 | The Conflict for Civil Rights |  |
II.
This is an of't told tale, such as thousands tell,
Of the war's most painful story, in which so many fell.
But these are notes that ne'er will dull with rust,
The sweetest chords are often clogged with dust.
We pipe and pipe again the self-same strains,
While sounds of desolation come in sad refrains.
On through the world we go, with listening ears,
Each longing for the music, which he never hears;
Each sighing for a word of tender praise,
A word of love to cheer our busy days;
Thus on we tread and thus each one his fate fulfils,
Waiting for heavenly music, from the heavenly hills.
But is the Summer o'er?—the Summer gone?
And have our hopes become forlorn?
All the long bright days have they fled?
Leaving no crown for Liberty's head?
The sky is covered with a smoky veil,
The winds of Autumn begin to wail.
Nil Desperandum;—never despair nor faint;
But treasure up the wisdom of the poet saint.
There's life within our life, a secret spring,
Wide from our action and a separate thing.
Man mixes with his kind;—but who shall tell
His thoughts that sadden or his hopes that swell?
Know thou, that all mankind are children all
Of one Almighty parent whom they call
By divers names;—whose essence varies not:
Nor is his care confined to any spot.
Though scattered far and wide by evil fate,
The common heritors of one estate,
We should with one united effort strive
In the same household all once more to hive.
Our faith in him, 'tis ours to evince thus,
And love our brethren as he loved us.
Thus loving God the Father for Christ's sake,
Unto our hearts as equal brethren take,
His erring children, men of every land,
All joined in one fraternal band.
Now the country groans and travaileth in pain;
Was the War not ended and reconstruction vain?
But then our God will hear the Freedman's groan,
Of man and all Creation thou art the Lord alone.
The same “ethereal firmament on high,”
The same great constellations in the sky,
The stellar wonders in that wondrous frame,
God's great original truths proclaim.
Year succeeds year in one unceasing round;
Summer and winter and each season's found
Following each other from day to day,
And so shall be, till all shall pass away.
But the struggle comes and strides apace,
The strife's renewed against the Freedman's race.
Hark! from the mountains down to the sea,
There's a deep portentous murmuring, 'tis among the free,
Like the roar of mighty waters o'er the troubled earth,
Or the crashing of the tempest as it rushes into birth.
'Tis the voice of the Freedmen in their agonizing cry,
They're striking for their rights, for to conquer or to die.
Hark! 'tis like an earthquake! and pallid now with fear,
Onward charge the ranks of the sable musketeer.
Onward they come and each foot print impressed,
On the grass of the plain, or the masquerader's breast,
Is a drain for the life blood of the Freedman or his foe;
On! On! To the breach!—what care we more to know?
Who falls in this last struggle, for every man that fights,
He is a warrior for the Freedman's civil rights.
A fallen martyr to those civil rights,—his name,
Will be graven 'mong the highest on the temple of fame.
Of the war's most painful story, in which so many fell.
But these are notes that ne'er will dull with rust,
The sweetest chords are often clogged with dust.
We pipe and pipe again the self-same strains,
While sounds of desolation come in sad refrains.
On through the world we go, with listening ears,
Each longing for the music, which he never hears;
Each sighing for a word of tender praise,
A word of love to cheer our busy days;
Thus on we tread and thus each one his fate fulfils,
Waiting for heavenly music, from the heavenly hills.
But is the Summer o'er?—the Summer gone?
And have our hopes become forlorn?
All the long bright days have they fled?
Leaving no crown for Liberty's head?
The sky is covered with a smoky veil,
The winds of Autumn begin to wail.
Nil Desperandum;—never despair nor faint;
But treasure up the wisdom of the poet saint.
7
Wide from our action and a separate thing.
Man mixes with his kind;—but who shall tell
His thoughts that sadden or his hopes that swell?
Know thou, that all mankind are children all
Of one Almighty parent whom they call
By divers names;—whose essence varies not:
Nor is his care confined to any spot.
Though scattered far and wide by evil fate,
The common heritors of one estate,
We should with one united effort strive
In the same household all once more to hive.
Our faith in him, 'tis ours to evince thus,
And love our brethren as he loved us.
Thus loving God the Father for Christ's sake,
Unto our hearts as equal brethren take,
His erring children, men of every land,
All joined in one fraternal band.
Now the country groans and travaileth in pain;
Was the War not ended and reconstruction vain?
But then our God will hear the Freedman's groan,
Of man and all Creation thou art the Lord alone.
The same “ethereal firmament on high,”
The same great constellations in the sky,
The stellar wonders in that wondrous frame,
God's great original truths proclaim.
Year succeeds year in one unceasing round;
Summer and winter and each season's found
Following each other from day to day,
And so shall be, till all shall pass away.
But the struggle comes and strides apace,
The strife's renewed against the Freedman's race.
Hark! from the mountains down to the sea,
8
Like the roar of mighty waters o'er the troubled earth,
Or the crashing of the tempest as it rushes into birth.
'Tis the voice of the Freedmen in their agonizing cry,
They're striking for their rights, for to conquer or to die.
Hark! 'tis like an earthquake! and pallid now with fear,
Onward charge the ranks of the sable musketeer.
Onward they come and each foot print impressed,
On the grass of the plain, or the masquerader's breast,
Is a drain for the life blood of the Freedman or his foe;
On! On! To the breach!—what care we more to know?
Who falls in this last struggle, for every man that fights,
He is a warrior for the Freedman's civil rights.
A fallen martyr to those civil rights,—his name,
Will be graven 'mong the highest on the temple of fame.
“Ask not the Freedman how he feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone;
Perchance his courage stoops and reels,
Perchance a courage not his own
Braces his mind to desperate tone.”
Left in that dreadful hour alone;
Perchance his courage stoops and reels,
Perchance a courage not his own
Braces his mind to desperate tone.”
Such were the shouts from Trenton's reddened field
The White men's leagues cry,—Black men, will ye yield?
As down to the valley the rattling platoon
Went plunging and prancing.—But soon
Sound the groans of the dying men's breath;
They grappled the foe, with the grapple of death.
The White men's leagues cry,—Black men, will ye yield?
As down to the valley the rattling platoon
Went plunging and prancing.—But soon
Sound the groans of the dying men's breath;
They grappled the foe, with the grapple of death.
'Tis true they were vanquished, they bent to the hail;
But still shall the boast of the Southerner fail.
How dare they to crush the brave sons of the free?
Lo!—they're coming again!—Now brothers, we
Can see their lines gleaming like rebel array,
The Klans and the Leaguers all eager for prey.
9
How dare they to crush the brave sons of the free?
Lo!—they're coming again!—Now brothers, we
Can see their lines gleaming like rebel array,
The Klans and the Leaguers all eager for prey.
Yes!—now from Coushatta sways the sulphurous cloud;
Sweeps o'er the land with the gloom of the shroud.
The Freedman is dying 'mid carnage and gore
God of our fathers!—hast thou given us o'er
In this bloody embrace, to these tigers a prey?
Let vengeance be thine!—thou wilt repay.
Away with the thought!—for this is no dream;
They war against civil rights!—that is their theme.
But soon will they cringe, as we know full well
The crisis has come and the tolling bells tell
We will not yield, not in fear of the grave,
The rights that belong to the free and the brave.
Sweeps o'er the land with the gloom of the shroud.
The Freedman is dying 'mid carnage and gore
God of our fathers!—hast thou given us o'er
In this bloody embrace, to these tigers a prey?
Let vengeance be thine!—thou wilt repay.
Away with the thought!—for this is no dream;
They war against civil rights!—that is their theme.
But soon will they cringe, as we know full well
The crisis has come and the tolling bells tell
We will not yield, not in fear of the grave,
The rights that belong to the free and the brave.
| The Conflict for Civil Rights | |