(signature) William Jay(signature) William Jay
Bedford, June 1853.
FOOTNOTES:[4]A late American traveller, in Germany, invited to an evening party at the house of a Professor, attempted to compliment the company by expressing his indignation at the oppression which "the dear old German fatherland" suffered at the hands of its rulers. The American's profferred sympathy was coldly received. "We admit," was the reply, "that there is much wrong here, but we do not admit the right ofyour countryto rebuke it. There is a system now with you, worse than any thing which we know of tyranny—yourslavery. It is a disgrace and blot on your free government and on a Christian State. We have nothing in Russia or Hungary which is so degrading, and we have nothing which so crushes the mind. And more than this, we hear you have now alaw, just passed by your National Assembly, which would disgrace the cruel code of the Czar. We hear of free men and women, hunted like dogs on your mountains, and sent back, without trial, to bondage worse than our serfs have ever known. We have, in Europe, many excuses in ancient evils and deep-laid prejudices, but you, the young and free people, in this age, to be passing again, afresh, such measures of unmitigated wrong!"—Home life in Germany, by Charles Loving Brace. Mr. Brace honestly adds: "I must say that the blood tingled to my cheek with shame, as he spoke."[5]"We have read the book, and regard it as Anti-Christian, on the same grounds that the chronicle regards it decidedly anti ministerial."—New York Observer, September 22, 1852.—Editorial. The Bishop of Rome also regards the book as Anti-Christian, and has forbidden his subjects to read it. On the other hand, the clergy of Great Britain differ most widely from the reverend gentlemen of the "Observer" and the Vatican, in their estimate of the character of the book. Said Dr. Wardlaw, who on this subject may be regarded as the representative of the Protestant Divines of Europe: "He who can read it without the breathings of devotion, must, if he call himself a Christian, have a Christianity asunique and questionableas his humanity."
[4]A late American traveller, in Germany, invited to an evening party at the house of a Professor, attempted to compliment the company by expressing his indignation at the oppression which "the dear old German fatherland" suffered at the hands of its rulers. The American's profferred sympathy was coldly received. "We admit," was the reply, "that there is much wrong here, but we do not admit the right ofyour countryto rebuke it. There is a system now with you, worse than any thing which we know of tyranny—yourslavery. It is a disgrace and blot on your free government and on a Christian State. We have nothing in Russia or Hungary which is so degrading, and we have nothing which so crushes the mind. And more than this, we hear you have now alaw, just passed by your National Assembly, which would disgrace the cruel code of the Czar. We hear of free men and women, hunted like dogs on your mountains, and sent back, without trial, to bondage worse than our serfs have ever known. We have, in Europe, many excuses in ancient evils and deep-laid prejudices, but you, the young and free people, in this age, to be passing again, afresh, such measures of unmitigated wrong!"—Home life in Germany, by Charles Loving Brace. Mr. Brace honestly adds: "I must say that the blood tingled to my cheek with shame, as he spoke."
[4]A late American traveller, in Germany, invited to an evening party at the house of a Professor, attempted to compliment the company by expressing his indignation at the oppression which "the dear old German fatherland" suffered at the hands of its rulers. The American's profferred sympathy was coldly received. "We admit," was the reply, "that there is much wrong here, but we do not admit the right ofyour countryto rebuke it. There is a system now with you, worse than any thing which we know of tyranny—yourslavery. It is a disgrace and blot on your free government and on a Christian State. We have nothing in Russia or Hungary which is so degrading, and we have nothing which so crushes the mind. And more than this, we hear you have now alaw, just passed by your National Assembly, which would disgrace the cruel code of the Czar. We hear of free men and women, hunted like dogs on your mountains, and sent back, without trial, to bondage worse than our serfs have ever known. We have, in Europe, many excuses in ancient evils and deep-laid prejudices, but you, the young and free people, in this age, to be passing again, afresh, such measures of unmitigated wrong!"—Home life in Germany, by Charles Loving Brace. Mr. Brace honestly adds: "I must say that the blood tingled to my cheek with shame, as he spoke."
[5]"We have read the book, and regard it as Anti-Christian, on the same grounds that the chronicle regards it decidedly anti ministerial."—New York Observer, September 22, 1852.—Editorial. The Bishop of Rome also regards the book as Anti-Christian, and has forbidden his subjects to read it. On the other hand, the clergy of Great Britain differ most widely from the reverend gentlemen of the "Observer" and the Vatican, in their estimate of the character of the book. Said Dr. Wardlaw, who on this subject may be regarded as the representative of the Protestant Divines of Europe: "He who can read it without the breathings of devotion, must, if he call himself a Christian, have a Christianity asunique and questionableas his humanity."
[5]"We have read the book, and regard it as Anti-Christian, on the same grounds that the chronicle regards it decidedly anti ministerial."—New York Observer, September 22, 1852.—Editorial. The Bishop of Rome also regards the book as Anti-Christian, and has forbidden his subjects to read it. On the other hand, the clergy of Great Britain differ most widely from the reverend gentlemen of the "Observer" and the Vatican, in their estimate of the character of the book. Said Dr. Wardlaw, who on this subject may be regarded as the representative of the Protestant Divines of Europe: "He who can read it without the breathings of devotion, must, if he call himself a Christian, have a Christianity asunique and questionableas his humanity."
Antoinette L. Brown (Engraved by J. C. Buttre)Antoinette L. Brown (Engraved by J. C. Buttre)
A quaint old writer describes a class of persons who have souls so very small that "500 of them could dance at once upon the point of a cambric needle." These wee people are often wrapped up in a lump of the very coarsest of human clay, ponderous enough to give them the semblance of full-grown men and women. A grain of mustard seed, buried in the heart of a mammoth pumpkin, would be no comparison to the little soul, sheathed in its full grown body. The contrast in size would be insufficient to convey an adequate impression; and the tiny soul has little of the mustard seed spiciness.
Yet if this mass of flesh is only wrapped up in awhite skin, even though it is not nearly thick enough to conceal the grossness and coarseness of the veiled material, the poor "feeble folk" within will fancythat he really belongs to the natural variety of aristocratic humanity. He has the good taste to refuse condescension sufficient to allow him to eat at table with a Frederick Douglass, a Samuel R. Ward, or a Dr. Pennington. Poor light little soul! It can borrow a pair of flea's legs, and, hopping up to the magnificent lights of public opinion, sit looking down upon the whole colored race in sovereign contempt.
Take off the thin veneering of a white skin, substitute in its stead the real African ebony, and then place him side by side with one of the above-mentioned men. Measure intellect with intellect—eloquence with eloquence! Mental and moral infancy stand abashed in the presence of nature's noblemen!
So, mere complexion is elevated above character. Sensible men and women are not ashamed of the acknowledgment. The fact has a popular endorsement. Peoplesneeratyouif you are not ready to comprehend the fitness of the thing. If you cannot weigh mind in a balance with a moiety of coloring matter, and still let the mind be found wanting, expect, in America, to lose cast yourself for want of approved taste.
If sin is capable of being made to look mean,narrow, contemptible—to exhibit itself in its character of thorough, unmitigated bitterness—it is when exhibited in the light of our "peculiar" prejudices. Mind, Godlike, immortal mind, with its burden of deathless thought, its comprehensive and discriminating reason, its brilliant wit, its genial humor, its store-house of thrilling memories—a voice of mingled power and pathos, words burning with the unconsuming fire of genius, virtues gathering in ripened beauty upon a brave heart, and moral integrity preeminent over all else—all this could not make a black man the social equal of a white coxcomb, even though his brain were as blank as white paper, and his heart as black as darkness concentrated. May heaven alleviate our undiluted stupidity!
Antoinette L. Brown.
[Fragments of a poem hitherto unpublished, upon a revolt of the free persons of color, in the island of St. Domingo (now Hayti), in the years 1790-1.]
[Fragments of a poem hitherto unpublished, upon a revolt of the free persons of color, in the island of St. Domingo (now Hayti), in the years 1790-1.]
Thereis, at times, an evening sky—The twilight's gift—of sombre hue,All checkered wild and gorgeouslyWith streaks of crimson, gold and blue;—A sky that strikes the soul with awe,And, though not brilliant as the sheen,Which in the east at morn we saw,Is far more glorious, I ween;—So glorious that, when night hath comeAnd shrouded it in deepest gloom,We turn aside with inward painAnd pray to see that sky again.Such sight is like the struggle madeWhen freedom bids unbare the blade,And calls from every mountain glen—From every hill—from every plain,Her chosen ones to stand like men,And cleanse their souls from every stainWhich wretches, steeped in crime and blood,Have cast upon the form of God.Though peace like morning's golden hue,With blooming groves and waving fields,Is mildly pleasing to the view,And all the blessings that it yieldsAre fondly welcomed by the breastWhich finds delight in passion's rest,That breast with joy foregoes them all,While listening to Freedom's call.Though red the carnage,—though the strifeBe filled with groans of parting life,—Though battle's dark, ensanguined skiesGive echo but to agonies—To shrieks of wild despairing,—We willingly repress a sigh—Nay, gaze with rapture in our eye,Whilst "Freedom!" is the rally-cryThat calls to deeds of daring.*****The waves dash brightly on thy shore,Fair island of the southern seas!As bright in joy as when of yoreThey gladly hailed the Genoese,—That daring soul who gave to SpainA world—last trophy of her reign!Basking in beauty, thou dost seemA vision in a poet's dream!Thou look'st as though thou claim'st not birthWith sea and sky and other earth,That smile around thee but to showThy beauty in a brighter glow,—That are unto thee as the foilArtistic hands have featly setAround Golconda's radiant spoil,To grace some lofty coronet,—A foil which serves to make the gemThe glory of that diadem!*****If Eden claimed a favored haunt,Most hallowed of that blessed ground,Where tempting fiend with guileful tauntA resting-place would ne'er have found,—As shadowing it well might seekThe loveliest home in that fair isle,Which in its radiance seemed to speakAs to the charmed doth Beauty's smile,That whispers of a thousand thingsFor which words find no picturings.Like to the gifted Greek who stroveTo paint a crowning work of art,And form his ideal Queen of Love,By choosing from each grace a part,Blending them in one beauteous whole,To charm the eye, transfix the soul,And hold it in enraptured fires,Such as a dream of heaven inspires,—So seem the glad waves to have soughtFrom every place its richest treasure,And borne it to that lovely spot,To found thereon a home of pleasure;—A home where balmy airs might floatThrough spicy bower and orange grove;Where bright-winged birds might turn the noteWhich tells of pure and constant love;Where earthquake stay its demon force,And hurricane its wrathful course;Where nymph and fairy find a home,And foot of spoiler never come.*****And Ogé stands mid this arrayOf matchless beauty, but his browIs brightened not by pleasure's play;He stands unmoved—nay, saddened now,As doth the lorn and mateless birdThat constant mourns, whilst all unheard,The breezes freighted with the strainsOf other songsters sweep the plain,—That ne'er breathes forth a joyous note,Though odors on the zephyrs float—The tribute of a thousand bowers,Rich in their store of fragrant flowers.Yet Ogé's was a mind that joyedWith nature in her every mood,Whether in sunshine unalloyedWith darkness, or in tempest rudeAnd, by the dashing waterfall,Or by the gently flowing river,Or listening to the thunder's call,He'd joy away his life forever.But ah! life is a changeful thing,And pleasures swiftly pass away,And we may turn, with shuddering,From what we sighed for yesterday.The guest, at banquet-table spreadWith choicest viands, shakes with dread,Nor heeds the goblet bright and fair,Nor tastes the dainties rich and rare,Nor bids his eye with pleasure traceThe wreathed flowers that deck the place,If he but knows there is a draughtAmong the cordials, that, if quaffed,Will send swift poison through his veins.So Ogé seems; nor does his eyeWith pleasure view the flowery plains,The bounding sea, the spangled sky,As, in the short and soft twilight,The stars peep brightly forth in heaven,And hasten to the realms of night,As handmaids of the Even.*****The loud shouts from the distant town,Joined in with nature's gladsome lay;The lights went glancing up and down,Riv'ling the stars—nay, seemed as theyCould stoop to claim, in their high home,A sympathy with things of earth,And had from their bright mansions come,To join them in their festal mirth.For the land of the Gaul had arose in its might,And swept by as the wind of a wild, wintry night;And the dreamings of greatness—the phantoms of power,Had passed in its breath like the things of an hour.Like the violet vapors that brilliantly playRound the glass of the chemist, then vanish away,The visions of grandeur which dazzlingly shone,Had gleamed for a time, and all suddenly gone.And the fabric of ages—the glory of kings,Accounted most sacred mid sanctified things,Reared up by the hero, preserved by the sage,And drawn out in rich hues on the chronicler's page,Had sunk in the blast, and in ruins lay spread,While the altar of freedom was reared in its stead.And a spark from that shrine in the free-roving breeze,Had crossed from fair France to that isle of the seas;And a flame was there kindled which fitfully shoneMid the shout of the free, and the dark captive's groan;As, mid contrary breezes, a torch-light will play,Now streaming up brightly—now dying away.*****The reptile slumbers in the stone,Nor dream we of his pent abode;The heart conceals the anguished groan,With all the poignant griefs that goadThe brain to madness;Within the hushed volcano's breast,The molten fires of ruin lie;—Thus human passions seem at rest,And on the brow serene and high,Appears no sadness.But still the fires are raging there,Of vengeance, hatred, and despair;And when they burst, they wildly pourTheir lava flood of woe and fear,And in one short—one little hour,Avenge the wrongs of many a year.*****And Ogé standeth in his hall;But now he standeth not alone;—A brother's there, and friends; and allAre kindred spirits with his own;For mind will join with kindred mind,As matter's with its like combined.They speak of wrongs they had received—Of freemen, of their rights bereaved;And as they pondered o'er the thoughtWhich in their minds so madly wrought,Their eyes gleamed as the lightning's flash,Their words seemed as the torrent's dashThat falleth, with a low, deep sound,Into some dark abyss profound,—A sullen sound that threatens moreThan other torrents' louder roar.Ah! they had borne well as they might,Such wrongs as freemen ill can bear;And they had urged both day and night,In fitting words, a freeman's prayer;And when the heart is filled with grief,For wrongs of all true souls accurst,In action it must seek relief,Or else, o'ercharged, it can but burst.Why blame we them, if they oft spakeWords that were fitted to awakeThe soul's high hopes—its noblest parts—The slumbering passions of brave hearts,And send them as the simoom's breath,Upon a work of woe and death?And woman's voice is heard amidThe accents of that warrior train;And when has woman's voice e'er bid,And man could from its hest refrain?Hers is the power o'er his soulThat's never wielded by another,And she doth claim this soft controlAs sister, mistress, wife, or mother.So sweetly doth her soft voice floatO'er hearts by guilt or anguish riven,It seemeth as a magic noteStruck from earth's harps by hands of heaven.And there's the mother of Ogé,Who with firm voice, and steady heart,And look unaltered, well can playThe Spartan mother's hardy part;And send her sons to battle-fields,And bid them come in triumph home,Or stretched upon their bloody shields,Rather than bear the bondman's doom."Go forth," she said, "to victory;Or else, go bravely forth to die!Go forth to fields where glory floatsIn every trumpet's cheering notes!Go forth, to where a freeman's deathGlares in each cannon's fiery breath!Go forth and triumph o'er the foe;Or failing that, with pleasure goTo molder on the battle-plain,Freed ever from the tyrant's chain!But if your hearts should craven prove,Forgetful of your zeal—your loveFor rights and franchises of men,My heart will break; but even then,Whilst bidding life and earth adieu,This be the prayer I'll breathe for you:'Passing from guilt to misery,May this for aye your portion be,—A life, dragged out beneath the rod—An end, abhorred of man and God—As monument, the chains you nurse—As epitaph, your mother's curse!'"*****A thousand hearts are breathing high,And voices shouting "Victory!"Which soon will hush in death;The trumpet clang of joy that speaks,Will soon be drowned in the shrieksOf the wounded's stifling breath,The tyrant's plume in dust lies low—Th' oppressed has triumphed o'er his foe.But ah! the lull in the furious blastMay whisper not of ruin past;It may tell of the tempest hurrying on,To complete the work the blast begun.With the voice of a Syren, it may whisp'ringly tellOf a moment of hope in the deluge of rain;And the shout of the free heart may rapt'rously swell,While the tyrant is gath'ring his power again.Though the balm of the leech may soften the smart,It never can turn the swift barb from its aim;And thus the resolve of the true freeman's heartMay not keep back his fall, though it free it from shame.Though the hearts of those heroes all well could accordWith freedom's most noble and loftiest word;Their virtuous strength availeth them noughtWith the power and skill that the tyrant brought.Gray veterans trained in many a fieldWhere the fate of nations with blood was sealed,In Italia's vales—on the shores of the Rhine—Where the plains of fair France give birth to the vine—Where the Tagus, the Ebro, go dancing along,Made glad in their course by the Muleteer's song—All these were poured down in the pride of their might,On the land of Ogé, in that terrible fight.Ah! dire was the conflict, and many the slain,Who slept the last sleep on that red battle-plain!The flash of the cannon o'er valley and heightDanced like the swift fires of a northern night,Or the quivering glare which leaps forth as a tokenThat the King of the Storm from his cloud-throne has spoken.And oh! to those heroes how welcome the fateOf Sparta's brave sons in Thermopylæ's strait;With what ardor of soul they then would have givenTheir last look at earth for a long glance at heaven!Their lives to their country—their backs to the sod—Their heart's blood to the sword, and their souls to their God!But alas! although many lie silent and slain,More blest are they far than those clanking the chain,In the hold of the tyrant, debarred from the day;—And among these sad captives is Vincent Ogé!*****Another day's bright sun has risen,And shines upon the insurgent's prison;Another night has slowly passed,And Ogé smiles, for 'tis the lastHe'll droop beneath the tyrant's power—The galling chains! Another hour,And answering to the jailor's call,He stands within the Judgment Hall.They've gathered there;—they who have pressedTheir fangs into the soul distressed,To pain its passage to the tombWith mock'ry of a legal doom.They've gathered there;—they who have stoodFirmly and fast in hour of blood,—Who've seen the lights of hope all die,As stars fade from a morning sky,—They've gathered there, in that dark hour—The latest of the tyrant's power,—An hour that speaketh of the dayWhich never more shall pass away,—The glorious day beyond the grave,Which knows no master—owns no slave.And there, too, are the rack—the wheel—The torturing screw—the piercing steel,—Grim powers of death all crusted o'erWith other victims' clotted gore.Frowning they stand, and in their cold,Silent solemnity, unfoldThe strong one's triumph o'er the weak—The awful groan—the anguished shriek—The unconscious mutt'rings of despair—The strained eyeball's idiot stare—The hopeless clench—the quiv'ring frame—The martyr's death—the despot's shame.The rack—the tyrant—victim,—allAre gathered in that Judgment Hall.Draw we the veil, for 'tis a sightBut friends can gaze on with delight.The sunbeams on the rack that play,For sudden terror flit awayFrom this dread work of war and death,As angels do with quickened breath,From some dark deed of deepest sin,Ere they have drunk its spirit in.*****No mighty host with banners flying,Seems fiercer to a conquered foe,Than did those gallant heroes dying,To those who gloated o'er their woe;—Grim tigers, who have seized their prey,Then turn and shrink abashed away;And, coming back and crouching nigh,Quail 'neath the flashing of the eye,Which tells that though the life has started,The will to strike has not departed.*****Sad was your fate, heroic band!Yet mourn we not, for yours' the standWhich will secure to you a fame,That never dieth, and a nameThat will, in coming ages, beA signal word for Liberty.Upon the slave's o'erclouded sky,Your gallant actions traced the bow,Which whispered of deliv'rance nigh—The meed of one decisive blow.Thy coming fame, Ogé! is sure;Thy name with that of L'Ouverture,And all the noble souls that stoodWith both of you, in times of blood,Will live to be the tyrant's fear—Will live, the sinking soul to cheer!
Thereis, at times, an evening sky—The twilight's gift—of sombre hue,All checkered wild and gorgeouslyWith streaks of crimson, gold and blue;—A sky that strikes the soul with awe,And, though not brilliant as the sheen,Which in the east at morn we saw,Is far more glorious, I ween;—So glorious that, when night hath comeAnd shrouded it in deepest gloom,We turn aside with inward painAnd pray to see that sky again.Such sight is like the struggle madeWhen freedom bids unbare the blade,And calls from every mountain glen—From every hill—from every plain,Her chosen ones to stand like men,And cleanse their souls from every stainWhich wretches, steeped in crime and blood,Have cast upon the form of God.Though peace like morning's golden hue,With blooming groves and waving fields,Is mildly pleasing to the view,And all the blessings that it yieldsAre fondly welcomed by the breastWhich finds delight in passion's rest,That breast with joy foregoes them all,While listening to Freedom's call.Though red the carnage,—though the strifeBe filled with groans of parting life,—Though battle's dark, ensanguined skiesGive echo but to agonies—To shrieks of wild despairing,—We willingly repress a sigh—Nay, gaze with rapture in our eye,Whilst "Freedom!" is the rally-cryThat calls to deeds of daring.
*****
The waves dash brightly on thy shore,Fair island of the southern seas!As bright in joy as when of yoreThey gladly hailed the Genoese,—That daring soul who gave to SpainA world—last trophy of her reign!Basking in beauty, thou dost seemA vision in a poet's dream!Thou look'st as though thou claim'st not birthWith sea and sky and other earth,That smile around thee but to showThy beauty in a brighter glow,—That are unto thee as the foilArtistic hands have featly setAround Golconda's radiant spoil,To grace some lofty coronet,—A foil which serves to make the gemThe glory of that diadem!
*****
If Eden claimed a favored haunt,Most hallowed of that blessed ground,Where tempting fiend with guileful tauntA resting-place would ne'er have found,—As shadowing it well might seekThe loveliest home in that fair isle,Which in its radiance seemed to speakAs to the charmed doth Beauty's smile,That whispers of a thousand thingsFor which words find no picturings.Like to the gifted Greek who stroveTo paint a crowning work of art,And form his ideal Queen of Love,By choosing from each grace a part,Blending them in one beauteous whole,To charm the eye, transfix the soul,And hold it in enraptured fires,Such as a dream of heaven inspires,—So seem the glad waves to have soughtFrom every place its richest treasure,And borne it to that lovely spot,To found thereon a home of pleasure;—A home where balmy airs might floatThrough spicy bower and orange grove;Where bright-winged birds might turn the noteWhich tells of pure and constant love;Where earthquake stay its demon force,And hurricane its wrathful course;Where nymph and fairy find a home,And foot of spoiler never come.
*****
And Ogé stands mid this arrayOf matchless beauty, but his browIs brightened not by pleasure's play;He stands unmoved—nay, saddened now,As doth the lorn and mateless birdThat constant mourns, whilst all unheard,The breezes freighted with the strainsOf other songsters sweep the plain,—That ne'er breathes forth a joyous note,Though odors on the zephyrs float—The tribute of a thousand bowers,Rich in their store of fragrant flowers.Yet Ogé's was a mind that joyedWith nature in her every mood,Whether in sunshine unalloyedWith darkness, or in tempest rudeAnd, by the dashing waterfall,Or by the gently flowing river,Or listening to the thunder's call,He'd joy away his life forever.But ah! life is a changeful thing,And pleasures swiftly pass away,And we may turn, with shuddering,From what we sighed for yesterday.The guest, at banquet-table spreadWith choicest viands, shakes with dread,Nor heeds the goblet bright and fair,Nor tastes the dainties rich and rare,Nor bids his eye with pleasure traceThe wreathed flowers that deck the place,If he but knows there is a draughtAmong the cordials, that, if quaffed,Will send swift poison through his veins.So Ogé seems; nor does his eyeWith pleasure view the flowery plains,The bounding sea, the spangled sky,As, in the short and soft twilight,The stars peep brightly forth in heaven,And hasten to the realms of night,As handmaids of the Even.
*****
The loud shouts from the distant town,Joined in with nature's gladsome lay;The lights went glancing up and down,Riv'ling the stars—nay, seemed as theyCould stoop to claim, in their high home,A sympathy with things of earth,And had from their bright mansions come,To join them in their festal mirth.For the land of the Gaul had arose in its might,And swept by as the wind of a wild, wintry night;And the dreamings of greatness—the phantoms of power,Had passed in its breath like the things of an hour.Like the violet vapors that brilliantly playRound the glass of the chemist, then vanish away,The visions of grandeur which dazzlingly shone,Had gleamed for a time, and all suddenly gone.And the fabric of ages—the glory of kings,Accounted most sacred mid sanctified things,Reared up by the hero, preserved by the sage,And drawn out in rich hues on the chronicler's page,Had sunk in the blast, and in ruins lay spread,While the altar of freedom was reared in its stead.And a spark from that shrine in the free-roving breeze,Had crossed from fair France to that isle of the seas;And a flame was there kindled which fitfully shoneMid the shout of the free, and the dark captive's groan;As, mid contrary breezes, a torch-light will play,Now streaming up brightly—now dying away.
*****
The reptile slumbers in the stone,Nor dream we of his pent abode;The heart conceals the anguished groan,With all the poignant griefs that goadThe brain to madness;Within the hushed volcano's breast,The molten fires of ruin lie;—Thus human passions seem at rest,And on the brow serene and high,Appears no sadness.But still the fires are raging there,Of vengeance, hatred, and despair;And when they burst, they wildly pourTheir lava flood of woe and fear,And in one short—one little hour,Avenge the wrongs of many a year.
*****
And Ogé standeth in his hall;But now he standeth not alone;—A brother's there, and friends; and allAre kindred spirits with his own;For mind will join with kindred mind,As matter's with its like combined.They speak of wrongs they had received—Of freemen, of their rights bereaved;And as they pondered o'er the thoughtWhich in their minds so madly wrought,Their eyes gleamed as the lightning's flash,Their words seemed as the torrent's dashThat falleth, with a low, deep sound,Into some dark abyss profound,—A sullen sound that threatens moreThan other torrents' louder roar.Ah! they had borne well as they might,Such wrongs as freemen ill can bear;And they had urged both day and night,In fitting words, a freeman's prayer;And when the heart is filled with grief,For wrongs of all true souls accurst,In action it must seek relief,Or else, o'ercharged, it can but burst.Why blame we them, if they oft spakeWords that were fitted to awakeThe soul's high hopes—its noblest parts—The slumbering passions of brave hearts,And send them as the simoom's breath,Upon a work of woe and death?And woman's voice is heard amidThe accents of that warrior train;And when has woman's voice e'er bid,And man could from its hest refrain?Hers is the power o'er his soulThat's never wielded by another,And she doth claim this soft controlAs sister, mistress, wife, or mother.So sweetly doth her soft voice floatO'er hearts by guilt or anguish riven,It seemeth as a magic noteStruck from earth's harps by hands of heaven.And there's the mother of Ogé,Who with firm voice, and steady heart,And look unaltered, well can playThe Spartan mother's hardy part;And send her sons to battle-fields,And bid them come in triumph home,Or stretched upon their bloody shields,Rather than bear the bondman's doom."Go forth," she said, "to victory;Or else, go bravely forth to die!Go forth to fields where glory floatsIn every trumpet's cheering notes!Go forth, to where a freeman's deathGlares in each cannon's fiery breath!Go forth and triumph o'er the foe;Or failing that, with pleasure goTo molder on the battle-plain,Freed ever from the tyrant's chain!But if your hearts should craven prove,Forgetful of your zeal—your loveFor rights and franchises of men,My heart will break; but even then,Whilst bidding life and earth adieu,This be the prayer I'll breathe for you:'Passing from guilt to misery,May this for aye your portion be,—A life, dragged out beneath the rod—An end, abhorred of man and God—As monument, the chains you nurse—As epitaph, your mother's curse!'"
*****
A thousand hearts are breathing high,And voices shouting "Victory!"Which soon will hush in death;The trumpet clang of joy that speaks,Will soon be drowned in the shrieksOf the wounded's stifling breath,The tyrant's plume in dust lies low—Th' oppressed has triumphed o'er his foe.But ah! the lull in the furious blastMay whisper not of ruin past;It may tell of the tempest hurrying on,To complete the work the blast begun.With the voice of a Syren, it may whisp'ringly tellOf a moment of hope in the deluge of rain;And the shout of the free heart may rapt'rously swell,While the tyrant is gath'ring his power again.Though the balm of the leech may soften the smart,It never can turn the swift barb from its aim;And thus the resolve of the true freeman's heartMay not keep back his fall, though it free it from shame.Though the hearts of those heroes all well could accordWith freedom's most noble and loftiest word;Their virtuous strength availeth them noughtWith the power and skill that the tyrant brought.Gray veterans trained in many a fieldWhere the fate of nations with blood was sealed,In Italia's vales—on the shores of the Rhine—Where the plains of fair France give birth to the vine—Where the Tagus, the Ebro, go dancing along,Made glad in their course by the Muleteer's song—All these were poured down in the pride of their might,On the land of Ogé, in that terrible fight.Ah! dire was the conflict, and many the slain,Who slept the last sleep on that red battle-plain!The flash of the cannon o'er valley and heightDanced like the swift fires of a northern night,Or the quivering glare which leaps forth as a tokenThat the King of the Storm from his cloud-throne has spoken.And oh! to those heroes how welcome the fateOf Sparta's brave sons in Thermopylæ's strait;With what ardor of soul they then would have givenTheir last look at earth for a long glance at heaven!Their lives to their country—their backs to the sod—Their heart's blood to the sword, and their souls to their God!But alas! although many lie silent and slain,More blest are they far than those clanking the chain,In the hold of the tyrant, debarred from the day;—And among these sad captives is Vincent Ogé!
*****
Another day's bright sun has risen,And shines upon the insurgent's prison;Another night has slowly passed,And Ogé smiles, for 'tis the lastHe'll droop beneath the tyrant's power—The galling chains! Another hour,And answering to the jailor's call,He stands within the Judgment Hall.They've gathered there;—they who have pressedTheir fangs into the soul distressed,To pain its passage to the tombWith mock'ry of a legal doom.They've gathered there;—they who have stoodFirmly and fast in hour of blood,—Who've seen the lights of hope all die,As stars fade from a morning sky,—They've gathered there, in that dark hour—The latest of the tyrant's power,—An hour that speaketh of the dayWhich never more shall pass away,—The glorious day beyond the grave,Which knows no master—owns no slave.And there, too, are the rack—the wheel—The torturing screw—the piercing steel,—Grim powers of death all crusted o'erWith other victims' clotted gore.Frowning they stand, and in their cold,Silent solemnity, unfoldThe strong one's triumph o'er the weak—The awful groan—the anguished shriek—The unconscious mutt'rings of despair—The strained eyeball's idiot stare—The hopeless clench—the quiv'ring frame—The martyr's death—the despot's shame.The rack—the tyrant—victim,—allAre gathered in that Judgment Hall.Draw we the veil, for 'tis a sightBut friends can gaze on with delight.The sunbeams on the rack that play,For sudden terror flit awayFrom this dread work of war and death,As angels do with quickened breath,From some dark deed of deepest sin,Ere they have drunk its spirit in.
*****
No mighty host with banners flying,Seems fiercer to a conquered foe,Than did those gallant heroes dying,To those who gloated o'er their woe;—Grim tigers, who have seized their prey,Then turn and shrink abashed away;And, coming back and crouching nigh,Quail 'neath the flashing of the eye,Which tells that though the life has started,The will to strike has not departed.
*****
Sad was your fate, heroic band!Yet mourn we not, for yours' the standWhich will secure to you a fame,That never dieth, and a nameThat will, in coming ages, beA signal word for Liberty.Upon the slave's o'erclouded sky,Your gallant actions traced the bow,Which whispered of deliv'rance nigh—The meed of one decisive blow.Thy coming fame, Ogé! is sure;Thy name with that of L'Ouverture,And all the noble souls that stoodWith both of you, in times of blood,Will live to be the tyrant's fear—Will live, the sinking soul to cheer!
(signature) George B. Vashon.(signature) George B. Vashon.
Syracuse, N. Y., August 31st, 1853.
Freedom, under the proper restraint of Law and Duty, is apoliticalgood, for that which is morally wrong can never be politically right.
Fine moral sense will pour indignation on oppression, as well as applause on worth. It will give sympathy to the afflicted, and treasures to relieve the needy. Such a spirit will exalt a nation, and command the respect of other nations. But general freedom can only flourish beneath the undisturbed dominion of equitable laws.
Governments should aim at the welfare of the people, and that government which secures the person, the property, the liberty, the lives of dutiful subjects, and thus makes the common good the rule and measure of its government, will receive a blessing from God.
Let America act on her own avowed principles, that every man is born free, and she will be exalted, when tyrannical, persecuting, slaveholding nations will come to nought.
(signature) Wm. Marsh, D. D.(signature) Wm. Marsh, D. D.
H. Canon of Worcester.
from the knaben wunderhorn.(b.i.p. 73,et seq.)
The general at GrosswardeinHad once a little daughter fine:—Her name was called Theresia,—God-loving, modest, chaste and fair:And from her childhood up was sheMost deeply given to piety,With prayers and music's solemn toneShe ever praised the Three-in-One.Whene'er she heard of Jesus' name,Her love and joy flamed brighter flame;Jesus to serve she makes her cross,Devotes herself to be his Spouse.A noble lord came her to woo,Her father gave consent thereto;The mother to her daughter said,—"Dear child, this man thou'lt surely wed."The daughter said, "Mother of meThat can and must not ever be.My heart is fixed on higher worth,A Bridegroom he not of this earth."The mother then, "My daughter dear,Ah, do not contradict us here,Thy sire and I we both are old,And God has blessed our toil with gold."Thereat the maid began to weep,"I have a lover beloved so deep,To him I've made my promise down;I'll wear for him a virgin crown."Thereat the sire, "This must not be,My child away this phantasy,Where wilt thou dwell when past thy prime?We both are old, far gone in time!"The noble lord again draws near,And even the bridal feast prepare,For all things soon were ready made,—But sorrow veils the maiden's head.Quick to the garden, goeth she,There falls she down upon her knee,Out from her heart her prayer she pouredTo Jesus her espoused Lord.She lay before him on her face,And sighed with sighs to win his grace.The dearest Christ the clouds unrolled,"Look up," said he, "my maid behold!"Thou yet shalt be, in briefest time,In heaven with me in joy's full prime,And mid the lovely angels there,In full delight and joy appear."He greets the maiden wondrous fair:She stands before him without fear,Down cast her eyes with modest grace,—She felt the beauty of his face.Then speaks the youth, the heavenly King,And weds her with a golden ring;—"Look there, my bride! Love's pledge for thee,Oh, wear it on thy hand for me."The maiden then sweet vows took,"My Bridegroom dear!" to Christ she spoke,"Herewith art thou firm wed to me,Henceforth my heart loves none but thee."Then walked abroad the married pair,And gathered many a blossom fair;—Jesus thus spake to her anew:—"Come, and my lovely garden view!"He took the maiden by the hand,And led her from her fatherland,Unto his Father's garden fairWhere many beauteous blossoms are.The maiden now with joy may winThe precious fruits which grow therein;But mortal fancy cannot knowThe noble fruits therein which grow.She hears such music and such song,That length of time seems nothing long,And silver-white the brooklets thereFlow ever on so pure and fair.The youth again addressed the maid,"My garden here thou hast surveyed.I will again conduct thee home.To thine own land, the time is come."The maiden turns with grief away,Comes to the town without delay,The watchman calls, "Stand, who goes there?"She says, "I to my father must repair!""Who is your father, then," quoth he,"The general," she answers free.The watchman then replied and smiled,"The general;—he has no child."But by her garments all men see,The maiden is of high degree.The watchman then conducts her straightBefore the guardians of the State.The maid declares and stands thereto,The general is her father true.And but two hours have scarcely flown,Since she went out to walk alone.The guardians saw a wonder great,And asked where she had been of late;Her father's name, his power and race,That she must tell them face to face.They searched the ancient records through,And this they found was written true,That once was lost a bride so fineFrom this same city Grosswardein.The length of time they came to try,And sixteen years they find passed by;And yet the maid was fresh and fair,As when first in her fifteenth year.Thereby the guardians understandThis is the work of God's own hand.They bring the maiden food to eat,She turns white as a winding-sheet."Of earthly things I wish for nought,"Cries she; "but let a priest be brought,That I may take ere death is sent,The body true in sacrament.As soon as this last act was done—And many a Christian looked thereon—Free from all pain and mortal smart,Then ceased to beat that holy heart.
The general at GrosswardeinHad once a little daughter fine:—Her name was called Theresia,—God-loving, modest, chaste and fair:
And from her childhood up was sheMost deeply given to piety,With prayers and music's solemn toneShe ever praised the Three-in-One.
Whene'er she heard of Jesus' name,Her love and joy flamed brighter flame;Jesus to serve she makes her cross,Devotes herself to be his Spouse.
A noble lord came her to woo,Her father gave consent thereto;The mother to her daughter said,—"Dear child, this man thou'lt surely wed."
The daughter said, "Mother of meThat can and must not ever be.My heart is fixed on higher worth,A Bridegroom he not of this earth."
The mother then, "My daughter dear,Ah, do not contradict us here,Thy sire and I we both are old,And God has blessed our toil with gold."
Thereat the maid began to weep,"I have a lover beloved so deep,To him I've made my promise down;I'll wear for him a virgin crown."
Thereat the sire, "This must not be,My child away this phantasy,Where wilt thou dwell when past thy prime?We both are old, far gone in time!"
The noble lord again draws near,And even the bridal feast prepare,For all things soon were ready made,—But sorrow veils the maiden's head.
Quick to the garden, goeth she,There falls she down upon her knee,Out from her heart her prayer she pouredTo Jesus her espoused Lord.
She lay before him on her face,And sighed with sighs to win his grace.The dearest Christ the clouds unrolled,"Look up," said he, "my maid behold!
"Thou yet shalt be, in briefest time,In heaven with me in joy's full prime,And mid the lovely angels there,In full delight and joy appear."
He greets the maiden wondrous fair:She stands before him without fear,Down cast her eyes with modest grace,—She felt the beauty of his face.
Then speaks the youth, the heavenly King,And weds her with a golden ring;—"Look there, my bride! Love's pledge for thee,Oh, wear it on thy hand for me."
The maiden then sweet vows took,"My Bridegroom dear!" to Christ she spoke,"Herewith art thou firm wed to me,Henceforth my heart loves none but thee."
Then walked abroad the married pair,And gathered many a blossom fair;—Jesus thus spake to her anew:—"Come, and my lovely garden view!"
He took the maiden by the hand,And led her from her fatherland,Unto his Father's garden fairWhere many beauteous blossoms are.
The maiden now with joy may winThe precious fruits which grow therein;But mortal fancy cannot knowThe noble fruits therein which grow.
She hears such music and such song,That length of time seems nothing long,And silver-white the brooklets thereFlow ever on so pure and fair.
The youth again addressed the maid,"My garden here thou hast surveyed.I will again conduct thee home.To thine own land, the time is come."
The maiden turns with grief away,Comes to the town without delay,The watchman calls, "Stand, who goes there?"She says, "I to my father must repair!"
"Who is your father, then," quoth he,"The general," she answers free.The watchman then replied and smiled,"The general;—he has no child."
But by her garments all men see,The maiden is of high degree.The watchman then conducts her straightBefore the guardians of the State.
The maid declares and stands thereto,The general is her father true.And but two hours have scarcely flown,Since she went out to walk alone.
The guardians saw a wonder great,And asked where she had been of late;Her father's name, his power and race,That she must tell them face to face.
They searched the ancient records through,And this they found was written true,That once was lost a bride so fineFrom this same city Grosswardein.
The length of time they came to try,And sixteen years they find passed by;And yet the maid was fresh and fair,As when first in her fifteenth year.
Thereby the guardians understandThis is the work of God's own hand.They bring the maiden food to eat,She turns white as a winding-sheet.
"Of earthly things I wish for nought,"Cries she; "but let a priest be brought,That I may take ere death is sent,The body true in sacrament.
As soon as this last act was done—And many a Christian looked thereon—Free from all pain and mortal smart,Then ceased to beat that holy heart.
(signature) Theo. Parker(signature) Theo. Parker
On a beautiful morning in the month of June, while strolling about Trafalgar Square, I was attracted to the base of the Nelson column, where a crowd was standing gazing at the bas-relief representations of some of the great naval exploits of the man whose statue stands on the top of the pillar. The death-wound which the hero received on board the Victory, and his being carried from the ship's deck by his companions, is executed with great skill. Being no admirer of warlike heroes, I was on the point of turning away, when I perceived among the figures (which were as large as life) a full-blooded African, with as white a set of teeth as ever I had seen, and all the other peculiarities of feature that distinguish that race from the rest of the human family, withmusket in hand and a dejected countenance, which told that he had been in the heat of the battle, and shared with the other soldiers the pain in the loss of their commander. However, as soon as I saw my sable brother, I felt more at home, and remained longer than I had intended. Here was the Negro, as black a man as was ever imported from the coast of Africa, represented in his proper place by the side of Lord Nelson, on one of England's proudest monuments. How different, thought I, was the position assigned to the colored man on similar monuments in the United States. Some years since, while standing under the shade of the monument erected to the memory of the brave Americans who fell at the storming of Fort Griswold, Connecticut, I felt a degree of pride as I beheld the names of two Africans who had fallen in the fight, yet I was grieved but not surprised to find their names colonized off, and a line drawn between them and the whites. This was in keeping with American historical injustice to its colored heroes.
Wm. W. Brown. (Engraved by J. C. Buttre)Wm. W. Brown. (Engraved by J. C. Buttre)
The conspicuous place assigned to this representative of an injured race, by the side of one of England's greatest heroes, brought vividly before my eyethe wrongs of Africa and the philanthropic man of Great Britain, who had labored so long and so successfully for the abolition of the slave trade, and the emancipation of the slaves of the West Indies; and I at once resolved to pay a visit to the grave of Wilberforce.
A half an hour after, I entered Westminster Abbey, at Poets' Corner, and proceeded in search of the patriot's tomb; I had, however, gone but a few steps, when I found myself in front of the tablet erected to the memory of Granville Sharpe, by the African Institution of London, in 1816; upon the marble was a long inscription, recapitulating many of the deeds of this benevolent man, and from which I copied the following:—"He aimed to rescue his native country from the guilt and inconsistency of employing the arm of freedom to rivet the fetters of bondage, and establish for the negro race, in the person of Somerset, the long-disputed rights of human nature. Having in this glorious cause triumphed over the combined resistance of interest, prejudice, and pride, he took his post among the foremost of the honorable band associated to deliver Africa from the rapacity of Europe, by the abolition of the slave-trade; nor was deathpermitted to interrupt his career of usefulness, till he had witnessed that act of the British Parliament by which the abolition was decreed." After viewing minutely the profile of this able defender of the negro's rights, which was finely chiselled on the tablet, I took a hasty glance at Shakspeare, on the one side, and Dryden on the other, and then passed on, and was soon in the north aisle, looking upon the mementoes placed in honor of genius. There stood a grand and expressive monument to Sir Isaac Newton, which was in every way worthy of the great man to whose memory it was erected. A short distance from that was a statue to Addison, representing the great writer clad in his morning gown, looking as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen article for theSpectator. The stately monument to the Earl of Chatham is the most attractive in this part of the Abbey. Fox, Pitt, Grattan, and many others, are here represented by monuments. I had to stop at the splendid marble erected to the memory of Sir Fowell Buxton, Bart. A long inscription enumerates his many good qualities, and concludes by saying:—"This monument is erected by his friends and fellow-laborers, at home and abroad, assisted bythe grateful contributions of many thousands of the African race." A few steps further and I was standing over the ashes of Wilberforce. In no other place so small do so many great men lie together. The following is the inscription on the monument erected to the memory of this devoted friend of the oppressed and degraded negro race:—
"To the memory ofWilliam Wilberforce, born in Hull, August 24, 1759, died in London, July 29, 1833. For nearly half a century a member of the House of Commons, and for six parliaments during that period, one of the two representatives for Yorkshire. In an age and country fertile in great and good men, he was among the foremost of those who fixed the character of their times; because to high and various talents, to warm benevolence, and to universal candor, he added the abiding eloquence of a Christian life. Eminent as he was in every department of public labor, and a leader in every work of charity, whether to relieve the temporal or the spiritual wants of his fellow men, his name will ever be specially identified with those exertions which, by the blessings of God, removed from England the guilt of the African slave-trade, and prepared the way for the abolitionof slavery in every colony of the empire. In the prosecution of these objects, he relied not in vain on God; but, in the progress, he was called to endure great obloquy and great opposition. He outlived, however, all enmity, and, in the evening of his days, withdrew from public life and public observation, to the bosom of his family. Yet he died not unnoticed or forgotten by his country; the Peers and Commons of England, with the Lord Chancellor and the Speaker at their head, in solemn procession from their respective houses, carried him to his fitting place among the mighty dead around, here to repose, till, through the merits of Jesus Christ his only Redeemer and Saviour, whom in his life and in his writings he had desired to glorify, he shall rise in the resurrection of the just."
The monument is a fine one; his figure is seated on a pedestal, very ingeniously done, and truly expressive of his age, and the pleasure he seemed to derive from his own thoughts. Either the orator or the poet have said or sung the praises of most of the great men who lie buried in Westminster Abbey, in enchanting strains. The statues of heroes, princes, and statesmen are there to proclaim their power, worth, or brilliantgenius, to posterity. But as time shall step between them and the future, none will be sought after with more enthusiasm or greater pleasure than that of Wilberforce. No man's philosophy was ever moulded in a nobler cast than his; it was founded in the school of Christianity, which was, that all men are by nature equal; that they are wisely and justly endowed by their Creator with certain rights which are irrefragable, and no matter how human pride and avarice may depress and debase, still God is the author of good to man; and of evil, man is the artificer to himself and to his species. Unlike Plato and Socrates, his mind was free from the gloom that surrounded theirs. Let the name, the worth, the zeal, and other excellent qualifications of this noble man, ever live in our hearts, let his deeds ever be the theme of our praise, and let us teach our children to honor and love the name of William Wilberforce.