Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,In triumph o'er that fated deck,Grown holy by another grave—Thou hast the captain of the wreck.No prayer was said, no lesson read,O'er him; the soldier of the sea:And yet for him, through all the land,A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.And many an eye shall dim with tears,And many a cheek be flushed with pride;And men shall say, There died a man,And boys shall learn how well he died.Ay, weep for him, whose noble soulIs with the God who made it great;But weep not for so proud a death,—We could not spare so grand a fate.Nor could Humanity resignThat hour which bade her heart beat high,And blazoned Duty's stainless shield,And set a star in Honor's sky.O dreary night! O grave of hope!O sea, and dark, unpitying sky!Full many a wreck these waves shall claimEre such another heart shall die.Alas, how can we help but mournWhen hero bosoms yield their breath!A century itself may bearBut once the flower of such a death;So full of manliness, so sweetWith utmost duty nobly done;So thronged with deeds, so filled with life,As though with death that life begun.Ithasbegun, true gentleman!No better life we ask for thee;Thy Viking soul and woman heartForever shall a beacon be,—A starry thought to veering souls,To teach it is not best to live;To show that life has naught to matchSuch knighthood as the grave can give.S. Weir Mitchell.
Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,In triumph o'er that fated deck,Grown holy by another grave—Thou hast the captain of the wreck.No prayer was said, no lesson read,O'er him; the soldier of the sea:And yet for him, through all the land,A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.And many an eye shall dim with tears,And many a cheek be flushed with pride;And men shall say, There died a man,And boys shall learn how well he died.Ay, weep for him, whose noble soulIs with the God who made it great;But weep not for so proud a death,—We could not spare so grand a fate.Nor could Humanity resignThat hour which bade her heart beat high,And blazoned Duty's stainless shield,And set a star in Honor's sky.O dreary night! O grave of hope!O sea, and dark, unpitying sky!Full many a wreck these waves shall claimEre such another heart shall die.Alas, how can we help but mournWhen hero bosoms yield their breath!A century itself may bearBut once the flower of such a death;So full of manliness, so sweetWith utmost duty nobly done;So thronged with deeds, so filled with life,As though with death that life begun.Ithasbegun, true gentleman!No better life we ask for thee;Thy Viking soul and woman heartForever shall a beacon be,—A starry thought to veering souls,To teach it is not best to live;To show that life has naught to matchSuch knighthood as the grave can give.S. Weir Mitchell.
Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,In triumph o'er that fated deck,Grown holy by another grave—Thou hast the captain of the wreck.
No prayer was said, no lesson read,O'er him; the soldier of the sea:And yet for him, through all the land,A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.
And many an eye shall dim with tears,And many a cheek be flushed with pride;And men shall say, There died a man,And boys shall learn how well he died.
Ay, weep for him, whose noble soulIs with the God who made it great;But weep not for so proud a death,—We could not spare so grand a fate.
Nor could Humanity resignThat hour which bade her heart beat high,And blazoned Duty's stainless shield,And set a star in Honor's sky.
O dreary night! O grave of hope!O sea, and dark, unpitying sky!Full many a wreck these waves shall claimEre such another heart shall die.
Alas, how can we help but mournWhen hero bosoms yield their breath!A century itself may bearBut once the flower of such a death;
So full of manliness, so sweetWith utmost duty nobly done;So thronged with deeds, so filled with life,As though with death that life begun.
Ithasbegun, true gentleman!No better life we ask for thee;Thy Viking soul and woman heartForever shall a beacon be,—
A starry thought to veering souls,To teach it is not best to live;To show that life has naught to matchSuch knighthood as the grave can give.
S. Weir Mitchell.
In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"
In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"
BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER
[June 25, 1859]
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag;Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoonO'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,White with peace was all our mission to his court,Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrownSeeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam—Boom!the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fightAs the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side—"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,—Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse?I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard,if old Tattnall's standing by,Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die—Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew—"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's shipMake the shattered boat and weary arms seem light—Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought—What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,In a British boat we speed us fast and far;And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fallTo the launches lying moaning by the bar.Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of graceFrom the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' tossHow they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sunO'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag.Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.Wallace Rice.
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag;Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoonO'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,White with peace was all our mission to his court,Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrownSeeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam—Boom!the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fightAs the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side—"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,—Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse?I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard,if old Tattnall's standing by,Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die—Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew—"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's shipMake the shattered boat and weary arms seem light—Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought—What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,In a British boat we speed us fast and far;And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fallTo the launches lying moaning by the bar.Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of graceFrom the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' tossHow they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sunO'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag.Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.Wallace Rice.
Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag;Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.
Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoonO'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,White with peace was all our mission to his court,Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrownSeeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.
By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam—Boom!the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fightAs the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.
In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.
On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side—"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,—Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse?I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard,if old Tattnall's standing by,Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die—Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.
Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew—"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's shipMake the shattered boat and weary arms seem light—Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.
Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought—What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,In a British boat we speed us fast and far;And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fallTo the launches lying moaning by the bar.
Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of graceFrom the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' tossHow they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sunO'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.
Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you seeLazy junks along the lazy river lag.Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.
Wallace Rice.
In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.
In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.
BARON RENFREW'S BALL
[October, 1860]
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,A pageant or fête, or what you may callA brilliant coruscation,Where ladies and knights of noble worthEnchanted a prince of royal birthBy a royal demonstration.Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,Fair ladies of rank and station,Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,In a tableaux style, which the artists calledA floor-all decoration.At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,In the brightest bouquet ever made,For a prince's choice to falter—Perplexed to find, where all were rare,Which was the fairest of the fairTo cull for a queenly altar.But soon the floor was set aright,And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,When, like the swell of an organ,All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,And the prince confessed to a joyous thrillAs he danced with Mrs. Morgan.Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own—And every bar and brilliant toneHad music's sweetest grace on;But the prince himself ne'er felt its charmTill he slightly clasped, with circling arm,That lovely girl, Miss Mason.But ah! the work went bravely on,And meek-eyed Peace a trophy wonBy the magic art of the dancers;For the daring prince's next exploitWas to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,And overcome the Lancers.Besides these three, he deigned to yieldHis hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;Miss Russell, too, was given a place—All beauties famous for their graceFrom Texas to Lake Huron.With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,With Mrs. Belmont capered;With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,He tripped a sort of royal jig,And next Miss Butler favored.And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,Did they gayly quaff and revel;Well pleased to charm a royal prince—The only one from old England sinceGeorge Washington was a rebel.And so the fleeting hours went by,And watches stopped—lest Time should fly—Or that they winding wanted;Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,And many a fair one was beguiledAs the prince danced on, undaunted.'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball,Its vanished glories, one and all,The scenes of the fairy tales;For Cinderella herself was there,And Barnum keeps for trial fairThe beautiful slipper deposited thereBy his highness, the Prince of Wales.Charles Graham Halpine.
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,A pageant or fête, or what you may callA brilliant coruscation,Where ladies and knights of noble worthEnchanted a prince of royal birthBy a royal demonstration.Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,Fair ladies of rank and station,Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,In a tableaux style, which the artists calledA floor-all decoration.At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,In the brightest bouquet ever made,For a prince's choice to falter—Perplexed to find, where all were rare,Which was the fairest of the fairTo cull for a queenly altar.But soon the floor was set aright,And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,When, like the swell of an organ,All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,And the prince confessed to a joyous thrillAs he danced with Mrs. Morgan.Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own—And every bar and brilliant toneHad music's sweetest grace on;But the prince himself ne'er felt its charmTill he slightly clasped, with circling arm,That lovely girl, Miss Mason.But ah! the work went bravely on,And meek-eyed Peace a trophy wonBy the magic art of the dancers;For the daring prince's next exploitWas to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,And overcome the Lancers.Besides these three, he deigned to yieldHis hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;Miss Russell, too, was given a place—All beauties famous for their graceFrom Texas to Lake Huron.With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,With Mrs. Belmont capered;With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,He tripped a sort of royal jig,And next Miss Butler favored.And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,Did they gayly quaff and revel;Well pleased to charm a royal prince—The only one from old England sinceGeorge Washington was a rebel.And so the fleeting hours went by,And watches stopped—lest Time should fly—Or that they winding wanted;Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,And many a fair one was beguiledAs the prince danced on, undaunted.'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball,Its vanished glories, one and all,The scenes of the fairy tales;For Cinderella herself was there,And Barnum keeps for trial fairThe beautiful slipper deposited thereBy his highness, the Prince of Wales.Charles Graham Halpine.
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,A pageant or fête, or what you may callA brilliant coruscation,Where ladies and knights of noble worthEnchanted a prince of royal birthBy a royal demonstration.
Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,Fair ladies of rank and station,Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,In a tableaux style, which the artists calledA floor-all decoration.
At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,In the brightest bouquet ever made,For a prince's choice to falter—Perplexed to find, where all were rare,Which was the fairest of the fairTo cull for a queenly altar.
But soon the floor was set aright,And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,When, like the swell of an organ,All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,And the prince confessed to a joyous thrillAs he danced with Mrs. Morgan.
Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own—And every bar and brilliant toneHad music's sweetest grace on;But the prince himself ne'er felt its charmTill he slightly clasped, with circling arm,That lovely girl, Miss Mason.
But ah! the work went bravely on,And meek-eyed Peace a trophy wonBy the magic art of the dancers;For the daring prince's next exploitWas to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,And overcome the Lancers.
Besides these three, he deigned to yieldHis hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;Miss Russell, too, was given a place—All beauties famous for their graceFrom Texas to Lake Huron.
With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,With Mrs. Belmont capered;With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,He tripped a sort of royal jig,And next Miss Butler favored.
And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,Did they gayly quaff and revel;Well pleased to charm a royal prince—The only one from old England sinceGeorge Washington was a rebel.
And so the fleeting hours went by,And watches stopped—lest Time should fly—Or that they winding wanted;Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,And many a fair one was beguiledAs the prince danced on, undaunted.
'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball,Its vanished glories, one and all,The scenes of the fairy tales;For Cinderella herself was there,And Barnum keeps for trial fairThe beautiful slipper deposited thereBy his highness, the Prince of Wales.
Charles Graham Halpine.
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.His day is marching on.I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,Since God is marching on."He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,While God is marching on.Julia Ward Howe.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.His day is marching on.I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,Since God is marching on."He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,While God is marching on.Julia Ward Howe.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,While God is marching on.
Julia Ward Howe.
THE SLAVERY QUESTION
Negro slavery in the United States began in 1619, when a cargo of Africans was sold in Virginia. It gradually spread to all the states, but by the beginning of the nineteenth century it had been abolished in Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York, and New Jersey. The ordinance of 1787 forbade slavery in the Northwest; but the purchase of Louisiana in 1803 added greatly to slave territory. The fight over the admission of Missouri (1817-21), resulting in the "Missouri Compromise," did much to intensify bitterness of feeling. Finally, in December, 1833, the American Anti-Slavery Society was organized at Philadelphia, with a platform of principles formulated by William Lloyd Garrison.
Negro slavery in the United States began in 1619, when a cargo of Africans was sold in Virginia. It gradually spread to all the states, but by the beginning of the nineteenth century it had been abolished in Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York, and New Jersey. The ordinance of 1787 forbade slavery in the Northwest; but the purchase of Louisiana in 1803 added greatly to slave territory. The fight over the admission of Missouri (1817-21), resulting in the "Missouri Compromise," did much to intensify bitterness of feeling. Finally, in December, 1833, the American Anti-Slavery Society was organized at Philadelphia, with a platform of principles formulated by William Lloyd Garrison.
TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON
[Read at the Convention which formed the American Anti-Slavery Society, in Philadelphia, December, 1833.]
Champion of those who groan beneathOppression'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 vowAnd promise of thy youth.Go on, for thou hast chosen well;On in the strength of God!Long as one human heart shall swellBeneath the tyrant's rod.Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,As thou hast ever spoken,Until the dead in sin shall hear,The fetter's link be broken!I love thee with a brother's love,I feel my pulses thrill,To mark thy spirit soar aboveThe cloud of human ill.My heart hath leaped to answer thine,And echo back thy words,As leaps the warrior's at the shineAnd flash of kindred swords!They tell me thou art rash and vain,A searcher after fame;That thou art striving but to gainA long-enduring name;That thou hast nerved the Afric's handAnd steeled the Afric's heart,To shake aloft his vengeful brand,And rend his chain apart.Have I not known thee well, and readThy mighty purpose long?And watched the trials which have madeThy human spirit strong?And shall the slanderer's demon breathAvail with one like me,To dim the sunshine of my faithAnd earnest trust in thee?Go on, the dagger's point may glareAmid thy pathway's gloom;The fate which sternly threatens thereIs glorious martyrdom!Then onward with a martyr's zeal;And wait thy sure rewardWhen man to man no more shall kneel,And God alone be Lord!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Champion of those who groan beneathOppression'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 vowAnd promise of thy youth.Go on, for thou hast chosen well;On in the strength of God!Long as one human heart shall swellBeneath the tyrant's rod.Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,As thou hast ever spoken,Until the dead in sin shall hear,The fetter's link be broken!I love thee with a brother's love,I feel my pulses thrill,To mark thy spirit soar aboveThe cloud of human ill.My heart hath leaped to answer thine,And echo back thy words,As leaps the warrior's at the shineAnd flash of kindred swords!They tell me thou art rash and vain,A searcher after fame;That thou art striving but to gainA long-enduring name;That thou hast nerved the Afric's handAnd steeled the Afric's heart,To shake aloft his vengeful brand,And rend his chain apart.Have I not known thee well, and readThy mighty purpose long?And watched the trials which have madeThy human spirit strong?And shall the slanderer's demon breathAvail with one like me,To dim the sunshine of my faithAnd earnest trust in thee?Go on, the dagger's point may glareAmid thy pathway's gloom;The fate which sternly threatens thereIs glorious martyrdom!Then onward with a martyr's zeal;And wait thy sure rewardWhen man to man no more shall kneel,And God alone be Lord!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Champion of those who groan beneathOppression'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 vowAnd promise of thy youth.
Go on, for thou hast chosen well;On in the strength of God!Long as one human heart shall swellBeneath the tyrant's rod.Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,As thou hast ever spoken,Until the dead in sin shall hear,The fetter's link be broken!
I love thee with a brother's love,I feel my pulses thrill,To mark thy spirit soar aboveThe cloud of human ill.My heart hath leaped to answer thine,And echo back thy words,As leaps the warrior's at the shineAnd flash of kindred swords!
They tell me thou art rash and vain,A searcher after fame;That thou art striving but to gainA long-enduring name;That thou hast nerved the Afric's handAnd steeled the Afric's heart,To shake aloft his vengeful brand,And rend his chain apart.
Have I not known thee well, and readThy mighty purpose long?And watched the trials which have madeThy human spirit strong?And shall the slanderer's demon breathAvail with one like me,To dim the sunshine of my faithAnd earnest trust in thee?
Go on, the dagger's point may glareAmid thy pathway's gloom;The fate which sternly threatens thereIs glorious martyrdom!Then onward with a martyr's zeal;And wait thy sure rewardWhen man to man no more shall kneel,And God alone be Lord!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Branches of this society multiplied rapidly, and in order to counteract their influence, a great pro-slavery meeting was held at Charleston, S. C., September 4, 1835. The newspaper report that "the clergy of all denominations attended in a body, lending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding by their presence to the impressive character of the scene," drew a fiery protest from Whittier.
Branches of this society multiplied rapidly, and in order to counteract their influence, a great pro-slavery meeting was held at Charleston, S. C., September 4, 1835. The newspaper report that "the clergy of all denominations attended in a body, lending their sanction to the proceedings, and adding by their presence to the impressive character of the scene," drew a fiery protest from Whittier.
CLERICAL OPPRESSORS
[September 4, 1835]
Just God! and these are theyWho minister at thine altar, God of Right!Men who their hands with prayer and blessing layOn Israel's Ark of light!What! preach, and kidnap men?Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?Talk of thy glorious liberty, and thenBolt hard the captive's door?What! servants of thy ownMerciful Son, who came to seek and saveThe homeless and the outcast, fettering downThe tasked and plundered slave!Pilate and Herod, friends!Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!Just God and holy! is that church, which lendsStrength to the spoiler, thine?Paid hypocrites, who turnJudgment aside, and rob the Holy BookOf those high words of truth which search and burnIn warning and rebuke;Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the LordThat, from the toiling bondman's utter need,Ye pile your own full board.How long, O Lord! how longShall such a priesthood barter truth away,And in Thy name, for robbery and wrongAt Thy own altars pray?Is not Thy hand stretched forthVisibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?Shall not the living God of all the earth,And heaven above, do right?Woe, then, to all who grindTheir brethren of a common Father down!To all who plunder from the immortal mindIts bright and glorious crown!Woe to the priesthood! woeTo those whose hire is with the price of blood;Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go,The searching truths of God!Their glory and their mightShall perish; and their very names shall beVile before all the people, in the lightOf a world's liberty.Oh, speed the moment onWhen Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and LoveAnd Truth and Right throughout the earth be knownAs in their home above.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Just God! and these are theyWho minister at thine altar, God of Right!Men who their hands with prayer and blessing layOn Israel's Ark of light!What! preach, and kidnap men?Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?Talk of thy glorious liberty, and thenBolt hard the captive's door?What! servants of thy ownMerciful Son, who came to seek and saveThe homeless and the outcast, fettering downThe tasked and plundered slave!Pilate and Herod, friends!Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!Just God and holy! is that church, which lendsStrength to the spoiler, thine?Paid hypocrites, who turnJudgment aside, and rob the Holy BookOf those high words of truth which search and burnIn warning and rebuke;Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the LordThat, from the toiling bondman's utter need,Ye pile your own full board.How long, O Lord! how longShall such a priesthood barter truth away,And in Thy name, for robbery and wrongAt Thy own altars pray?Is not Thy hand stretched forthVisibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?Shall not the living God of all the earth,And heaven above, do right?Woe, then, to all who grindTheir brethren of a common Father down!To all who plunder from the immortal mindIts bright and glorious crown!Woe to the priesthood! woeTo those whose hire is with the price of blood;Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go,The searching truths of God!Their glory and their mightShall perish; and their very names shall beVile before all the people, in the lightOf a world's liberty.Oh, speed the moment onWhen Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and LoveAnd Truth and Right throughout the earth be knownAs in their home above.John Greenleaf Whittier.
Just God! and these are theyWho minister at thine altar, God of Right!Men who their hands with prayer and blessing layOn Israel's Ark of light!
What! preach, and kidnap men?Give thanks, and rob thy own afflicted poor?Talk of thy glorious liberty, and thenBolt hard the captive's door?
What! servants of thy ownMerciful Son, who came to seek and saveThe homeless and the outcast, fettering downThe tasked and plundered slave!
Pilate and Herod, friends!Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!Just God and holy! is that church, which lendsStrength to the spoiler, thine?
Paid hypocrites, who turnJudgment aside, and rob the Holy BookOf those high words of truth which search and burnIn warning and rebuke;
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the LordThat, from the toiling bondman's utter need,Ye pile your own full board.
How long, O Lord! how longShall such a priesthood barter truth away,And in Thy name, for robbery and wrongAt Thy own altars pray?
Is not Thy hand stretched forthVisibly in the heavens, to awe and smite?Shall not the living God of all the earth,And heaven above, do right?
Woe, then, to all who grindTheir brethren of a common Father down!To all who plunder from the immortal mindIts bright and glorious crown!
Woe to the priesthood! woeTo those whose hire is with the price of blood;Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go,The searching truths of God!
Their glory and their mightShall perish; and their very names shall beVile before all the people, in the lightOf a world's liberty.
Oh, speed the moment onWhen Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and LoveAnd Truth and Right throughout the earth be knownAs in their home above.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
In April, 1848, an attempt was made to abduct seventy-seven slaves from Washington in the schooner Pearl. The slaves were speedily recaptured and sold South, while their defenders barely escaped with their lives from an infuriated mob. The Abolitionists in Congress determined to evoke from that body some expression of sentiment on the subject. On the 20th of April Senator Hale introduced a resolution implying sympathy with the negroes. It stirred the slaveholders to unusual intemperance of language.
In April, 1848, an attempt was made to abduct seventy-seven slaves from Washington in the schooner Pearl. The slaves were speedily recaptured and sold South, while their defenders barely escaped with their lives from an infuriated mob. The Abolitionists in Congress determined to evoke from that body some expression of sentiment on the subject. On the 20th of April Senator Hale introduced a resolution implying sympathy with the negroes. It stirred the slaveholders to unusual intemperance of language.
THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT
SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME
[April 20, 1848]
"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs;Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;"Human rights haint no moreRight to come on this floor,No more'n the man in the moon," sez he."The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',An' you've no idee how much bother it saves;We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',We'reusedto layin' the string on our slaves,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezMister Foote,"I should like to shootThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he."Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on,It's sutthin' thet's—wha' d'ye call it?—divine,—An' the slaves thet we ollersmakethe most out onAir them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Fer all thet," sezMangum,"'Twould be better to hang 'emAn' so git red on 'em soon," sez he."The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies,Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;It puts all the cunninest on us in office,An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Thet's ez plain," sezCass,"Ez thet some one's an ass,It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he."Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezDaviso' Miss.,"The perfection o' blissIs in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he."Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion,It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterHannegan,Afore he began agin,"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he."Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar,Yourmerit's quite clear by the dut on your knees,At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterJarnagin,"They wun't hev to larn agin,They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he."The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin',North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance;No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,But theydusell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezAthertonhere,"This is gittin' severe,I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he."It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,'ll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes, the North," sezColquitt,"Ef we Southeners all quit,Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he."Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin,An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezJohnson, "in FranceThey're beginnin' to danceBeëlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he."The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blestNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the eryWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Oh," sezWestcotto' Florida,"Wut treason is horriderThan our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he."It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpintsStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Ah," sez Dixon H.Lewis,"It perfectly true isThet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.James Russell Lowell.
"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs;Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;"Human rights haint no moreRight to come on this floor,No more'n the man in the moon," sez he."The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',An' you've no idee how much bother it saves;We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',We'reusedto layin' the string on our slaves,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezMister Foote,"I should like to shootThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he."Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on,It's sutthin' thet's—wha' d'ye call it?—divine,—An' the slaves thet we ollersmakethe most out onAir them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Fer all thet," sezMangum,"'Twould be better to hang 'emAn' so git red on 'em soon," sez he."The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies,Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;It puts all the cunninest on us in office,An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Thet's ez plain," sezCass,"Ez thet some one's an ass,It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he."Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezDaviso' Miss.,"The perfection o' blissIs in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he."Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion,It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterHannegan,Afore he began agin,"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he."Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar,Yourmerit's quite clear by the dut on your knees,At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterJarnagin,"They wun't hev to larn agin,They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he."The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin',North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance;No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,But theydusell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezAthertonhere,"This is gittin' severe,I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he."It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,'ll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes, the North," sezColquitt,"Ef we Southeners all quit,Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he."Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin,An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezJohnson, "in FranceThey're beginnin' to danceBeëlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he."The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blestNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the eryWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Oh," sezWestcotto' Florida,"Wut treason is horriderThan our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he."It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpintsStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Ah," sez Dixon H.Lewis,"It perfectly true isThet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.James Russell Lowell.
"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!It's a fact o' wich ther's bushels o' proofs;Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;"Human rights haint no moreRight to come on this floor,No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.
"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',An' you've no idee how much bother it saves;We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',We'reusedto layin' the string on our slaves,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezMister Foote,"I should like to shootThe holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.
"Freedom's keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on,It's sutthin' thet's—wha' d'ye call it?—divine,—An' the slaves thet we ollersmakethe most out onAir them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Fer all thet," sezMangum,"'Twould be better to hang 'emAn' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.
"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies,Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree;It puts all the cunninest on us in office,An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Thet's ez plain," sezCass,"Ez thet some one's an ass,It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.
"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezDaviso' Miss.,"The perfection o' blissIs in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.
"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion,It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe;Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!)Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterHannegan,Afore he began agin,"Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.
"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar,Yourmerit's quite clear by the dut on your knees,At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color;You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—Sez MisterJarnagin,"They wun't hev to larn agin,They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.
"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin',North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance;No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin,But theydusell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—SezAthertonhere,"This is gittin' severe,I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.
"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom,An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) 'll make head,An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em,'ll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes, the North," sezColquitt,"Ef we Southeners all quit,Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.
"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine,All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin,An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Yes," sezJohnson, "in FranceThey're beginnin' to danceBeëlzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.
"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery,Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blestNot to welcome with proud hallylugers the eryWen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Oh," sezWestcotto' Florida,"Wut treason is horriderThan our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.
"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpintsStick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled;We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints,Thet the last crumb of Eden on airth sha'n't be spiled,"Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;—"Ah," sez Dixon H.Lewis,"It perfectly true isThet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.
James Russell Lowell.
On March 7, 1850, Daniel Webster delivered in the Senate his famous speech on slavery, in which he declared for the exclusion of slavery from new territory, but called attention to the pledge which had been given to permit slavery south of the line of 36° 30´, and gave his support to the fugitive slave bill introduced by a Virginia senator. The speech created a sensation; Webster was overwhelmed with abuse, and made the target for one of the greatest poems of denunciation in the language.
On March 7, 1850, Daniel Webster delivered in the Senate his famous speech on slavery, in which he declared for the exclusion of slavery from new territory, but called attention to the pledge which had been given to permit slavery south of the line of 36° 30´, and gave his support to the fugitive slave bill introduced by a Virginia senator. The speech created a sensation; Webster was overwhelmed with abuse, and made the target for one of the greatest poems of denunciation in the language.
ICHABOD
[March 7, 1850]
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!Revile him not, the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,Befit his fall!Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age,Falls back in night.Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven,Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,From hope and heaven!Let not the land once proud of himInsult 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, naughtSave power remains;A fallen angel's pride of thought,Still strong in chains.All else is gone; from those great eyesThe soul has fled;When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze,And hide the shame!John Greenleaf Whittier.
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!Revile him not, the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,Befit his fall!Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age,Falls back in night.Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven,Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,From hope and heaven!Let not the land once proud of himInsult 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, naughtSave power remains;A fallen angel's pride of thought,Still strong in chains.All else is gone; from those great eyesThe soul has fled;When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze,And hide the shame!John Greenleaf Whittier.
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!
Revile him not, the Tempter hathA snare for all;And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,Befit his fall!
Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,When he who mightHave lighted up and led his age,Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to markA bright soul driven,Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of himInsult 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, naughtSave power remains;A fallen angel's pride of thought,Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyesThe soul has fled;When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old daysTo his dead fame;Walk backward, with averted gaze,And hide the shame!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The feeling at the North against slavery was soon intensified in bitterness by the execution of the fugitive slave law, which, in a way, made Northern states participants in the detested traffic. On April 3, 1851, a fugitive slave named Thomas Sims was arrested at Boston, adjudged to his owner, and put on board a vessel bound for Savannah. Other efforts to enforce the law proved abortive, and it was soon evident that it was, to all intents and purposes, a dead letter.
The feeling at the North against slavery was soon intensified in bitterness by the execution of the fugitive slave law, which, in a way, made Northern states participants in the detested traffic. On April 3, 1851, a fugitive slave named Thomas Sims was arrested at Boston, adjudged to his owner, and put on board a vessel bound for Savannah. Other efforts to enforce the law proved abortive, and it was soon evident that it was, to all intents and purposes, a dead letter.
THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS
[April 3, 1851]
Souls of the patriot deadOn Bunker's height who bled!The pile, that standsOn your long-buried bones—Those monumental stones—Should not suppress the groansThis day demands.For Freedom there ye stood;There gave the earth your blood;There found your graves;That men of every clime,Faith, color, tongue, and time,Might, through your death sublime,Never be slaves.Over your bed, so low,Heard ye not, long ago,A voice of powerProclaim to earth and sea,That where ye sleep should beA home for LibertyTill Time's last hour?Hear ye the chains of slaves,Now clanking round your graves?Hear ye the soundOf that same voice that callsFrom out our Senate halls,"Hunt down those fleeing thralls,With horse and hound!"That voice your sons hath swayed!'Tis heard, and is obeyed!This gloomy dayTells you of ermine stained,Of Justice's name profaned,Of a poor bondman chainedAnd borne away!Over Virginia's Springs,Her eagles spread their wings,Her Blue Ridge towers—That voice—once heard with awe—Now asks, "Who ever saw,Up there, a higher lawThan this of ours?"Must we obey that voice?When God or man's the choice,Must we postponeHim, who from Sinai spoke?Must we wear slavery's yoke?Bear of her lash the stroke,And prop her throne?Lashed with her hounds, must weRun down the poor who fleeFrom Slavery's hell?Great God! when we do thisExclude us from thy bliss;At us let angels hissFrom heaven that fell!John Pierpont.
Souls of the patriot deadOn Bunker's height who bled!The pile, that standsOn your long-buried bones—Those monumental stones—Should not suppress the groansThis day demands.For Freedom there ye stood;There gave the earth your blood;There found your graves;That men of every clime,Faith, color, tongue, and time,Might, through your death sublime,Never be slaves.Over your bed, so low,Heard ye not, long ago,A voice of powerProclaim to earth and sea,That where ye sleep should beA home for LibertyTill Time's last hour?Hear ye the chains of slaves,Now clanking round your graves?Hear ye the soundOf that same voice that callsFrom out our Senate halls,"Hunt down those fleeing thralls,With horse and hound!"That voice your sons hath swayed!'Tis heard, and is obeyed!This gloomy dayTells you of ermine stained,Of Justice's name profaned,Of a poor bondman chainedAnd borne away!Over Virginia's Springs,Her eagles spread their wings,Her Blue Ridge towers—That voice—once heard with awe—Now asks, "Who ever saw,Up there, a higher lawThan this of ours?"Must we obey that voice?When God or man's the choice,Must we postponeHim, who from Sinai spoke?Must we wear slavery's yoke?Bear of her lash the stroke,And prop her throne?Lashed with her hounds, must weRun down the poor who fleeFrom Slavery's hell?Great God! when we do thisExclude us from thy bliss;At us let angels hissFrom heaven that fell!John Pierpont.
Souls of the patriot deadOn Bunker's height who bled!The pile, that standsOn your long-buried bones—Those monumental stones—Should not suppress the groansThis day demands.
For Freedom there ye stood;There gave the earth your blood;There found your graves;That men of every clime,Faith, color, tongue, and time,Might, through your death sublime,Never be slaves.
Over your bed, so low,Heard ye not, long ago,A voice of powerProclaim to earth and sea,That where ye sleep should beA home for LibertyTill Time's last hour?
Hear ye the chains of slaves,Now clanking round your graves?Hear ye the soundOf that same voice that callsFrom out our Senate halls,"Hunt down those fleeing thralls,With horse and hound!"
That voice your sons hath swayed!'Tis heard, and is obeyed!This gloomy dayTells you of ermine stained,Of Justice's name profaned,Of a poor bondman chainedAnd borne away!
Over Virginia's Springs,Her eagles spread their wings,Her Blue Ridge towers—That voice—once heard with awe—Now asks, "Who ever saw,Up there, a higher lawThan this of ours?"
Must we obey that voice?When God or man's the choice,Must we postponeHim, who from Sinai spoke?Must we wear slavery's yoke?Bear of her lash the stroke,And prop her throne?
Lashed with her hounds, must weRun down the poor who fleeFrom Slavery's hell?Great God! when we do thisExclude us from thy bliss;At us let angels hissFrom heaven that fell!
John Pierpont.
Abolition agitation was given new fuel when, on May 30, 1854, Congress passed the famous Kansas-Nebraska Bill, setting off the southern portion of Nebraska into a new territory called Kansas, and leaving the question of slavery or no-slavery to be decided by its inhabitants. The fight for Kansas began at once. Slaveholders from Missouri poured into the new territory, and in New England an Emigrant Aid Society was formed, which started large parties of Free-Soilers to Kansas. The first party started in July, 1854, and John G. Whittier sent them a hymn, which was sung over and over during the long journey.
Abolition agitation was given new fuel when, on May 30, 1854, Congress passed the famous Kansas-Nebraska Bill, setting off the southern portion of Nebraska into a new territory called Kansas, and leaving the question of slavery or no-slavery to be decided by its inhabitants. The fight for Kansas began at once. Slaveholders from Missouri poured into the new territory, and in New England an Emigrant Aid Society was formed, which started large parties of Free-Soilers to Kansas. The first party started in July, 1854, and John G. Whittier sent them a hymn, which was sung over and over during the long journey.
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS
[July, 1854]
We cross the prairie as of oldThe pilgrims crossed the sea,To make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!We go to rear a wall of menOn Freedom's southern line,And plant beside the cotton-treeThe rugged Northern pine!We're flowing from our native hillsAs our free rivers flow:The blessing of our Mother-landIs on us as we go.We go to plant her common schoolsOn distant prairie swells,And give the Sabbaths of the wildThe music of her bells.Upbearing, like the Ark of old,The Bible in our van,We go to test the truth of GodAgainst the fraud of man.No pause, nor rest, save where the streamsThat feed the Kansas run,Save where our Pilgrim gonfalonShall flout the setting sun!We'll tread the prairie as of oldOur fathers sailed the sea,And make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!John Greenleaf Whittier.
We cross the prairie as of oldThe pilgrims crossed the sea,To make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!We go to rear a wall of menOn Freedom's southern line,And plant beside the cotton-treeThe rugged Northern pine!We're flowing from our native hillsAs our free rivers flow:The blessing of our Mother-landIs on us as we go.We go to plant her common schoolsOn distant prairie swells,And give the Sabbaths of the wildThe music of her bells.Upbearing, like the Ark of old,The Bible in our van,We go to test the truth of GodAgainst the fraud of man.No pause, nor rest, save where the streamsThat feed the Kansas run,Save where our Pilgrim gonfalonShall flout the setting sun!We'll tread the prairie as of oldOur fathers sailed the sea,And make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!John Greenleaf Whittier.
We cross the prairie as of oldThe pilgrims crossed the sea,To make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!
We go to rear a wall of menOn Freedom's southern line,And plant beside the cotton-treeThe rugged Northern pine!
We're flowing from our native hillsAs our free rivers flow:The blessing of our Mother-landIs on us as we go.
We go to plant her common schoolsOn distant prairie swells,And give the Sabbaths of the wildThe music of her bells.
Upbearing, like the Ark of old,The Bible in our van,We go to test the truth of GodAgainst the fraud of man.
No pause, nor rest, save where the streamsThat feed the Kansas run,Save where our Pilgrim gonfalonShall flout the setting sun!
We'll tread the prairie as of oldOur fathers sailed the sea,And make the West, as they the East,The homestead of the free!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The pro-slavery men soon resorted to violence. In December fifteen hundred Missourians laid siege to Lawrence, where most of the Free-Soilers had settled. The Free-Soilers threw up earthworks and mustered six hundred men to defend them, among them John Brown and his four sons from Osawatomie. One Free-Soiler, Thomas Barber, was killed under discreditable circumstances; but the Missourians were persuaded to withdraw before there were further hostilities.
The pro-slavery men soon resorted to violence. In December fifteen hundred Missourians laid siege to Lawrence, where most of the Free-Soilers had settled. The Free-Soilers threw up earthworks and mustered six hundred men to defend them, among them John Brown and his four sons from Osawatomie. One Free-Soiler, Thomas Barber, was killed under discreditable circumstances; but the Missourians were persuaded to withdraw before there were further hostilities.
BURIAL OF BARBER
[December 6, 1855]
Bear him, comrades, to his grave;Never over one more braveShall the prairie grasses weep,In the ages yet to come,When the millions in our room,What we sow in tears, shall reap.Bear him up the icy hill,With the Kansas, frozen stillAs his noble heart, below,And the land he came to tillWith a freeman's thews and will,And his poor hut roofed with snow!One more look of that dead face,Of his murder's ghastly trace!One more kiss, O widowed one!Lay your left hands on his brow,Lift your right hands up, and vowThat his work shall yet be done.Patience, friends! The eye of GodEvery path by Murder trodWatches, lidless, day and night;And the dead man in his shroud,And his widow weeping loud,And our hearts, are in His sight.Every deadly threat that swellsWith the roar of gambling hells,Every brutal jest and jeer,Every wicked thought and planOf the cruel heart of man,Though but whispered, He can hear!We in suffering, they in crime,Wait the just award of time,Wait the vengeance that is due;Not in vain a heart shall break,Not a tear for Freedom's sakeFall unheeded: God is true.While the flag with stars bedeckedThreatens where it should protect,And the Law shakes hands with Crime,What is left us but to wait,Match our patience to our fate,And abide the better time?Patience, friends! The human heartEverywhere shall take our part,Everywhere for us shall pray;On our side are nature's laws,And God's life is in the causeThat we suffer for to-day.Well to suffer is divine;Pass the watchword down the line,Pass the countersign: "Endure."Not to him who rashly dares,But to him who nobly bears,Is the victor's garland sure.Frozen earth to frozen breast,Lay our slain one down to rest;Lay him down in hope and faith,And above the broken sod,Once again, to Freedom's God,Pledge ourselves for life or death,That the State whose walls we lay,In our blood and tears, to-day,Shall be free from bonds of shame,And our goodly land untrodBy the feet of Slavery, shodWith cursing as with flame!Plant the Buckeye on his grave,For the hunter of the slaveIn its shadow cannot rest;And let martyr mound and treeBe our pledge and guarantyOf the freedom of the West!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Bear him, comrades, to his grave;Never over one more braveShall the prairie grasses weep,In the ages yet to come,When the millions in our room,What we sow in tears, shall reap.Bear him up the icy hill,With the Kansas, frozen stillAs his noble heart, below,And the land he came to tillWith a freeman's thews and will,And his poor hut roofed with snow!One more look of that dead face,Of his murder's ghastly trace!One more kiss, O widowed one!Lay your left hands on his brow,Lift your right hands up, and vowThat his work shall yet be done.Patience, friends! The eye of GodEvery path by Murder trodWatches, lidless, day and night;And the dead man in his shroud,And his widow weeping loud,And our hearts, are in His sight.Every deadly threat that swellsWith the roar of gambling hells,Every brutal jest and jeer,Every wicked thought and planOf the cruel heart of man,Though but whispered, He can hear!We in suffering, they in crime,Wait the just award of time,Wait the vengeance that is due;Not in vain a heart shall break,Not a tear for Freedom's sakeFall unheeded: God is true.While the flag with stars bedeckedThreatens where it should protect,And the Law shakes hands with Crime,What is left us but to wait,Match our patience to our fate,And abide the better time?Patience, friends! The human heartEverywhere shall take our part,Everywhere for us shall pray;On our side are nature's laws,And God's life is in the causeThat we suffer for to-day.Well to suffer is divine;Pass the watchword down the line,Pass the countersign: "Endure."Not to him who rashly dares,But to him who nobly bears,Is the victor's garland sure.Frozen earth to frozen breast,Lay our slain one down to rest;Lay him down in hope and faith,And above the broken sod,Once again, to Freedom's God,Pledge ourselves for life or death,That the State whose walls we lay,In our blood and tears, to-day,Shall be free from bonds of shame,And our goodly land untrodBy the feet of Slavery, shodWith cursing as with flame!Plant the Buckeye on his grave,For the hunter of the slaveIn its shadow cannot rest;And let martyr mound and treeBe our pledge and guarantyOf the freedom of the West!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Bear him, comrades, to his grave;Never over one more braveShall the prairie grasses weep,In the ages yet to come,When the millions in our room,What we sow in tears, shall reap.
Bear him up the icy hill,With the Kansas, frozen stillAs his noble heart, below,And the land he came to tillWith a freeman's thews and will,And his poor hut roofed with snow!
One more look of that dead face,Of his murder's ghastly trace!One more kiss, O widowed one!Lay your left hands on his brow,Lift your right hands up, and vowThat his work shall yet be done.
Patience, friends! The eye of GodEvery path by Murder trodWatches, lidless, day and night;And the dead man in his shroud,And his widow weeping loud,And our hearts, are in His sight.
Every deadly threat that swellsWith the roar of gambling hells,Every brutal jest and jeer,Every wicked thought and planOf the cruel heart of man,Though but whispered, He can hear!
We in suffering, they in crime,Wait the just award of time,Wait the vengeance that is due;Not in vain a heart shall break,Not a tear for Freedom's sakeFall unheeded: God is true.
While the flag with stars bedeckedThreatens where it should protect,And the Law shakes hands with Crime,What is left us but to wait,Match our patience to our fate,And abide the better time?
Patience, friends! The human heartEverywhere shall take our part,Everywhere for us shall pray;On our side are nature's laws,And God's life is in the causeThat we suffer for to-day.
Well to suffer is divine;Pass the watchword down the line,Pass the countersign: "Endure."Not to him who rashly dares,But to him who nobly bears,Is the victor's garland sure.
Frozen earth to frozen breast,Lay our slain one down to rest;Lay him down in hope and faith,And above the broken sod,Once again, to Freedom's God,Pledge ourselves for life or death,
That the State whose walls we lay,In our blood and tears, to-day,Shall be free from bonds of shame,And our goodly land untrodBy the feet of Slavery, shodWith cursing as with flame!
Plant the Buckeye on his grave,For the hunter of the slaveIn its shadow cannot rest;And let martyr mound and treeBe our pledge and guarantyOf the freedom of the West!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Affairs in Kansas went from bad to worse. Bands of armed emigrants poured into the state from the south, and such disorder followed that on August 25, 1856, the governor proclaimed the territory in a state of insurrection. On September 14 a force of twenty-five hundred Missourians again attacked Lawrence, but were beaten off.
Affairs in Kansas went from bad to worse. Bands of armed emigrants poured into the state from the south, and such disorder followed that on August 25, 1856, the governor proclaimed the territory in a state of insurrection. On September 14 a force of twenty-five hundred Missourians again attacked Lawrence, but were beaten off.
THE DEFENCE OF LAWRENCE
[September 14, 1856]