A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
Our fathers left to us this legacy—
And wrote it with their blood—all men are free.
All men are free.—They heard these words resound,
Long ere their footsteps trod this hallowed ground:
They heard it like the voice of God within,
When priests and tyrants threatened, and the din
Of persecution roared:—they heard it when
They lay like Daniel in the British Lion's den.
They heard it in the everlasting roar
Of the wild sea that drove them to this shore;
They heard it in the thunder and the wind,
And in the voices deep and undefined,
Which spoke within their hearts, like visions bright,
Calling them to obey the inner light.
This was their gospel writ on flower and star,
This was their creed in peace, their strength in war.
It was the beacon-light to guide them on
To truths, which after times have seen and won.
It was their cherished faith—their joy—their pride:
With this they lived and toiled—for this they died.
And where is he who thinks that he can crush
The God-lit fire of the blazing bush!
And with a little shaking of the head
To put the world like a cross child to bed;—
To trample out like sparks the waking mind,
And quench its aspirations unconfined;—
Who seeks by chains, or frowns, or ridicule
To send back full-grown truth to an infant school;
When God says to the times—“Let there be Light!”
Where skulks the man who prays it may be night?
Let him appear—this dweller with the dead!
No—let him bury his diminished head,
Live with the bats, or burrow with the moles,
Nor taint the air which breathes on freeborn souls!
And wrote it with their blood—all men are free.
All men are free.—They heard these words resound,
Long ere their footsteps trod this hallowed ground:
They heard it like the voice of God within,
When priests and tyrants threatened, and the din
Of persecution roared:—they heard it when
They lay like Daniel in the British Lion's den.
They heard it in the everlasting roar
Of the wild sea that drove them to this shore;
They heard it in the thunder and the wind,
And in the voices deep and undefined,
Which spoke within their hearts, like visions bright,
Calling them to obey the inner light.
This was their gospel writ on flower and star,
This was their creed in peace, their strength in war.
It was the beacon-light to guide them on
To truths, which after times have seen and won.
It was their cherished faith—their joy—their pride:
With this they lived and toiled—for this they died.
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The God-lit fire of the blazing bush!
And with a little shaking of the head
To put the world like a cross child to bed;—
To trample out like sparks the waking mind,
And quench its aspirations unconfined;—
Who seeks by chains, or frowns, or ridicule
To send back full-grown truth to an infant school;
When God says to the times—“Let there be Light!”
Where skulks the man who prays it may be night?
Let him appear—this dweller with the dead!
No—let him bury his diminished head,
Live with the bats, or burrow with the moles,
Nor taint the air which breathes on freeborn souls!
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |