Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 46

What's this squeak of the fife, and this batter of drum Lo! the Swiss of the Church from Perugia come; The militant angels, whose sabres drive home To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred, The good Father's missives, and "Thus saith the Lord!"

And lend to his logic the point of the sword!

O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn O'er dark Thrasymenus, dishevelled and torn!

O fathers, who pluck at your gray beards for shame!

O mothers, struck dumb by a woe without name!

Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling behaves, And his tender compa.s.sion of prisons and graves!

There they stand, the hired stabbers, the blood-stains yet fresh, That splashed like red wine from the vintage of flesh; Grim instruments, careless as pincers and rack How the joints tear apart, and the strained sinews crack; But the hate that glares on them is sharp as their swords, And the sneer and the scowl print the air with fierce words!

Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad!

Here's the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick, Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick, Who the role of the priest and the soldier unites, And, praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights!

Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome; With whose advent we dreamed the new era began When the priest should be human, the monk be a man?

Ah, the wolf's with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl, When freedom we trust to the crosier and cowl!

Stand aside, men of Rome! Here's a hangman-faced Swiss-- (A blessing for him surely can't go amiss)-- Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss.

Short shrift will suffice him,--he's blest beyond doubt; But there 's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out, Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout!

Make way for the next! Here's another sweet son What's this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulets done?

He did, whispers rumor, (its truth G.o.d forbid!) At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did.

And the mothers? Don't name them! these humors of war They who keep him in service must pardon him for.

Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold, Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence!

Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased When robbers say ma.s.s, and Barabbas is priest?

When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead!

There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's day.

Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys, Vex the air with a shrill, s.e.xless horror of noise.

Te Deum laudamus! All round without stint The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in 't!

And now for the blessing! Of little account, You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount.

Its giver was landless, His raiment was poor, No jewelled tiara His fishermen wore; No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home, No Swiss guards! We order things better at Rome.

So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak; Let Austria's vulture have food for her beak; Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again, With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain; Put reason, and justice, and truth under ban; For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man!

1858.

ITALY.

ACROSS the sea I heard the groans Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, And sucked by priestly cannibals.

I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained By martyr meekness, patience, faith, And lo! an athlete grimly stained, With corded muscles battle-strained, Shouting it from the fields of death!

I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, Among the clamoring thousands mute, I only know that G.o.d is right, And that the children of the light Shall tread the darkness under foot.

I know the pent fire heaves its crust, That sultry skies the bolt will form To smite them clear; that Nature must The balance of her powers adjust, Though with the earthquake and the storm.

G.o.d reigns, and let the earth rejoice!

I bow before His sterner plan.

Dumb are the organs of my choice; He speaks in battle's stormy voice, His praise is in the wrath of man!

Yet, surely as He lives, the day Of peace He promised shall be ours, To fold the flags of war, and lay Its sword and spear to rust away, And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!

1860.

FREEDOM IN BRAZIL.

WITH clearer light, Cross of the South, s.h.i.+ne forth In blue Brazilian skies; And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth From sunset to sunrise,

From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves Thy joy's long anthem pour.

Yet a few years (G.o.d make them less!) and slaves Shall shame thy pride no more.

No fettered feet thy shaded margins press; But all men shall walk free Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness, Hast wedded sea to sea.

And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth The word of G.o.d is said, Once more, "Let there be light!"--Son of the South, Lift up thy honored head, Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert More than by birth thy own, Careless of watch and ward; thou art begirt By grateful hearts alone.

The moated wall and battle-s.h.i.+p may fail, But safe shall justice prove; Stronger than greaves of bra.s.s or iron mail The panoply of love.

Crowned doubly by man's blessing and G.o.d's grace, Thy future is secure; Who frees a people makes his statue's place In Time's Valhalla sure.

Lo! from his Neva's banks the Scythian Czar Stretches to thee his hand, Who, with the pencil of the Northern star, Wrote freedom on his land.

And he whose grave is holy by our calm And prairied Sangamon, From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's palm To greet thee with "Well done!"

And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet, And let thy wail be stilled, To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat Her promise half fulfilled.

The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, No sound thereof hath died; Alike thy hope and Heaven's eternal will Shall yet be satisfied.

The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long, And far the end may be; But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong Go out and leave thee free.

1867.

AFTER ELECTION.

THE day's sharp strife is ended now, Our work is done, G.o.d knoweth how!

As on the thronged, unrestful town The patience of the moon looks down, I wait to hear, beside the wire, The voices of its tongues of fire.

Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first Be strong, my heart, to know the worst!

Hark! there the Alleghanies spoke; That sound from lake and prairie broke, That sunset-gun of triumph rent The silence of a continent!

That signal from Nebraska sprung, This, from Nevada's mountain tongue!

Is that thy answer, strong and free, O loyal heart of Tennessee?

What strange, glad voice is that which calls From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls?