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God works in all things; all obey

His first propulsion from the night: Ho, wake and watch !—the world is gray

With morning light!


Look on him through his dungeon grate

Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,

As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevelled locks of snow.

No grateful fire before him glows,

And yet the winter's breath is chill ;
And o'er his half-clad person goes

The frequent ague thrill!
Silent, save ever and anon,
A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;
O sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age

chained and desolate !

Just God! why lies that old man there?

A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eye-balls, through his horrid hair,

Gleam on him, fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep

Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done ?

Has murder stained his hands with gore ? Not so; his crime's a fouler one;

For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell !
For this, the boon for which he poured
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost-
His blood-gained liberty is lost !
And so, for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,

And Saratoga's plain ?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument upreared to thee-
Piled granite and a prison cell-
The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,

And fling the starry banner out;
Shout“ Freedom !” till your lisping ones

Give back their cradle-shout:
Let boastful eloquence declaim
Of honor, liberty, and fame;
Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With glory for each second word,
And every thing with breath agree
To praise our glorious liberty !”

But when the patron cannon jars,

That prison's cold and gloomy wall And through its grates the stripes and stars

Rise on the wind and fall



that prisoner's aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer?
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry ?
Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,
What is your carnival to him ?
Down with the Law that binds him thus !

Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse

Of God and human kind!
Open the prison's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of God;
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand.





The suns of eighteen centuries have shone

Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone,

And mountain moss, a pillow for his head; And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew,

And broke with publicans the bread of shame,

And drank, with blessings in his Father's name, The water which Samaria's outcast drew, Hath now his temples upon every shore,

Altar and shrine and priest,--and incense dim

Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, From lips which press the temple's marble floor, Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore


Yet as of old, when, meekly “doing good,"
He fed a blind and selfish multitude,
And even the poor companions of his lot
With their dim earthly vision knew him not,

How ill are his high teachings understood'!
Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest

At his own altar binds the chain anew; Where He hath bidden to Life's equal feast,

The starving many wait upon the few; Where He hath spoken Peace, his name hath been The loudest war-cry of contending men; Priests, pale with vigils, in his name have blessed The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, And crossed its blazon with the holy sign; Yea, in his name who bade the erring live, And daily taught his lesscă-to forgive !

Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel; And, with his words of mercy on their lips, Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips,

And the grim horror of the straining wheel; Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, Who saw before his searing eye-balls swim

The image of their Christ in cruel zeal, Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly

to him !


The blood which mingled with the desert sal i,

And beaded with its red and ghastly dew The vines and olives of the Holy Land

The shrieking curses of the hunted JewThe white-sown bones of heretics, where'er They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear, Goa's dark dungeons-Malta's sea-washed cell,

Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung,

Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell !
The midnight of Bartholomew—the stake

Of Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame
Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake-
New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer
Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear,

When guilt itself a human tear might claim,-
Bear witness, 0 Thou wronged and merciful One!
That Earth's most hateful crimes have in thy name

been done!

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Thank God! that I have lived to see the time

When the great truth begins at last to find

An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE IS CRIME! That man is holier than a creed,—that all Restraint

upon him must consult his good, Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, And Love look in


his solitude.
The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught
Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought
Into the common mind and popular thought;
And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore
The humble fishers listened with hushed oar,
Have found an echo in the general heart,
And of the public faith become a living part.

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Who shall arrest this tendency ?-Bring back
The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack ?
Harden the softening human heart again
To cold indifference

to a brother's pain ?
Ye most unhappy men !who, turned away
From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day,

Grope in the shadows of Man's twilight time, What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood, D'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood,

Permitted in another age and clime ?

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