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But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and

lacking food; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern


Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours ;
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden

flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air !


“All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even go to them." - Matthew vii. 12.


EARER of Freedom's holy light,

Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod,
The foe of all which pains the sight,

Or wounds the generous ear of God !

Beautiful yet thy temples rise,

Though there profaning gifts are thrown;
And fires unkindled of the skies

Are glaring round thy altar-stone.

Still sacred, — though thy name be breathed

By those whose hearts thy truth deride;
And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed

Around the haughty brows of Pride.

O, ideal of my boyhood's time!

The faith in which my father stood,
Even when the sons of Lust and Crime

Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood !

Still to those courts my footsteps turn,

For, through the mists which darken there, I see the flame of Freedom burn,

The Kebla of the patriot's prayer !

The generous feeling, pure and warm,

Which owns the rights of all divine
The pitying heart the helping arm -

The prompt self-sacrifice - are thine.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,

How fade the lines of caste and birth!
How equal in their suffering lie

The groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ;
As stooped to heal the wounded Jew

The worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepelled, unawed

By pomp or power, thou see'st a MAN
In prince or peasant — slave or lord

Pale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through disguise, form, place, or name,

Beneath the flaunting robes of sin,
Through poverty and squalid shame,

Thou lookest on the man within.


On man, as man, retaining yet,

Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim,
The crown upon his forehead set,

The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look ;

For that frail form which mortals wear
The Spirit of the Holiest took,

And veiled his perfect brightness there.

Not from the shallow babbling fount

Of vain philosophy thou art;
He who of old on Syria's mount

Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,

In thoughts which angels leaned to know,
Proclaimed thy message from on high, -

Thy mission to a world of woe.

That voice's echo hath not died !

From the blue lake of Galilee,
And Tabor's lonely mountain side,

It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this land

I hear in every breeze that stirs,
And round a thousand altars stand

Thy banded party worshippers.

Not to these altars of a day,

At party's call, my gift I bring;
But on thy olden shrine I lay

A freeman's dearest offering :

The voiceless utterance of his will,

His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,
That manhood's heart remembers still

The homage of his generous youth.

Election Day, 1843.


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E see not, know not; all our way

Is' night, — with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift,

Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
But wbo are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead, in times like these,
The weakness of our love of ease ?

Thy will be done !

We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait, for Thee,

Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace Thy picture's wise design,
And thank Thee that our age supplies
Its dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done !

And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press;
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,

Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,

And, blest by Thee, our present pain
Be Liberty's eternal gain,

Thy will be done !

Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies !
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,

Thy will be done !




The pangs

E wait beneath the furnace-blast

of transformation ;
Not painlessly doth God recast
And mould anew the nation.

Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand

That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.

The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared

Its bloody rain is dropping ;
The poison plant the fathers spared
All else is overtopping.

East, West, South, North,
It curses the earth;
All justice dies,

And fraud and lies
Live only in its shadow.

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