Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 12

Would ye barter man for cotton? That your gains may sum up higher, Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pa.s.s our children through the fire?

Is the dollar only real? G.o.d and truth and right a dream?

Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam?

O my G.o.d! for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros down!

For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry, "Up for G.o.d and Ma.s.sachusetts! Set your feet on Mammon's lie!

Perish banks and perish traffic, spin your cotton's latest pound, But in Heaven's name keep your honor, keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!"

Where's the man for Ma.s.sachusetts! Where's the voice to speak her free?

Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to the sea?

Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer? Sits she dumb in her despair?

Has she none to break the silence? Has she none to do and dare?

O my G.o.d! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted s.h.i.+eld, And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field

1840.

TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN.

John C. Calhoun, who had strongly urged the extension of slave territory by the annexation of Texas, even if it should involve a war with England, was unwilling to promote the acquisition of Oregon, which would enlarge the Northern domain of freedom, and pleaded as an excuse the peril of foreign complications which he had defied when the interests of slavery were involved.

Is this thy voice whose treble notes of fear Wail in the wind? And dost thou shake to hear, Actieon-like, the bay of thine own hounds, Spurning the leash, and leaping o'er their bounds?

Sore-baffled statesman! when thy eager hand, With game afoot, unslipped the hungry pack, To hunt down Freedom in her chosen land, Hadst thou no fear, that, erelong, doubling back, These dogs of thine might snuff on Slavery's track?

Where's now the boast, which even thy guarded tongue, Cold, calm, and proud, in the teeth o' the Senate flung,

O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan, Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man?

How stood'st thou then, thy feet on Freedom planting, And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, Whence all could see, through the south windows slanting, Crimson as blood, the beams of that Lone Star!

The Fates are just; they give us but our own; Nemesis ripens what our hands have sown.

There is an Eastern story, not unknown, Doubtless, to thee, of one whose magic skill Called demons up his water-jars to fill; Deftly and silently, they did his will, But, when the task was done, kept pouring still.

In vain with spell and charm the wizard wrought, Faster and faster were the buckets brought, Higher and higher rose the flood around, Till the fiends clapped their hands above their master drowned So, Carolinian, it may prove with thee, For G.o.d still overrules man's schemes, and takes Craftiness in its self-set snare, and makes The wrath of man to praise Him. It may be, That the roused spirits of Democracy May leave to freer States the same wide door Through which thy slave-cursed Texas entered in, From out the blood and fire, the wrong and sin, Of the stormed-city and the ghastly plain, Beat by hot hail, and wet with b.l.o.o.d.y rain, The myriad-handed pioneer may pour, And the wild West with the roused North combine And heave the engineer of evil with his mine.

1846.

AT WAs.h.i.+NGTON.

Suggested by a visit to the city of Was.h.i.+ngton, in the 12th month of 1845.

WITH a cold and wintry noon-light On its roofs and steeples shed, Shadows weaving with the sunlight From the gray sky overhead, Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread.

Through this broad street, restless ever, Ebbs and flows a human tide, Wave on wave a living river; Wealth and fas.h.i.+on side by side; Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

Underneath yon dome, whose coping Springs above them, vast and tall, Grave men in the dust are groping For the largess, base and small, Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its table fall.

Base of heart! They vilely barter Honor's wealth for party's place; Step by step on Freedom's charter Leaving footprints of disgrace; For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their race.

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing Glory round the dancer's hair, Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing Backward on the sunset air; And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and rare.

There to-night shall woman's glances, Star-like, welcome give to them; Fawning fools with shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which G.o.d and Truth condemn.

From this glittering lie my vision Takes a broader, sadder range, Full before me have arisen Other pictures dark and strange; From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change.

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging On its hinges, harsh and slow; One pale prison lamp is flinging On a fearful group below Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show.

Pitying G.o.d! Is that a woman On 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-s.h.i.+p lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition Which, upon a rival's fall, Winds above its old condition, With a reptile's slimy crawl, Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call.

Vainly to the child of Fas.h.i.+on, Giving to ideal woe Graceful luxury of compa.s.sion, Shall the stricken mourner go; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the hollow show!

Nay, my words are all too sweeping: In this crowded human mart, Feeling is not dead, but sleeping; Man's strong will and woman's heart, 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 To the prison-cell my sight, For intenser hate of evil, 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 suns.h.i.+ne cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last!

O my brothers! O my sisters Would to G.o.d that ye were near, Gazing with me down the vistas Of a sorrow strange and drear; Would to G.o.d 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 darkness blow for blow.

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 All our idle feuds in dust, And to future conflicts carry 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 s.p.a.ces, 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?