TO A WORD-WARRIORFrank Pixley, you, who kiss the handThat strove to cut the country's throat,Cannot forgive the hands that smoteApplauding in a distant land,—Applauding carelessly, as oneThe weaker willing to befriendUntil the quarrel's at an end,Then learn by whom it was begun.When North was pitted against SouthNon-combatants on either sideIn calculating fury vied,And fought their foes by word of mouth.That devil's-camisade you ledWith formidable feats of tongue.Upon the battle's rear you hung—With Samson's weapon slew the dead!So hot the ardor of your soulThat every fierce civilian came,His torch to kindle at your name,Or have you blow his cooling coal.Men prematurely left their bedsAnd sought the gelid bath—so greatThe heat and splendor of your hateOf Englishmen and "Copperheads."King Liar of deceitful men,For imposition doubly armed!The patriots whom your speaking charmedYou stung to madness with your pen.There was a certain journal here,Its English owner growing rich—Your hand the treason wrote for whichA mob cut short its curst career.If, Pixley, you had not the brainTo know the true from false, or youTo Truth had courage to be true,And loyal to her perfect reign;If you had not your powers arrayedTo serve the wrong by tricksy speech,Nor pushed yourself within the reachOf retribution's accolade,I had not had the will to goOutside the olive-bordered pathOf peace to cut the birch of wrath,And strip your body for the blow.Behold how dark the war-clouds riseAbout the mother of our race!The lightnings gild her tranquil faceAnd glitter in her patient eyes.Her children throng the hither floodAnd lean intent above the beach.Their beating hearts inhibit speechWith stifling tides of English blood."Their skies, but not their hearts, they changeWho go in ships across the sea"—Through all centuries to beThe strange new land will still be strange.The Island Mother holds in gageThe souls of sons she never saw;Superior to law, the lawOf sympathetic heritage.Forgotten now the foolish reignOf wrath which sundered trivial ties.A soldier's sabre vainly triesTo cleave a spiritual chain.The iron in our blood affines,Though fratricidal hands may spill.Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?
Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the handThat strove to cut the country's throat,Cannot forgive the hands that smoteApplauding in a distant land,—Applauding carelessly, as oneThe weaker willing to befriendUntil the quarrel's at an end,Then learn by whom it was begun.When North was pitted against SouthNon-combatants on either sideIn calculating fury vied,And fought their foes by word of mouth.That devil's-camisade you ledWith formidable feats of tongue.Upon the battle's rear you hung—With Samson's weapon slew the dead!So hot the ardor of your soulThat every fierce civilian came,His torch to kindle at your name,Or have you blow his cooling coal.Men prematurely left their bedsAnd sought the gelid bath—so greatThe heat and splendor of your hateOf Englishmen and "Copperheads."King Liar of deceitful men,For imposition doubly armed!The patriots whom your speaking charmedYou stung to madness with your pen.There was a certain journal here,Its English owner growing rich—Your hand the treason wrote for whichA mob cut short its curst career.If, Pixley, you had not the brainTo know the true from false, or youTo Truth had courage to be true,And loyal to her perfect reign;If you had not your powers arrayedTo serve the wrong by tricksy speech,Nor pushed yourself within the reachOf retribution's accolade,I had not had the will to goOutside the olive-bordered pathOf peace to cut the birch of wrath,And strip your body for the blow.Behold how dark the war-clouds riseAbout the mother of our race!The lightnings gild her tranquil faceAnd glitter in her patient eyes.Her children throng the hither floodAnd lean intent above the beach.Their beating hearts inhibit speechWith stifling tides of English blood."Their skies, but not their hearts, they changeWho go in ships across the sea"—Through all centuries to beThe strange new land will still be strange.The Island Mother holds in gageThe souls of sons she never saw;Superior to law, the lawOf sympathetic heritage.Forgotten now the foolish reignOf wrath which sundered trivial ties.A soldier's sabre vainly triesTo cleave a spiritual chain.The iron in our blood affines,Though fratricidal hands may spill.Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?