Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 41

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace; As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre, Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell, And love subdued the maddened heart of h.e.l.l.

Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue, Which the glad angels of the Advent sung, Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth, Glory to G.o.d, and peace unto the earth Through the mad discord send that calming word Which wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard, Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword!

Not vain the vision which the prophets saw, Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm.

Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, The great hope resting on the truth of G.o.d,-- Evil shall cease and Violence pa.s.s away, And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day.

11th mo., 1848.

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

Before the law authorizing imprisonment for debt had been abolished in Ma.s.sachusetts, a revolutionary pensioner was confined in Charlestown jail for a debt of fourteen dollars, and on the fourth of July was seen waving a handkerchief from the bars of his cell in honor of the day.

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; Oh, sad and crus.h.i.+ng is the fate Of old age chained and desolate!

Just G.o.d! why lies that old man there?

A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeb.a.l.l.s, 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; G.o.d made the old man poor!

For this he shares a felon's cell, The fittest earthly type of h.e.l.l 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 everything 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, Think ye 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Almighty's hand.

1849.

THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS.

The reader of the biography of William Allen, the philanthropic a.s.sociate of Clarkson and Romilly, cannot fail to admire his simple and beautiful record of a tour through Europe, in the years 1818 and 1819, in the company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett.

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest Goaded from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; No schoolmen, turning, in their cla.s.sic quest, The leaves of empire o'er.

Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts The love of man and G.o.d, Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, And Scythia's steppes, they trod.

Where the long shadows of the fir and pine In the night sun are cast, And the deep heart of many a Norland mine Quakes at each riving blast; Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, A baptized Scythian queen, With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, The North and East between!

Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The cla.s.sic forms of yore, And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray, And Dian weeps once more; Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds; And Stamboul from the sea Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds Black with the cypress-tree.

From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, Following the track of Paul, And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home Their vast, eternal wall; They paused not by the ruins of old time, They scanned no pictures rare, Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains climb The cold abyss of air!

But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, To haunts where Hunger pined, To kings and courts forgetful of the pains And wants of human-kind, Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good, Along their way, like flowers, Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could, With princes and with powers;

Their single aim the purpose to fulfil Of Truth, from day to day, Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way.

Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight, Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright.

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off the Cyprian sh.o.r.e, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, That man they valued more.

A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought; And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies Make glad its way, unsought.

In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done; Sure stands the promise,--ever to the meek A heritage is given; Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek The righteousness of Heaven!

1849.

THE MEN OF OLD.

"WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!

Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind To all the beauty, power, and truth behind.

Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs The effigies of old confessors lie, G.o.d's witnesses; the voices of His will, Heard in the slow march of the centuries still Such were the men at whose rebuking frown, Dark with G.o.d's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew The va.s.sal's freedom and the poor man's due."

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor.

To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate,-- Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks.

"Man is worth more than temples!" he replied To such as came his holy work to chide.

And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, And coining from the Abbey's golden h.o.a.rd The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man,--"An earthen dish The last sad supper of the Master bore Most miserable sinners! do ye wish More than your Lord, and grudge His dying poor What your own pride and not His need requires?

Souls, than these s.h.i.+ning gauds, He values more Mercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires!"

O faithful worthies! resting far behind In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep, Much has been done for truth and human-kind; Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind; Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap Through peoples driven in your day like sheep; Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, Though widening still, is walled around by night; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, Skeptic at heart, the lessons of its Head; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress; World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed; Sect builds and wors.h.i.+ps where its wealth and pride And vanity stand shrined and deified, Careless that in the shadow of its walls G.o.d's living temple into ruin falls.

We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, Proclaiming freedom in the name of G.o.d, And startling tyrants with the fear of h.e.l.l Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well; But to rebuke the age's popular crime, We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time!

1849.

TO PIUS IX.

The writer of these lines is no enemy of Catholics. He has, on more than one occasion, exposed himself to the censures of his Protestant brethren, by his strenuous endeavors to procure indemnification for the owners of the convent destroyed near Boston. He defended the cause of the Irish patriots long before it had become popular in this country; and he was one of the first to urge the most liberal aid to the suffering and starving population of the Catholic island. The severity of his language finds its ample apology in the reluctant confession of one of the most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father Ventura.

THE cannon's brazen lips are cold; No red sh.e.l.l blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old, Are silent as despair.