 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
101
The Iron Harp.
102
TO The Beloved Ones.
O, ye who round the Cross of Suffering cluster!
Fair souls, whose inward love rays out in light,—
Lo! in my heart hath fallen that holy lustre,
Chasing the shadows of my starless night:
Ye have revealed Heaven's brightness to my sight.
Fair souls, whose inward love rays out in light,—
Lo! in my heart hath fallen that holy lustre,
Chasing the shadows of my starless night:
Ye have revealed Heaven's brightness to my sight.
Valiant and high-souled Man and glorious Woman!
Such as once walked with God in Paradise;
Such as have loved with hearts all soft and human;
Such as have loved like saints in mortal guise,—
These, such as these, before my soul arise.
Such as once walked with God in Paradise;
Such as have loved with hearts all soft and human;
Such as have loved like saints in mortal guise,—
These, such as these, before my soul arise.
Ye are around me, like bright angels, ever;
Breathing sweet prayers, like music, in mine ears:
Prompting each valorous thought—each high endeavor;
Soothing my heart when mocked by phantom fears,—
And with warm love-looks drying all my tears.
Breathing sweet prayers, like music, in mine ears:
Prompting each valorous thought—each high endeavor;
Soothing my heart when mocked by phantom fears,—
And with warm love-looks drying all my tears.
Ye who have lived and loved 'mid earthly suffering—
Ye who now chant in Heaven's eternal choir!
Lo! I would crown your tombs with this, mine offering:
Thoughts I have moulded in my bosom's fire—
Voices of Hope, within mine Iron Lyre.
Ye who now chant in Heaven's eternal choir!
Lo! I would crown your tombs with this, mine offering:
Thoughts I have moulded in my bosom's fire—
Voices of Hope, within mine Iron Lyre.
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THE SONG OF TOIL.
Let him who will, rehearse the song
Of gentle love and bright Romance!
Let him who will, with tripping tongue,
Lead gleaming thoughts to Fancy's dance;
But let ME strike mine Iron Harp,—
As Northern harps were struck of old!
And let its music, clear and sharp,
Arouse the free and bold!
Of gentle love and bright Romance!
Let him who will, with tripping tongue,
Lead gleaming thoughts to Fancy's dance;
But let ME strike mine Iron Harp,—
As Northern harps were struck of old!
And let its music, clear and sharp,
Arouse the free and bold!
My hands that Iron Harp shall sweep,
Till from each stroke new strains recoil;
And forth the sounding echoes leap,
To join the arousing Song of Toil:
Till men of mind their thoughts outspeak,
And thoughts awake in kindred mind;
And stirring words shall nerve the weak,
And fetters cease to bind!
Till from each stroke new strains recoil;
And forth the sounding echoes leap,
To join the arousing Song of Toil:
Till men of mind their thoughts outspeak,
And thoughts awake in kindred mind;
And stirring words shall nerve the weak,
And fetters cease to bind!
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And, crashing soon o'er soul and sense,
That glorious harp, whose iron strings
Are Labor's mighty instruments,
Shall shake the thrones of mortal kings:
And ring of axe—and anvil-note;
And rush of plough through yielding soil;
And laboring engine's vocal throat,—
Shall swell the Song of Toil!
That glorious harp, whose iron strings
Are Labor's mighty instruments,
Shall shake the thrones of mortal kings:
And ring of axe—and anvil-note;
And rush of plough through yielding soil;
And laboring engine's vocal throat,—
Shall swell the Song of Toil!
THE POET'S TASK.
WHAT is the Poet's task?
To tear the grave-clothes from the buried ages—
To lift the mighty curtain of the Past!—
And, 'mid the war that old Opinion wages,
Deal out his warnings like a trumpet-blast:—
This is the Poet's task!
To tear the grave-clothes from the buried ages—
To lift the mighty curtain of the Past!—
And, 'mid the war that old Opinion wages,
Deal out his warnings like a trumpet-blast:—
This is the Poet's task!
Thank God for Light!
Praised be the Source of mortal might and being,
That he hath stripped the veil from off our eyes!
Now, in the blessed consciousness of seeing,
Man may gaze upward, to the glorious skies,
With a strong sight!
Praised be the Source of mortal might and being,
That he hath stripped the veil from off our eyes!
Now, in the blessed consciousness of seeing,
Man may gaze upward, to the glorious skies,
With a strong sight!
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Labor hath raised its voice!
The strong right arm—the mighty limbs of iron—
The hand embrowned by grappling with its toil:
The eyes which, on the perils that environ,
Gaze from the honest soul that wears no soil;—
These are its silent voice!—
The strong right arm—the mighty limbs of iron—
The hand embrowned by grappling with its toil:
The eyes which, on the perils that environ,
Gaze from the honest soul that wears no soil;—
These are its silent voice!—
Silent—but, oh! how deep!—
Rousing the world to wrestle with its curses—
Speaking the hope of Freedom to the earth:
Vulcan-like stand again those iron nurses,
To give the panoplied Minerva birth,
From her long, death-like sleep!
Rousing the world to wrestle with its curses—
Speaking the hope of Freedom to the earth:
Vulcan-like stand again those iron nurses,
To give the panoplied Minerva birth,
From her long, death-like sleep!
Read me, ye schoolmen, now—
Read me the riddle which our Samson showeth:
Out of the Strong comes Sweetness once again!
Lo! from the brute how strength'ning honey floweth—
Meat for the suffering souls of famished men!
'Tis the world's riddle now!
Read me the riddle which our Samson showeth:
Out of the Strong comes Sweetness once again!
Lo! from the brute how strength'ning honey floweth—
Meat for the suffering souls of famished men!
'Tis the world's riddle now!
Forth shall the nations start
Labor is calling on the heart and spirit—
Labor is casting all its gyves away,—
Labor the garland and the sheaf shall merit;—
Break thou upon my sight, O glorious day!
Bless thou the Poet's heart!
Labor is calling on the heart and spirit—
Labor is casting all its gyves away,—
Labor the garland and the sheaf shall merit;—
Break thou upon my sight, O glorious day!
Bless thou the Poet's heart!
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THE POET AND THE PEOPLE.
SPOKE well the Grecian, when he said that poems
Were the high laws that swayed a nation's mind—
Voices that live on echoes—
Brief and prophetic proems,
Opening the great heart-book of human kind!
Were the high laws that swayed a nation's mind—
Voices that live on echoes—
Brief and prophetic proems,
Opening the great heart-book of human kind!
Songs are a nation's pulses, which discover
If the great body be as nature willed;
Songs are the spasms of soul,
Telling us when men suffer:
Dead is the nation's heart whose songs are stilled.
If the great body be as nature willed;
Songs are the spasms of soul,
Telling us when men suffer:
Dead is the nation's heart whose songs are stilled.
Lo! the firm poet is the Truth's dispenser—
Standing, like Heaven's high-priest, before its shrine;
And his high thoughts, like incense,
From his soul's golden censer,
Rise to God's throne—a sacrifice divine!
Standing, like Heaven's high-priest, before its shrine;
And his high thoughts, like incense,
From his soul's golden censer,
Rise to God's throne—a sacrifice divine!
Stands he like Samuel, darkly prophesying—
Threats he, like Nathan, humbling Judah's king—
Comes he as John the Baptist,
'Mid the wild desert crying,—
Still from his soul the impatient voice must spring.
Threats he, like Nathan, humbling Judah's king—
Comes he as John the Baptist,
'Mid the wild desert crying,—
Still from his soul the impatient voice must spring.
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Speaks he to senseless tyrants, who with scourges
Would curb the ocean of the human heart!—
Over their whips and fetters,
Rush his bold songs, like surges:
Forth from the caverns of deep thought they start.
Would curb the ocean of the human heart!—
Over their whips and fetters,
Rush his bold songs, like surges:
Forth from the caverns of deep thought they start.
Still for the People—still for Man and Freedom—
Boldly his Titan words the bard must speak;
Till his too long-lost birthright
Shall be regained by Edom —
Till, to restore that right, Jacob shall Esau seek!
Boldly his Titan words the bard must speak;
Till his too long-lost birthright
Shall be regained by Edom —
Till, to restore that right, Jacob shall Esau seek!
THE POET TO THE PEOPLE.
LIST! ye stern, hard-handed toilers!
Ye who suffer—ye who strive!
Time has been when your despoilers
Gave ye lash, and task, and gyve:
Time has been when each low murmur
Brought the scourge upon your flesh;
When each struggle fixed ye firmer
In your tyrants' cunning mesh!
Ye who suffer—ye who strive!
Time has been when your despoilers
Gave ye lash, and task, and gyve:
Time has been when each low murmur
Brought the scourge upon your flesh;
When each struggle fixed ye firmer
In your tyrants' cunning mesh!
Ye were then the bond and vassal,
And your master's will obeyed—
Though ye built his lordly castle,
And his arms and armor made:
Even the chains with which he galled you,
Your own fingers did create;
And the very power which thralled you,
From yourselves was delegate!
And your master's will obeyed—
Though ye built his lordly castle,
And his arms and armor made:
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Your own fingers did create;
And the very power which thralled you,
From yourselves was delegate!
Thus ye suffered—still unknowing;
Still in doubt and darkness toiled;
Still your sweat and blood were flowing—
Still your tyrants wronged and spoiled!
For ye thought that ye were minions,
And that lords were nobler things—
And your faith was old Opinion's,
And the holy right of kings.
Still in doubt and darkness toiled;
Still your sweat and blood were flowing—
Still your tyrants wronged and spoiled!
For ye thought that ye were minions,
And that lords were nobler things—
And your faith was old Opinion's,
And the holy right of kings.
But one bold and firm endeavor
Broke your chains like threads of flax—
And a shield was raised forever
'Gainst the Wronger's fell attacks!
Now ye feel that glorious labors
Stain not man's immortal soul:
Iron ploughs must rule the sabres,
Sledges must the crowns control.
Broke your chains like threads of flax—
And a shield was raised forever
'Gainst the Wronger's fell attacks!
Now ye feel that glorious labors
Stain not man's immortal soul:
Iron ploughs must rule the sabres,
Sledges must the crowns control.
Still ye raise the shaft to heaven—
Still ye force each mighty toil:
Still by you the waves are riven—
Still by you is rent the soil;—
But ye feel that ye no longer
Are the slaves which once ye were;
Feel that ye are purer—stronger;
Feel that ye can wait—and bear!
Still ye force each mighty toil:
Still by you the waves are riven—
Still by you is rent the soil;—
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Are the slaves which once ye were;
Feel that ye are purer—stronger;
Feel that ye can wait—and bear!
THE CHAMPIONS OF MANKIND.
HOW gloriously, from out the gloom of Ages,
Flash the true beacon-lights of lofty souls:
Gleaming still brighter, as Life's tempest rages—
Gilding the tide that to Oblivion rolls!
Flash the true beacon-lights of lofty souls:
Gleaming still brighter, as Life's tempest rages—
Gilding the tide that to Oblivion rolls!
Gracchus! first martyr
to the cause of reason—
Still shall thy thought each patriot's heart inflame;
Valiant Wat Tyler!—if thine acts were treason,
Then may such treason gild each freeman's name!
Tib. Semp. Gracchus, a noble Roman, stimulated by the abject condition of the lower classes of Roman citizens, attempted to revive a modification of the Licinian law, in total contempt of which the patricians and men of opulence had, by a series of usurpations, appropriated to themselves all the public lands. This excited the bitter resentment of the patrician party, by a faction of whom he was finally assassinated.—
Plutarch Vit. Gracch.Still shall thy thought each patriot's heart inflame;
Valiant Wat Tyler!—if thine acts were treason,
Then may such treason gild each freeman's name!
Cromwell, thou tyrant-queller! slaves may hate thee;
Courtiers may all thy lofty traits deny:
Courtiers and slaves did not, could not, create thee!
Thou wert of Mankind's Cause—which shall not die.
Courtiers may all thy lofty traits deny:
Courtiers and slaves did not, could not, create thee!
Thou wert of Mankind's Cause—which shall not die.
Lo! there are Gracchi even now among us—
Tylers, and Cromwells, in the People's van:
Lo! there are beacons, which the Past has flung us,
Flaming upon the throbbing heart of man!
Tylers, and Cromwells, in the People's van:
Lo! there are beacons, which the Past has flung us,
Flaming upon the throbbing heart of man!
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We have beheld an awful Hand, inscribing
Jehovah's sentence on the walls of Wrong!
Passed is the hour for mirth, and scorn, and gibing—
Heaven's balance weighs the Just against the Strong.
Jehovah's sentence on the walls of Wrong!
Passed is the hour for mirth, and scorn, and gibing—
Heaven's balance weighs the Just against the Strong.
THE ARTISAN.
LIFT up thine iron hand—
Thou of the stalwart arm and fearless eye!
Lift proudly, now, thine iron hand on high—
Firm and undaunted stand!
Thou of the stalwart arm and fearless eye!
Lift proudly, now, thine iron hand on high—
Firm and undaunted stand!
No need hast thou of gems,
To deck the temple of thy glorious thought:
Thou hast the jewels which thy mind enwrought—
Richer than diadems!
To deck the temple of thy glorious thought:
Thou hast the jewels which thy mind enwrought—
Richer than diadems!
Thou art our God's high-priest!
Standing before great Nature's mighty shrine;
For the whole world the glorious task is thine,
To spread the eternal feast.
Standing before great Nature's mighty shrine;
For the whole world the glorious task is thine,
To spread the eternal feast.
Even like the Hebrew chief,
Strikest thou on the rock, and, from its deep,
Mysterious heart—the living waters leap,
To give the earth relief.
Strikest thou on the rock, and, from its deep,
Mysterious heart—the living waters leap,
To give the earth relief.
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Mighty among thy kind,
Standest thou, man of iron toil! midway
Between the earth and heaven, all things to sway
By thy high-working mind!
Standest thou, man of iron toil! midway
Between the earth and heaven, all things to sway
By thy high-working mind!
Thou canst delve in the earth,
And from its mighty caves bring forth pure gold;
Thou canst unwrap the clouds in heaven rolled,
And give the lightnings birth.
And from its mighty caves bring forth pure gold;
Thou canst unwrap the clouds in heaven rolled,
And give the lightnings birth.
Thou hast the stormy sea
Chained to thy chariot-wheels, and the wild winds
Obey the o'er-ruling intellect that binds
Their rushing wings to thee.
Chained to thy chariot-wheels, and the wild winds
Obey the o'er-ruling intellect that binds
Their rushing wings to thee.
Thou canst bid Thought go forth
Upon the electric pinions of the air,
And through the opposeless ether thou canst bear
Thy words from South to North.
Upon the electric pinions of the air,
And through the opposeless ether thou canst bear
Thy words from South to North.
Thou canst new lands create,
Where the wild-rolling wave no mastery owns;
And the vast distance of opposing zones
Canst thou annihilate!
Where the wild-rolling wave no mastery owns;
And the vast distance of opposing zones
Canst thou annihilate!
Thou know'st heaven's ordinances—
And their dominion in the earth thou seest!
And the floods hear thee, in their shrouds of mist,
And bring their fruitfulness!
And their dominion in the earth thou seest!
And the floods hear thee, in their shrouds of mist,
And bring their fruitfulness!
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Lift, then, thy hand to heaven!
Spread thy toil-sceptre o'er the sea and land:
Thou hast the world intrusted to thy hand—
Earth to thy charge is given!
Spread thy toil-sceptre o'er the sea and land:
Thou hast the world intrusted to thy hand—
Earth to thy charge is given!
MEN OF THOUGHT.
MEN who ponder, list to me!
In the depths of all your hearts,
Something lives and something starts:
It would mount—it would be free—
Chain it not, I counsel ye!
In the depths of all your hearts,
Something lives and something starts:
It would mount—it would be free—
Chain it not, I counsel ye!
Men who in the furrow tread,
Sowing seed within the earth—
Trusting in its future birth,—
Lo! within your HEARTS lies dead
Seed that may be future bread!
Sowing seed within the earth—
Trusting in its future birth,—
Lo! within your HEARTS lies dead
Seed that may be future bread!
Men whose lives with toil are fraught—
Ye who o'er the anvil bow,—
In your SOULS, O gaze ye now:
There abides the anvil, THOUGHT—
There may mighty deeds be wrought!
Ye who o'er the anvil bow,—
In your SOULS, O gaze ye now:
There abides the anvil, THOUGHT—
There may mighty deeds be wrought!
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Acorns blossom to the oak—
Drops of rain to oceans swell:
Dare not ye your thoughts to quell!
Never yet was truth outspoke,
That hath not an echo woke!
Drops of rain to oceans swell:
Dare not ye your thoughts to quell!
Never yet was truth outspoke,
That hath not an echo woke!
Dare not ye your thoughts to hide!
On the waters cast your bread:
Prophets were by ravens fed.
If to speak it hath not tried,
Then is Thought a suicide!
On the waters cast your bread:
Prophets were by ravens fed.
If to speak it hath not tried,
Then is Thought a suicide!
Speak ye, men of thought! speak out—
Trust ye still response to find!
Thoughts will wake in kindred mind;
Even as the arousing shout
Starts reply from caverns deep.
Echoes, till ye speak, will sleep.
Trust ye still response to find!
Thoughts will wake in kindred mind;
Even as the arousing shout
Starts reply from caverns deep.
Echoes, till ye speak, will sleep.
Patch not ancient lies with new!
Moths will seek their old abode:
Build on sand a marble road,
And 'twill sink its basis through.
Rivets in a rotten shield
Will but make it sooner yield.
Moths will seek their old abode:
Build on sand a marble road,
And 'twill sink its basis through.
Rivets in a rotten shield
Will but make it sooner yield.
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What though ye be weak and few?
What though never a sunbeam smiles?
Insects build the coral isles—
Insects pierce the ocean through:
Ye are MEN—and will ye quail,
When the insect did not fail?
What though never a sunbeam smiles?
Insects build the coral isles—
Insects pierce the ocean through:
Ye are MEN—and will ye quail,
When the insect did not fail?
Clothed with nightshade thrive the oaks:
Truth, though bound in shackles, thrives;
Error forgeth her own gyves,
As itself the nightshade chokes.
Stars, and flowers, and all things bright,
Work through darkness into light.
Truth, though bound in shackles, thrives;
Error forgeth her own gyves,
As itself the nightshade chokes.
Stars, and flowers, and all things bright,
Work through darkness into light.
Speak ye, then, to echoing souls,
Till the eternal concave sound—
Till around Creation roll
Voices from the vast profound:
Even like the glorious shouts that rang,
When morning stars together sang.
Till the eternal concave sound—
Till around Creation roll
Voices from the vast profound:
Even like the glorious shouts that rang,
When morning stars together sang.
WORDS OF HOPE.
DREAMERS! wake ye from your revery—
Sleepers! rouse ye from your sleep!
Wrong and vice, in virtue's livery,
Round ye like the serpents creep
Sleepers! rouse ye from your sleep!
Wrong and vice, in virtue's livery,
Round ye like the serpents creep
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Men are drops, and God the ocean:
Lives are streams that flow to heaven:
Ye must act in mingling motion,
Else to vapors ye are driven!
Lives are streams that flow to heaven:
Ye must act in mingling motion,
Else to vapors ye are driven!
Fix your glances on futurity:
Lo! where beams the day-spring bright!
Ye may yet know joy and purity—
Darkness may be changed to light!
Lo! where beams the day-spring bright!
Ye may yet know joy and purity—
Darkness may be changed to light!
God sleeps not, though sleeps humanity;
Still he moves in fire and cloud:
Heaven is not a vast inanity—
Earth is more than mankind's shroud!
Still he moves in fire and cloud:
Heaven is not a vast inanity—
Earth is more than mankind's shroud!
Good is in our race, though hidden—
Peace is mightier far than strife:
Earth may yet be made an Eden,
Heaven be reached in mortal life!
Peace is mightier far than strife:
Earth may yet be made an Eden,
Heaven be reached in mortal life!
There is naught so high and holy,
As the hope which conquers pain:
In yourselves, ye crushed and lowly,
Lives the power to rise again!
As the hope which conquers pain:
In yourselves, ye crushed and lowly,
Lives the power to rise again!
Trust not that which startles reason—
Good can ne'er be gained by ill;
All that chains, or clouds, is treason—
Naught is powerful, but “I WILL!”
Good can ne'er be gained by ill;
All that chains, or clouds, is treason—
Naught is powerful, but “I WILL!”
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Would ye read the Eternal's mystery?
Like blind Bartiméus pray!
Eyes that best discern God's history,
Were anointed first with clay.
Like blind Bartiméus pray!
Eyes that best discern God's history,
Were anointed first with clay.
Gaze from well-deeps into heaven,
And ye see the stars at noon;
Thus to lowly sense is given
Reason's best and richest boon!
And ye see the stars at noon;
Thus to lowly sense is given
Reason's best and richest boon!
Not one grain of earth's material
Ever was or shall be lost:—
And shall Man's great soul ethereal
Be to dark oblivion tost?
Ever was or shall be lost:—
And shall Man's great soul ethereal
Be to dark oblivion tost?
Boldly speak—reluctant lisper!
Truth's appeal will mount on high:
Each brave word—each feeble whisper—
Once breathed out, can never die!
Truth's appeal will mount on high:
Each brave word—each feeble whisper—
Once breathed out, can never die!
LIFE'S ODYSSEY.
BROTHERS mine! we are on life's ocean—
Stout our bark and the wind astern;
Hearts wound up to a brave devotion:
We shall suffer—we shall learn!
Stout our bark and the wind astern;
Hearts wound up to a brave devotion:
We shall suffer—we shall learn!
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Brothers mine! now the blue wave kisses,
Greets our prow with its lips of foam:
We are bound, like the bold Ulysses,
Onward, onward—wandering home.
Greets our prow with its lips of foam:
We are bound, like the bold Ulysses,
Onward, onward—wandering home.
Helmsman! grasp the obedient tiller!
Yonder swells the arising deep;
Here's Charybdis, and there is Scylla—
Storm and wreck between them sleep.
Yonder swells the arising deep;
Here's Charybdis, and there is Scylla—
Storm and wreck between them sleep.
List ye not to the Sirens' wooing—
Speed ye on o'er the mystic wave:
Slothful rest is the soul's undoing—
Pleasure's couch is Virtue's grave.
Speed ye on o'er the mystic wave:
Slothful rest is the soul's undoing—
Pleasure's couch is Virtue's grave.
Brothers mine! to the struggle bend you—
Ply your oars with an earnest strength!
Labor on till the gods befriend you:
Home shall bless your hearts at length.
Ply your oars with an earnest strength!
Labor on till the gods befriend you:
Home shall bless your hearts at length.
PAST—PRESENT—FUTURE.
GHOST of the buried Past!
Lo! we invoke thee from the shroud of Ages—
Even from the awful shroud of withered Time!
Come, with the lore of prophets and of sages!
Come, with thy mystic truths, and thoughts sublime,
Like raiment round thee cast!
Lo! we invoke thee from the shroud of Ages—
Even from the awful shroud of withered Time!
Come, with the lore of prophets and of sages!
Come, with thy mystic truths, and thoughts sublime,
Like raiment round thee cast!
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Clad in his iron mail,
Yet trembling in the shadowy light uncertain,
Standeth the Present, like the monarch Saul;
To lift the darksome Future's mighty curtain,
Calling dead Samuel from his mystic pall—
Dead Samuel, cold and pale!
Yet trembling in the shadowy light uncertain,
Standeth the Present, like the monarch Saul;
To lift the darksome Future's mighty curtain,
Calling dead Samuel from his mystic pall—
Dead Samuel, cold and pale!
A weak and frail old man,
And bowed beneath the weight of thy foretelling,
Art thou, O phantom of the buried years!
Lo! as we bend, like Saul, with bosoms swelling,
Scarce (through the cloudy mantle of thy tears)
May we thy features scan.
And bowed beneath the weight of thy foretelling,
Art thou, O phantom of the buried years!
Lo! as we bend, like Saul, with bosoms swelling,
Scarce (through the cloudy mantle of thy tears)
May we thy features scan.
Even like that twain of old,
To speak and hear the solemn words of warning,—
Prophet and King, the Past and Present stand:
This, as a corpse—no gems nor crown adorning—
And this, with crested brow and sceptred hand,
A monarch stern and bold!
To speak and hear the solemn words of warning,—
Prophet and King, the Past and Present stand:
This, as a corpse—no gems nor crown adorning—
And this, with crested brow and sceptred hand,
A monarch stern and bold!
List we the Prophet's cry—
The Past, the Present, and the Future's story:
Samuel, and Saul, and David, live once more;
Soon shall the new-born light beam forth in glory—
Soon shall the darkness of our world be o'er:
The Future draweth nigh!
The Past, the Present, and the Future's story:
Samuel, and Saul, and David, live once more;
Soon shall the new-born light beam forth in glory—
Soon shall the darkness of our world be o'er:
The Future draweth nigh!
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Read we the parable—
No more the living dead our earth shall cumber!
The mighty strife of human hearts shall cease!
The dying Present with the Past shall slumber—
And Man awake to hail the Future's peace!
Read we the lesson well!
No more the living dead our earth shall cumber!
The mighty strife of human hearts shall cease!
The dying Present with the Past shall slumber—
And Man awake to hail the Future's peace!
Read we the lesson well!
THE LAMENT OF PAN.
LISTEN to the heart of old Pan
—how it sobbeth
For Man: how it swelleth with sorrow, and throbbeth
With horror, and river-like poureth its tears—
And with agony scoreth the column of years!
For Man: how it swelleth with sorrow, and throbbeth
With horror, and river-like poureth its tears—
And with agony scoreth the column of years!
Listen to the wail of old Pan—how he groaneth
For Man—how he striveth in terror, and moaneth,
While Error her serpents would throw on his life—
Like the old Laocóön in terrible strife!
For Man—how he striveth in terror, and moaneth,
While Error her serpents would throw on his life—
Like the old Laocóön in terrible strife!
Listen to the prayer of old Pan—while he bleedeth
For Man! how, beneath each dread curse, he yet pleadeth
For mercy—for saviors, to free us from blight—
For some new Promethéus to bring heaven's light!
For Man! how, beneath each dread curse, he yet pleadeth
For mercy—for saviors, to free us from blight—
For some new Promethéus to bring heaven's light!
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Listen to the story of Pan—how he speaketh
For Man: how, with holy endeavor, he seeketh
Forever on Man to bestow a fair fame—
And, like Shem with old Noah, concealeth his shame.
For Man: how, with holy endeavor, he seeketh
Forever on Man to bestow a fair fame—
And, like Shem with old Noah, concealeth his shame.
Listen to the hope of old Pan—how prophetic
For Man: how, though darkly he gropeth, ecstatic
He hopeth for succor from Heaven at length;
When that time shall have given the Nazarite strength.
For Man: how, though darkly he gropeth, ecstatic
He hopeth for succor from Heaven at length;
When that time shall have given the Nazarite strength.
Listen to the words of old Pan—and be ruthful
To Man: blessed Psyche, be loving and truthful;
And, proving forever thy mission on earth,
Let thy holy contrition give happiness birth!
To Man: blessed Psyche, be loving and truthful;
And, proving forever thy mission on earth,
Let thy holy contrition give happiness birth!
LIVE THEM DOWN.
BROTHER! art thou poor and lowly,
Toiling, drudging day by day,
Journeying painfully and slowly,
On thy dark and desert way?
Pause not—though the proud ones frown!
Sink not, fear not!—Live them down!
Toiling, drudging day by day,
Journeying painfully and slowly,
On thy dark and desert way?
Pause not—though the proud ones frown!
Sink not, fear not!—Live them down!
Though to Vice thou shalt not pander,
Though to Virtue thou mayst kneel,
Yet thou shalt escape not slander;
Jibe and lie thy soul must feel;
Jest of witling—curse of clown:
Heed not either!—Live them down!
Though to Virtue thou mayst kneel,
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Jibe and lie thy soul must feel;
Jest of witling—curse of clown:
Heed not either!—Live them down!
Hate may wield her scourges horrid;
Malice may thy woes deride;
Scorn may bind with thorns thy forehead;
Envy's spear may pierce thy side!
Lo! through Cross shall come the Crown!
Fear not foemen!—Live them down!
Malice may thy woes deride;
Scorn may bind with thorns thy forehead;
Envy's spear may pierce thy side!
Lo! through Cross shall come the Crown!
Fear not foemen!—Live them down!
THE ANGELS.
ANGEL OF HOPE:
I HEAR thy wings, my sister,Though the night is dark around thee—
Oh, those wings are drooping heavily,
As if the tempest bound thee.
Tell me, sister—whither now?
Whence and wherefore journeyest thou?
ANGEL OF SUFFERING:
I come—Oh, I come,
From the hapless realms,
Where souls are dumb,
Where wrong o'erwhelms;
From the land where the Famine hath been—
Hath been and will be again;
And wring the hearts of desperate men
With slow, consuming pain,—
Till souls that once were free from sin
Are black as the soul of Cain!
Famishing mothers, and famishing sires,
And sons with hearts of hate;
Lighting their terrible signal-fires,
Piling their hovels in funeral pyres—
Lying in wait,
With hearts of hate,
At the cruel tyrant's gate!
Earth is mighty, and earth hath room
For millions of souls unborn;
Harvests smile, and orchards bloom,
And fields are heavy with corn!
And yet there cometh the Famine's doom,
And the livid Plague's despairing gloom,
O'er Erin's land forlorn!
From the hapless realms,
Where souls are dumb,
Where wrong o'erwhelms;
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Hath been and will be again;
And wring the hearts of desperate men
With slow, consuming pain,—
Till souls that once were free from sin
Are black as the soul of Cain!
Famishing mothers, and famishing sires,
And sons with hearts of hate;
Lighting their terrible signal-fires,
Piling their hovels in funeral pyres—
Lying in wait,
With hearts of hate,
At the cruel tyrant's gate!
Earth is mighty, and earth hath room
For millions of souls unborn;
Harvests smile, and orchards bloom,
And fields are heavy with corn!
And yet there cometh the Famine's doom,
And the livid Plague's despairing gloom,
O'er Erin's land forlorn!
ANGEL OF HOPE:
Heaven helpeth—Heaven helpeth—Though the clouds may darkly frown:
Heaven lifts the poor and wretched—
Heaven brings the haughty down!
Trust in heaven, suffering Angel:—
Sorrow seals the true evangel!
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ANGEL OF SUFFERING:
I have been to the darksome mine,Where Albion's infant slaves
In wretchedness toil—in hopelessness pine,
From birth to earth;—
Nor joy nor mirth
From cradles unto graves!
Children with withered hearts,
And maidens with never a maiden's shame,—
Toiling and toiling till life departs,
Living and dying without a name;
Living forever to labor and labor,
Cursing their lords,
With horrible words,—
Wrestling with brother, and struggling with neighbor.
ANGEL OF HOPE:
Heaven is mighty! and God is good!Little of love is understood!
Yet cometh the hour
Of Beauty and Power—
Cometh the glorious day—
When Right shall be Might,
And Darkness Light,
And Wrong be swept away.
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THE WORLD'S LIE.
I LOOKED from out the grating
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And I saw the Life-tide rolling,
With a sullen, angry swell;
And the battle-ships were riding
Like leviathans in pride—
While their cannon-shot were raining
On the stormy human tide.
Then my soul in anguish wept,
Sending forth a wailing cry:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And I saw the Life-tide rolling,
With a sullen, angry swell;
And the battle-ships were riding
Like leviathans in pride—
While their cannon-shot were raining
On the stormy human tide.
Then my soul in anguish wept,
Sending forth a wailing cry:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
I looked from out the grating
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And a sound of mortal moaning
On my reeling senses fell;
And I heard the fall of lashes,
And the clank of iron chains,
And I saw where Men were writhing
Under Slavery's cruel pains.
Then my soul looked up to God,
With a wo-beclouded eye:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And a sound of mortal moaning
On my reeling senses fell;
And I heard the fall of lashes,
And the clank of iron chains,
And I saw where Men were writhing
Under Slavery's cruel pains.
Then my soul looked up to God,
With a wo-beclouded eye:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
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I looked from out the grating
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And I heard the solemn tolling
Of a malefactor's knell;
And I saw the frowning gallows
Reared aloft in awful gloom,
While a thousand eyes were gloating
O'er a felon's horrid doom.
And a shout of heartless mirth
On the wind was rushing by:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
And I heard the solemn tolling
Of a malefactor's knell;
And I saw the frowning gallows
Reared aloft in awful gloom,
While a thousand eyes were gloating
O'er a felon's horrid doom.
And a shout of heartless mirth
On the wind was rushing by:
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
I looked from out the grating
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
Where the harvest-wealth was blooming
Over smiling plain and dell;
And I saw a million paupers
With their foreheads in the dust—
And I saw a million workers
Slay each other for a crust!
And I cried, “O God above!
Shall thy People always die?”
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
Of my spirit's dungeon-cell—
Where the harvest-wealth was blooming
Over smiling plain and dell;
And I saw a million paupers
With their foreheads in the dust—
And I saw a million workers
Slay each other for a crust!
And I cried, “O God above!
Shall thy People always die?”
Said the World, “This comes from heaven!”
Said my soul, “It is a LIE!”
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MEN OF MY COUNTRY.
MEN of my country! Earth is wide—
And souls are kindred still!
Tyrants with hate men's hearts divide—
Freedom with love will thrill!
Oh! not enough—oh! not enough,
That ye nor rob nor kill;
Your brethren ye must nerve and guide
With your own glorious will.
And souls are kindred still!
Tyrants with hate men's hearts divide—
Freedom with love will thrill!
Oh! not enough—oh! not enough,
That ye nor rob nor kill;
Your brethren ye must nerve and guide
With your own glorious will.
Men of my country! lo! your keels
Are ploughing every sea:
Still, wheresoe'er the bright sun wheels,
There in your might are ye!
Yet not enough—oh! not enough,
That ye yourselves are free—
Still wheresoe'er a patriot kneels
There must your mission be!
Are ploughing every sea:
Still, wheresoe'er the bright sun wheels,
There in your might are ye!
Yet not enough—oh! not enough,
That ye yourselves are free—
Still wheresoe'er a patriot kneels
There must your mission be!
Men of my country! lo! our God
Your destiny hath planned:
Where'er a tyrant lifts his rod,
There must ye stay his hand!
Oh! not enough—oh! not enough,
That heaven hath blessed our land—
Where'er the soul of man is trod,
There must ye make your stand.
Your destiny hath planned:
Where'er a tyrant lifts his rod,
There must ye stay his hand!
Oh! not enough—oh! not enough,
That heaven hath blessed our land—
Where'er the soul of man is trod,
There must ye make your stand.
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HOPE YE ALWAY.
YOUNG hearts! hope ever!
There's no time for repining while work is undone—
There's no harvesting time save when shineth the sun.
O repine ye, then, never!
There's no time for repining while work is undone—
There's no harvesting time save when shineth the sun.
O repine ye, then, never!
True heart! sink never!
Though darkly the clouds overshadow thy sky,
Yet the sun will beam forth, when the shadows roll by;
Darkness lasteth not ever!
Though darkly the clouds overshadow thy sky,
Yet the sun will beam forth, when the shadows roll by;
Darkness lasteth not ever!
Fond heart! faint never!
Though Eros may journey full many a mile,
There's an Anteros
somewhere, with welcoming smile:
Love endureth forever!
Though Eros may journey full many a mile,
There's an Anteros
Anteros is the god of mutual love and tenderness —whom Eros is continually seeking. When Venus complained that her son Cupid always seemed a child, she was told that if he had a brother, he would grow up in a short space of time. As soon as Anteros was born, Cupid felt his strength increase and his wings enlarge, but if ever his brother was away from him, he found himself reduced to his ancient shape. From this circumstance it is seen that return of passion gives vigor to love.—
Cic. de Nat.Love endureth forever!
THE SMITHY.
THE night is dark—the road is blind—
The traveller's heart is dreary:
Fogs rise before, rain falls behind;
Both man and steed are weary.
The traveller's heart is dreary:
Fogs rise before, rain falls behind;
Both man and steed are weary.
The floods pour fast on either side,
The ground beneath half crumbles;
The panting horse, with nostrils wide,
Neighs, starts, and wildly stumbles.
The ground beneath half crumbles;
The panting horse, with nostrils wide,
Neighs, starts, and wildly stumbles.
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But hark! kling, klang! a hammer-sound—
Stout hammer-blows on iron;
And now a bright blaze gleams around
The shadows that environ.
Stout hammer-blows on iron;
And now a bright blaze gleams around
The shadows that environ.
“Now, God be praised!” the traveller cries—
“The road no more is dreary!
“For there the smith his anvil plies—
“There burns his forge so cheery.
“The road no more is dreary!
“For there the smith his anvil plies—
“There burns his forge so cheery.
“Kling, klang! the music glads mine ear—
“The blaze my path enlightens;
“There shines it brightly far and near:
“Stream, road, and hill it brightens.”
“The blaze my path enlightens;
“There shines it brightly far and near:
“Stream, road, and hill it brightens.”
The traveller spurred his steed once more—
The steed pressed onward lightly;
Till soon before the smithy door
Was drawn his bridle tightly.
The steed pressed onward lightly;
Till soon before the smithy door
Was drawn his bridle tightly.
Thus said the traveller to the smith—
“Strike on, strike on, my master!
“Our God is still thy labors with:
“Strike on, then, fast and faster!
“Strike on, strike on, my master!
“Our God is still thy labors with:
“Strike on, then, fast and faster!
“And let thy forge-blaze brighter gleam—
“Thy hammer-strokes ring louder:
“Kling-klang thy blows! for well I deem
“No task than thine is prouder!
“Thy hammer-strokes ring louder:
“Kling-klang thy blows! for well I deem
“No task than thine is prouder!
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“For Labor's blows shall wake mankind
“With strokes of toil Titanic—
“And forge-like shine the Toiler's mind!—
“Strike on, then, brave Mechanic!”
“With strokes of toil Titanic—
“And forge-like shine the Toiler's mind!—
“Strike on, then, brave Mechanic!”
THE PAUPER'S PLACE.
WHY art thou sad, O father? why is thy brow o'ercast?
Thus I spake a sorrowing man
Whom I oft passed:
Thus I spake a sorrowing man
Whom I oft passed:
Sitting alone by the wayside, begging his daily bread—
Blind he was, and snows of age
Whitened his head.
Blind he was, and snows of age
Whitened his head.
“Grieving I am,” he answered—“grieving I well may be;
“There's no place in burial ground
For such as me.”
“There's no place in burial ground
For such as me.”
Truly, (I said,) my father—buried thou'lt be, I ween:
Charity will bestow thee place
In churchyard green.
Charity will bestow thee place
In churchyard green.
Answered to me that old man, sorrowful answered he:
“Poor-house bed and surgeon's board
Are place for me!”
“Poor-house bed and surgeon's board
Are place for me!”
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THE POOR.
THE storm is out upon the air—
I hear its hollow sound,
As, seated in my elbow-chair,
In silent thought profound,
I listen to the dropping rain,
That patters on each pane.
I hear its hollow sound,
As, seated in my elbow-chair,
In silent thought profound,
I listen to the dropping rain,
That patters on each pane.
Now, shrieking through the stormy night,
The wind is rushing wild;
And far above in heaven's height
The murky clouds are piled:
And not a single star looks down
To smile away the frown.
The wind is rushing wild;
And far above in heaven's height
The murky clouds are piled:
And not a single star looks down
To smile away the frown.
The signs are creaking in the street,
The vanes are whirling fast;
And drearily the driving sleet
Is borne upon the blast;
And gusty rain, and icy hail,
The close-barred doors assail!
The vanes are whirling fast;
And drearily the driving sleet
Is borne upon the blast;
And gusty rain, and icy hail,
The close-barred doors assail!
The watchman shrinketh in his box,
As fast the chill rain falls,
And with the clanging city clocks
His solemn warning calls—
Or, closer in his mantle wound,
Reluctant stalks his round!
As fast the chill rain falls,
And with the clanging city clocks
His solemn warning calls—
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Reluctant stalks his round!
But wandering up and down the streets,
Amid the chilly mist,
Oh! many hapless ones he meets
Upon his round, I wist;
The child of shame, of want, of wo,
Who wanders to and fro.
Amid the chilly mist,
Oh! many hapless ones he meets
Upon his round, I wist;
The child of shame, of want, of wo,
Who wanders to and fro.
Ah me! how many houseless ones
Are sinking on the ground—
The outcast, whom the proud one shuns—
Who pity never found,—
The friendless and the orphan child,
Amid the storm so wild.
Are sinking on the ground—
The outcast, whom the proud one shuns—
Who pity never found,—
The friendless and the orphan child,
Amid the storm so wild.
Creeping away through alleys old,
Before the tempest drear;
With hunger cramped—benumbed with cold,
And shivering with fear,—
The sad one bendeth down his form,
Before the midnight storm.
Before the tempest drear;
With hunger cramped—benumbed with cold,
And shivering with fear,—
The sad one bendeth down his form,
Before the midnight storm.
Oh! there are LITTLE CHILDREN there,
With lean and shrunken limbs,
Within whose eye the tear of care
The light of childhood dims—
Pale lips they have, and cheeks so white—
Oh! 'tis a fearful sight!
With lean and shrunken limbs,
Within whose eye the tear of care
The light of childhood dims—
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Oh! 'tis a fearful sight!
Hear ye the wind that whistles by—
O thoughtless sons of pride?
On it was borne their broken sigh
Who in the streets abide.
Ye on your beds of down will sleep—
They on the stones must weep.
O thoughtless sons of pride?
On it was borne their broken sigh
Who in the streets abide.
Ye on your beds of down will sleep—
They on the stones must weep.
Feel ye the glowing flame that warms
Your luxury-lapp'd couch?—
Oh! could ye mark the wasted forms
Along the streets that crouch,—
Ye might perchance a moment feel
Your blood, like theirs, congeal!
Your luxury-lapp'd couch?—
Oh! could ye mark the wasted forms
Along the streets that crouch,—
Ye might perchance a moment feel
Your blood, like theirs, congeal!
O! that I had what ye in mirth,
Or worse than mirth, expend!—
I'd buy the noblest name on earth—
“The wretched outcast's friend!”
And treasure up—as incense pure—
The blessings of the Poor.
Or worse than mirth, expend!—
I'd buy the noblest name on earth—
“The wretched outcast's friend!”
And treasure up—as incense pure—
The blessings of the Poor.
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THE POET.
LIKE the wandering camp of Israel, in the wilderness of Zin,
Is the mighty world we dwell in, with its turmoil and its din;
And the Poet, like old Moses, when his thoughts to God aspire,
Holdeth commune with high Heaven, on his spirit's Mount of Fire.
Is the mighty world we dwell in, with its turmoil and its din;
And the Poet, like old Moses, when his thoughts to God aspire,
Holdeth commune with high Heaven, on his spirit's Mount of Fire.
From the camp of old opinions, and the strife of earthly things,
To the Sinai of his spirit, lo! the trusting Poet springs:
And the glorious words of Genius, by Jehovah's fingers wrought,
Like the tablets of high teachings, are engraven on his thought.
To the Sinai of his spirit, lo! the trusting Poet springs:
And the glorious words of Genius, by Jehovah's fingers wrought,
Like the tablets of high teachings, are engraven on his thought.
Then, with ardent hopes and longings, to the camp of men he turns,
While the reflex of God's splendor on his lofty forehead burns:
Lo! they kneel before an idol—lo! they worship senseless gold,
Like the wilderness idolaters, before the calf of old!
While the reflex of God's splendor on his lofty forehead burns:
Lo! they kneel before an idol—lo! they worship senseless gold,
Like the wilderness idolaters, before the calf of old!
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Can ye blame the lofty Poet that he turns in scorn away
From the grovelling souls around him that are moulded in the clay?
Can ye blame him, if, despairing, he shall dash his thoughts to earth:—
Break the tablets of his genius, that in God have had their birth?
From the grovelling souls around him that are moulded in the clay?
Can ye blame him, if, despairing, he shall dash his thoughts to earth:—
Break the tablets of his genius, that in God have had their birth?
HOPE ON.
HOPE on!
Even when thy heaven is clouded,
Seest thou not,
Where the dark night is shrouded,
Stars look out?
Though they are hidden, still they shine—
Soon shalt thou see their light divine!
Even when thy heaven is clouded,
Seest thou not,
Where the dark night is shrouded,
Stars look out?
Though they are hidden, still they shine—
Soon shalt thou see their light divine!
Hope on!
Often the dark shadow falleth
Over thy soul:
O'er thee the storm that appalleth
Often must roll:
Yet but remember, light must be,
Else were the shadow unseen by thee!
Often the dark shadow falleth
Over thy soul:
O'er thee the storm that appalleth
Often must roll:
Yet but remember, light must be,
Else were the shadow unseen by thee!
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THE TOILER'S HOPE.
ON this old and glorious earth,
Toiling all their lifetime through,
Millions live who from their birth
Still have bowed them to the few:
They have bent, and groaned, and striven,
By the lash of misery driven,—
What hath God to these men given?
Toiling all their lifetime through,
Millions live who from their birth
Still have bowed them to the few:
They have bent, and groaned, and striven,
By the lash of misery driven,—
What hath God to these men given?
Toiling, toiling, still they bear—
Still to toil the master urges;
If a murmuring word they dare,
Straight 'tis hushed by tyrant scourges.
Yet these men have deathless spirits;
Life from God each heart inherits,—
Tell me, then, if death it merits!
Still to toil the master urges;
If a murmuring word they dare,
Straight 'tis hushed by tyrant scourges.
Yet these men have deathless spirits;
Life from God each heart inherits,—
Tell me, then, if death it merits!
Gold hath made these mortals slaves;
Gold hath bowed their suppliant hands;
From their birthdays to their graves,
Chained are they with cruel bands:
They have suffered—they have waited—
They have been as outcasts rated:
Say—were they by God thus fated?
Gold hath bowed their suppliant hands;
From their birthdays to their graves,
Chained are they with cruel bands:
They have suffered—they have waited—
They have been as outcasts rated:
Say—were they by God thus fated?
136
God will give these bondmen friends—
Friends of thought, and friends of action:
Thoughts that shape out glorious ends—
Acts that are not ruled by faction.
And these friends, in truth and reason,
(Holding noble deeds no treason,)
Soon will crush the bondman's prison.
Friends of thought, and friends of action:
Thoughts that shape out glorious ends—
Acts that are not ruled by faction.
And these friends, in truth and reason,
(Holding noble deeds no treason,)
Soon will crush the bondman's prison.
EARTH-SHARING.
LISTEN, workers! listen!
Ye who all your lives are toiling,
In the field and workshop moiling,—
Lo! your serpent-wrongs are coiling
Closer round you. Listen!
Ye who all your lives are toiling,
In the field and workshop moiling,—
Lo! your serpent-wrongs are coiling
Closer round you. Listen!
Ponder, workers! ponder!
While ye poise your iron sledges,
While ye fix your rending wedges,—
Lo! your strength and skill are pledges
Of your manhood. Ponder!
While ye poise your iron sledges,
While ye fix your rending wedges,—
Lo! your strength and skill are pledges
Of your manhood. Ponder!
Listen, workers! listen!
Sledges may crush else than matter:
Wedges may your curses scatter,—
Toilers once again may batter
Moral Bastiles. Listen!
Sledges may crush else than matter:
Wedges may your curses scatter,—
Toilers once again may batter
Moral Bastiles. Listen!
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Ponder, workers! ponder!
God gave equal earth to mortals,
Ere they crossed fair Eden's portals:—
Where's the ancient law that foretells
Mortal slavery? Ponder!
God gave equal earth to mortals,
Ere they crossed fair Eden's portals:—
Where's the ancient law that foretells
Mortal slavery? Ponder!
Answer, workers! answer!
Have the woes which ye are bearing,
Have the chains your limbs are wearing,
Palsied all the hope and daring
Of your spirits? Answer!
Have the woes which ye are bearing,
Have the chains your limbs are wearing,
Palsied all the hope and daring
Of your spirits? Answer!
Listen, workers! listen!
Earth is yours—the broad, wide guerdon
Given to man with life's first burden;—
God hath set his seal and word on
Man's true title. Listen!
Earth is yours—the broad, wide guerdon
Given to man with life's first burden;—
God hath set his seal and word on
Man's true title. Listen!
Ponder, workers! ponder!
Hold this truth within your keeping,
Till the harvest you are reaping:—
God is landlord, and unsleeping
Watches o'er you. Ponder!
Hold this truth within your keeping,
Till the harvest you are reaping:—
God is landlord, and unsleeping
Watches o'er you. Ponder!
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HEART AND SOUL.
O HUMAN heart! by weary sorrow withered—
O soul! in darkness to oblivion groping;—
Why are ye now no longer bravely hoping?
Why is the mighty will so chained and tethered?
Answer me, Heart and Soul.
O soul! in darkness to oblivion groping;—
Why are ye now no longer bravely hoping?
Why is the mighty will so chained and tethered?
Answer me, Heart and Soul.
Alas! we dare not with our curses wrestle,
Each abject thought in willing slavery crouches:
Alas! men sleep while woes among them nestle—
Nestle, like snakes, within their very couches.
Each abject thought in willing slavery crouches:
Alas! men sleep while woes among them nestle—
Nestle, like snakes, within their very couches.
O human heart! these woes are not forever—
O human soul! gird on thy holy armor:
Ye may dissolve the spell and foil the charmer;
Ye may at once each rusted shackle sever.
Why weep, then, Heart and Soul?
O human soul! gird on thy holy armor:
Ye may dissolve the spell and foil the charmer;
Ye may at once each rusted shackle sever.
Why weep, then, Heart and Soul?
'Tis that the sons of men in crime are suckled—
Infants in years are dotards in deceiving:
Sorrows, like leeches, to men's hearts are cleaving—
Want, like a slave-chain, on the soul is buckled.
Infants in years are dotards in deceiving:
Sorrows, like leeches, to men's hearts are cleaving—
Want, like a slave-chain, on the soul is buckled.
O human heart! to thee hath Hope been given;
O human soul! thy purpose ne'er should falter:
Trust that the flame of Love shall fall from Heaven—
Fall and illume Truth's long-benighted altar!
Hope ye still, Heart and Soul!
O human soul! thy purpose ne'er should falter:
Trust that the flame of Love shall fall from Heaven—
Fall and illume Truth's long-benighted altar!
Hope ye still, Heart and Soul!
139
TRUST IN GOD.
FATHER in heaven! my spirit knew Thee not!
But when the fearful storm, that wrecked my heart,
Beat round the fortress of my life, and wrought
My brain to madness—and the poisoned dart
Of hopeless grief (uncured, unreached by art)
Was rusting in my soul,—my maddened thought,
Concentrate, burst its bonds, and its Creator sought.
But when the fearful storm, that wrecked my heart,
Beat round the fortress of my life, and wrought
My brain to madness—and the poisoned dart
Of hopeless grief (uncured, unreached by art)
Was rusting in my soul,—my maddened thought,
Concentrate, burst its bonds, and its Creator sought.
Thee, God! I saw. My spirit-eyes looked out,
And (through the cloud-veil of the world) beheld
The throned and radiant Conqueror of Doubt:
The mists of human passion were dispelled—
My soul shook off the terror that had quelled
The life within it, and, in joy devout,
Echoed the seraph-song, and swelled the triumph-shout.
And (through the cloud-veil of the world) beheld
The throned and radiant Conqueror of Doubt:
The mists of human passion were dispelled—
My soul shook off the terror that had quelled
The life within it, and, in joy devout,
Echoed the seraph-song, and swelled the triumph-shout.
Mysterious God! my spirit looked on Thee!
Thee—the Eternal! High! Unchangeable!
Back, through the vista of eternity.—
All that the soul's imaginings might tell
I saw, and leaped, rejoicing, from the spell
That bound me in my mortal destiny.—
My soul forsook its chains, in its Creator free!
Thee—the Eternal! High! Unchangeable!
Back, through the vista of eternity.—
All that the soul's imaginings might tell
I saw, and leaped, rejoicing, from the spell
That bound me in my mortal destiny.—
My soul forsook its chains, in its Creator free!
140
GOD AND MAN.
LET nature judge! Are all things right?
Or is the Present wrong?
Why are there wo, and shame, and blight,
To paralyze my song?
Or is the Present wrong?
Why are there wo, and shame, and blight,
To paralyze my song?
My soul would wind itself in love
Around all human things!—
For struggling man to mount above,
My songs should be as wings!
Around all human things!—
For struggling man to mount above,
My songs should be as wings!
Why do the outcast crowd my path,
And fasten on my heart?
Why do the vicious wake my wrath,
Or cause my tears to start?
And fasten on my heart?
Why do the vicious wake my wrath,
Or cause my tears to start?
It is not right! I ask ye all,—
As God is just and wise,—
Why vice still holds mankind in thrall?
Why virtue, struggling, dies?
As God is just and wise,—
Why vice still holds mankind in thrall?
Why virtue, struggling, dies?
Man on his brother's heart hath trod—
Man is man's mortal foe;
Man is antagonist to God!—
This only do I know.
Man is man's mortal foe;
Man is antagonist to God!—
This only do I know.
God help us! we have threescore years
And ten, at most, to live—
And yet we scatter griefs and tears!—
We pray—yet ne'er forgive!
And ten, at most, to live—
And yet we scatter griefs and tears!—
We pray—yet ne'er forgive!
141
OUR MOTHER EARTH.
WHENCE arise the springs that nourish
All Creation from its birth?
Whence spring up the oaks, and flourish?—
From the Earth—our mother Earth!
Where are gems and crystals hidden?
Where are ores of wondrous worth?
Whence are fire and heat upbidden?—
From the Earth—our mother Earth!
All Creation from its birth?
Whence spring up the oaks, and flourish?—
From the Earth—our mother Earth!
Where are gems and crystals hidden?
Where are ores of wondrous worth?
Whence are fire and heat upbidden?—
From the Earth—our mother Earth!
Whence arise the green oases,
In the desert's sandy dearth?
What is life's support and basis?
'Tis the Earth—our mother Earth!
Bread, and fire, and crystal water—
All within our being's girth:
Gold and gems, to those who sought her,—
Hath she given—mother Earth!
In the desert's sandy dearth?
What is life's support and basis?
'Tis the Earth—our mother Earth!
Bread, and fire, and crystal water—
All within our being's girth:
Gold and gems, to those who sought her,—
Hath she given—mother Earth!
She is Mankind's nurse and servant—
Still our mother and our slave:
Still the same, in labor fervent,
From our birth-day to our grave!
Never yet hath God ordained her
To be trodden by the few!
Grasping lords have but profaned her;
And their crime they yet shall rue!
Still our mother and our slave:
Still the same, in labor fervent,
From our birth-day to our grave!
Never yet hath God ordained her
To be trodden by the few!
Grasping lords have but profaned her;
And their crime they yet shall rue!
142
Like the seed within her bosom,
Sleeps a future, yet, of Right!—
Man shall see his hopes in blossom!
Man shall yet reveal his might!
Then, no one, above another,
Shall assert his nobler birth;
But each man shall share his mother—
Share his glorious mother—Earth!
Sleeps a future, yet, of Right!—
Man shall see his hopes in blossom!
Man shall yet reveal his might!
Then, no one, above another,
Shall assert his nobler birth;
But each man shall share his mother—
Share his glorious mother—Earth!
THE UNSOLD LANDS.
A BILLION of acres of unsold land
Are lying in grievous dearth;
And millions of men in the image of God
Are starving—all over the earth!
Oh! tell me, ye sons of America!
How much men's lives are worth!
Are lying in grievous dearth;
And millions of men in the image of God
Are starving—all over the earth!
Oh! tell me, ye sons of America!
How much men's lives are worth!
Ten hundred millions of acres good,
That never knew spade nor plough;—
And a million of souls, in our goodly land,
Are pining in want, I trow:
And orphans are crying for bread this day,
And widows in misery bow!
That never knew spade nor plough;—
And a million of souls, in our goodly land,
Are pining in want, I trow:
And orphans are crying for bread this day,
And widows in misery bow!
143
To whom do these acres of land belong?
And why do they thriftless lie?
And why is the widow's lament unheard—
And stifled the orphan's cry?
And why are the poor-house and jail so full—
And the gallows-tree built high?
And why do they thriftless lie?
And why is the widow's lament unheard—
And stifled the orphan's cry?
And why are the poor-house and jail so full—
And the gallows-tree built high?
Those millions of acres belong to Man!
And his claim is—that he NEEDS!
And his title is sealed by the hand of God—
Our God! who the raven feeds:
And the starving soul of each famished man
At the throne of justice pleads!
And his claim is—that he NEEDS!
And his title is sealed by the hand of God—
Our God! who the raven feeds:
And the starving soul of each famished man
At the throne of justice pleads!
Ye may not heed it, ye haughty men,
Whose hearts as rocks are cold!—
But the time will come when the fiat of God
In thunder shall be told!
For the voice of the great I AM hath said,
That “the land shall not be sold!”
Whose hearts as rocks are cold!—
But the time will come when the fiat of God
In thunder shall be told!
For the voice of the great I AM hath said,
That “the land shall not be sold!”
EPIGRAM.
“God help me!” cried the Poor Man:And the Rich Man said, “Amen!”
And the Poor Man died at the Rich Man's door:—
God helped the Poor Man then!
144
THE LANDLESS.
THE landless! the landless!
The wrestlers for a crust—
Behold to outer darkness
These wretched men are thrust.
I hear their sullen moanings;
Their curses low and deep;
And I see their bodies writhing
Like a maniac in his sleep!
Will no lightning rend their fetters?
Will no sunbeam pierce their eyes?—
In the name of truth and manhood,
Will they never—never rise?
The wrestlers for a crust—
Behold to outer darkness
These wretched men are thrust.
I hear their sullen moanings;
Their curses low and deep;
And I see their bodies writhing
Like a maniac in his sleep!
Will no lightning rend their fetters?
Will no sunbeam pierce their eyes?—
In the name of truth and manhood,
Will they never—never rise?
The landless! the landless!
They have no household gods:
Their father's graves are trampled—
For strangers own the sods.
They have no home nor country—
No roof nor household hearth,—
Though all around them blossometh
The beautiful glad earth!
They fight a stranger's battles,
And they build a stranger's dome—
But the landless!—the landless!
God help them!—have no home!
They have no household gods:
Their father's graves are trampled—
For strangers own the sods.
They have no home nor country—
No roof nor household hearth,—
Though all around them blossometh
The beautiful glad earth!
They fight a stranger's battles,
And they build a stranger's dome—
But the landless!—the landless!
God help them!—have no home!
145
HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS.
HOMES for the homeless!
Our prayers still rise:
Justice is faithful—
And Truth never dies.
Roses for nettles,
And plenty for dearth;
Homes for the homeless,
On God's free earth.
Our prayers still rise:
Justice is faithful—
And Truth never dies.
Roses for nettles,
And plenty for dearth;
Homes for the homeless,
On God's free earth.
Homes for the orphan—
The widow forlorn;
Homes for the exile—
Where'er he was born.
Give us, O country!
Our right to the soil:—
Earth shall be gladsome
With generous toil.
The widow forlorn;
Homes for the exile—
Where'er he was born.
Give us, O country!
Our right to the soil:—
Earth shall be gladsome
With generous toil.
Homes for the homeless—
Who famish for bread—
Earth for the living,
And earth for the dead.
Give us our birthright,
O tyrannous gold!
The land is our CHARTER—
It shall not be sold!
Who famish for bread—
Earth for the living,
And earth for the dead.
Give us our birthright,
O tyrannous gold!
The land is our CHARTER—
It shall not be sold!
146
THE ACRES AND THE HANDS.
“THE earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof,”
Said God's most holy word:—
The water hath fish, and the land hath flesh,
And the air hath many a bird;
And the soil is teeming o'er all the earth,
And the earth has numberless lands;
Yet millions of hands want acres—
While millions of acres want hands!
Said God's most holy word:—
The water hath fish, and the land hath flesh,
And the air hath many a bird;
And the soil is teeming o'er all the earth,
And the earth has numberless lands;
Yet millions of hands want acres—
While millions of acres want hands!
Sunlight, and breezes, and gladsome flowers,
Are over the earth spread wide;
And the good God gave these gifts to men—
To men who on earth abide:
Yet thousands are toiling in poisonous gloom,
And shackled with iron bands,—
While millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
Are over the earth spread wide;
And the good God gave these gifts to men—
To men who on earth abide:
Yet thousands are toiling in poisonous gloom,
And shackled with iron bands,—
While millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
Never a foot hath the poor man here,
To plant with a grain of corn;
And never a plot where his child may cull
Fresh flowers in the dewy morn.
The soil lies fallow—the woods grow rank;
Yet idle the poor man stands!
Oh! millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
To plant with a grain of corn;
And never a plot where his child may cull
Fresh flowers in the dewy morn.
The soil lies fallow—the woods grow rank;
Yet idle the poor man stands!
Oh! millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
147
'Tis writ, that “ye shall not muzzle the ox
That treadeth out the corn!”
But behold! ye shackle the poor man's hands,
That have all earth's burdens borne!
The LAND is the gift of a bounteous God—
And TO LABOR his word commands,—
Yet millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
That treadeth out the corn!”
But behold! ye shackle the poor man's hands,
That have all earth's burdens borne!
The LAND is the gift of a bounteous God—
And TO LABOR his word commands,—
Yet millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
Who hath ordained that the Few should hoard
Their millions of useless gold?—
And rob the earth of its fruits and flowers,
While profitless soil they hold?
Who hath ordained that a parchment scroll
Shall fence round miles of lands,—
When millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
Their millions of useless gold?—
And rob the earth of its fruits and flowers,
While profitless soil they hold?
Who hath ordained that a parchment scroll
Shall fence round miles of lands,—
When millions of hands want acres—
And millions of acres want hands!
'Tis a glaring LIE on the face of day—
This robbery of men's rights!
'Tis a lie, that the word of the Lord disowns—
'Tis a curse that burns and blights!
And 'twill burn and blight till the people rise,
And swear, while they break their bands—
That the hands shall henceforth have acres,
And the acres henceforth have hands!
This robbery of men's rights!
'Tis a lie, that the word of the Lord disowns—
'Tis a curse that burns and blights!
And 'twill burn and blight till the people rise,
And swear, while they break their bands—
That the hands shall henceforth have acres,
And the acres henceforth have hands!
148
KEEP IT BEFORE THE PEOPLE.
KEEP IT BEFORE THE PEOPLE—
That the earth was made for man!
That flowers were strown,
And fruits were grown,
To bless and never to ban;
That sun and rain,
And corn and grain,
Are yours and mine, my brother!—
Free gifts from heaven,
And freely given,
To one as well as another!
That the earth was made for man!
That flowers were strown,
And fruits were grown,
To bless and never to ban;
That sun and rain,
And corn and grain,
Are yours and mine, my brother!—
Free gifts from heaven,
And freely given,
To one as well as another!
Keep it before the people—
That man is the image of God!
His limbs or soul
Ye may not control
With shackle, or shame, or rod!
We may not be sold,
For silver or gold:
Neither you nor I, my brother!
For Freedom was given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
That man is the image of God!
His limbs or soul
Ye may not control
With shackle, or shame, or rod!
We may not be sold,
For silver or gold:
Neither you nor I, my brother!
For Freedom was given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
149
Keep it before the people—
That famine, and crime, and wo,
Forever abide,
Still side by side,
With luxury's dazzling show;
That Lazarus crawls
From Dives' halls,
And starves at his gate, my brother!—
Yet Life was given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
That famine, and crime, and wo,
Forever abide,
Still side by side,
With luxury's dazzling show;
That Lazarus crawls
From Dives' halls,
And starves at his gate, my brother!—
Yet Life was given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
Keep it before the people—
That the laborer claims his meed:
The right of Soil,
And the right to toil,
From spur and bridle freed;
The right to bear,
And the right to share,
With you and me, my brother!—
Whatever is given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
That the laborer claims his meed:
The right of Soil,
And the right to toil,
From spur and bridle freed;
The right to bear,
And the right to share,
With you and me, my brother!—
Whatever is given,
By God from heaven,
To one as well as another!
150
THE POOR MAN'S FATHERLAND.
WHERE is the Poor Man's Fatherland?
Is 't where his sire was wed?
Is 't where his mother, with gentle hand,
His infant footsteps led?
Not so, not so! he knoweth well
That strangers now in that old home dwell.
Is 't where his sire was wed?
Is 't where his mother, with gentle hand,
His infant footsteps led?
Not so, not so! he knoweth well
That strangers now in that old home dwell.
Where is the poor man's Fatherland?
Is 't where his childhood passed?
Is 't where, like river o'er golden sand,
His gladsome youth fled fast?
Not so, not so! wo worth the day!
He wanders far from those scenes away.
Is 't where his childhood passed?
Is 't where, like river o'er golden sand,
His gladsome youth fled fast?
Not so, not so! wo worth the day!
He wanders far from those scenes away.
Where is the poor man's Fatherland?
Is 't where he toils and strives?
Is 't where he heareth a lord's command,
Or weareth pauper gyves?
Not so, not so! his master's will
May cast him forth—as a wanderer still.
Is 't where he toils and strives?
Is 't where he heareth a lord's command,
Or weareth pauper gyves?
Not so, not so! his master's will
May cast him forth—as a wanderer still.
151
Truly he hath no Fatherland!
On all this wide, wide earth;
In life he dwelleth by penury banned,
An alien from his birth;
And dead, he hath no rood of ground—
Not even the space of a churchyard mound!
On all this wide, wide earth;
In life he dwelleth by penury banned,
An alien from his birth;
And dead, he hath no rood of ground—
Not even the space of a churchyard mound!
Truly, O Lord! why tarriest thou?
Thy children, suffering, wait:
Their bread is eaten by sweat of brow,
Within the stranger's gate.
Yet hope they still—those alien Poor;
Thy Word for them is a Promise sure.
Thy children, suffering, wait:
Their bread is eaten by sweat of brow,
Within the stranger's gate.
Yet hope they still—those alien Poor;
Thy Word for them is a Promise sure.
Surely thou seest a sparrow fall,
And hearest the raven's cry!
And all the millions who dwell in thrall,
Beneath thy mercies lie.
With brow erect they soon shall stand,
And all the earth be their Fatherland!
And hearest the raven's cry!
And all the millions who dwell in thrall,
Beneath thy mercies lie.
With brow erect they soon shall stand,
And all the earth be their Fatherland!
152
WHO OWNETH AMERICA'S SOIL.
WHO owneth America's soil?
Is it he who graspeth the hard red gold;
Whose glittering gains are by millions told;
Who bindeth his slaves to the woof and loom,
And chaineth their souls in a living tomb,—
The tomb of hopeless toil?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
Is it he who graspeth the hard red gold;
Whose glittering gains are by millions told;
Who bindeth his slaves to the woof and loom,
And chaineth their souls in a living tomb,—
The tomb of hopeless toil?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
Who shieldeth America's land?
Is it he who counteth his ships by scores;
Who plucketh his gains from a thousand shores;
Who buyeth and selleth, and worketh not,
And holdeth in pride what by fraud he got—
With hard and griping hand?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
Is it he who counteth his ships by scores;
Who plucketh his gains from a thousand shores;
Who buyeth and selleth, and worketh not,
And holdeth in pride what by fraud he got—
With hard and griping hand?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
Who guardeth America's right?
Is it he who eateth the orphan's bread,
And crusheth the poor with his grinding tread;
Who flingeth his bank-note lies abroad,
And buildeth to worship a golden god,
A shrine to Mammon's might?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
Is it he who eateth the orphan's bread,
And crusheth the poor with his grinding tread;
Who flingeth his bank-note lies abroad,
And buildeth to worship a golden god,
A shrine to Mammon's might?
Not he, not he—by Heaven!
153
Not these, not these—by Heaven!
But to those who labor for God and Man;
Who work their part in the world's great plan,—
Who plant good seed in the desert's dearth,
And bring forth treasures from brave old Earth;
To these the soil is given—
To these, to these—by Heaven!
But to those who labor for God and Man;
Who work their part in the world's great plan,—
Who plant good seed in the desert's dearth,
And bring forth treasures from brave old Earth;
To these the soil is given—
To these, to these—by Heaven!
To these must the soil belong:
To the men of all climes whose souls are true—
Or Pagan, or Christian, or Turk, or Jew;
To the men who will hallow our glorious soil—
The millions who hope, and the millions who toil
For the Right against the Wrong:
To these shall the soil be given—
To these, to these—by Heaven
To the men of all climes whose souls are true—
Or Pagan, or Christian, or Turk, or Jew;
To the men who will hallow our glorious soil—
The millions who hope, and the millions who toil
For the Right against the Wrong:
To these shall the soil be given—
To these, to these—by Heaven
154
EPODE.
NOW Heaven's eternal stars, like fires,
Gleam through the wintry sky!
I lift mine Iron Harp on high—
I strike the last stroke on these wires,
While sad winds hurry by.
Gleam through the wintry sky!
I lift mine Iron Harp on high—
I strike the last stroke on these wires,
While sad winds hurry by.
My task is not yet done,—but Night
Gloometh around my brow:
I struggle with my fate, yet bow!
I murmur not—for, high and bright,
Those stars shine on me now!
Gloometh around my brow:
I struggle with my fate, yet bow!
I murmur not—for, high and bright,
Those stars shine on me now!
Those stars are signs that still on earth,
Flashing amid our shames,
And shining forth like altar-flames,
Are loving hearts and souls of worth,
With high and glorious names.
Flashing amid our shames,
And shining forth like altar-flames,
Are loving hearts and souls of worth,
With high and glorious names.
Still golden harpings heavenward float—
Wing-like to lift his soul—
From HIM whose brook-like feelings stole
Through music, like a dove's low note,
Where Harvard's waters roll.
Wing-like to lift his soul—
From HIM whose brook-like feelings stole
Through music, like a dove's low note,
Where Harvard's waters roll.
155
Still Lowell clasps, like cherub strong,
Lovingly clasps his lyre;
And flashes forth his heart of fire,
And rolls the river of his song
In fountains from each wire.
Lovingly clasps his lyre;
And flashes forth his heart of fire,
And rolls the river of his song
In fountains from each wire.
Still Whittier, with high purpose fraught,
Toileth in Freedom's war:
His harp-strings are the chains he tore
From slaves, where rings his iron thought,
Like hammer-strokes of Thor.
Toileth in Freedom's war:
His harp-strings are the chains he tore
From slaves, where rings his iron thought,
Like hammer-strokes of Thor.
Too long the Poet's falchion bright
Sheathéd in gold had slept!
The Iron Blade hath fitly leapt;
And now for Human Ruth and Right
All Harps shall soon be swept.
Sheathéd in gold had slept!
The Iron Blade hath fitly leapt;
And now for Human Ruth and Right
All Harps shall soon be swept.
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