323

And to the quarry of the slave Went hawking with our symbol-bird. On the oppressor's side was power; And yet I knew that every wrong. However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour.

I knew that truth would crush the lie,Somehow, some time, the end would be;

Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye.

But now I see it! In the sun

A free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done.

Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer,

The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drums On waves of battle-troubled air!

Rejoice in hope! The day and night Áre one with God, and one with them

Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy's light!

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF

1862.

THE flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps

The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born,

"The gods at last pay well," So Hellas sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught,

The Chian hath his master bought"; And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable.

Once more the slow, dumb years Bring their avenging cycle round, And, more than Hellas taught of old,

Our wiser lesson shall be told, Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.

325

O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has

come,

And freedom's song

Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!

Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint

Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, The oppressor spare,

Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.

Go forth, like him! like him return again,

To bless the land whereon in bitter

pain

Ye toiled at first,

And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.