There to-night shall woman's glances, Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn. From this glittering lie my vision Other pictures dark and strange ; From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change. Hark! the heavy gate is swinging Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show. Pitying God! Is that a WOMAN Ón whose wrist the shackles clash? Is that shriek she utters human, Underneath the stinging lash? Are they MEN whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash? Still the dance goes gayly onward! What is it to Wealth and Pride That without the stars are looking On a scene which earth should hide? That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide! Vainly to that mean Ambition Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call. Vainly to the child of Fashion, Graceful luxury of compassion, Shall the stricken mourner go; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beau tiful the hollow show! Nay, my words are all too sweeping: Man'sstrong will and woman'sheart, In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous part. And from yonder sunny valleys, Southward in the distance lost, Freedom yet shall summon allies Worthier than the North can boast, With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost. Now, the soul alone is willing: Faint the heart and weak the knee; And as yet no lip is thrilling With the mighty words, "BE FREE!" Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be! Meanwhile, turning from the revel For a keener sense of right, Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night! "To thy duty now and ever! Dream no more of rest or stay; Give to Freedom's great endeavor All thou art and hast to-day":— Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or seems to say. Ye with heart and vision gifted To discern and love the right, Whose worn faces have been lifted To the slowly-growing light, Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night!Ye who through long years of trial Still have held your purpose fast, While a lengthening shade the dial From the westering sunshine cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last! O my brothers! O my sisters i Would to God that ye were near, Gazing with me down the vistas Of a sorrow strange and drear; Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I seem to hear! With the storm above us driving, With the false earth mined below,Who shall marvel if thus striving We have counted friend as foe; Unto one another giving in the darknes blow for blow. YORKTOWN. Well it may be that our natures Have grown sterner and more hard, And the freshness of their features Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely jarred. Be it so. It should not swerve us From a purpose true and brave; Dearer Freedom's rugged service Than the pastime of the slave; Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the grave. Let us then, uniting, bury Mutual faith and common trust; Always he who most forgiveth in his brother is most just. From the eternal shadow rounding All our sun and starlight here, Voices of our lost ones sounding Bid us be of heart and cheer, Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the inward ear. Know we not our dead are looking Downward with a sad surprise, All our strife of words rebuking With their mild and loving eyes? Shall we grieve the holy angels? Shall we cloud their blessed skies? Let us draw their mantles o'er us Cheerly, bravely, while we may, Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is not day! LINES, FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND. A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire,A faith which doubt can never dim, A heart of love, a lip of fire, O Freedom's God! be thou to him! Speak through him words of power and fear, As through thy prophet bards of old, And let a scornful people hear Once more thy Sinai-thunders rolled. For lying lips thy blessing seek, And handsof blood are raised to Thee, And on thy children, crushed and weak, The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. Let then, O God! thy servant dare Thy truth in all its power to tell, Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear The Bible from the grasp of hell! From hollow rite and narrow span Of law and sect by Thee released, O, teach him that the Christian man Is holier than the Jewish priest. Chase back the shadows, gray and old, The dawn of thy millennial day; That day when fettered limb and mind Shall know the truth which maketh free, And he alone who loves his kind YORKTOWN.34 FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still, Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill: Who curbs his steed at head of one? Hark! the low murmur: Washington! Who bends his keen, approving glance Where down the gorgeous line of France Shine knightly star and plume of snow? Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! The earth which bears this calm array Shook with the war-charge yesterday, Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel; October's clear and noonday sun Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, 3purned not alone in walks abroad, But from the "temples of the Lord" Thrust out apart, like things abhorred. Ieep as I felt, and stern and strong, In words which Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong; Not mine alone the task to speak But, mingled in the conflict warm, To brave Opinion's settled frown, Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray. And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes ofFairy-land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned; 91 Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's ear will grow, Of forest streamlets soft and low. And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path pain. In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause. From youthful hopes, from each green spot Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not, From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng, With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom's struggling band,To the sad Helots of our land. What matters it !-a few years more, In that far land shall disappear Before no work of mortal hand, Alone in that great love which gave Yet, if the spirit gazing through One deed to Heaven and virtue true, The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing, Better than Glory's pomp will be Something of Time which may invite And when the summer winds shall sweep With their light wings my place of sleep, If still, as Freedom's rallying sign, young - And if it deepens in thy mind Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust If to their strong appeals which com Though dark the hands upraised to thes Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friend ship twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine. |