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. Serene and mild the untried light May have its dawning ; And, as in summer's northern night The evening and the dawn unite. The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning. I sit alone ; in foam and spray Wave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stem and gray, Shoulder the broken tide away, Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave. What heed I of the dusty land And noisy town ? I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of heaven on bluet waves shuts down 1 In listless quietude of mind, I yield to all The change of cloud and wave and wind And passive on the flood reclined, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall. But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore In shadow lie ; The night-wind warns me back once more To where, my native hill-tops o'er. Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky. So then, beach, bluff, and wave, fare- well ! I bear with me No token stone nor glittering shell, But long and oft shall Memory tell Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. LINES, WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATfl OF SILAS WRIGHT OF NEW YORK. As they who, tossing midst the storm ai night. While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, Hampton Bear/i LINES. 129 Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed. In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon. While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight. And, day by day, within thy spirit grew Aholierhope than young Ambition knew, As through thy rural quiet, not in vain. Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon ! Portents at which the bravest stand aghast, — The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong, Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, Mear'st not the tumult surging overhead. Who now shall rally Freedom's scatter- ing host ? Who wear the mantle of the leader lost ? Who stay the march of slavery? He whose voice Hath called thee from thy task-field shall not lack Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Hun : Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torch- lights trim. And wave them high across the abys- mal black, Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice. 10th mo., im. LINES, ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENT- ED TO A FRIEND. 'T IS said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand. Like Jacob's stone of rest. That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilifrht The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings ; Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to see The halo of an angel's head Shine through the tamarisk-tree. So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. That pilgrim pressing to his goal May pause not for tlie vision's sake. Yet all fair things within his soul The thought of it shall wake : The graceful palm-tree by the well, Seen on the far horizon's rim ; The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle. Bent timidly on him ; Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom ; Pale shrines of mart5rrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb ; And thus each tint or shade which falls. From sunset cloud or waving tree. Along my pilgi-im path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee. Of one in sun and shade the same, In weal and woe my steady friend. Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend. Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see, Nor judged by one unseemly bough The upward-struggling tree. These light leaves at thy feet I lay, — Poor common thoughts on commop things. Which time is shaking, day by day. Like feathers from his wings, — Chance shootings from a frail life-tree. To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee, Their folly is my own. That tree still clasps the kindly mould. Its leaves still drink the twiligbt dew. 130 MISCELLANEOUS. And weaving its pale green with gold, Still shines the sunlight through. There still the morning zephyrs play, And there at times the spring bird sings, And mossy trunk and fading spray Are flowered with glossy wings. Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade ; The wanderer on its lonely plain Erelong shall miss its shade. friend beloved, whose curious skill Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers. With warm, glad summer thoughts to fiU The cold, dark, winter hours ! Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring May well defy the wintry cold. Until, in Heaven's eternal spring. Life's fairer ones unfold. THE REWARD. Who, looking backward from his man- hood's prime. Sees not the spectre of his misspent time ? And, through the shade Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind From his loved dead ? Who bears no trace of passion's evil force ? Who shuns thy sting, terrible Re- morse ? — Who does not cast On the thronged pages of his memory's book, At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, Regretful of the past ? Alas! — the evil which we fain would shun We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : Our strength to-day Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall; Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all Are we alway. Yet who, thus looking backward o'ei his years. Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears. If he hath been Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause. His fellow-men ? If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, — If he hath lent Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need. Over the suff'ering, mindless of his creed Or home, hath bent. He has not lived in vain, and while he gives The praise to Him, in whom he movea and lives. With thankful heart ; He gazes backward, and with hope before. Knowing that from his works he never- more Can henceforth part. RAPHAEL. I SHALL not soon forget that sight : The glow of autumn's westering day A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, On Raphael's picture lay. It was a simple print I saw, The fair face of a musing boy ; Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe Seemed blending with my joy. A simple print : — the graceful flow Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair. And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow Unmarked and clear, were there. Yet through its sweet and calm repose I saw the inward spirit shine ; It was as if before me rose The white veil of a shrine. As if, as Gothland's sage has told, The hidden life, the man within. Dissevered from its frame and mould. By mortal eye were seen. LUCY HOOPfiR. 131 Was it the lifting of that eye, The waving of that pictiired hand ? Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, I saw tlie walls expand. The narrow room had vanished, — space, Broad, luminous, remained alone, Through which all hues and shapes of grace And beauty looked or shone. Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought. There drooped thy more than mortal face, Mother, beautiful and mild ! Enfolding in one dear embrace Thy Saviour and thy Child ! The rapt brow of the Desert John ; The awful glory of that day When all the Father's brightness shone Through manhood's veil of clay. And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild Dark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiled Through locks of brown and gold ! There Fornarina's fair young face Once more upon her lover shone, Whose model of an angel's grace He borrowed from her own. Slow passed that vision from my view, But not the lesson which it taught ; The soft, calm shadows which it threw Still rested on my thought : The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, Plant for their deathless heritage The fruits and flowers of time. We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made^ jid good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds "Were in her very look ; We read her face, as one who reads A true and holy book : The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move ; The breathing of an inward psalm ; A canticle of love. We miss her in the place of prayer, And by the hearth-iire's light ; < We pause beside her door to hear Once more her sweet " Good-night 1 " There seems a shadow on the day, Her smile no longer cheers ; A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled ; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home his child. Fold her, Father ! in thine anna. And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand Between us and the wrong. And her dear memory serve to make Our faith in Goodness strong. And grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers. May welcome to her holier home The well-beloved of ours. THE LAKE-SIDE. The shadows round the inland sea Are deepening into night ; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee They chase the lessening light. Tired of the long day's blinding heat, I rest my languid eye, Lake of the Hills ! where, cool and sweet, Thy sunset waters lie ! Along the sky, in wavy line^ O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines, The mountains stretch away. Below, the maple masses sleep Where shore with water blends, While midway on the tranquil deep The evening light descends. So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, Of old, the Indian trod, And, through the sunset air, looked down Upon the Smile of God." 140 MISCELLANEOUS. To him of light and shade the laws No forest sceptic taught ; Their living and eternal Cause His truer instinct sought. He saw these mountains in the light Which now across them sliines ; This lake, in summer sunset bright, Walled round with sombering pines. God near him seemed ; from earth and skies His loving voice he neard. As, face to face, in Paradise, Man stood before the Lord. Thanks, our Father ! that, like him, Thy tender love I see, In radiant hill and woodland dim. And tinted sunset sea. For not in mockery dost thou fill Our earth with light and grace ; Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will Behind thy smiling face ! THE HILL-TOP. The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill. Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows hid The top-stone, bare and brown, From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid, The rough mass slanted down. I felt the cool breath of the North ; Between me and the sun. O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, 1 saw the cloud-shades run. Before me, stretched for glistening miles. Lay mountain-girdled Squam ; Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles Upon its bosom swam. And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, Far as the eye could roam. Dark billows of an earthquake storm Beflecked with clouds like foam. Their vales in misty shadow deep, Tlieir rugged peaks in shine, I saw the mountain ranges sweep The horizon's northern line. There towered Chocorua's peak ; and west, Moosehillock's woods were seen, With many a nameless slide-scarre(J crest And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them. Like a sun-rimmed cloud. The great Notch mountains shone. Watched over by the solemn-browed And awful face of stone ! " A good look-off ! " the driver spake ; " About this time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake, And stopped, at evening, here. 'T was duskish down below ; but all These hills stood in the sun. Till, dipped behind yon purple wall. He left them, one by one. "A lady, who, from Thornton hiU, Had held her place outside. And, as a pleasant woman will. Had cheered the long, dull ride. Besought me, with so sweet a smile, That — though I bate delays — I could not choose but rest awhile, — (These women have such ways !) " On yonder mossy ledge she sat. Her sketch upon her knees, A stray brown lock beneath her hat Unrolling in the breeze ; Her sweet face, in the sunset light Upraised and glorified, — I never saw a prettier sight In all my mountain ride. " As good as fair ; it seemed her joy To comfort and to give ; My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy, Will bless her while they live ! " The tremor in the driver's tone His manhood did not shame : "I dare say, sir, you may have known— ' He named a well-known name. Then sank the pyramidal mounds. The blue lake fled away ; For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds A lighted hearth for day ! From lonely years and weary miles The shadows fell apart ; Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles Shone warm into my heart. Wejoumeyed on ; but earth and sky Had power to charm no more ; Still dreamed my inward-turning eye The dream of memory o'er. MEMORIES. 141 Ah ! human kindness, human love, — To few who seek denied, — Too late we learn to prize above The whole round world beside ! ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE SUPERIOR. All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky, Like frost upon the pane ; But now my torpid fancy wakes, And, on thy Eagle's plume. Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird, Or witch upon her broom ! Below me roar the rocking pines, Before me spreads the lake Whose long and solemn-sounding waves Against the sunset break. I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh The grain he has not sown ; ] see, with flashing scythe of fire, The prairie harvest mown ! I hear the far-oflf voyager's horn ; I see the Yankee's trail, — His foot on every mountain-pass, On every stream his sail. By forest, lake, and waterfall, I see his pedler show ; The mighty mingling with the mean. The lofty with the low. He 's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, Upon his loaded wain ; He "s measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks, With eager eyes of gain. I hear the mattock in the mine. The axe-stroke in the dell. The clamor from the Indian lodge. The Jesuit chapel beU ! I see the swarthy tmppers come From Mississippi's springs ; And war-chiefs with their painted brows. And crests of eagle wings. Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe, The steamer smokes and raves •, And city lots are staked for sale Above old Indian graves. I hear the tread of pioneers Of nations yet to be ; The first low wash of waves, where sooa Shall roll a human sea. The rudiments of empire here Are plastic yet and warm ; The chaos of a mighty world Is rounding into form ! Each rude and jostling fragment soon Its fitting place shaU find, — The raw material of a State, Its muscle and its mind ! And, westering stiU, the star which leada The New World in its train Has tipped with fire the icy spears Of many a mountain chain. The snowy cones of Oregon Are kindling on its way ; And California's golden sands Gleam brighter in its ray ! Then blessings on thy eagle quill. As, wandering far and wide, I thank thee for this twilight dream And Fancy's airy ride ! Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Which Western trappers find. Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind. Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, Whose glistening quill I hold ; Thy home the ample air of hope. And -"memory's sunset gold ! In thee, let joy with duty join. And strength unite with love. The eagle's pinions folding round The warm heart of the dove ! So, when in darkness sleeps the vale Where still the blind bird clings, The sunshine of the upper sky ShaU glitter on thy wings ! MEMORIES. A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl. With step as light as summer air. Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair ; 142 MISCELLANEOUS. A seeming child in everything, Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, As Nature wears the sraUe of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms. A mind rejoicing in the light Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white. Unfolding like a morning flower : A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke. And, even when the tongue was mute. From eye and lip in music spoke. How thrills once more the lengthening chain Of memory, at the thoiight of thee ! Old hopes which long in dust have lain Old dreams, come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me ; I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine. As when I leaned to hear thee speak, Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. I hear again thy low ri I feel thy arm within my own. And timidly again uprise The fringed lids of hazel eyes. With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves. Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they! Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smued My picture of thy youth to see. When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled. And folly's self seemed wise in thee ; I too can smile, when o'er that hour The lightsof memory backward stream, Vet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace. Of graver care and deeper thought ; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise. The school-boy's humble name has flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth f Thine the Genevan's sternest creed. While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple tnith. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm ; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out. And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see. Lingering, even yet, thy way about ; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours. Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies, — The Indian Summer of the heart ! — In secret sympathies of mind. In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain ! THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.*8 The day is closing dark and cold. With roaring blast and sleety showers ; And through the dusk the Ulacs wear The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. I turn me from the gloom without. To ponder o'er a tale of old, A legend of the age of Faith, By dreaming monk or abbess told. On Tintoretto's canvas lives That fancy of a loving heart, In graceful lines and shapes of power. And hues immortal as his art. In Provence (so the story runs) There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant-boy of tender years The chance of trade or conquest gave. THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 143 Forth-looking from the castle tower, Beyond the hills with almonds dark, The straining eye could scarce discern The chapel of the good St. Mark. And there, when bitter word or fare The ser\'ice of the youth repaid, By stealth, before that holy shrine, For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. The steed stamped at the castle gate. The boar-hunt sounded on the hill ; Why stayed the Baron from the chase. With looks so stern, and words so ill? " Go, bind yon slave ! and let him learn. By scath of fire and strain of cord. How ill they speed who give dead saints The homage due their living lord ! " They bound him on the fearful rack. When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes, And knew the face of good St. , Mark. Then sank the iron rack apart. The cords released their cruel clasp. The pincers, with their teeth of lire. Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. And lo ! before the Youth and Saint, Barred door and wall of stone gave way ; And up from bondage and the nigh£ They passed to freedom and the day! dreaming monk ! thy tale is true ; — painter ! true thy pencil's art ; In tones of hope and prophecy. Ye whisper to my listening h'dart ! Unheard no burdened heart's appeal Moans up to God's inclining ear ; Unheeded by his tender eye, Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. For still the Lord alone is God ! The pomp and power of tyrant man Are scattered at his lightest breath. Like chaff before the winnower's fan. Not always shall the slave uplift His heavy hands to Heaven in vain. God's angel, like the good St. Mark, Comes shining down to break his chain ! weary ones ! ye may not see Your helpers in their downward flight ; Nor hear the sound of silver wings Slow beating through the hush of night ! But not the less gray Dothan shone, With sunbright watchers bending low, That Fear's dim eye beheld alone The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. There are, who, like the Seer of old, Can see the helpers God has sent, And how life's rugged mountain-side Is white with many an angel tent ! They hear the heralds whom our Lord Sends down his pathway to prepare ; And light, from others hidden, shines On their high place of faith and prayer. Let such, for earth's despairing ones. Hopeless, yet longing to be free. Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer : " Lord, ope theii- eyes, that they may THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.*° Calm on the breast of Loch Maree A little isle reposes ; A shadow woven of the oak And willow o'er it closes. Within, a Druid's mound is seen, Set round with stony warders ; A fountain, g^ishing through the turf, Flows o'er its grassy borders. And whoso bathes therein his brow, With care or madness burning, Feels once again his healthl'ul thought And sense of peace returning. restless heart and fevered brain. Unquiet and unstable, That holy well of Loch Maree Is more than idle fable ! Life's changes vex, its discords stun, Its glaring sunshine blindeth. And blest is he who on his way That fount of healing findeth ! The shadows of a humbled will And contrite heart are o'er it ; Go read its legend — " Trust in God " On Faith's white stones before it. 144 MISCELLANEOUS. TO MY SISTER; WITH A COPY OF " SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND." Dear Sister ! — while the wise and sage Turn coldlj' from my playful page, And count it strange that ripened age Should stoop to boyhood's folly ; I know that thou wilt judge aright Of all which makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the night ,' Of clouded Melancholy. Away with weary cares and themes ! — Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances ! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies. Lo ! once again our feet we set On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, By lonely brooks, whose waters fret The roots of .spectral beeches ; Again the hearth-hre glimmers o'er Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor, And young eyes widening to the lore Of faery-foiks and witches. Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again, And calling back from care and pain, And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze A glimpse of childish gladness. And, knowing how my life hath been A weary work of tongue and pen, A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men, Thou wilt not chide my turning To con, at times, an idle rhyme, To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, Or listen, at Life's noonday chime. For the sweet bells of Morning ! AUTUMN THOUGHTS. FROM " MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL." Gone hath the Spring, with all its flow- ers, AndgonetheSummer'spompandshow, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers. Is waiting for the Winter's snow. I said to Earth, so cold and gi'ay, " An emblem of myself thou art " ; " Not so," the Earth did seem to say, "For Sluing shall warm my frozea heart." I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams Of warmer sun and softer rain. And wait to hear the sound of streams And songs of meny birds again. But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who standest blighted and forlorn. Like Autumn waiting for the snow : No hope is thine of sunnier hours. Thy Winter shall no more depart ; No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart. CALEF IN BOSTON. 1692. In the solemn days of old, Two men met in Boston town. One a tradesman frank and bold, One a preacher of renown. Cried the last, in bitter tone, — " Poisoner of the wells of truth ! Satan's hireling, thou hast sown W^ith his tares the heart of youth ! Spake the shnple tradesman then, — " God be judge 'twixt thou and I_; All thou knowest of truth hath been Unto men like thee a lie. " Falsehoods which we spuni to-day Were the truths of long ago ; Let the dead boughs fall away, Fresher shall the living grow. " God is good and God is light. In this faith I rest secure ; Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure. " Of your spectral puppet play I have traced the cunning wires ; TO PIUS IX. 145 Come what will, I needs must say, God is true, and ye are liars." When the thought of man is free, EiTor fears its lightest tones.; So the priest cried, ' ' Sadducefe ! " And the people took up stones. In the ancient burying-ground. Side by side the twain now lie, — One with humble grassy mound, One with marbles pale and high. But the Lord hath blest the seed "Which that tradesman scattered then, And the preacher's spectral creed Chills no more the blood of men. Let us trust, to one is known Perfect love which casts out fear, While the other's joys atone For the wrong he suffered here. TO PIUS IX.60 fHE cannon's brazen lips are cold ; No red shell blazes do^^^l the air ; And street and tower, and temple old, Are silent as despair. The Lombard stands no more at bay, — Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain ; The ravens scattered by the day Come back with night again. Now, while the fratricides of France Are treading on the neck of Rome, Hider at Gaeta, — seize thy chance ! Coward and cruel, come ! Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt ; Thy mummer's part was acted well. While Rome, with steel and lire begirt. Before thy crusade fell ! Her death-groans answered to thy prayer ; Thy chant, the drum and bugle- call : Thy lights, the burning villa's glare ; Thy beads, the shell and ball ! Let Austria clear thy way, with hands Foul from Ancona's cruel sack, /ind Naples, with his dastard bands Of murderers, lead thee back ; 10 Rome's lips are dumb ; the orphan's wail, The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, The unsexed shaveling's cheer ! Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight. The double curse of crook and crowuj Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate From wall and roof flash down ! Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall. Not Tiber's flood can wash away, Where, in thy stately Quirinal, Thy mangled victims lay ! Let the world murmur ; let its cry Of horror and disgust be heard ; — Truth stands alone ; thy coward lie Is backed by lance and sword i The cannon of St. Angelo, And chanting priest and clanging bell. And beat of drum and bugle blow. Shall greet thy coming well ! Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves Fit welcome give thee ; — for her part, Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves. Shall curse thee from her heart ! No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers Shall childhood in thy pathway fling ; No garlands from their ravaged bowers Shall Terni's maidens bring ; But, hateful as that tyrant old. The mocking witness of his crime, In thee shall loathing eyes behold The Nero of our time ! Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, Mock Heaven with impious thankst and call Its curses on the patriot dead, Its blessings on the Gaul ! Or sit upon thy throne of lies, A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, Whom even its worshippers despise, — Unhonored, unrevered ! Yet, Scandal of the World ! from thee One needful truth mankind shai] leara, — 146 MISCELLANEOUS. That kings and priests to Liberty And God are false in turn. Earth wearies of them ; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth faQ; Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong Wake, struggle, and prevail ! Not vainly Roman hearts have bled To feed the Crozier and the Crown, If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down ! ELLIOTT." Hands off ! thou tithe-fat plunderer ! play No trick of priestcraft here ! Back, puny lordling ! darest thou lay A hand on Elliott's bier ? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, Beneath his feet he trod : He knew the locust swarm that cursed The harvest-fields of God. On these pale lips, the smothered thought Which England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught. As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor, — a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung ; God's curse. Earth's wrong, dumb Hun- ger's ire, — He gave them all a tongue ! Then let the poor man's horny hands Bear up the mighty dead. And labor's swart and stalwart bands Behind as mourners tread. Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds. Leave rank its minster floor ; Give England's green and daisied grounds The poet of the poor ! Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge That brave old heart of oak, With fitting dirge from sounding forge, And pall of furnace smoke ! Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds, And axe and sledge are swung, ^nd, timing to their stormy sounds, His stormy lays are sung. There let the peasant's step be heard. The grinder chant his rhyme ; Nor patron's praise nor dainty word Befits the man or time. No soft lament nor di'eamer's sigh For him- whose words were bread, — » The Eunic rhyme and spell whereby The foodless poor were fed ! Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride, England, as thou wilt ! With pomp to nameless worth denied. Emblazon titled guilt ! No part or lot in these we claim ; But, o'er the sounding wave, A common right to Elliott's name, A freehold in his grave 1 ICHABOD ! So fallen ! so lost ! the light with« drawn Which once he wore ! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore ! Revile him not, — the Tempter hath A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath. Befit his faU ! 0, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven. Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. From hope and heaven ! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now. Nor brand with deeper shame his dim. Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead. From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains, — A fallen angel's pride of thought. Still strong in chains. THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS. 147 All else is gone ■, from those great eyes The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead ! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame ; Walk backward, with averted gaze. And hide the shame ! THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS. .« I No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest Goaded from shore to shore ; No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest. The leaves of empire o'er. Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts The love of man and God, Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, And Scythia's steppes, they trod. Where the long shadows of the fir and pine In the night sun are cast. And the deep heart of many a Norland mine Quakes at each riving blast ; Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, A baptized Scythian queen, With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, The North and East between ! Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore. And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray. And Dian weeps once more ; Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds ; And Stamboul from the sea lifts her tall minarets over burial- grounds Black with the cypress-tree ! From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, Following the track of Paul, Md where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home Their vast, eternal waU ; They paused not by the ruins of old time, They scanned no pictures rare, Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains climb The cold abyss of air ! But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, To haunts where Hunger pined, To kings and courts forgetful of the pains And wants of human-kind. Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good, Along their way, like flowers. Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could. With princes and with powers ; Their single aim the purpose to ful- fil Of Truth, from day to day, Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old "Were wasted on their sight, "Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright. Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From oif the Cyprian shore, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought ; And fairest forms and sweetest harmo- nies Make glad its way, unsought. In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run ; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done ; Sure stands the promise, — ever to thi meek A heritage is given ; Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek The righteousness of Heaven J 148 MISCELLANEOUS. THE MEN OF OLD. VTell speed thy mission, bold Icono- clast ! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart. Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the ama- ranth blooms. Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs The effigies of old confessors lie, God's witnesses ; the voices of his wiU, Heard in the slow march of the cen- turies still ! Such were the men at whose rebuking frown. Dark with God's wrath, the tyi'ant's knee went down ; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due. St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate, — Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix. Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. " Man is worth more than tem- ples ! " he replied To such as came his holy work to chide. And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare. And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man, — "An earth- en dish The last sad supper of the Master bore : Most miserable sinners ! do ye wish More than your Lord, and grudge his dying poor What your own pride and not his need requires ? Souls, than these shining gauds. He values more ; Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires ! " faithful worthies ! resting far behind In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep. Much has been done for truth and hu- man-kind, — Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind ; Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap Through peoples driven in your day like sheep ; Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light. Though widening still, is walled around by night ; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read. Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head ; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress ; World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed Life's fainting pilgi-ims, to their utter need. Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed ; Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride And vanity stand shrined and deified. Careless that in the shadow of its walls God's living temple into ruin falls. We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell. Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, And startling tyrants with the fear oi hell! Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well ; But to rebuke the age's popular crime. We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time 1 THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. 149 THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. Still in thy streets, Paris ! doth the stain Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain; Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through, And Naples mourns that new Bartholo- mew, When squalid beggary, for a dole of oread. At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed The yawning trenches with her noble dead ; StiU. doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls. And, leagued to crush thee, on the Dan- ube's side, The bearded Croat and Bosniak spear- man ride ; Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow Melts round the cornfields and the vines below. The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, Flames in the breach of Moultan's shat- tered wall ; On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain. And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. " "What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, "With sneering lip, and wise world-know- ing eyes, ""While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat. And round the green earth, to the church- bell's chime. The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time. To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms. Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood. Staggering to take the Pledge of Broth- erhood, Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call, — The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, The bull-dog Briton, jdelding but with life, The Yankee swaggering with his bowie- knife, The Russ, from banquets with the Tul" ture shared. The blood stiU dripping from his amber beard, i Quitting their mad Berserker dance to hear The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer ; Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, "Where men for dice each titled gambler flings. To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, For tea and gossip, like old country dames ! No ! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant. Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues. Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er, Timed to the pauses of the battery's roarj Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade Of "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made, Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hope To capsize navies with a windy trope ; Still shall the glory and the pomp of "War Along their train the shouting millions draw ; Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave ; Stillshallthe bard to Valor tune his song» Still Hero-worship kneel before th^ Strong ; Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine. To plumed and sworded auditors, shali prove Their trade accordant with the Law of Love ; And Church for State, and State for Church, shall fight. And both agree, that Might alone ia Right ! " Despite of sneers like these, faithful few, "Who dare to hold God's word and wit- ness true. 150 MISCELLANEOUS. Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time, And o'er the jiresent wilderness of crime Sees the calm future, with its robes of green, Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between, — Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread, Though worldly wisdom shake the cau- tious head ; No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere. Without the greeting of i'lm sceptic's sneer ; Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall. Common as dew and sunshine, over all. Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, Jjike Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace ; As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre. Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell. And love subdued the maddened heart of hell. Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue, Which the glad angels of the Advent sung. Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth. Glory to God, and peace unto the earth ! Through the mad discord send that calming word Which wind and wave on wild Genesa- reth heard. Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword ! Not vain the vision which the prophets saw. Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm. Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, The gi-eat hope resting on the truth of God, — Evil shall cease and Violence pass away, And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day. IKA mo., 1848. THE WISH OF TO-DAY. I ASK not now for gold to gild With mocking shine a weary frame ; The yearning of the mind is stilled, — I ask not now for Fame. A rose-cloud, dimly seen above. Melting in heaven's blue depths away, — 0, sweet, fond dream of human Love ! For thee I may not pray. But, bowed in lowliness of mind, I make my humble wishes known, — I only ask a will resigned, Father, to thine own ! To-day, beneath thy chastening eye 1 crave alone for peace and rest, Submissive in thy hand to lie, And feel that it is best. A marvel seems the Universe, A miracle our Life and Death ; A mystery which I cannot pierce, Around, above, beneath. In vain I task my aching brain. In vain the sage's thought I scan, I only feel how weak and vain, How poor and blind, is man. And now my spirit sighs for home, And longs for light whereby to see, And, like a weary child, would come, Father, unto thee ! Though oft, like letters traced on sand. My weak resolves have passed away. In mercy lend thy helping hand Unto my prayer to-day ! OUR STATE. The South-land boasts its teeming cane, The prairied West its heavy grain. And sunset's radiant gates unfold <- On rising marts and sands of gold ! Rough, bleak, and hard, our little Statf Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; Her yellow sands are sands alone. Her only mines are ice and stone J TO AVIS KEENE. 151 From Autumn frost to April rain, Too long her winter woods complain ; From budding flower to falling leaf, Her summer time is all too brief. Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands. And wintry hills, the school-house stands, J And what her rugged soil denies, Tlie harvest of the mind supplies. The riches of the Commonwealth A.re free, strong minds, and hearts of health ; And more to her than gold or grain. The cunning hand and cultured brain. For well she keeps her ancient stock. The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; And still maintains, with milder laws, And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands. While near her school the church-spire stands ; Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, While near her church-spire stands the school. ALL'S WELL. The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain ; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain ; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew ! SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. As o'er his furrowed fields which lie Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, Yet chill with winter's melted snow, The husbandman goes forth to sow, Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast The ventures of thy seed we cast. And trust to warmer sun and rain To swell the germs and iill the grain. Who calls thy glorious service hard ? Who deems it not its own reward ? Who, for its trials, counts it less A cause of praise and thankfulness ? It may not be our lot to wield The sickle in the ripened field ; Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, The reaper's song among the sheaves. Yet where our duty's task is wrought In unison with God's great thought, The near and future blend in one. And whatsoe'er is willed, is done ! And ours the grateful service whence Comes, day by day, the recompense ; The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, The fountain and the noonday shade. And were this life the utmost span. The only end and aim of man. Better the toil of fields like these Than waking dream and slothful ease. But life, though falling like our grain, Like that revives and springs again ; And, early called, how blest are they Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! TO AVIS KEENE. ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES. Thanks for thy gift Of ocean flowers, Born where the golden drift Of the slant sunshine falls Down the green, tremulous walls Of water, to the cool still coral bowers, Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, God's gardens of the deep His patient angels keep ; Gladdening the dim, strange solitude With fairest forms and hues, and thus Forever teaching us The lesson which the many-colored skies. The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies. The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flings The tropic sunshine from its golden wings. The brightness of the human counte- nance. Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, 152 MISCELLANEOUS. Forevermore repeat, In varied tones and sweet, That beauty, in and of itself, is good. kind and generous friend, o'er whom The sunset hues of Time are cast, Painting, upon the overpast And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow The promise of a fairer morrow. An earnest of the better life to come ; The binding of the spirit bi'oken, The warning to the erring spoken, The comfort of the sad, The eye to see, the hand to cull Of common things the beautiful. The absent heart made glad By simple gift or graceful token Of love it needs as daily food. All own one Source, and all are good ! Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach. Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, And toss their gifts of weed and shell From foamy curve and combing swell, No unbefitting task was thine To weave these flowers so soft and fair In unison with His design Who loveth beauty everywhere ; And makes in everj^ zone and clime, In ocean and in upper air, " All things beautiful in their time. " For not alone in tones of awe and power He speaks to man ; The cloudy horror of the thunder- shower His rainbows span ; And where the caravan Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air The crane-flock leaves, no ti'ace of pas- sage there. He gives the weary eye The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours. And on its branches dry Calls out the acacia's flowers ; And where the dark shaft pierces down Beneath the mountain roots, Seen by the miner's lamp alone, The star-like crystal shoots ; So, where, the winds and waves below. The coral-branched gardens grow, His climbing weeds and mosses show. Like foliage, on each stony bough, Of varied hues more strangely gay Than forest leaves in autumn's day ; — Thus evermore, On sky, and wave, and shore, An all-pervading beauty seems to say: God's love and power are one ; and they. Who, like the thunder of a sultry day. Smite to restore, And they, who, like the gentle wind, uplift The petals of the dew-wet flowers, and drift Their perfimie on the air, Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift. Making their lives a prayer I THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 153 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS, AND OTHER POEMS. THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. " I DO believe, and yet, in grief, I pray for help to unbelief ; For needful strength aside to lay The daily cumberings of my way. " I 'm sick at heart of craft and cant. Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant, Profession's smooth hypocrisies, And creeds of iron, and lives of ease. " I ponder o'er the sacred word, I read the record of our Lord ; And, weak and troubled, envy them Who touched his seamless garment's hem ; — *' Who saw the tears of love he wept Above the gi-ave where Lazarus slept ; And heard, amidst the shadows dim Of Olivet, his evening hymn. " How blessed the swineherd's low estate, The beggar crouching at the gate, The leper loathly and abhorred, Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord ! "0 sacred soil his sandals pressed ! Sweet fountains of his noonday rest ! light and air of Palestine, Impregnate with his life divine ! " 0, bear me thither ! Let me look On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook, — Kneel at Gethsemane, and by Gennesaret walk, before I die ! " Methinks this cold and northern night Would melt before that Orient light ; And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain. My childhood's faith revive again ! " So spake my friend, one autumn day. Where the still river slid away Beneath us, and above the brown Red curtains of the woods shut down. Then said I, — for I could not brook The mute appealing of his look, — ' ' I, too, am weak, and faith is small And blindness happeneth unto all. " Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right ; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man ; " That all of good the past hath had Remains to make our own time glad, — Our common daily life divine. And every land a Palestine. ' ' Thou weariest of thy present state ; What gain to thee time's holiest date ? The doubter now perchance had been As High Priest or as Pilate then ! "What thought Chorazin's scribes' What faith In Him had Nain and Nazareth ? Of the few followers whom He led One sold him, — all forsook and fied. " friend ! we need nor rock nor sand. Nor storied stream of Morning-Land ; The heavens are glassed in Merri- mack, — What more could Jordan render back ? * ' We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here ; — The still small voice in autumn's hush. Yon maple wood the burning bush. " For still the new transcends the old. In signs and tokens manifold ; — Slaves rise up men ; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves ! " Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prelude finds its way ; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, A light is breaking, calm and clear. 154 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. " That song of Lore, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star ! That light, the breaking day, which tips The golden-spired Apocalypse ! " Then, when my good friend shook his head, And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said : *' Thou mind'st me of a story told In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." ^ And while the slanted sunbeams wove The shadows of the frost-stained grove. And, picturing all, the river ran O'er cloud and wood, I thus began : In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood The Chapel of the Hermits stood ; And thither, at the close of day. Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. One, whose impetuous youth defied The storms of Baikal's wintry side, And mused and dreamed where tropic day Flamed o'er liis lost Virginia's bay. His simple tale of love and woe All hearts had melted, high or low ; — A blissful pain, a sweet distress. Immortal in its tenderness. Yet, while above his charmed page Beat quick the young heart of his age, He walked amidst the crowd unknowTi, A. sorrowing old man, strange and lone. A homeless, troubled age, — the gi'ay Pale setting of a weary day ; Too dull his ear for voice of praise. Too sadly worn his brow for bays. Pride, lust of power and glory, slept ; Vet still his heart its young dream kept, And, wandering like the deluge-dove. Still "ought the resting-place of love. And, mateless, childless, envied more The peasant's welcome from his door By smiling eyes at eventide, Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. Until, in place of wife and child, All-pitying Nature on him smiled, And gave to him the golden keys to all her iruuost sanctities. Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim I She laid her great heart bare to him, Its loves and sweet accords ; — he saw The beauty of her perfect law. The language of her signs he knew. What notes her cloudy clarion blew ; The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes. The hymn of sunset's painted skies. And thus he seemed to hear the song "Which swept, of old, the stars along ; And to his eyes the earth once more Its fresh and primal beauty wore. Who sought with him, from siunmel air. And field and wood, a babu for care ; And bathed in light of sunset skies His tortured nerves and weary eyes * ITis fame on all the winds had flown ; His words had shaken crypt and throne ; Like fire, on camp and court and cell They dropped, and kindled as tnej feU. Beneath the pomps of state, below The mitred juggler's masque and show, A prophecy — a vague hope — ran His burning thought from man to man. For peace or rest too well he saw The fraud of priests, the wrong of law, And felt how hard, between the two. Their breath of pain the millions drew. A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, The weakness of an unweaned child, A sun-bright hope for human-kind. And self-despair, in him combined. He loathed the false, yet lived net true To half the glorious truths he knew ; The doubt, the discord, and the sin. He mourned without, he felt within. Fntrod by him the path he showed. Sweet pictures on his easel glowed Of simple faith, and loves of home. And virtue's golden days to come. But weakness, shame, and folly made The foil to all his pen portrayed ; Still, where his dreamy splendors shone The shadow of himself was thrown. THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 155 Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, Up to thy sevenfold brightness climbs, While stUl his grosser instinct clings To earth, like other creeping things ! So rich in words, in acts so mean ; So high, so low ; chance-swung between The foulness of the penal pit And Truth's clear sky, millennium- lit ! Vain pride of star-lent genius ! — vain Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, Absurdly gi'eat, or weakly wise ! Midst yearnings for a truer life, Without were fears, within was strife ; And still his wayward act denied The perfect good for which he sighed. The love he sent forth void returned ; The fame that crowned him scorched and burned. Burning, yet cold and drear and lone, — A fire-mount in a frozen zone ! Ijike that the gray -haired sea-king Seen southward from his sleety mast, About whose brows of changeless frost A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed. Far round the mournful beauty Of lambent light and purple shade. Lost on the fixed and dumb despair Of frozen earth and sea and air ! A man apart, unknown, unloved By those whose wrongs his soul had moved. He bore the ban of Church and State, The good man's fear, the bigot's hate ! Forth from the city's noise and throng. Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, The twain that summer day had strayed To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade. To them the green fields and the wood Lent something of their quietude, And golden-tinted sunset seemed Prophetical of all they dreamed. The hermits from their simple cares The bell was calling home to prayers, And, listening to its sound, the twain Seemed lapped in childhood's trust Wide open stood the chapel door ; A sweet old music, swelling o'er Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence, — The Litanies of Providence ! Then Rousseau spake : "Where two or three In His name meet, He there will be ! '" And then, in silence, on their knees They sank beneath the chestnut-trees. As to the blind returning light. As daybreak to the Arctic night, Old faith revived : the doubts of years Dissolved in reverential tears. That gush of feeling overpast, " Ah me ! " Bernardin sighed at last, " I would thy bitterest foes could see Thy heart as it is seen of me ! " No church of God hast thou denied ; Thou hast but spumed in scorn aside A base and hollow counterfeit, Profaning the pure name of it ! " With dry dead moss and marish weeds His fire the western herdsman feeds. And greener from the ashen plain The sweet spring grasses rise again. " Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind Disturb the solid sky behind ; And through the cloud the red bolt rends The calm, still smile of Heaven descends I "Thus through the world, like bolt and blast. And scourging fire, thy words have Clouds break, — the steadfast heavens remain ; Weeds burn, — the ashes feed the grain ! " But whoso strives with wrong may find Its touch pollute, its darkness blind ; And learn, as latent fraud is shown In others' faith, to doubt his own. " With dream and falsehood, simple trust And pious hope we tread in dust ; Lost the calm faith in goodness, — lost The baptism of the Pentecost ! 156 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. " Alas ! — the blows for error meant Too oft on truth itself are spent, As thi-ough the'false and vile and base Looks forth her sad, rebuking face. " Not ours the Theban's charmed life ; "We come not scathless from the strife ! The Python's coil about us clings. The tramijled Hydra bites and stings ! " Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, The plastic shapes of circumstance, What might have been we fondly guess, If earlier born, or tempted less. " And thou, in these wild, troubled days, Misjudged aUke in blame and praise. Unsought and undeserved the same The sceptic's praise, the bigot's blame ; — " I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been Among the highly favored men Who walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son ; " And, bright with wings of cherubim Visibly waving over him. Seen through his life, the Church had seemed All that its old confessors dreamed. " I would have been," Jean Jaques re- plied, " The humblest servant at his side. Obscure, unknown, content to see How beautiful man's life may be ! "0, more than thrice-blest relic, more Than solemn rite or sacred lore. The holy life of one who trod The foot-marks of the Christ of God ! " Amidst a blinded world he saw The oneness of the Dual law ; That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began. And God was loved through love of man. " He lived the Truth which reconciled The strong man Reason, Faith the child : In him belief and act were one. The homilies of duty done ! " So speaking, through the twilight gray The two old pilgrims went their way. What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone. Time passed, and Autumn came to fold Green Summer in her brown and gold ; Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow Dropped on the grave-mound of Rous- seau. " The tree remaineth where it fell, The pained on earth is pained in hell ! " So priestcraft from its altars cursed The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. Ah ! well of old the Psalmist prayed, " Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid ! " Earth frowns below. Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love ! No Hermits now the wanderer sees, Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees ; A morning dream, a tale that 's told, The wave of change o'er all has rolled. Yet lives the lesson of that day ; And from its twilight cool and gray Comes up a low, sad whisper, ' ' Make The truth thine own, for truth's own sake. "Why wait to see in thy brief span Its perfect ilower and fruit in man ? No saintly touch can save ; no balm Of healing hath the martyr's palm. "Midst soulless forms, and false pre- tence Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, ' What is that to thee ? Be true thyself, and follow Me ! ' "In days when throne and altar heard The wanton's wish, the bigot's word. And pomp of state and ritual show Scarce hid the loathsome death be- low, — "Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, The losel swarm of crown and cowl. White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, Stainless as Uriel in the sun ! " Yet in his time the stake blazed red. The poor were eaten up like bread : Men knew him not : his garment's hem No healing virtue had for them. QUESTIONS OF LIFE. 157 " Alas ! no present saint we find ; I'Tie white cymar gleams far behind, Revealed in outline vague, sublime, Through telescopic mists of time l ■" Trust not in man with passing breath. But in the Lord, old Scripture saith ; The truth which saves thou mayst not blend With false professor, faithless friend. "Search thine own heart. What pain- eth thee In others in thyself may be ; All dust is frail, all flesh is weak ; Be thou the true man thou dost seek ! ' ' Where no w with pain thou treadest, trod The whitest of the saints of God ! To show thee where their feet were set. The light which led them shineth yet. " The footprints of the life divine. Which marked their path, remain in thine ; And that great Life, transfused in theirs. Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers ! " A lesson which I well may heed, A word of fitness to my need ; So from that twilight cool and gray Still saith a voice, or seems to say. We rose, and slowly homeward turned. While down the west the sunset burned; And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide. And human forms seemed glorified. The village homes transfigured stood. And purple bluff's, whose belting wood Across the waters leaned to hold The yellow leaves like lamps of gold. Then spake my friend : " Thy words are true ; Forever old, forever new. These home-seen splendors are the same Which over Eden's sunsets came. " To these bowed heavens let wood and hill Lift voiceless praise and anthem still ; Fall, warm with blessing, over them. Light of the New Jerusalem ! " Flow on, sweet river, like the stream Of John's Apocalyptic dream ! This mapled ridge shall Horeb be, Yon green-banked lake our Galilee ! "Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more For olden time and holier shore ; God's love and blessing, then and there, Are now and here and everywhere." MISCELLANEOUS. QUESTIONS OF LIFE. &.nd the angel that was sent unto me, whose name was Uriel, gave me an answer and said, " Thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thinkest thou to comprehend the way of the Most High? " Then said I, " Yea, my Lord." Then said he unto me, " Go thy way, weigh me the weight of the fire or measure me the hlast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past."— 2 Esdras, chap. iv. A BENDING staff I would not break, A feeble faith I would not shake, Nor even rashly pluck away The error which some truth may stay. Whose loss might leave the soul without A shield against the shafts of doubt. And yet, at times, when over all A darker mystery seems to fall, (May God forgive the child of dust. Who seeks to know, where Faith shouid trust 1 ) I raise the questions, old and dark, Of Uzdom's tempted patriarch. And, speech-confounded, build again The baffled tower of Shinar's plain. I am : how little more I know ! Whence came I ? Whither do I go ? A centred self, which feels and is ; A cry between the silences ; A shadow-birth of clouds at strife With sunshine on the hills of life ; 158 MISCELLANEOUS. A shaft from Nature's quiver cast Into the Future from the Past ; Between the cradle and the shroud, A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud. Thorough the vastness, arching all, I see the great stars rise and fall, The rounding seasons come and go, The tided oceans ebb and flow ; The tokens of a central force, Whose circles, in their widening course, O'erlap and move the universe ; The workings of the law whence springs The rhythmic harmony of things. Which shapes in earth the darkling spar. And orbs in heaven the morning star. Of all I see, in earth and sky, — Star, flower, beast, bird, — what part have I ? This conscious life, — is it the same Wliich thrills the universal frame, Whereby the caverned crystal shoots. And mounts the sap from forest roots. Whereby the exiled wood-bird tells When Spring makes green her native dells? How feels the stone the pang of birth. Which brings its sparkliog prism forth ? The forest -tree the throb which gives The life-blood to its new-born leaves ? Do bird and blossom feel, like me, Life's many-folded mystery, — The wonder which it is TO be ? Or stand I severed and distinct. From Nature's chain of life unlinked ? Allied to all, yet not the less Prisoned in separate consciousness, Alone o'erburdened with a sense Of life, and cause, and consequence ? In vain to me the Sphinx propounds The riddle of her sights and sounds ; Back still the vaulted mystery gives The echoed question it receives. What sings the brook ? What oracle Is in the pine-tree's organ swell ? What may the wind's low burden be? The meaning of the moaning sea ? The hierogl}q)hics of the stars ? Or clouded sunset's crimson bars ? 1 vainly ask, for mocks my skill The trick of Nature's cipher stiH I turn from Nature unto men, I ask the stylus and the pen ; What s£».ng the bards of old? What meant The prophets of the Orient ? The roUs of buried Egypt, hid In painted tomb and pyramid ? What mean Idiimea's arrowy lines, Or dusk Flora's monstrous signs ? How speaks the primal thought of man From the grim carvings of Copan ? Where rests the secret ? Where the keys Of the old death-bolted mysteries ? Alas ! the dead retain their trust ; Dust hath no answer from the dust. The great enigma still unguessed. Unanswered the eternal quest ; I gather up the scattered rays Of wisdom in the early days. Faint gleams and broken, like the light Of meteors in a northern night. Betraying to the darkling earth The unseen sun which gave them birth ; I listen to the sibyl's chant, The voice of priest and hierophant ; I know what Indian Kreeshna saith. And what of life and what of death The demon taught to Socrates ; And what, beneath his garden-trees Slow pacing, with a dream -like tread, The solemn-thoughted Plato said ; Nor lack I tokens, great or small. Of God's clear light in each and all. While holding with more dear regard The scroll of Hebrew seer and bard, The starry pages promise-lit With Christ's Evangel over-writ, Thy miracle of life and death, holy one of Nazareth ! On Aztec ruins, gray and lone. The circling serpent coils in stone, — Type of the endless and unknown ; Whereof we seek the clew to find. With groping fingers of the blind 1 Forever sought, and never found. We trace that serpent-symbol round Our resting-place, our starting bound ! thriftlessness of dream and guess ! wisdom which is foolishness ! Why idly seek from outward things The answer inward silence brings ; AVhy stretch beyond our proper sphere And age, for that which lies so near ? Why climb the far-off" hills with pain, A nearer view of heaven to gain ? In lowliest depths of bosky dells The hermit Contemplation dwells. THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. 159 A fountain's pine-hung slope his seat, And lotus-twined his silent feet, Whence, piercing heaven, with screened sight, He sees at noon the stars, whose light Shall glorify the coming night. Here let me pause, my quest forego ; Enough for me to feel and know That He in whom the cause and end. The past and future, meet and blend, — Who, girt with his immensities. Our vast and star-hung system sees, Small as the clustered Pleiades, — Moves not alone the heavenly quires. But waves the spring-time's grassy spires. Guards not archangel feet alone, But deigns to guide and keep my own ; Speaks not alone the words of fate Which worlds destroy, and worlds create. But whispers in my spirit's ear. In tones of love, or warning fear, A language none beside may hear. To Him, from wanderings long and wild, I come, an over-wearied child. In cool and shade his peace to find. Like dew-fall settling on my mind. Assured that all I know is best. And humbly trusting for the rest, I turn from Fancy's cloud-built scheme. Dark creed, and mournful eastern dream Of power, impersonal and cold. Controlling all, itself controlled. Maker and slave of iron laws, Alike the subject and the cause ; From vain philosophies, that try The sevenfold gates of mystery. And, baffled ever, babble still. Word-prodigal of fate and will ; From Nature, and her mockery, Art, And book and speech of men apart. To the still witness in my heart ; With reverence waiting to behold His Avatar of love untold. The Eternal Beauty new and old ! THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound In Naples, dying for the lack of air And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain. Where hope is not, and innocence in vain Appeals against the torture and the chain ! Unfortunates ! whose crime it was to share Our common love of freedom, and to dare. In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple- crowned. And her base pander, the most hateful thing Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground Makes vile the old heroic name of king. God most merciful ! Father just and kind! Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind. Or, if thy purposes of good behind Their ills lie hidden, let the suflFerers find Strong consolations ; leave them not to doubt Thy providential care, nor yet without The hope which all thy attributes in- spire. That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain ; Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth. Electrical, with every throb of pain. Unquenchable sparks, thy own bap- tismal rain Of fire and spirit over all the earth. Making the dead in slavery live again. Let this great hope be with them, as they lie Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky, — From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze. The smell of flowers, and shade of sum- mer trees ; Bound with the felon lepers, whom And sins abhorred make loathsome } let them share PeUico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear Years of unutterable torment, stern and still, As the chained Titan victor through his will! 160 MISCELLANEOUS. Comfort them with thy future ; let them see The day-dawn of Italian liberty ; For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee, And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be ! I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost Of some weak friendships, or some pal- try prize Of name or place, and more than I have lost Have gained in wider reach of sym- pathies, And free communion with the good and wise, — May God forbid that I should ever boast Such easy self-denial, or repine That the strong pulse of health no more is mine ; That, overworn at noonday, I must yield To other hands the gleaning of the field, — A tired on-looker through the day's decline. For blest beyond deserving stUl, and knowing That kindly Providence its care is showing In the withdrawal as in the bestowing. Scarcely 1 dare for more or less to pray. Beautiful yet for me this autumn day Melts on its sunset hills ; and, far away. For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm, To me the pine-woods whisper ; and for me Yon river, winding through its vales of calm, By greenest banks, with asters purple- starred. And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay, Flows down in silent gladness to the sea. Like a pure spirit to its great reward ! 'Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear, "Whose love is round me like this atmos- phere. Warm, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me What shall I render, my God, to thee ? Let me not dwell upon my lighter share Of pain and ill that human life must bear ; Save me from selfish pining ; let my heart, Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget The bitter longings of a vain regret, The anguish of its own peculiar smart. Remembering others, as I have to-day, In their great sorrows, let me live alway Not for myself alone, but have a part, Such as a frail and erring spirit may, In love which is of Thee, and which in- deed Thou art ! MOLOCH IN STATE STREET. The moon has set : while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray. Between the midnight and the mom Bear ofi" your prey ! On, swift and still ! — the conscious street Is panged and stirred ; Tread light ! — that fall of serried feet The dead have heard ! The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins Gushed where ye tread ; Lo ! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red ! Beneath the slowly waning stars And whitening day. What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way ? "What faces frown upon ye, dark "With shame and pain ? Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark? Is that young Vane ? Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on With mocking cheer ? Lo ! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage are here ! For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch's fire Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed The Tyrian sire. Ye make that ancient sacrifice Of Man to Gain, Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies Beneath the chain. Ye sow to-day, your harvest, scorn And hate, ia near ; THE PEACE OF EUKOPE. 161 How think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear ? Thank God ! our mother State can yet Her fame retrieve ; To you and to your children let The scandal cleave. Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, Make gods of gold ; Let honor, truth, and manliness Like wares be sold. Your hoards are great, your walls are strong, But God is just ; The gilded chambers built by wrong Invite the rust. What ! know ye not the gains of Crime Are dust and dross ; Its ventures on the waves of time Foredoomed to loss ! And still the Pilgrim State remains What she hath been ; Her inland hills, her seaward plains, Still nurture men ! Nor wholly lost the fallen mart, — Her olden blood Through many a free and generous heart Still pours its flood. That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, Sliall know no check. Till a free people's foot is set On Slavery's neck. Even now, the peal of bell and gun. And hills aflame, Tell of the first great triumph won In Freedom's name.^ Tue long night dies : the welcome gray Of dawn we see ; Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, God of the free ! 1851. THE PEACE OF EUROPE. 1852. " Great peace in Europe ! Order reigns From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains !" So say her kings and priests ; so say The lying prophets of our day. 11 Go lay to earth a listening ear ; The tramp of measured marches hear, — The rolling of the cannon's wheel, The shotted musket's murderous peal. The night alarm, the sentry's call, The quick-eared spy in hut and hall ! From Polar sea and tropic fen The dying-groans of exiled men ! The bolted cell, the galley's chains, The scafi'old smoking with its stains ! Order, — the hush of brooding slaves ! Peace, — in thd dungeon - vaults and graves ! Fisher ! of the world-wide net, With meshes in all waters set. Whose fabled keys of heaven and hell Bolt hard the patriot's prison-cell, And open wide the banquet-hall. Where kings and priests hold carni- val ! Weak vassal tricked in royal guise, Boy Kaiser with thy lip of lies ; Base gambler for Napoleon's crown. Barnacle on his dead renown ! . Thou, Bourbon Neapolitan, Crowned scandal, loathed of God and man; And thou, fell Spider of the North ! Stretching thy giant feelers forth. Within whose web the freedom dies Of nations eaten up like flies ! Speak, Prince and Kaiser, Priest and Czar! If this be Peace, pray what is War ? White Angel of the Lord ! unmeet That soil accursed for thy pure feet. Never in Slavery's desert flows The fountain of thy charmed repose ; No tyrant's hand thy chaplet weaves Of lilies and of olive-leaves ; Not with the wicked shalt thou dwell, Thus saith the Eternal Oracle ; Thy home is with the pure and free ! Stem herald of thy better day, Before thee, to prepare thy way. The Baptist Shade of Liberty, Gray, scarred and hairy-robed, must press With bleeding feet the wilderness ! that its voice might pierce the ear Of princes, trembling while they hear A cry as of the Hebrew seer : Repent ! God's kingdom draweth near I- 162 MISCELLANEOUS. WORDSWORTH. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS. Dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discern A beauty and a harmony The many never learn ! Kindred in soul of him who found In simple flower and leaf and stone The impulse of the sweetest lays Our Saxon tongue has known, — Accept this record of a life As sweet and pure, as calm and good. As a long day of blandest June In green held and in wood. How welcome to our ears, long pained By strife of sect and party noise, The brook-like murmur of his song Of nature's simple joys ! The violet by its mossy stone, The primrose by the river's brim. And chance-sown daffodil, have found Immortal life through him. The sunrise on his breezy lake. The rosy tints his sunset brought. World-seen, are gladdening all the vales ,And mountain-peaks of thought. Art builds on sand ; the works of pride And human passion change and fall ; But that which shares the life of God With him surviveth all. TO lines written after a summer day's excursion. Fair Nature's priestesses ! to whom, Tn hieroglyph of bud and bloom, Her mysteries are told ; Who, wise in lore of wood and mead, The seasons' pictured scrolls can read, In lessons manifold ! Thanks for the courtesy, and gay Good-humor, which on Washing Day Our ill-timed visit bore ; Thanks for your graceful oars, which broke The morning dreams of Artichoke, Along his wooded shore ! Varied as varying Nature's ways, Sprites of the river, woodland fays, Or mountain nymphs, ye seem ; Free-limbed Dianas on the green. Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine, Upon your favorite stream. The forms of which the poets told, The fair benignities of old, Were doubtless such as you ; What more than Artichoke the rill Of Helicon ? Than Pipe-stave hill Arcadia's mountain-view ? No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, In wild Hymettus' scented shade, Than those you dwell among ; Snow-flowered azalias, intertwined With roses, over banks inclined With trembling harebells hung ! A charmed life unknown to death, Immortal freshness Nature hath ; Her fabled fount and glen Are now and here : DoJona's shrine Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine, — All is that e'er hath been. The Beauty which old Greece or Rome Sung, painted, wrought, lies close a home ; We need but eye and ear In all our daily walks to trace The outlines of incarnate grace, The hymns of gods to hear ! IN PEACE. A TRACK of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose smaU waves on a silver-sanded shore Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make Such harmonies as keep the woods awake. And listening all night long for their sweet sake ; A green-waved slope of meadow, hov- ered o'er By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light On viewless stems, with folded wings of white ; A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seen Where the low westering day, with gold and green. Purple and amber, softly blended, fills PICTUKES. 163 The wooded vales, and melts among the hills; A. rine-fringed river, winding to its rest On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast. With earthly flowers and heavenly stars impressed, The hues of time and of eternity : Such are the pictures which the thought of thee, friend, awakeneth, — charming the keen pain Of thy departure, and our sense of loss Requiting with the fulness of thy gain. Lo ! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross. Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine. Of thy beatitude the radiant sign ! No sob of giief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air ; But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayer Of hearts still waiting for a vest like thine. spirit redeemed ! Forgive us, if hence- forth. With sweet and pure similitudes of earth. We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green. Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart. BENEDICITE. God's love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! ^V^lether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms. Or, out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. Imparting, in its glad embrace. Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead, — The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine, — All keep thy memory fresh and green. Where'er I look, where'er I stray. Thy thought goes with me on my way. And hence the prayer I breathe to-day; O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean. Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word, nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blessed angels fast. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me. What should, dear heart, its burden bel The sighing of a shaken reed, — What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ? God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! PICTURES. I. Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and o'er all Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, rain- ing down Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town, The freshening meadows, and the hill- sides brown ; Voice of the west-wind from the hills of pine. And the brimmed river from its distant fall. Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting wood, — Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight. Blessed forerunners of the warmth and light, 164 MISCELLANEOUS. Attendant angels to the house of prayer, With reverent footsteps keeping pace with mine, — Once more, through God's great love, with you I share A mom of resurrection sweet and fair As that which saw, of old, in Pales- tine, Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom From the dark night and winter of the tomb ! &«/twto.,2d, 1852. ■y^Tiite with its sun-bleached dust, the pathway winds Before me ; dust is on the shrunken gi-ass. And on the trees beneath whose boughs I pass ; Frail screen against the Hunter of the sky. Who, glaring on me with his lidlesseye. While mounting with his dog-star high and higher Ambushed in light intolerable, unbinds The burnished quiver of his shafts of fire. Between me and the hot fields of his South A tremulous glow, as from a furnace- mouth. Glimmers and swims before my daz- zled sight, As if the burning arrows of his ire Broke as they fell, and shattered into light ; Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind. And hear it telling to the orchard trees, And to the faint and flower-forsaken bees. Tales of fair meadows, green with con- stant streams. And mountains rising blue and cool behind. Where in moist dells the purple or- chis gleams. And starred with white the virgin's bower is twined. So the o'erwearied pilgrim, as he fares Along life's siimmer waste, at times is fanned. Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs Of a serener and a holier land, Fresh as the mom, and as the dew- fall bland. Breath of the blessed Heaven for which we pray. Blow from the eternal hills ! — make glad our earthly way ! 8«A mo., 1862. DERNE.66 Night on the city of the Moor ! On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore. On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock The narrow harbor-gates unlock, On corsair's galley, carack tall. And plundered Christian caraval ! The sounds of Moslem life are still ; No mule-bell tinkles down the hill ; Stretched in the broad court of the khan, The dusty Bornou caravan Lies heaped in slumber, beast and man;.' The Sheik is dreaming in his tent. His noisy Arab tongue o'erspent ; The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone. The merchant with his wares with- drawn ; Rough pillowed on some pirate breast, The dancing-girl has sunk to rest ; And, save where measured footsteps fall Along the Bashaw's guarded wall. Or where, like some bad dream, the Jew Creeps stealthily his quarter through, Or counts with fear his golden heaps. The City of the Corsair i " But where yon prison long and low Stands black against the pale star-glow. Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves. There watch and pine the Christian slaves ; — Rough-bearded men, whose far-ott' wives Wear out with grief their lonely lives ; And youth, still flashing from his eyes The clear blue of New England skies, A treasured lock of whose soft hair Now wakes some sorrowing mother's prayer ; Or, worn upon some maiden breast. Stirs with the loving heart's unrest ! A bitter cup each life must drain, The groaning earth is cursed with pain, And, like the scroll the angel bore The shuddering Hebrew seer before, 165 O'erwrit alike, without, within, With all the woes which follow sin ; But, bitterest of the ills beneath Whose load man totters down to death, Is that which plucks the regal crown Of Freedom from his forehead down, And snatches from his powerless hand The sceptred sign of self-command, Effacing with the chain and rod The image and the seal of God ; Till from his nature, day by day, The manly virtues fall away. And leave him naked, blind and mute, The godlike merging in the brute ! Why mourn the quiet ones who die Beneath affection's tender eye. Unto their household and their kin Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in ? weeper, from that tranquil sod. That holy harvest-home of God, Turn to the quick and suffering, — shed Thy tears upon the living dead ! Thank God above thy dear ones' graves, They sleep with Him, — they are not slaves. What dark mass, down the mountain- sides Swift-pouring, like a stream divides ? — A long, loose, straggling caravan, Camel and horse and armed man. The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er Its grave of waters to the shore. Lights up that mountain cavalcade, And glints from gun and spear and blade Near and more near ! — now o'er them falls The shadow of the city walls. Hark to the sentry's challenge, drowned In the fierce trumpet's charging sound ! — The rush of men, the musket's peal. The short, sharp clang of meeting steel ! Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured So freely on thy foeman's sword ! Not to the swift nor to the strong The battles of the right belong ; For he who strikes for Freedom wears The armor of the captive's prayers. And Nature proffers to his cause The strength of her eternal laws ; While he whose arm essays to bind And herd with common brutes his kind Strives evermore at fearful odds With Nature and the jealous gods, And dares the dread recoil which late Or soon their right shall vindicate. 'T is done, — the horned crescent falls ! The star-flag flouts the broken walls ! Joy to the captive husband ! joy To thy sick heart, brown-locked boy In sullen \vrath the conquered Moor Wide open flings your dungeon-door. And leaves ye free from cell and chain, The owners of yourselves again. Dark as his allies desert-born. Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn With the long marches of his band Through hottest wastes of rock and sand, — Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath Of the red desert's wind of death. With welcome words and grasping hands. The victor and deliverer stands ! The tale is one of distant skies ; The dust of half a century lies Upon it ; yet its hero's name Still lingers on the lips of Fame. Men speak the praise of him who gave Deliverance to the Moorman's slave. Yet dare to brand with shame and crim6 The heroes of our land and time, — The self-forgetful ones, who stake Home, name, and life for Freedom's sake. God mend his heart who cannot feel The impulse of a holy zeal. And sees not, with his sordid eyes, The beauty of self-sacrifice ! Though in the sacred place he stands. Uplifting consecrated hands. Unworthy are his lips to tell Of Jesus' martyi'-miracle, Or name aright that dread embrace Of suflering for a fallen race ! ASTRiEA. " Jove means to gettle Astraea in her seat again, And let down from his golden chain An age of better metal." Ben Jonson, POET rare and old ! Thy words are prophecies ; Forward the age of gold, The new Saturuian lies. 166 MISCELLANEOUS. The universal prayer And hope are not in vain ; Rise, brothers ! and prepare The way for Saturn's reign. Perish shall all which takes From labor's board and can ; Perish shall all which makes A spaniel of the man ! Free from its bonds the mind, The body from the rod ; Broken all chains that bind The image of our God. Just men no longer pine Behind their prison-bars ; Through the rent dungeon shine The free sun and the stars. Earth own, at last, uutrod By sect, or caste, or clan. The fatherhood of God, The brotherhood of man ! Fraud fail, craft perish, forth The money-changers driven, And God's will done on earth, As now in heaven ! INVOCATION. Through thy clear spaces. Lord, of old, Formless and void the dead earth roUed ; Deaf to thy heaven's sweet music, blind To the great lights which o'er it shined ; No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath, — A dumb despair, a wandering death. To that dark, weltering horror came Thy spirit, like a subtle flame, — A breath of life electrical, Awakening and transforming all, Till beat and thrilled in every part The pulses of a living heart. Then knew their bounds the land and sea ; Then snuled the bloom of mead and tree ; From flower to moth, from beast to man. The quick creative impulse ran ; And earth, with life from thee renewed, Was in thy holy eyesight good. As lost and void, as dark and cold And formless as that earth of old, — A wandering waste of storm and night, Midst spheres of song and realms of light, - A blot upon thy holy sky. Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I. thou who movest on the deep Of sjiirits, wake my own from sleep ! Its darkness melt, its coldness warm, The lost restore, the ill transform. That flower and fruit henceforth may be Its grateful ofiering, worthy thee. THE CROSS. ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DILLING. HAM, IN THE NASHVILLE PENITEN- TIARY. " The cross, if rightly borne, shall be No burden, but support to thee" ;* So, moved of old time for our sake, The holy monk of Kempen spake. Thou brave and true one ! upon whom Was laid the cross of martyrdom. How didst thou, in thy generous youtli, Bear witness to this blessed truth ! Thy cross of suffering and of shame A stafl" within thy hands became, In paths where faith alone could see The Master's steps supporting thee. Thine was the seed-time ; God alone Beholds the end of what is sown ; Beyond our vision, weak and dim. The harvest-time is hid with Him. Yet, unforgotten where it lies. That seed of generous sacrifice, Though seeming on the desert cast. Shall rise with bloom and fruit at last. EVA. Dry the tears for holy Eva, With the blessed angels leave her ; Of the form so soft and fair Give to earth the tender care. For the golden locks of Eva Let the sunny south-land give her i Kempifl. Imit. Ohriet APEIL. 167 Flowery pillow of repose, — Orange-bloom and budding rose. In the better home of Eva Let the shining ones receive her, With the welcome-voiced psalm, Harp of gold and waving palm ! All is light and peace with Eva ; There the darkness cometh never •, Tears are wiped, and fetters fall, And the Lord is all in all. "Weep no more for happy Eva, Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her; Care and pain and weariness Lost in love so measureless. Gentle Eva, loving Eva, Child confessor, true beUever, Listener at the Master's knee, *' Suifer such to come to me." 0, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, Lighting all the solemn river, And the blessings of the poor Wafting to the heavenly shore ! TO FREDRIKA BREMER.67 Seeress of the misty Norland, Daughter of the Vikings bold. Welcome to the sunny Vineland, Which thy fathers sought of old ! Soft as flow of Silja's waters, When the moon of summer shines. Strong as Winter from his mountains Roaring through the sleeted pines. Heart and ear, we long have listened To thy saga, rune, and song, As a household joy and presence We have known and loved thee long. By the mansion's marble mantel. Round the log-walled cabin's hearth. Thy sweet thoughts and northern fan- cies Meet and mingle with our mirth. And o'er weary spirits keeping Sorrow's night-watch, long and chill, Shine they like thy sun of summer Over midnight vale and hill. We alone to thee are strangers, Thou our friend and teacher art ; Come, and know us as we know thee j Let us meet thee heart to heart ! To our homes and household altars We, in turn, thy steps would lead As thy loving hand has led us O'er the threshold of the Swede. APRIL. 'T IS the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard ; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow. And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow ; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On south - sloping brook sides should smile in the light. O'er the cold winter-beds of their late- waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots ; And, longing for light, under wind- driven heaps. Round the boles of the pine -wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers. With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers ! We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south ! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth ; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod ! Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast, — Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow. All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau, — Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, 168 MISCELLANEOUS. I Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest. soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death ; Renew the great miracle ; let us behold The stone f*om the mouth of the sepul- chre rolled. And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old! Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain. Revive with the warmth and the bright- ness again, And in blooming of flower and budding of tree The symbols and types of our destiny see ; The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole. And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul ! STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1850. The evil days have come, — the poor Are made a prey ; Bar up the hospitable door, Put out the fire-lights, point no more The wanderer's way. for Pity now is crime ; the chain Which binds our States Is melted at her hearth in twain. Is rusted by her tears' soft rain : Close up her gates. Our Union, like a glacier stirred By voice below. Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, A beggar's crust, a kindly word May overthrow ! Poor, whispering tremblers ! — yet we boast Our blood and name ; Bursting its century-bolted frost, Each gi-ay cairn on the Northman's coast Cries out for shame ! for the open firmament. The prairie free, The desert hiUside, cavern-rent, The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent, The Bushman's tree ! Than web of Persian loom most rare. Or soft divan, Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, Or hollow tree, which man may shan*. With suifering man. I hear a voice : " Thus saith the Law, Let Love be dumb ; Clasping her liberal hands in awe, Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw From hearth and home." I hear another voice : " The poor Are thine to feed ; Turn not the outcast from thy door. Nor give to bonds and wrong once mof Whom God hath freed." Dear Lord ! between that law and thee No choice remains ; Yet not untrue to man's decree, Though spurning its rewards, is he Who bears its pains. Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast And threatening word ; I read the lesson of the Past, That firm endurance wins at last More than the sword. clear-eyed Faith, and Patience, thou So calm and strong ! Lend strength to weakness, teach us hoW The sleepless eyes of God look through This night of wrong ! A SABBATH SCENE. Scarce had the solemn Sabbath-beU Ceased quivering in the steeple, Scarce had the parson to his desk Walked stately through his people, When down the summer-shaded street A wasted female figure. With dusky brow and naked feet, Came rushing wild and eager. She saw the white spire through the trees, She heard the sweet hymn swelling : pitying Christ ! a refuge give That poor one in thy dwelling ! A SABBATH SCENE. 169 Like a seared fawn before the hounds, Right up the aisle she glided, While close behind her, whip in hand, A lank-haired hunter strided. She raised a keen and bitter cry, To Heaven and Earth appealing ; — Were manhood's generous pulses dead ? Had woman's heart no feeling ? i score of stout hands rose between The hunter and the flying : Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes Flashed tearful, yet defying. "Who dares profane this house and day ? " Cried out the angry pastor. " Why, bless your soul, the wench 's a slave, And I 'm her lord and master ! " I 've law and gospel on my side, And who shall dare refuse me ? " Down came the parson, bowing low, " My good sir, pray excuse me ! " Of course I know your right divine To own and work and whip her ; Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott Before the wench, and trip her ! " Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er Its sacred pages stumbling. Bound hand and foot, a slave once more. The hapless wretch lay trembling. I saw the parson tie the knots. The while his flock addressing, The Scriptural claims of slavery With text on text impressing, " Although," said he, " on Sabbath day All secular occupations Are deadly sins, we must fulfil Our moral obligations : *' And this commends itself as one To every conscience tender ; As Paul sent back Onesiraus, My Christian friends, we send her ! " Shriek rose on shriek, — the Sabbath air , Her wild cries tore asunder ; i listened, with hushed breath, to hear Grod answering with his thunder ! All still ! — the very altar's cloth Had smothered down her shrieking, And, dumb, she turned from face to face. For human pity seeking ! I saw her dragged along the aisle. Her shackles harshly clanking ; I heard the parson, over all. The Lord devoutly thanking ! My brain took fire : *' Is this," I cried, " The end of prayer and preach- ing? Then do^vn with pulpit, down with priest. And give us Nature's teaching ! '■ Foul shame and scorn be on ye all ■^Vho turn the good to evil. And steal the Bible from the Lord, To give it to the Devil ! " Than garbled text or parchment law I own a statute higher ; And God is true, though every book And every man's a liar ! " Just then I felt the deacon's hand In wrath my coat-tail seize on ; I heard the priest cry, " Infidel ! " The lawyer mutter, "Treason ! " I started up, — where now were church. Slave, master, priest, and people ? I only heard the supper-bell. Instead of clanging steeple. But, on the open window's sill, O'er which the white blooms drifted. The pages of a good old Book The wind of summer lifted. And flower and vine, like angel wings Around the Holy Mother, Waved softly there, as if God's truth And Mercy kissed each other. And freely from the cherry-bough Above the casement s^vinging, With golden bosom to the sun. The oriole was singing. As bird and flower made plain of old The lesson of the Teacher, So now I heard the written Word Interpreted by Nature ! 170 MISCELLANEOUS, For to my ear methought the breeze Bore Freedom's blessed word on ; Thus saith the Lord : Break every YOKE, Undo the heavy burden ! REMEMBRANCE. WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR's WRIT- INGS. Friend of mine ! whose lot was cast With me in the distant past, — Where, like shadows flitting fast, Fact and fancy, thought and theme, Word and work, begin to seem Like a half -remembered dream ! Touched by change have all things been. Yet I think of thee as when We had speech of lip and pen. For the calm thy kindness lent To a path of discontent. Rough with trial and dissent ; Gentle words where such were few, Softening blame where blame was true. Praising where small praise was due ; For a waking dream made good, For an ideal understood. For thy Christian womanhood ; For thy marvellous gift to cull From our common life and dull Whatsoe'er is beautiful ; Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees Dropping sweetness ; true heart's-ease Of congenial sympathies ; — Still for these I own my debt ; Memory, with her eyelids wet, FarQ would thank thee even yet ! .And as one who scatters flowers "Where the Queen of May's sweet hours - Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, In superfluous zeal bestowing Gifts where gifts are overflowing, So I pay the debt I 'm owing. To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, Sunny-hued or sober clad, Something of my own I add ; Well assured that thou wilt take Even the offering which I make Kindly for the giver's sake. THE POOR VOTER ON ELEC- TION DAY. The proudest now is but my peer, The highest not more high ; To-day, of all the weary year, A king of men am I . To-day, alike are great and small. The nameless and the known ; My palace is the people's hall, The ballot-box my throne ! Who serves to-day uj?on the list Beside the served shall stand ; Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, The gloved and dainty hand ! The rich is level with the poor. The weak is strong to-day ; And sleekest broadcloth counts no more Than homespun frock of gray. To-day let pomp and vain pretence My stubborn right abide ; I set a plain man's common sense Against the pedant's pride. To-day shall simple manhood try The strength of gold and land ; The wide world has not wealth to buy The power in my right hand ! While there 's a grief to seek redress. Or balance to adjust. Where weighs our living manhood less Than Mammon's vilest dust, — While there 's a right to need my vote, A wrong to sweep away. Up ! clouted knee and ragged coat ! A man 's a man to-day ! TRUST. The same old baffling questions ! my friend, I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never bum The lamps of science, nor the natural light KATHLEEN. 171 ur Reason's sun and stars ! I cannot learn Their great and solemn meanings, nor discern The awful secrets of the eyes which turn Evermore on us through the day and night "With silent challenge and a dumb demand, Proffering the riddles of the dread un- known. Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand ! I have no answer for myself or thee, Save that I learned beside my mother's knee ; ' ' All is of God that is, and is to be ; And God is good." Let this suffice us still. Resting in childlike trust upon his will Who moves to his great ends unthwarted by the ill. KATHLEEN.58 NoRAH, lay your basket down, And rest your weary hand. And come and hear me sing a song Of our old Ireland. There was a lord of Galaway, A mighty lord was he ; And he did wed a second wife, A maid of low But he was old, and she was young, And so, in evil spite. She baked the black bread for his kin. And fed her own with white. She whipped the maids and starved the kern. And drove away the poor ; " Ah, woe is me ! " the old lord said, " I rue my bargain sore ! " This lord he had a daughter fair, Beloved of old and young, And nightly round the shealing-fires Of her the gleeman sung. •' As sweet and good is young Kathleen "But give to me your daughter dear. As Eve before her fall " ; Give sweet Kathleen to me. So sang the harper at the fair, So harped he in the hall. ' ' come to me, my daughter dear ! Come sit upon my knee. For looking in your face, Kathleen, Your mother's own I see ! " He smoothed and smoothed her hair away., He kissed her forehead fair ; " It is my darling Mary's brow, It is my darling's hair ! " 0, then spake up the angry dame, " Get up, get up," quoth she, " I '11 sell ye over Ireland, I 'U sell ye o'er the sea ! " She clipped her glossy hair away. That none her rank might know, She took away her gown of silk, And gave her one of tow. And sent her down to Limerick town, And to a seaman sold This daughter of an Irish lord For ten good pounds in gold. The lord he smote upon his breast. And tore his beard so gray ; But he was old, and she was young. And so she had her way. Sure that same night the Banshee howler To fright the evil dame, And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, With funeral torches came. She watched them glancing through the trees. And glimmering down the hill ; They crept before the dead-vault door, And there they all stood still ! " Get up, old man ! the wake-lights shine ! " "Ye murthering witch," quoth he, "So I 'm rid of your tongue, I little care If they shine for you or me." " 0, whoso brings my daughter back, My gold and land shall have ! " 0, then spake up his handsome page, " No gold nor land I crave ! 172 MISCELLANEOUS. Be she on sea or be she on land, I '11 bring her back to thee." " My daughter is a lady born, And you of low degree, But she shall be your bride the day You bring her back to me." He sailed east, he sailed west. And far and long sailed he. Until he came to Boston tojyn. Across the great salt sea. '• 0, have ye seen the young Kathleen, The flower of Ireland ? Ye 'U know her by her eyes so blue. And by her snow-white hand ! " Out spake an ancient man, " I know The maiden whom ye mean ; I bought her of a Limerick man. And she is called Kathleen. *• No skill hath she in household work, Her hands are soft and white, Yet well by loving looks and ways She. doth her cost requite. " So up they walked through Boston town. And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her arm So snowy-white and bare. " Come hither, child, and say hast thou This young man ever seen ? " They wept within each other's anns, The page and young Kathleen. " give to me this darling child. And take my purse of gold." *' Nay, not by me," her master said, " Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. ■f' We loved her in the place of one The Lord hath early ta'en ; But, since her heart 's in Ireland, We give her back again ! " 0, for that same the saints in heaven For his poor soul shall pray, And Mary Mother wash with tears His heresies away. Sure now they dwell in Ireland, As you go up Claremore Ye '11 see their castle looking down The pleasant Galway shore. And the old lord's wife is dead and gone. And a happy man is he, For he sits beside his own Kathleen, With her darling on his knee. FIKST-DAY THOUGHTS. In calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue Shall utter words ; where never hymn is sung. Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor cen- ser swung. Nor dim light falling through the pic- tured pane ! There, syllabled by silence, let me hear The still small voice which reached the prophet's ear ; Read in my heart a still diviner law Than Israel's leader on his tables saw ! There let me strive with each besetting sin. Recall my wandering fancies, and re- strain The sore disquiet of a restless brain ; And, as the path of duty is made plain. May grace be given that I may walk therein, Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain. With backward glances and reluctant tread. Making a merit of his coward dread, — But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown. Walking as one to pleasant service led; Doing God's will as if it were my own. Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone ! KOSSUTH.* Type of two mighty continents ! — com- bining The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow Of Asian song and prophecy, — the shin- ing Of Orient splendors over Northern snow ! Who shall receive him ? Who, unblush- ing, speak TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 173 Welcome to him, who, while he strore to break The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off At the aame blow the fetters of the serf, — Rearing the altar of his Father-land On the firm base of freedom, and thereby Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand, Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie ! Who shall be Freedom's mouth-piece ? Who shall give Her welcoming cheer to the great fugi- tive ? Not he who, all her sacred trusts betray- ing, Is scourging back to slavery's hell of pain The swarthy Kossuths of our land Not he whose utterance now from lips designed The bugle-march of Liberty to wind. And call her hosts beneath the breaking light, — The keen reveille of her morn of fight, — Is but the hoarse note of the blood- hound's baying, The wolfs long howl behind the bond- man's flight ! for the tongue of him who lies at rest In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, — Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best, — To lend a voice to Freedom's sympa- thies, And hail the coming of the noblest guest The Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West ! TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE. Old friend, kind friend ! lightly down Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown ! Never be thy shadow less. Never fail thy cheerfulness ; Care, that kills the cat, may plough Wrinkles in the miser's brow, Deepen envy's spiteful frown, Draw the mouths of bigots down, Plague ambition's dream, and sit Heavy on the hypocrite, Haunt the rich man's door, and ride In the gilded coach of pride ; — Let the fiend pass ! — what can he Find to do with such as thee ? Seldom comes that evU. guest Where the conscience lies at rest, And brown health and quiet wit Smiling oa the threshold sit. I, the urchin unto whom, In that smoked and dingy room, Where the district gave thee rule O'er its ragged winter school, Thou didst teach the mysteries Of those weary A B C's, — Where, to fill the every pause Of thy wise and learned saws, Through the cracked and crazy wall Came the cradle-rock and squall. And the goodman's voice, at strife With his shrill and tipsy wife, — Luring us by stories old. With a comic unction told. More than by the eloquence Of terse birchen arguments (Doubtful gain, I fear), to look AVith complacence on a book ! — Where the genial pedagogue Half forgot his rogues to flog. Citing tale or apologue. Wise and merry in its drift As oldPhaedrus' twofold gift, Had the little rebels known it, Eisum et prudentiam, vionet I I, — the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appears Many a warning fleck of gray, — Looking back to that far day. And thy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blend Olden teacher, present friend. Wise with antiquarian search. In the scrolls of State and Church ; Named on histor5''s title-page. Parish-clerk and justice sage ; For the ferule's wholesome awe Wielding now the sword of law. Threshing Time's neglected sheaves, Gathering up the scattered leaves Which the wrinkled sibyl cast Careless from her as she passed, — Twofold citizen art thou, 174 MISCELLANEOUS. Freeman of the past and now. He wlio bore thy name of old Midway in the heavens did hold Over Gibeon moon and sun ; Thou hast bidden them backward run : Of to-day the present ray Flinging over yesterday ! Let the busy ones deride What I deem of right thy pride : Let the fools their tread-mills grind, Look not forward nor behind, Shuffle in and wriggle out. Veer with every breeze about. Turning like a windmill sail. Or a dog that seeks his tail ; Let them laugh to see thee fast Tabernacled in the Past, Working out with eye and lip, Riddles of old penmanship, Patient as Belzoni there Sorting out, with loving care, Mummies of dead questions stripped From their sevenfold manuscript ! Dabbling, in their noisy way. In the puddles of to-day. Little know they of that vast Solemn ocean of the past, On whose margin, wreck-bespread. Thou art walking with the dead. Questioning the stranded years, Waking smiles, by turns, and tears. As thou callest up again Shapes the dust has long o'erlain, — Fair-haired woman, bearded man, Cavalier and Puritan ; In an age whose eager view Seeks but present things, and new, Mad for party, sect and gold, Teaching reverence for the old. On that shore, with fowler's tact. Coolly bagging fact on fact, Naught amiss to thee can float. Tale, or song, or anecdote ; Village gossip, centuries old. Scandals by our grandams told. What the pilgrim's table spread. Where he lived, and whom he wed, Long-drawn bill of wine and beer For his ordination cheer, Or the flip that wellnigh made Glad his funeral cavalcade ; Weary prose, and poet's lines, Flavored by their age, like wines. Eulogistic of some quaint. Doubtful, puritanic saint ; Lays that quickened husking jigs, Jests that shook grave periwigs, When the parson had his jokes And his glass, like other folks ; Sermons that, for mortal hours. Taxed our fathers' vital powers, As the long nineteenthlies poured Downward from the sounding-board, And, for tire of Pentecost, Touched their beards December's frost Time is hastening on, and we What our father's are shall be, — Shadow-shapes of memory ! Jomed to that vast multitude Where the great are but the good, And the mind of strength shall prove Weaker than the heart of love ; Pride of gray beard wisdom less Than the infant's guilelessness. And his song of sorrow more Than the crown the Psalmist wore ! Who shall then, with pious zeal. At our moss-grown thresholds kneel. From a stained and stony page Reading to a careless age, With a patient eye like thine. Prosing tale and limping line, Names and words the hoary rime Of the Past has made sublime ? Who shall work for us as well The antiquarian's miracle ? Who to seeming life recall Teacher gi'ave and pupil small ? Who shall give to thee and me Freeholds in futurity ? Well, whatever lot be mine. Long and happy days be thine, Ere thy full and honored age Dates of time its latest page ! Squire for master, State for school. Wisely lenient, live and rule ; Over grown-up knave and rogue Play the watchful pedagogue ; Or, while pleasure smiles on duty. At the call of youth and beauty. Speak for them the spell of law Which shall bar and bolt withdraw. And the flaming sword remove From the Paradise of Love. Still, with undunmed eyesight, pore Ancient tome and record o'er ; Still thy week-day lyrics croon. Pitch in church the Sunday tune. Showing something, in thy part. THE PANOKAMA. 175 Of the old Puritanic &rt, Singer after Sternhold's heart ! In thy pew, for many a year, Homilies from Oklbug hear,^** "Who to wit like that of South, And the Syrian's golden mouth, Doth the homely pathos add Which the pilgrim preachers had ; Breaking, like a child at play, Gilded idols of the day, Cant of knave and pomp of fool , Tossing with his ridicule, Yet, in earnest or in jest, Ever keeping truth abreast. And, when thou art called, at last. To thy townsmen of the past. Not as stranger shalt thou come ; Thou shalt find thyself at home ! With the little and the big. Woollen cap and periwig. Madam in her high-laced ruff. Goody in her home-made stuff, — Wise and simple, rich and poor, Thou hast known them all before ! THE pa:n^oiiama, AND OTHER POEMS. THE PANORAMA. " A ! fredome is a nobill thing I Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Yredome all solace to man giffis ; He levys at ese that frely levys ! A nobil hart may haif nana ese Na ellys nocht that may him plese Qyff Fredome failythe." Archdeacon Barboue. Thkough the long hall the shuttered windows shed A dubious light on every upturned head, — On locks like those of Absalom the fair. On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair. On blank indifference and on curious stare ; On the pale Showman reading from his stage The hieroglyphics of that facial page ; Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot. And the shrill call, across the general din, " Roil up your curtain ! Let the show begin ! " At length a murmur like the winds that break Intp green waves the prairie's grassy lake, Deepened and swelled to music clear and loud, And, as the west-wind lifts a summer cloud. The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far A green land stretching to the evening star. Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees And flowers hummed over by the desert bees, Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness show Fantastic outcrops of the rock below, — The slow result of patient Nature's pains. And plastic fingering of her sun and rains, — Arch, tower, and gate, grotesquely win- dowed hall, And long escarpment of half-crumbled wall, Huger than those which, from steep hills of vine. Stare through their loopholes on the travelled Rhine ; Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind A fancy, idle as the prairie wind. Of the land's dwellers in an age un« guessed, — The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West. Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells surpass The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass, 176 THE PANORAMA- Vast as the sky against whose sunset shores Wave after wave the billowy greenness poui-s ; And, onward still, like islands in that main Loom the rough peaks of many a moun- tain chain, Whence east and west a thousand waters run From winter lingering under summer's sun. And, still beyond, long lines of foam and sand Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a- land, From many a wide-lapped port and land-locked bay. Opening with thunderous pomp the world's highway To Indian isles of spice, and mai'ts of far Cathay. " Such," said the Showman, as the curtain fell, " Is the new Canaan of our Israel, — The land of promise to the swarming North, Which, hive-like, sends its annual sur- plus forth, To the poor Southron on his worn-out soil. Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil ; To Europe's exiles seeking home and rest. And the lank nomads of the wandering West, Who, asking neither, in their love of change And the free bison's amplitude of range. Rear the log-hut, for present shelter meant. Not future comfort, like an Arab's tent." Then spake a shrewd on -looker, " Sir," said he, "I like your picture, but I fain would see A sketch of what your promised land will be When, with electric nerve, and fiery- brained. With Nature's forces to its chariot chained. The future grasping, by the past obeyed, The twentieth century rounds a new decade." Then said the Showman, sadly : "Ha who grieves Over the scattering of the sibyl's leaves Unwisely mourns. Suffice it, that we know What needs must ripen from the seed we sow ; That present time is but the mould wherein We cast the shapes of holiness and sin. A painful watcher of the passing hour, Its lust of gold, its strife for place an^ power ; Its lack of manhood, honor, reverence, truth, Wise-thoughted age, and generous- hearted youth ; Nor yet unmindful of each better sign, — The low, far lights, which on th' horizon shine. Like those which sometimes tremble on the rim Of clouded skies when day is closing dim, Flashing athwart the purple spears of rain The hope of sunshine on the hills again : — I need no prophet's word, nor shapes that pass Like clouding shadows o'er a jnagie glass ; For now, as ever, passionless and cold. Doth the dread angel of the future hold Evil and good before us, with no voice Or warning look to guide us in our choice ; With spectral hands outreaching through the gloom The shadowy contrasts of the coming doom. Transferred from these, it now remains to give The sun and shade of Fate's alternative." Then, with a burst of music, touching all The keys of thrifty life, — the mill- stream's fall, The engine's pant along its quivering rails. The anvil's ring, the measured beat of flails. The sweep of scjrthes, the reaper's whistled tune, Answerinfic the summons of the bells of THE PANORAMA. 177 The woodman's hail along the river shores, The steamboat's signal, and the dip of oars, — Slowly the curtain rose from off a land Fair as God's garden. Broad on either hand The golden wheat-fields glimmered in the sun, And the tall maize its yellow tassels spun. Smooth highways set with hedge-rows living green, With steepled towns through shaded vistas seen, The school-house murmuring with its hive-Uke swarm. The brook-bank whitening in the grist- mill's storm, The painted farm-house shining through the leaves Of fruited orchards bending at its eaves. Where live again, around the Western hearth. The homely old-time virtues of the North ; Where the blitlie housewife rises with the day. And well-paid labor counts his task a play. And, grateful tokens of a Bible free, And the free Gospel of Humanity, Of diverse sects and differing names the shrines. One in their faith, whate'er their out- ward signs, Like varying strophes of the same sweet hymn From many a prairie's swell and river's brim, A thousand church-spires sanctify the air Of the cahn Sabbath, with their sign of prayer. Like sudden nightfall over bloom and green The curtain dropped : and, momently, between The clank of fetter and the crack of thong. Half sob, half laughter, music swept along, — A strange refrain, whose idle words and low. Like drunken mourners, kept the time of woe ; As if the revellers at a masquerade Heard in the distance funeral marches played. Such music, dashing all his smiles with tears. The thoughtful voyager on POiichailrain hears. Where, through the noonday dusk ol wooded shores The negro boatman, singing to his oars. With a wild pathos borrowed of his wrong Redeems the jargon of his senseless song. "Look," said the Showman, sternly, as he rolled His curtain upward ; " Fate's reverse behold ! " A village straggling in loose disaiTay Of vulgar newness, premature decay ; A tavern, crazy with its whiskey brawls, With '' Slaves at Auction!" garnishing its walls. Without, surrounded by a motley crowd. The shrewd-eyed salesman, garrulous and loud, A squire or colonel in his pride of pJ^ce, Known at free fights, the caucus, and the race. Prompt to proclaim his honor without blot. And silence doubters with a ten-pace shot. Mingling the negro-driving bully's rant With pious phrase and democratic cant, Yet never scrupling, with a filthy jest, To sell the infant from its mother's breast, Break through all ties of wedlock, home, and kin, Yield shrinking girlhood up to gray- beard sin ; Sell all the virtues with his human stock, The Christian graces on his auction* block, And coolly count on shrewdest bargains driven In hearts regenerate, and in souls for- given ! Look once again ! The moving can- vas shows A slave plantation's slovenly repose. Where, in rude cabins rotting midst their weeds. The human chattel eats, and sleeps, and breeds : 178 THE panorama; And, held a brute, in practice, as in law, Becomes in fact the thing he 's taken for. There, early summoned to the hemp and corn, The nursing mother leaves her child new-born ; There haggard sickness, weak and deathly faint, Crawls to his task, and fears to make complaint ; And sad-eyed Rachels, childless in de- cay. Weep for their lost ones sold and torn away ! Of ampler size the master's dwelling stands. In shabby keeping with his half-tilled lands, — The gates unhinged, the yard with weeds unclean. The cracked veranda with a tipsy lean. Without, loose-scattered like a wi-eck adrift. Signs of misrule and tokens of un thrift ; Within, profusion to discomfort joined, The listless body and the vacant mind ; The fear, the hate, the theft and false- hood, born ?n menial hearts of toil, and stripes, and scorn ! There, all the vices, which, like birds obscene. Batten on slavery loathsome and un- clean. From the foul kitchen to the parlor rise. Pollute the nursery where the child-heir lies. Taint infant lips beyond all after cure. With the fell poison of a breast impure ; Touch boyhood's passions with the breath of flame, From girlhood's instincts steal the blush of shame. So swells, from low to high, from weak to strong. The tragic chorus of the baleful wrong ; Guilty or guiltless, all within its range Feel the blind justice of its sure revenge. StUl scenes like these the moving chart reveals. Up the long western steppes the blight- ing steals ; Down the Pacific slope the evil Fate Glides like a shadow to the Golden Gate : From sea to sea the drear eclipse is thrown. From sea to sea the Mauvaises Terret have grown, A belt of curses on the New World's zone ! The curtain fell. All drew a freer breath. As men are wont to do when mour^iful death Is covered from their sight. The Show- man stood With drooping brow in sorrow's attitude One moment, then with sudden gesture shook His loose hair back, and with the air and look Of one who felt, beyond the narrow stage And listening group, the presence of the age. And heard the footsteps of the things to be. Poured out his soul in earnest words and free. " friends !" he said, " in this poor trick of paint You see the semblance, incomplete and faint. Of the two-fronted Future, which, to- day, Stands dim and silent, waiting in your way. To-day, your servant, subject to your will ; To-morrow, master, or for good or iU. If the dark face of Slavery on you turns, If the mad curse its paper barrier spurns^ If the world granary of the West is made The last foul market of the slaver's trade, Why rail at fate ? The mischief is your own. Why hate your neighbor ? Blame your- selves alone ! " Men of the North ! The South you charge with wrong Is weak and poor, while you are rich and strong. If questions, — idle and absurd as those The old-time monks and Paduan doctors chose, — Mere ghosts of questions, tariffs, and dead banks. And scarecrow pontiffs, never broke your ranks. Your thews united could, at once, roll THE PANORAMA. 179 riie jostled nation to its primal track. Nay, were you simply steadfast, manly, just. True to the faith your fathers left in trust, If stainless honor outweighed in your scale A codfish quintal or a factory bale, Full many a noble heart, (and suchremain In all the South, like Lot in Siddim's plain, Who watch and wait, and from the wrong's control Keep white and pure their chastity of soul,) Now sick to loathing of your weak com- plaints, Your tricks as sinners, and your prayers as saints. Would half-way meet the frankness of your tone, And feel their pulses beating with your "The North! the South! no geo- graphic line Can fix the boundary or the point define, Since each with each so closely inter- blends, Wliere Slavery rises, and where Freedom ends. Beneath your rocks the roots, far-reach- ing, hide Of the fell Upas on the Southern side ; The tree whose branches in your north- winds wave Dropped its young blossoms on Mount Vernon's grave ; The nursling growth of Monticello's crest Is now the glory of the free Northwest ; To the wise maxims of her olden school Virginia listened from thy lips, Rantoul ; Seward's words of power, and Sumner's fresh renown. Flow from the pen that Jeff'erson laid down ! And when, at length, her years of mad- ness o'er, Like the crowned grazer on Euphrates' shore, From her long lapse to savagery, her mouth Bitter with baneful herbage, turns the South, Resumes her old attire, and seeks to smooth Her unkempt tresses at the glass of truth. Her early faith shall find a tongue again, New Wythes and Pinckneys swell that old refrain, Her sons with yours renew the ancient pact, The myth of Union prove at last a fact ! Then, if one murmur mars the wide con- tent. Some Northern lip will drawl the last dissent. Some Union-saving patriot of your own Lament to find his occupation gone. " Grant that the North 's insulted, scorned, betrayed, O'erreached in bargains with her neigh- bor made. When selfish thrift and party held the For peddling dicker, not for honest sales, — Whom shall we strike ? Who most de- serves our blame ? The braggart Southron, open in his aim, And bold as wicked, crashing straight through all That bars his purpose, like a cannon-ball ? Or the mean traitor, breathing northern air. With nasal speech and puritanic hair, Whose cant the loss of principle survives, As the mud-turtle e'en its head outlives ; Who, caught, chin-buried in some foul offence. Puts on a look of injured innocence, And consecrates his baseness to the cause Of constitution, union, and the laws ? " Praise to the place-man who can hold aloof His still unpurchased manhood, office- proof ; Who on his round of duty walks erect. And leaves it only rich in self-respect, — As More maintained his virtue's lofty port In the Eighth Henry's base and bloody court. But, if exceptions here and there are found. Who tread thus safely on enchanted ground. The normal type, the fitting symbol still Of those who fatten at the public mill. Is the chained dog beside his master's door, Or Circe's victim, feeding on all four 1 180 THE PANO AMA. " Give me fclie heroes who, at tuck of drum, Salute thy staff, immortal Quattlebum ! Or they who, doubly armed with vote and gun. Following thy lead, illustrious Atchison, Their drunken franchise shift from scene to scene. As tile-beard Jourdan did his guUlo- tine ! — Rather than him who, bom beneath our skies, To Slavery's hand its supplest tool sup- plies, — The party felon whose unblushing face Looks from the pillory of his bribe of place. And coolly makes a merit of disgrace, — Points to the footmarks of indignant scorn, Shows the deep scars of satire's tossing horn ; And passes to his credit side the sum Of all that makes a scoundrel's martyr- dom ! *' Bane of the North, its canker and its moth ! — These modern Esaus, bartering rights for broth ! Taxing our justice, with their double claim, As fools for pity, and as knaves for blame ; Who, urged by party, sect, or trade, within The fell embrace of Slavery's sphere of sin. Part at the outset with their moral sense. The watchful angel set for Truth's de- fence ; Confound all contrasts, good and ill ; reverse The poles of life, its blessing and its curse ; And lose thenceforth from their perverted sight The eternal difference 'twixt the wrong and right ; To them the Law is but the iron span That girds the ankles of imbruted man ; To them the Gospel has no higher aim Than simple sanction of the master's claim, Dragged in the slime of Slavery's loath- some trail. Like Chalier's Bibl« at his ass's tail ! " Such are the men who, with instiiuj* tive dread. Whenever Freedom lifts her drooping head. Make prophet -tripods of their office- stools, And scare the nurseries and the village schools With dii'e presage of ruin grim and great, A broken Union and a foundered State ! Such are the patriots, self-bound to the stake Of office, martyrs for their country's sake : Who fill themselves the hungry jaws of Fate, And by their loss of manhood save the State. In the wide gulf themselves like Curtius throw. And test the virtues of cohesive dough ; As tropic monkeys, linking heads and tails. Bridge o'er some torrent of Ecuador's vales ! "Such are the men who in your church- es rave To swearing-point, at mention of the slave ! When some poor parson, haply unawares, Stammers of freedom in his timid prayers ; Who, if some foot-sore negro through the town Steals northward, volunteer to hunt him down. Or, if some neighbor, flj'ing from disease. Courts the mild balsam of the Southern breeze. With hue and cry pursue him on hi*' track, And write Free-soiler on the poor man's back. Such are the men who leave the pedler's cart, While faring South, to learn the driver's art. Or, in white neckcloth, soothe with pious aim The graceful soiTOWs of some languid dame. Who, from the wreck of her bereavement, saves The double charm of widowhood and slaves ! — Pliant and apt, they lose no chance t« show To what base depths apostasy can go ; THE PANORAMA. 181 Outdo the natives in their readiness To roast a negro, or to mob a press ; Poise a tarred schoolmate on the lynch- er's rail, Or make a bonfire of their birthplace mail ! " So some poor wretch, whose lips no longer bear The sacred burden of his mother's prayer. By fear impelled, or lust of gold enticed. Turns to the Crescent from the Cross of Christ, And, over-acting in superfluous zeal. Crawls prostrate where the faithful only kneel. Out-howls the Dervish, hugs his rags to court The squalid Santon's sanctity of dirt ; And, when beneath the city gateway's span Files slow and long the Meccan caravan, And through its midst, pursued by Islam's prayers. The prophet's Word some favored camel bears. The marked apostate has his place as- signed The Koran-bearer's sacred rump behind, With brush and pitcher following, grave and mute. In meek attendance on the holy brute ! "Men of the North! beneath your very eyes. By hearth and home, your real danger lies. Still day by day some hold of freedom falls, Through home-bred traitors fed within its walls. — Men whom yourselves with vote and purse sustain. At posts of honor, influence, and gain ; riie right of Slavery to your sons to teach. And " South-side " Gospels in your pul- pits preach, Transfix the Law to ancient freedom dear On the sharp point of her subverted spear. And imitate upon her cushion plump The mad Missourian lynching from his stump ; Or, in your name, upon the Senate's floor Yield up to Slavery all it asks, aad more ; A.nd, ere your dull eyes open to the cheat. Sell your old homestead underneath your feet ! While such as these your loftiest outlooks hold. While truth and conscience with youl wares are sold. While gi'ave-browed merchants band themselves to aid An annual man-hunt for their Southern trade, What moral power within your grasp remains To stay the mischief on Nebraska's plains ? — High as the tides of generous impulse flow. As far rolls back the selfish undertow ; And all your brave resolves, though aimed as true As the horse-pistol Balmawhapple drew, To Slavery's bastions lend as slight a shock As the poor trooper's shot to Stirling rock 1 "Yet, while the need of Freedom's cause demands The earnest efi"orts of your \iearts and hands. Urged by all motives that can prompt the heart To prayer and toil and manhood's man- liest part ; Though to the soul's deep tocsin Nature joins The warning whisper of her Orphic pines, The north-wind's anger, and the south. wind's sigh, The midnight sword-dance of the north. em sky. And, to the ear that bends above the sod Of the green grave-mounds in the Fields of God, In low, deep murmurs of rebuke or cheer, The land's dead fathers speak their hope or fear. Yet let not Passion wrest from Reason's hand The guiding rein and symbo'l of com- mand. Blame not the caution proflferiDg to your zeal A well-meant drag upon its hurrying wheel ; For chide the man whose honest doubt extends 182 THE PANORAMA. To the meang only, not the righteoua ends ; Nor fail to weigh the scruples and the fears Of milder natures and serener years. In the long strife with evil which began With the first lapse of new-created man, Wisely and well has Providence assigned To each his part, — some forward, some behind ; And they, too, serve who temper and restrain The o'erwarm heart that sets on fire the brain. True to yourselves, feed Freedom's altar- flame With what you have ; let others do the same. Spare timid doubters ; set like flint your face Against the self-sold knaves of gain and place : Pity the weak ; but with unsparing hand Cast out the traitors who infest the land, — From bar, press, pulpit, cast them every- where, By dint of fasting, if you fail by prayer. And in their place bring men of antique mould. Like the grave fathers of your Age of Gold, — Statesmen like those who sought the primal fount Of righteous law, the Sermon on the Mount ; Lawyers who prize, like Quincy, (to our day Still spared. Heaven bless him !) honor more than pay. And Christian jurists, starry-pure, like Jay ; Preachers like Woolman, or like them who bore The faith of Wesley to our Western shore. And held no convert genuine till he broke Alike his servants' and the Devil's yoke ; And priests like him who Newport's mar- ket trod, And o'er its slave-ships shook the bolts of God ! So shall your power, with a wise prudence used, Strong but forbearing, firm but not abused. In kindly keeping with the good of all, The nobler maxims of the past recall. Her natural home-born right to Freedom give. And leave her foe his robber-right, — to live. Live, as the snake does in his noisome fen ! Live, as the wolf does in his bone-strewn den ! Live, clothed with cursing like a robe ot flame. The focal point of million -fingered shame ! Live, till tlie Southron, wlio, with all his faults, Has manly instincts, in his pride re- volts, Dashes from off" him, midst the glad world's cheers. The hideous nightmare of his dream of years. And lifts, self-prompted, with his own right hand. The vile encumbrance from his glorious land ! " So, wheresoe'er our destiny sends forth Its widening circles to the South or North, Where'er our banner flaunts beneath the stars Its mimic splendors and its cloudlik-e bars. There shall Free Labor's hardy children stand The equal sovereigns of a slaveless land. And when at last the hunted bison tires, And dies o'ertaken by the squatter's fires ; And westward, wave on wave, the living flood Breaks on the snow-line of majestic Hood; And lonely Shasta listening hears the tread Of Europe's fair-haired children, Hes- per-led ; And, gazing downward through his hoar -locks, sees The tawny Asian climb his giant knees. The Eastern sea shall hush his waves to hear Pacific's surf-beat answer Freedom's cheer. And one long roUing fire of triumph run Between the sunrise and the sunset gun ! " SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE. 188 My task is done. The Showman and his show, Themselves but shadows, into shadows go; And, if no song of idlesse I have sung, Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung, — If the harsh numbers grate on tender ears. And the rough picture overwrought ap- pears, — With deeper coloring, with a sterner blast, Before my soul a voice and vision passed, Such as might Milton's jarring trump require, Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid fire. 0, not of choice, for themes of public wrong 1 leave the green and pleasant paths of song, — The mild, sweet words which soften and adorn. For griding taunt and bitter laugh of scorn. More dear to me some song of private worth, Soms homely idyl of my native North, Some summer pastoral of her inland vales Or, grim and weird, her winter fireside tales Haunted by ghosts of unreturning sails, — Lost barks at parting hung from stem to helm With prayers of love like dreams on Virgil's elm. Nor private grief nor malice holds mj pen ; I owe but kindness to my fellow-men ; And, South or North, wherever heartg of prayer Their woes and weakness to our Fathei bear, Wherever fruits of Christian love ar^ found In holy lives, to me is holy ground. But the time passes. It were vain to crave A late indulgence. What I had I gave. Forget the poet, but his warning heed, And shame his poor word with your nobler deed. MISCELLANEOUS. SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE. White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep. Light mists, whose soft embraces keep The sunshine on the hills asleep ! isles of calm ! — dark, still wood ! A.nd stiller skies that overbrood Your rest with deeper quietude ! shapes and hues, dim beckoning, through Yon mountain gaps, my longing view Beyond the purple and the blue. To stiller sea and greener land, And softer lights and airs more bland, Ind skies, — the hollow of God's hand \ Transfused through you, mountain friends ! With mine your solemn spirit blends, And life no more hath separate ends. I read each misty mountain sign, I know the voice of wave and pine, And I am yours, and ye are mine. Life's burdens fall, its discords ceaae, I lapse into the glad release Of Nature's own exceeding peace. 0, welcome calm of heart and mind ! As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind To leave a tenderer growth behind. So fall the weary years away ; A child again, my head I lay Upon the lap of this sweet day. 184 MISCELLANEOUS. This western wind hath Lethean powers, Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers, The lake is white with lotus-flowers ! Even Duty's voice is faint and low, And slumberous Conscience, waking slow, Forgets her blotted scroll to show. The Shadow which pursues us all, Whose ever-nearing steps appall, Whose voice we hear behind us call, — That Shadow blends with mountain gray. It speaks but what the light waves say, — Death walks apart from Fear to-day ! Rocked on her breast, these pines and I Alike on Nature's love rely ; And equal seems to live or die. Assured that He whose presence fills With light the spaces of these hills No evil to his creatures wills. The simple faith remains, that He Will do, whatever that may be. The best alike for man and tree. What mosses over one shall grow. What light and life the other know, Unanxious, leaving Him to show. II. EVENING. Von mountain's side is black with night, While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming crown The moon, slow-rounding into sight, On the hushed inland sea looks down. How start to light the clustering isles. Each silver-hemmed ! How sharply show The shadows of their rocky piles, And tree-tops in the wave below ! How far and strange the mountains seem. Dim-looming through the pale, still light ! The vague, vast grouping of a dream. They stretch into the solemn night. Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale, Hushed by that presence grand and grave. Are silent, save the cricket's wail, And low response of leaf and wave. Fair scenes ! whereto the Day and Night Make rival love, I leave ye soon. What time before the eastern light The pale ghost of the setting moon Shall hide behind yon rocky spines. And the young archer. Morn, shall break His arrows on the mountain pines. And, golden-sandalled, vralk the lake J Farewell ! around this smiling bay Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom. With lighter steps than mine, may stray In radiant summers yet to come. But none shall more regretful leave These waters and these hills than I : Or, distant, fonder dream how eve Or dawn is painting wave and sky ; How rising moons shine sad and mild On wooded isle and silvering bay,- Or setting suns beyond the piled And purple mountains lead the day ; Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy. Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here. Shall add, to life's abounding joy. The charmed repose to suffering dear. Still waits kind Nature to impart Her choicest gifts to such as gain An entrance to her loving heart Through the sharp discipline of pain. Forever from the Hand that takes One blessing from us others fall ; And, soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all ! 0, watched by Silence and the Night, And folded in the strong embrace Of the great mountains, with the light Of the sweet heavens upon thy face, Lake of the Northland ! keep thy dower Of beauty still, and while above Thy solemn mountains speak of power, Be thou the mirror of God's love. THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 185 THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. STRONG, upwelling prayers of faith, From inmost founts of life ye start, — The spirit's pulse, the vital breath Of soul and heart ! From pastoral toil, from traffic's din. Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad. Unheard of man, ye enter in The ear of God. Ye brook no forced and measured tasks, Nor weary rote, nor formal chains ; The simple heart, that freely asks In love, obtains. B'or man the living temple is : The mercy-seat and cherubim, And all the holy mysteries. He bears with him. And most avails the prayer of love, Which, wordless, shapes itself in deeds, And wearies Heaven for naught above Our common needs. Which brings to God's all-perfect will That trust of his undoubting child Whereby all seeming good and ill Are reconciled. And, seeking not for special signs Of favor, is content to fall Within the providence which shines And rains on all. Alone, the Thebaid hermit leaned At noontime o'er the sacred word. Was it an angel or a fiend Whose voice he heard ? It broke the desert's hush of awe, A human utterance, sweet and mild ; And, looking up, the hermit saw A little child. A child, with wonder-widened eyes, O'erawed and troubled by the sight Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies. And anchorite. " What dost thou here, poor man ? No shade Of cool, green doums, nor grass, nor well, Nor corn, nor vines." The herojit said : "With God I dwell. "Alone with Him in this great calm, I live not by the outward sense ; My Nile his love, my sheltering palm His providence." The child gazed round him. " Does God live Here only ? — where the desert's rim Is green with corn, at mom and eve, We pray to Him. "My brother tills beside the Nile His little field : beneath the leaves My sisters sit and spin the while. My mother weaves. "And when the millet's ripe heads fall, And all the bean- field hangs in pod, My mother smiles, and says that all Are gifts from God. ' ' And when to share our evening meal. She calls the stranger at the door, She says God fills the hands that deal Food to the poor." Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks Glistened the flow of human tears ; "Dear Lord!" he said, "thy angel speaks. Thy servant hears." Within his arms the child he took, And thought of home and life with men ; And all his pilgrim feet forsook Eeturned again. The palmy shadows cool and long. The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song, And bleat of flocks. " child ! " he said, " thou teachest me There is no place where God is not ; -. That love will make, where'er it be, A holy spot." He rose from off" the desert sand. And, leaning on his staff" of thorn. Went, with the young child, hand-itt hand. Like night with morn. 186 MISCELLANEOUS. They crossed the dtrserfs burning line, And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, And voice of man. Unquestioning, his childish guide He followed as the small hand led To where a woman, gentle-eyed, Her distaff fed. She rose, she clasped her truant boy, She thanked the stranger with her eyes. The hermit gazed in doubt and joy And dumb surprise. And lo ! — with sudden warmth and light A tender memory thrilled his frame ; New-born, the world-lost anchorite A man became. " O sister of El Zara's race, Behold me ! — had we not one moth- er ? " She gazed into the stranger's face ; — " Thou art my brother ? " " kin of blood ! — Thy life of use And patient trust is more than mine ; -Ind wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine. " For, taught of him whom God hath sent, That toil is praise, and love is prayer, I come, life's cares and pains content With thee to share." Even as his foot the threshold crossed, The hermit's better life began ; Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost. And found a man ! BUENS. ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM. No more these simple flowers belong To Scottish maid and lover ; 8own in the common soil of song, They bloom the wide world over In smiles and teavs, in sun and showers, The minstrel and the heather. The deathless singer and the flowers He sang of live together. "Wild heather-bells and Robert Bums ! The moorland flower and peasant ! How, at their mention, memory turns Her pages old and pleasant ! The gray sky wears again its gold And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold The dews of boyhood's morning. The dews that washed the dust and soil From off the wings of pleasure. The sky, that flecked the ground of toil With golden threads of leisure. I call to mind the sunmier day. The early harvest mowing, The sky with sun and clouds at play. And flowers with breezes blowing. I hear the blackbird in the corn. The locust in the haying ; And, like the fabled hunter's horn. Old tunes my heart is playing. How oft that day, with fond delay, I sought the maple's shadow. And sang with Burns the hours away. Forgetful of the meadow ! Bees hummed, birds twittered, over- head I heard the squirrels leaping. The good dog listened while I read. And wagged his tail in keeping. I watched him while in sportive mood I read " The Twa Dogs' " story, And half believed he understood The poet's allegory. Sweet day, sweet songs ! — The goldei, hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-seen Nature beamed, New glory over Woman ; And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common. WILLIAM FORSTER. 187 t woke to find the simple truth Of fact and feeling better Than aU the dreams that held my youth A still repining debtor : That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The themes of sweet discoursing ; The tender idyls of the heart In every tongue rehearsing. Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, Of loving knight and lady, When farmer boy and barefoot girl Were wandering there already ? I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying ; The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even. That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. ] matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweetbrier and the clover ; With Ayr and Doon, my native rills. Their wood-hymns cha/iting over. O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, I saw the Man uprising ; No longer common or unclean. The child of God's baptizing ! With clearer eyes I saw the worth Of life among the lowly ; The Bible at his Cotter's hearth Had made my own more holy. And if at times an evil strain. To lawless love appealing, Broke in upon the sweet refrain Of pure and healthful feeling, It died upon the eye and ear. No inward answer gaining ; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget His worth, in vain bewaiUngs ; Bweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt UncanoeUed t)y his failings ! Lament who will the rbald line Which teUs his lapse from duty How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty ; But think, while falls that shade be- tween The eiTing one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render, — The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme. And MUton's starry splendor ! But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer ? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid To love a tribute dearer ? Through all his tuneful art, how strong The human feeling gushes ! The very moonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes ! Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland Mary I WILLIAM F0RSTER.81 The years are many since his hand Was laid upon my head. Too weak and young to understand The serious words he said. Yet often now the good man's look Before me seems to swim. As if some inward feeling took The outward guise of him. As if, in passion's heated war. Or near temptation's charm, Through him the low-voiced monitor Forewarned me of the harm. Stranger and pilgrim ! — from that daj Of meeting, first and last, Wherever Duty's pathway lay, His reverent steps have passed. The poor to feed, the lost to seek. To proffer life to death, Hope to the erring, — to the weak Thf strength of his own faith. 18b MISCELLANEOUS. To plead the captive's right ; remove The sting of hate from Law ; And soften in the fire of love The hardened steel of War. He walked the dark world, in the mild, Still guidance of the Light ; In tearful tenderness a child, A strong man in the right. From what great perils, on his way, He found, in prayer, release ; Through what abysmal shadows lay His pathway unto peace, God knoweth : we could only see The tranquil strength he gained ; The bondage lost in liberty. The fear in love unfeigned. And I, — my youthful fancies grown The habit of the man. Whose field of life by angels sown The wUding vines o'erran, — Low bowed in silent gratitude. My manhood's heart enjoys That reverence for the pure and good Which blessed the dreaming boy's. StiU shines the light of holy lives Like star-beams over doubt ; Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives Some dark possession out. friend ! brother ! not in vain Thy life so calm and true. The silver dropping of the rain. The fall of summer dew ! How many burdened hearts have prayed Their lives like thine might be ! But more shall pray henceforth for aid To lay them down like thee. With tveary hand, yet steadfast will. In old age as in youth. Thy Master found thee sowing still The good seed of his truth. As on thy task -field closed the day In golden-skied decline. His angel met thee on the way. And lent his arm to thine. rhy latest care for man, — thy last Of earthly thought a prayer, — 0, who thy mantle, backward cast. Is worthy now to wear ? Methinks the mound which marks thj bed Might bless our land and save, As rose, of old, to life the dead Who touched the prophet's grave ! KANTOUL.62 One day, along the electric wire His manly word for Freedom sped ; We came next morn : that tongue of fire Said only, ' ' He who spake is dead ! ' Dead ! while his voice was living yet. In echoes round the pillared dome ! Dead ! while his blotted page lay wet With themes of state and loves cl home ! Dead ! in that crowning grace of time. That triumph of life's zenith hour ! Dead ! while we watched his manhood'a prime Break from the slow bud into flower ! Dead ! he so great, and strong, and wise, While the mean thousands yet drew breath ; How deepened, through that dread sur prise. The mystery and the awe of death ! From the high place whereon our votes Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest fell His first words, like the prelude notes Of some great anthem yet to swell. We seemed to see our flag unfurled. Our champion waiting in his place For the last battle of the world, — The Armageddon of the race. Through him we hoped to speak the word Which wins the freedom of a land ; And lift, for human right, the sword Which dropped from Hampden's dy ing hand. For he had sat at Sidney's feet, And walked with Pym and Vane apart ; THE DREAM OF PIO NONO. 189 And, through the centuries, felt the beat Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart. He knew the paths the worthies held, Where England's best and wisest trod ; And, lingering, drank the springs that welled Beneath the touch of Milton's rod. No wild enthusiast of the right, Self-poised and clear, he showed alway The coolness of his northern night, The ripe repose of autumn's day. His steps were slow, yet forward still He pressed where others paused or failed ; The calm star clomb with constant will, — The restless meteor flashed and paled ! Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew And owned the higher ends of Law ; Still rose majestic on his view The awful Shape the schoolman saw. Her home the heart of God ; her voice The choral harmonies whereby The stars, through all their spheres, re- joice. The rhythmic rule of earth and sky ! We saw his great powers misapplied To poor ambitious ; yet, through all. We saw him take the weaker side, And right the wronged, and free the thrall. Now, looking o'er the frozen North, For one like him in word and act. To call her old, free spirit forth. And give her faith the life of fact, — To break her party bonds of shame, And labor with the zeal of him To make the Democratic name Of Liberty the synonyme, — We sweep the land from hiK to strand. We seek the strong, the wise, the brave, A.nd, sad of heart, return to stand In silence by a new-made grave ! There, where his breezy hills of home Look out upon his sail-white seas, The sounds of winds and waters come, And shape themselves to words Uke these : "Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power Was lent to Party over-long. Heard the still whisper at the hour He set his foot on Party wrong ? " The human life that closed so well No lapse of folly now can stain : The lips whence Freedom's protest fell No meaner thought can now profane. " Mightier than living voice his grave That lofty protest utters o'er ; Through roaring wind and smiting wave It speaks his hate of wrong once " Men of the North ! your weak regret Is wasted here ; arise and pay To freedom and to him your debt, By following where he led the way 1" THE DEEAM OF PIO NONO. It chanced, that while the pious troops of France Fought in the crusade Pio Nono preached. What time the holy Bourbons stayed his hands (The Hur and Aaron meet for such a Stretched forth from Naples towards rebellious Rome To bless the ministry of Oudinot, And sanctify his iron homilies And sharp persuasions of the bayonet, That the great pontiff fell asleep, and dreamed. He stood by Lake Tiberias, in the sun Of the bright Orient ; and beheld the lame. The sick, and blind, kneel at the Mas- ter's feet, And rise up whole. And, sweetly over all, Dropping the ladder of their hymn of praise From heaven to earth, in silver rounds of song, 190 MISCELLANEOUS. He heard the blessed angels sing of peace, Good-will to man, and glory to the Lord. Then one, with feet unshod, and leathern face Hardened and darkened by fierce sum- mer suns And hot winds of the desert, closer drew His fisher's haick, and girded up his loins, Ard spake, as one who had authority : " Come thou with me." Lakeside and eastern sky And the sweet song of angels passed away. And, with a dream's alacrity of change. The priest, and the swart fisher by his side, Beheld the Eternal City lift its domes And solemn fanes and monumental pomp Above the waste Campagna. On the hills The blaze of burning villas rose and fell. And momently the mortar's iron throat Hoared from the trenches ; and, within the walls. Sharp crash of shells, low groans of hu- man pam. Shout, drum beat, and the clanging larnm-bell. And tramp of hosts, sent up a mingled sound. Half wail and half defiance. As they passed The gate of San Pancrazio, human blood Flowed ankle-high about them, and dead men Choked the long street with gashed and gory piles, — A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh, From which, at times, quivered a living hand, And white lips moved and moaned. A father tore His gray hairs, by the body of his son, In frenzy ; and his fair young daughter wept On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash Clove the thick sulphurous air, and man and maid Bank, crushed and mangled by the shattering shell. Then spake the GaKlean : "Thou hast seen The blessed Master and his works of love ; Look now on thine ! Hear'st thou the angels sing Above this open hell? Thou God's ■ high-priest ! Thou the Vicegerent of the Prince of Peace ! Thou the successor of his chosen ones ! 1, Peter, fisherman of Galilee, In the dear Master's name, and for the love Of his true Church, proclaim thee Anti- christ, Alien and separate from his holy faith. Wide as the diff"erence between death and life. The hate of man and the greai love of God! Hence, and repent ! " Thereat the pontiff" woke. Trembling, and muttering o'er his fear- ful dream. *' What means he ? " cried the Bourbon. "Nothing more Than that your majesty hath all too well Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth, The Holy Father's sujiper troubleth him," Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a smile. TAULER. Tattler, the preacher, walked, one autumn day. Without the walls of Strasburg, by tha Rhine, Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life ; As one who, wandering in a starlesa night, Feels, momently, the jar of unseen waves. And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, Breaking along an unimagined shore And as he walked he prayed. Even the same Old prayer with which, for half a scor* of years, TAULER. 191 Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heart Had groaned : " Have pity upon me. Lord! Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. Send me a man who can direct my steps ! " Then, as he mused, he heard along his path A sound as of an old man's staff among The dry, dead linden-leaves ; and, look- ing up. He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old. " Peace be unto thee, father ! " Tau- ler said, " God give thee a good day ! " The old man raised Slowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank thee, son ; But all my days are good, and none are ill." "Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again, "God give thee happy life." The old man smiled, " I never am unhappy." Tauler laid His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve : "Tell me, father, what thy strange words mean. Surely man's days are evil, and his life Sad as the grave it leads to." "Nay, my son, Our times are in God's hands, and all our days Are as our needs : for shadow as for sun. For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alike Our thanks are due, since that is best which is ; And that which is not, sharing not his life. Is evil only as devoid of good. And for the happiness of which I spake, I find it in submission to his will. And calm trust in the holy Trinity Of Knowledge, Goodness, and Al- mighty Power." Silently wondering, for a little space, Stood the great preacher ; then he spake as one Who, suddenly grappling with a haunt- ing thouglit Which long has followed, whispering through the dark Strange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light : " What if God's will consign thee henct to Hell ? " "Then," said the stranger, cheerily, "be it so. What Hell may be I know not ; this I know, — I cannot lose the presence of the Lord : One arm, Humility, takes hold upon His dear Humanity ; the other. Love, Clasps his Divinity. So where I go He goes ; and better fire-waUed Hell with Him Than golden-gated Paradise without." Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light. Like the first ray which fell on chaos, clove Apart the shadow wherein he had walked Darkly at noon. And, as the strange old man Went his slow way, until his silver hair Set like the white moon where the hills of vine Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said : "My prayer is answered. God hath sent the man Long sought, to teach me, by his simple trust. Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew." So, entering with a changed and cheerful step The city gates, he saw, far down the street, A mighty shadow break the light of noon, Which tracing backward till its aiiy lines Hardened to stony plinths, he raised hh eyes O'er broad fa9ade and lofty pediment. O'er architrave and frieze and sainted uich*^ 192 MISCELLANEOUS. Tip the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise Erwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to where In the noon-briglitness the great Min- ster's tower, Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown, Rose like a visible prayer. *' Behold ! " he said, "The stranger's faith made plain be- fore mine eyes. As yonder tower outstretches to the earth The dark triangle of its shade alone When the clear day is shining on its top, So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life Is but the shadow of God's providence. By the great Sun of Wisdom cast there- on ; And what is dark below is light in Heaven." LINES, SUGGESTED BY READING A STATE PA- PER, WHEREIN THE HIGHER LAW IS INVOKED TO SUSTAIN THE LOWER ONE. A PIOUS magistrate ! sound his praise throughout The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh ? Sin in high places has become devout, Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety ! The pirate, watching from his bloody deck The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold ; Of Acapulco, holding death in check While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads are told, — The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread loss From his own carbine, glancing stiU abroad For some new victim, offering thanks to Godl — Rome, listening at her altars to the cry Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of hell Scour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high. Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky, "Thanks to the Lord, who giveth victory ! " What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack ? Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural phrase And saintly posture, gives to God the praise And honor of the monstrous progeny. What marvel, then, in our own time te see His old devices, smoothly acted o'er, — Official piety, locking fast the door Of Hope against three million souls of men, — Brothers, God's children, Christ's re- deemed, — and then. With uprolled eyeballs and on bended knee. Whining a prayer for help to hide the key ! THE VOICES. "Why urge the long, unequal fight, Since Truth has fallen in the street, Or lift anew the trampled light, Quenched by the heedless million's feet ? " Give o'er the thankless task 5 forsake The fools who know not ill from good ; Eat, drink, enjoy thy own, and take Thine ease among the multitude. " Live out thyse" ; with others share Thy proper life no more ; assume The unconcern of sun and air, For life or death, or blight or bloom. "The mountain pine looks cahnly on The fires that scourge the plains below, THE HERO. 193 Nor heeds the eagle in the sun The small birds piping in the snow ! " The world is God's, not thine ■, let him Work out a change, if change must be : The hand tliat planted best can trim And nurse the old unfruitful tree." So spake the Tempter, when the light Of sun and stars had left the sky,_ I listened, through the cloud and night. And heard, methought, a voice reply : *' Thy task may well seem over-hard, Who scatterest in a thankless soil Thy life as seed, with no reward Save that which Duty gives to Toil. *' Not wholly is thy heart resigned To Heaven's benign and just decree, "Which, linking thee with all thy kind, Transmits their joys and griefs to thee. '' Break off that sacred chain, and turn Back on thyself thy love and care ; Be thou thine own mean idol, burn Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there. " Released from that fraternal law Which shares the coimnon bale and bliss, N"o sadder lot could Folly draw, Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this. " The meal unshared is food unblest : Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend ; Self- ease is pain ; thy only rest Is labor for a worthy end. •'A toil that gains with what it yields, And scatters to its own increase, A.nd hears, while sowing outward fields. The harvest-song of inward peace. " Free-lipped the liberal streamlets run. Free shines for all the healthful ray ; The still pool stagnates in the sun, The larid earth-fire haunts decay 1 ' What is it that the crowd requite Thy love with hate, thy truth with lies ? And but to faith, and not to sight, The walls of Freedom's temple rise ? " Yet do thy work ; it shall succeed In thine or in another's day ; And, if denied the victor's meed, Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay. "Faith shares the future's promise; Love's Self-oifering is a triumph won ; And each good thought or action moveK The dark world nearer to the sun. ' ' Then faint not, falter not, nor plead Thy weakness ; truth itself is strong ; The lion's strength, the eagle's speed. Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong. " Thy nature, which, through fire ancf flood. To place or gain finds out its way, Hath power to seek the highest good. And duty's holiest call obey ! "Strivest thou in darkness? — Foes without In league with traitor thoughts with- in ; Thy night-watch kept with trembling Doubt And pale Remorse the ghost of Sin? — ' ' Hast thou not, on some week of storm, Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair, And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form The curtains of its tent of prayer ? " So, haply, when thy task shall end, The WTong shall lose itself in right. And all thy week-day darkness blend With the long Sabbath of the light ! ' THE HERO. " O FOR a knight like Bayard* Without reproach or fear ; My light glove on his casque of steel. My love-knot on his spear I " for the white plume floating Sad Zutphen's field above, — The lion heart in battle, The woman's heai-t in love 1 " that man once more were manly, Woman's pride, and not her scorn s That once more the pale young mother Dared to boast ' a man is bom ' 1 194 MISCELLANEOUS. •• But, now life's slumberous current No sun-bowed cascade wakes ; ffo taU, heroic manhood The level dulness breaks. *' for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear ! My light glove on his casque of steel. My love-knot on his spear 1 " Then I said, my own heart throbbinf To the time her proud pulse beat, *' Life hath its regal natures yet, — True, tender, brave, and sweet I " Smile not, fair unbeliever ! One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard Or Sidney's plume of snow. " Once, when over purple mountains Died away the Grecian sun. And the far Cyllenian ranges Paled and darkened, one by one, — " Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder. Cleaving all the quiet sky, Ajid against his sharp steel lightnings Stood the Suliote but to die. " Woe for the weak and halting t The crescent blazed behind A curving line of sabres, Like fire befoi-e the wind ? " Last to fly, and first to rally, Eode he of whom I speak, WTien, groaning in his bridle-path, Sank down a wounded Greelc. " With the rich Albanian costume Wet with many a ghastly stain, Gazing on earth and sky as one Who might not gaze again ! " He looked forward to the mountains. Back on foes that never spare. Then flung him from his saddle. And placed the stranger there. •' ' Allah 1 hu ! • Through flashing sa- bres, Through a stormy hail of lead, The good Thessalian charger Up the slopes of olives sped. " Hot spurred the turban ed riders , He almost felt their breath, Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down Between the hills and death. " One brave and manful struggle, — ■ He gained the solid land. And the cover of the mountains. And the carbines of his band ! " " It was very great and noble," Said the moist-eyed listener then, " But one brave deed makes no hero ; Tell me what he since hath been 1 "Still a brave and generous manhood. Still an honor without stain, In the prison of the Kaiser, By the barricades of Seine. " But dream not helm and harness The sign of valor true ; Peace hath liigher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew. "Wouldst know him now? Behold him. The Cadmus of the blind. Giving the dumb lip language, The idiot clay a mind. " Walking his round of duty Serenely day by day. With the strong man's hand of labor And childhood's heart of play. "True as the knights of story. Sir Lancelot and his peers. Brave in his calm endurance As they in tilt of spears. "As waves in stillest waters. As stars in noonday skies. All that wakes to noble action In his noon of calmness liea * Wherever outraged Nature Asks word or action brave, Wherever struggles labor. Wherever groans a slave, — "Wherever rise the peoples, Wherever sinks a throne, The throbbing heart of Freedom finds An answer in his own THE BAREFOOT BOY. 195 •• Knight of a better era, Without reproach or fear ! Said I not well that Bayards And Sidneys still are here ?" MY DREAM. In my dream, methought I trod. Yesternight, a mountain road ; Narrow as Al Sirat's span, High as eagle's flight, it ran. Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed ; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night. Here and there a wild-flower blushed, Now and then a bird-song gushed ; Now and then, through rifts of shade. Stars shone out, and sunbeams played. But the goodly company. Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o'erslid. One by one the darkness hid. Some with wailing and lament. Some with cheerful courage went ; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned. Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear. Never hand in token stirred. Never answering voice I heard ! Steeper, darker ! — lo ! I felt From my feet the pathway melt. Swallowed by the black despair, A.nd the hungry jaws of air. Past the stony-throated caves. Strangled by the wash of waves, ♦ Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank, — • Soft as fall of thistle-down. Lightly as a cloud is blown. Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest. Of the sharp-horned rocks instead. Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing by frees that propped a golden sky. Painless, trustful, sorrow-free. Old lost faces welcomed me, With whose sweetness of content Still expectant hope was blent. Waking while the dawning gray Slowly brightened into day. Pondering that vision fled. Thus unto myself I said : — " Steep, and hung with clouds of strife Is our narrow path of life ; And our death the dreaded fall Through the dark, awaiting all. "So, with painful steps we climb Up the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread. ' ' Dread of mystery solved alone. Of the untried and unknown ; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my dream. " And this heart-consuming care. All our fears of here or there. Change and absence, loss and death. Prove but simple lack of faith." Th(Ju, Most Compassionate ! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain, Treading in our path of pain, ^ Through the doubt and mystery. Grant to us thy steps to see. And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence. Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit. Whispering, by its open door : " Fear not 1 He hath gone before !* THE BAREFOOT BOY. Blessings on thee, little man. Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy tumed-up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ', With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace, From my heart I give thee joy, — 196 MISCELLANEOUS. I was once a 'barefoot boy ! prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-doUared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, # Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! lOT boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day. Health that mocks the doctor's rules. Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase. Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell. And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young. How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay. And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! — For, eschewing books and tasks. Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon. When all things I heard or saw. Me, their master, waited for. ( was rich in flowers and trees. Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond. Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides I Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! for festal dainties spread. Like my bowl of milk and bread, — Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir. Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man. Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard. Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ;' Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride. Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil ; Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah 1 that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! FLOWERS IN WINTER. PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE. How strange to greet, this frosty moni; In gi-aceful counterfeit of flowers. These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine and of showers ! How well the conscious wood retains The pictures of its flower - sown home, — The lights and snades, the purple stains. And golden hues of bloom I B/essifiiTS 0)1 thee. Utile jnan THE RENDITION. 197 It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season's frost and rime This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time. Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy's age renews its youth. And dim-remembered iictious take The guise of present truth. A wizard of the Merrimack, — So old ancestral legends say, — Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray. The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves ; The clay-bound swallow, at his call. Played round the icy eaves. The settler saw his oaken flail Take bud, and bloom before his eyes ; From frozen pools he saw the pale, Sweet summer lilies rise. To their old homes, by man profaned, Came the sad dryads, exiled long. And through their leafy tongues com- plained Of household use and wrong. The beechen platter sprouted wild. The pipkin wore its old-time green ; The cradle o'er the sleeping child Becamp a leafy screen. Haply our gentle friend hath met, While wandering in her sylvan quest. Haunting his native woodlands yet. That Druid of the West ; — And, while the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still, Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power. And caught his trick of skill. But welcome, be it new or old. The gift which makes the day more bright. And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light ! Without is neither gold nor green ; Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing ; Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring. The one, with bridal blush of rose, And sweetest breath of woodland balm. And one whose matron lips unclose In smiles of saintly calm. Fill soft and deep, winter snow ! The sweet azalia's oaken dells, And hide the bank where roses blow. And swing the azure bells ! O'erlay the amber violet's leaves. The puii>le aster's brookside home, Guard all the flowers her pencil gives A life beyond their bloom. And she, when spring comes round again, By greening slope and singing flood Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, Her darlings of the wood. THE RENDITION. I HEARD the train's shrill whistle call, I saw an earnest look beseech, And rather by that look than speech My neighbor told me all. And, as I thought of Liberty Marched handcufl'ed down that sworded street. The solid earth beneath my feet Reeled fluid as the sea. I felt a sense of bitter loss, — Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath, And loathing fear, as if my path A serpent stretched across. All love of home, all pride of place. All generous confidence and trust. Sank smothering in that deep disgusv And anguish of disgrace. Down on my native hills of June, And home's green quiet, hiding all Fell sudden darkness like the fall Of midnight upon noon ! And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong. Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod. 198 MISCELLANEOUS. Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God the blasphemy of wrong. " Mother, from thy memories proud, Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, Lend this dead air a breeze of health, A.nd smite with stars this cloud. " Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, Rise awful in thy strength," I said ; Ah me ! I spake but to the dead ; I stood upon her grave 1 6th mo., I8di. LINES, ON THE PASSAGE OF THE BILL TO PRO- TECT THE RIGHTS AND LIBERTIES OF THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE AGAINST THE FUGITIVE SLAVE ACT. I SAID I stood upon thy grave, My Mother State, when last the moon Of blossoms clomb the skies of June. And, scattering ashes on my head, I wore, undreaming of relief. The sackcloth of thy shame and grief. Again that moon of blossoms shines On leaf and flower and folded wing, And thou hast risen with the spring ! Once more thy strong maternal arms Are round about thy children flung, — A lioness that guards her young ! No threat is on thy closed lips. But in thine eye a power to smite The mad wolf backward from its light. Southward the bafiled robber's track Henceforth runs only ; hereaway, The fell lycanthrope finds no prey. Henceforth, within thy sacred gates. His first low howl shall downward draw The thunder of thy righteous law. Not mindless of thy trade and gain. But, acting on the wiser plan. Thou 'rt grown conservative of man. Bo shalt thou clothe with life the hope, Dream-painted on the sightless eyes Of him who sang of Paradise, — The vision of a Christian man, In virtue as in stature great, Embodied in a Christian State. And thou, amidst thy sistei-hood Forbearing long, yet standing fast, Shalt win their gi-ateful thanks at last; When North and South shall strive no more. And all their feuds and fears be lost In Freedom's holy Pentecost. 6