Prefixed to the volume of which the group of six poems following this prelude constituted the first portion.
I WOULD the gift I offer hereMight graces from thy favor take,And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere,On softened lines and coloring, wearThe unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake.Few leaves of Fancy's spring remainBut what I have I give to thee,The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain,And paler flowers, the latter rainCalls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea.Above the fallen groves of green,Where youth's enchanted forest stood,Dry root and mossed trunk between,A sober after-growth is seen,As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood!Yet birds will sing, and breezes playTheir leaf-harps in the sombre tree;And through the bleak and wintry dayIt keeps its steady green alway,—So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee.Art's perfect forms no moral need,And beauty is its own excuse;But for the dull and flowerless weedSome healing virtue still must plead,And the rough ore must find its honors in its use.So haply these, my simple laysOf homely toil, may serve to showThe orchard bloom and tasselled maizeThat skirt and gladden duty's ways,The unsung beauty hid life's common things below.Haply from them the toiler, bentAbove his forge or plough, may gain,A manlier spirit of content,And feel that life is wisest spentWhere the strong working hand makes strong theworking brain.The doom which to the guilty pairWithout the walls of Eden came,Transforming sinless ease to careAnd rugged toil, no more shall bearThe burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame.A blessing now, a curse no more;Since He, whose name we breathe with awe,The coarse mechanic vesture wore,A poor man toiling with the poor,In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law.1850.
Ho! workers of the old time styledThe Gentle Craft of LeatherYoung brothers of the ancient guild,Stand forth once more together!Call out again your long array,In the olden merry mannerOnce more, on gay St. Crispin's day,Fling out your blazoned banner!Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stoneHow falls the polished hammerRap, rap I the measured sound has grownA quick and merry clamor.Now shape the sole! now deftly curlThe glossy vamp around it,And bless the while the bright-eyed girlWhose gentle fingers bound it!For you, along the Spanish mainA hundred keels are ploughing;For you, the Indian on the plainHis lasso-coil is throwing;For you, deep glens with hemlock darkThe woodman's fire is lighting;For you, upon the oak's gray bark,The woodman's axe is smiting.For you, from Carolina's pineThe rosin-gum is stealing;For you, the dark-eyed FlorentineHer silken skein is reeling;For you, the dizzy goatherd roamsHis 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 rightBrought toiling men together;Where the free burghers from the wallDefied the mail-clad master,Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call,No craftsmen rallied faster.Let foplings sneer, let fools deride,Ye heed no idle scorner;Free hands and hearts are still your pride,And duty done, your honor.Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,The jury Time empanels,And leave to truth each noble nameWhich glorifies your annals.Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet,In strong and hearty German;And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit,And patriot fame of Sherman;Still from his book, a mystic seer,The soul of Behmen teaches,And England's priestcraft shakes to hearOf 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 foundOf matron grace or vestal's,As Hebe's foot bore nectar roundAmong the old celestials.Rap, rap!—your stout and bluff brogan,With footsteps slow and weary,May wander where the sky's blue spanShuts down upon the prairie.On Beauty's foot your slippers glance,By Saratoga's fountains,Or twinkle down the summer danceBeneath the Crystal Mountains!The red brick to the mason's hand,The brown earth to the tiller's,The shoe in yours shall wealth command,Like fairy Cinderella's!As they who shunned the household maidBeheld the crown upon her,So all shall see your toil repaidWith 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 mannerOnce more, on gay St. Crispin's day,Fling out his blazoned banner!1845.
HURRAH! the seaward breezesSweep down the bay amain;Heave up, my lads, the anchor!Run up the sail againLeave to the lubber landsmenThe 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 wavingTheir farewell from the land.One glance, my lads, behind us,For the homes we leave one sigh,Ere we take the change and chancesOf the ocean and the sky.Now, brothers, for the icebergsOf frozen Labrador,Floating spectral in the moonshine,Along the low, black shore!Where like snow the gannet's feathersOn Brador's rocks are shed,And the noisy murr are flying,Like black scuds, overhead;Where in mist tie rock is hiding,And the sharp reef lurks below,And the white squall smites in summer,And the autumn tempests blow;Where, through gray and rolling vapor,From evening unto morn,A thousand boats are hailing,Horn answering unto horn.Hurrah! for the Red Island,With the white cross on its crownHurrah! for Meccatina,And its mountains bare and brown!Where the Caribou's tall antlersO'er the dwarf-wood freely toss,And the footstep of the MickmackHas no sound upon the moss.There we'll drop our lines, and gatherOld Ocean's treasures in,Where'er the mottled mackerelTurns up a steel-dark fin.The sea's our field of harvest,Its scaly tribes our grain;We'll reap the teeming watersAs at home they reap the plain.Our wet hands spread the carpet,And light the hearth of home;From our fish, as in the old time,The silver coin shall come.As the demon fled the chamberWhere the fish of Tobit lay,So ours from all our dwellingsShall frighten Want away.Though the mist upon our jacketsIn the bitter air congeals,And our lines wind stiff and slowlyFrom 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 betterThan in working out our lot.Hurrah! hurrah! the west-windComes freshening down the bay,The rising sails are filling;Give way, my lads, give way!Leave the coward landsman clingingTo the dull earth, like a weed;The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed!1845.
WILDLY round our woodland quartersSad-voiced Autumn grieves;Thickly down these swelling watersFloat 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 treadingOf the brindled moose.Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping,Frost his task-work plies;Soon, his icy bridges heaping,Shall our log-piles rise.When, with sounds of smothered thunder,On some night of rain,Lake and river break asunderWinter's weakened chain,Down the wild March flood shall bear themTo the saw-mill's wheel,Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear themWith his teeth of steel.Be it starlight, be it moonlight,In these vales below,When the earliest beams of sunlightStreak the mountain's snow,Crisps the boar-frost, keen and early,To our hurrying feet,And the forest echoes clearlyAll our blows repeat.Where the crystal AmbijejisStretches broad and clear,And Millnoket's pine-black ridgesHide the browsing deerWhere, through lakes and wide morasses,Or through rocky walls,Swift and strong, Penobscot passesWhite with foamy falls;Where, through clouds, are glimpses givenOf Katahdin's sides,—Rock and forest piled to heaven,Torn and ploughed by slides!Far below, the Indian trapping,In the sunshine warm;Far above, the snow-cloud wrappingHalf the peak in storm!Where are mossy carpets betterThan the Persian weaves,And than Eastern perfumes sweeterSeem the fading leaves;And a music wild and solemn,From the pine-tree's height,Rolls its vast and sea-like volumeOn the wind of night;Make we here our camp of winter;And, through sleet and snow,Pitchy knot and beechen splinterOn our hearth shall glow.Here, with mirth to lighten duty,We shall lack aloneWoman's smile and girlhood's beauty,Childhood's lisping tone.But their hearth is brighter burningFor our toil to-day;And the welcome of returningShall 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 ringingFrom the village spire,Not for us the Sabbath singingOf the sweet-voiced choir,Ours the old, majestic temple,Where God's brightness shinesDown the dome so grand and ample,Propped by lofty pines!Through each branch-enwoven skylight,Speaks He in the breeze,As of old beneath the twilightOf lost Eden's trees!For His ear, the inward feelingNeeds no outward tongue;He can see the spirit kneelingWhile the axe is swung.Heeding truth alone, and turningFrom the false and dim,Lamp of toil or altar burningAre alike to Him.Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waitingOn our rugged toil;Far ships waiting for the freightingOf our woodland spoil.Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,Bleak and cold, of ours,With the citron-planted islandsOf a clime of flowers;To our frosts the tribute bringingOf eternal heats;In our lap of winter flingingTropic fruits and sweets.Cheerly, on the axe of labor,Let the sunbeams dance,Better than the flash of sabreOr the gleam of lance!Strike! With every blow is givenFreer sun and sky,And the long-hid earth to heavenLooks, with wondering eye!Loud behind us grow the murmursOf the age to come;Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,Bearing harvest home!Here her virgin lap with treasuresShall the green earth fill;Waving wheat and golden maize-earsCrown each beechen hill.Keep who will the city's alleysTake the smooth-shorn plain';Give to us the cedarn valleys,Rocks and hills of Maine!In our North-land, wild and woody,Let us still have partRugged nurse and mother sturdy,Hold us to thy heart!Oh, our free hearts beat the warmerFor thy breath of snow;And our tread is all the firmerFor thy rocks below.Freedom, hand in hand with labor,Walketh strong and brave;On the forehead of his neighborNo man writeth Slave!Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin'sPine-trees show its fires,While from these dim forest gardensRise their blackened spires.Up, my comrades! up and doing!Manhood's rugged playStill renewing, bravely hewingThrough the world our way!1845.
THE sky is ruddy in the east,The earth is gray below,And, spectral in the river-mist,The ship's white timbers show.Then let the sounds of measured strokeAnd grating saw begin;The broad-axe to the gnarled oak,The mallet to the pin!Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,The sooty smithy jars,And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,Are fading with the stars.All day for us the smith shall standBeside that flashing forge;All day for us his heavy handThe groaning anvil scourge.From far-off hills, the panting teamFor us is toiling near;For us the raftsmen down the streamTheir island barges steer.Rings out for us the axe-man's strokeIn forests old and still;For us the century-circled oakFalls crashing down his hill.Up! up! in nobler toil than oursNo craftsmen bear a partWe make of Nature's giant powersThe slaves of human Art.Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,And drive the treenails free;Nor faithless joint nor yawning seamShall tempt the searching sea.Where'er the keel of our good shipThe sea's rough field shall plough;Where'er her tossing spars shall dripWith salt-spray caught below;That ship must heed her master's beck,Her helm obey his hand,And seamen tread her reeling deckAs if they trod the land.Her oaken ribs the vulture-beakOf Northern ice may peel;The sunken rock and coral peakMay grate along her keel;And know we well the painted shellWe 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 rocksThe young bride of the sea?Look! how she moves adown the grooves,In graceful beauty now!How lowly on the breast she lovesSinks down her virgin prow.God bless her! wheresoe'er the breezeHer snowy wing shall fan,Aside the frozen Hebrides,Or sultry Hindostan!Where'er, in mart or on the main,With peaceful flag unfurled,She helps to wind the silken chainOf commerce round the world!Speed on the ship! But let her bearNo merchandise of sin,No groaning cargo of despairHer roomy hold within;No Lethean drug for Eastern lands,Nor poison-draught for ours;But honest fruits of toiling handsAnd 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 mainMay blessings follow free,And glad hearts welcome back againHer white sails from the sea1846.
THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun,Still onward cheerly drivingThere's life alone in duty done,And rest alone in striving.But see! the day is closing cool,The woods are dim before us;The white fog of the wayside poolIs creeping slowly o'er us.The night is falling, comrades mine,Our footsore beasts are weary,And through yon elms the tavern signLooks out upon us cheery.The landlord beckons from his door,His beechen fire is glowing;These ample barns, with feed in store,Are filled to overflowing.From many a valley frowned acrossBy brows of rugged mountains;From hillsides where, through spongy moss,Gush out the river fountains;From quiet farm-fields, green and low,And bright with blooming clover;From vales of corn the wandering crowNo richer hovers over;Day after day our way has beenO'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; forthWife, children, house-dog, sally,Till once more on their dusty pathThe baffled truants rally.We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown,Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony,Like those who grind their noses downOn pastures bare and stony,—Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs,And cows too lean for shadows,Disputing feebly with the frogsThe crop of saw-grass meadows!In our good drove, so sleek and fair,No bones of leanness rattle;No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,Or Pharaoh's evil cattle.Each stately beeve bespeaks the handThat fed him unrepining;The fatness of a goodly landIn each dun hide is shining.We've sought them where, in warmest nooks,The freshest feed is growing,By sweetest springs and clearest brooksThrough 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 poolIs creeping slowly o'er us.The cricket to the frog's bassoonHis shrillest time is keeping;The sickle of yon setting moonThe meadow-mist is reaping.The night is falling, comrades mine,Our footsore beasts are weary,And through yon elms the tavern signLooks out upon us cheery.To-morrow, eastward with our chargeWe'll go to meet the dawning,Ere yet the pines of KearsargeHave 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 clearYoung eyes of pleasure glisten,To tales of all we see and hearThe ears of home shall listen.By many a Northern lake and bill,From many a mountain pasture,Shall Fancy play the Drover still,And speed the long night faster.Then let us on, through shower and sun,And heat and cold, be driving;There 's life alone in duty done,And rest alone in striving.1847.
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rainHad left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gayWith the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May.Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red,At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued,On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill;And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks;But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell,And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry,Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green wavesof 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 wainBore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain;Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last,And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.And to! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name,Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair,Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair,The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking ballad sung.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoardHeap high the golden cornNo richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest-fields with snow.Through vales of grass and mends of flowersOur ploughs their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o'er hill and plainBeneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot midsummer's noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,Its harvest-time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.There, when the snows about us drift,And winter winds are cold,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milk,By homespun beauty poured!Where'er the wide old kitchen hearthSends 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 scornThe 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 adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us, for his golden corn,Send up our thanks to God!1847.
ALL grim and soiled and brown with tan,I saw a Strong One, in his wrath,Smiting the godless shrines of manAlong his path.The Church, beneath her trembling dome,Essayed in vain her ghostly charmWealth shook within his gilded homeWith strange alarm.Fraud from his secret chambers fledBefore the sunlight bursting inSloth drew her pillow o'er her headTo drown the din."Spare," Art implored, "yon holy pile;That grand, old, time-worn turret spare;"Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle,Cried out, "Forbear!"Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind,Groped for his old accustomed stone,Leaned on his staff, and wept to findHis seat o'erthrown.Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,O'erhung with paly locks of gold,—"Why smite," he asked in sad surprise,"The fair, the old?"Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam;Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,As from a dream.I looked: aside the dust-cloud rolled,The Waster seemed the Builder too;Upspringing from the ruined OldI saw the New.'T was but the ruin of the bad,—The wasting of the wrong and ill;Whate'er of good the old time hadWas living still.Calm grew the brows of him I feared;The frown which awed me passed away,And left behind a smile which cheeredLike breaking day.The grain grew green on battle-plains,O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow;The slave stood forging from his chainsThe spade and plough.Where frowned the fort, pavilions gayAnd cottage windows, flower-entwined,Looked out upon the peaceful bayAnd hills behind.Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red,The lights on brimming crystal fell,Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet headAnd mossy well.Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope,Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,And with the idle gallows-ropeThe young child played.Where the doomed victim in his cellHad 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 knowThat, 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 useOf wrong alone,—These wait their doom, from that great lawWhich makes the past time serve to-day;And fresher life the world shall drawFrom their decay.Oh, backward-looking son of time!The new is old, the old is new,The cycle of a change sublimeStill sweeping through.So wisely taught the Indian seer;Destroying Seva, forming Brahm,Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear,Are one, the same.Idly as thou, in that old dayThou mournest, did thy sire repine;So, in his time, thy child grown grayShall sigh for thine.But life shall on and upward go;Th' eternal step of Progress beatsTo that great anthem, calm and slow,Which God repeats.Take heart! the Waster builds again,A charmed life old Goodness bath;The tares may perish, but the grainIs not for death.God works in all things; all obeyHis first propulsion from the nightWake thou and watch! the world is grayWith morning light!1848.
STILL in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stainOf blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fedThe yawning trenches with her noble dead;Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately hallsThe shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side,The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;Still in that vale where Himalaya's snowMelts round the cornfields and the vines below,The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball,Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall;On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain,And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again."What folly, then," the faithless critic cries,With sneering lip, and wise world-knowing eyes,"While fort to fort, and post to post, repeatThe ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat,And round the green earth, to the church-bell's chime,The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time,To dream of peace amidst a world in arms,Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms,Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood,Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood,Like tipplers answering Father Matthew's call;The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul,The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life,The Yankee swaggering with his bowie-knife,The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared,The blood still dripping from his amber beard,Quitting their mad Berserker dance to hearThe 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 damesNo! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant,Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant,Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs,And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues,Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er,Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar;Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricadeOf "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made,Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hopeTo capsize navies with a windy trope;Still shall the glory and the pomp of WarAlong their train the shouting millions draw;Still dusty Labor to the passing BraveHis cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave;Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song,Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong;Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine,O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine,To plumed and sworded auditors, shall proveTheir trade accordant with the Law of Love;And Church for State, and State for Church, shall fight,And both agree, that "Might alone is Right!"Despite of sneers like these, O faithful few,Who dare to hold God's word and witness true,Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time,And o'er the present wilderness of crimeSees the calm future, with its robes of green,Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between,—Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread,Though worldly wisdom shake the cautious head;No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere,Without the greeting of the skeptic's sneer;Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall,Common as dew and sunshine, over all."Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease,Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace;As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre,Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire,Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell,And love subdued the maddened heart of hell.Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue,Which the glad angels of the Advent sung,Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth,Glory to God, and peace unto the earthThrough the mad discord send that calming wordWhich wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard,Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword!Not vain the vision which the prophets saw,Skirting with green the fiery waste of war,Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calmOn the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm.Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod,The great hope resting on the truth of God,—Evil shall cease and Violence pass away,And the tired world breathe free through a longSabbath day.11th mo., 1848.
Before the law authorizing imprisonment for debt had been abolished in Massachusetts, a revolutionary pensioner was confined in Charlestown jail for a debt of fourteen dollars, and on the fourth of July was seen waving a handkerchief from the bars of his cell in honor of the day.
Look on him! through his dungeon grate,Feebly and cold, the morning lightComes stealing round him, dim and late,As if it loathed the sight.Reclining on his strawy bed,His hand upholds his drooping head;His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;And o'er his bony fingers flowHis 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 goesThe frequent ague thrill!Silent, save ever and anon,A sound, half murmur and half groan,Forces apart the painful gripOf the old sufferer's bearded lip;Oh, sad and crushing is the fateOf 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 jeerFall ever on his loathing ear,And, or in wakefulness or sleep,Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creepWhene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,Crimson with murder, touches him!What has the gray-haired prisoner done?Has murder stained his hands with gore?Not so; his crime's a fouler one;God made the old man poor!For this he shares a felon's cell,The fittest earthly type of hellFor this, the boon for which he pouredHis 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 rainOn 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 seeYon monument upreared to thee;Piled granite and a prison cell,The land repays thy service well!Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,And fling the starry banner out;Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping onesGive back their cradle-shout;Let boastful eloquence declaimOf honor, liberty, and fame;Still let the poet's strain be heard,With glory for each second word,And everything with breath agreeTo praise "our glorious liberty!"But when the patron cannon jarsThat prison's cold and gloomy wall,And through its grates the stripes and starsRise on the wind, and fall,Think ye that prisoner's aged earRejoices in the general cheer?Think ye his dim and failing eyeIs 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 findNo refuge from the withering curseOf God and human-kindOpen the prison's living tomb,And usher from its brooding gloomThe victims of your savage codeTo the free sun and air of God;No longer dare as crime to brandThe chastening of the Almighty's hand.1849.
The reader of the biography of William Allen, the philanthropic associate of Clarkson and Romilly, cannot fail to admire his simple and beautiful record of a tour through Europe, in the years 1818 and 1819, in the company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett.