 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
253
VIII.
PATRIOTIC AND POLITICAL PIECES.
255
I.
THE PORTRAIT.
Why does the eye, with greater pleasure, rest
On the proud oak, in vernal honors drest,
When sultry gales, that to his arms repair,
Are cooled and freshened, while they linger there;
Than when his fading robes are seared, and cast
On the cold mercy of November's blast?—
Why on the rose, when first her bosom spreads
To drink the dew that summer's evening sheds,
Or when she blushes, on her native thorn,
To meet the kisses of the smiling morn;
Than when her leaves, neglected, fall around,
Flit on the breeze, or wither on the ground?—
Why on Apollo, when his coursers rise,
And breathe on man the ardor of the skies;
Than when they stoop, their fervid limbs to rest,
And drink the cooling waters of the west?—
And why on man, when buoyant hope beats high,
Health on his cheek, and lustre in his eye,
In every limb when youth and vigor dwell,
Brace every nerve, and every muscle swell;
Than when his frame displays the ruthless rage
Of care, and sorrow, and disease, and age?—
Why, but because the Author of the mind,
Enthroned in glory, and in light enshrined,
When first he beamed, upon the breathing clay,
The light divine of intellectual day,—
Perfect himself,—infused that spark of fire,
That still pursues its nature to aspire,
And warms the bosom with a generous glow,
Whene'er it meets perfection here below,
But sinks within us, with expiring ray,
When doomed to dwell on emblems of decay?
On the proud oak, in vernal honors drest,
When sultry gales, that to his arms repair,
Are cooled and freshened, while they linger there;
Than when his fading robes are seared, and cast
On the cold mercy of November's blast?—
Why on the rose, when first her bosom spreads
To drink the dew that summer's evening sheds,
Or when she blushes, on her native thorn,
To meet the kisses of the smiling morn;
Than when her leaves, neglected, fall around,
Flit on the breeze, or wither on the ground?—
Why on Apollo, when his coursers rise,
And breathe on man the ardor of the skies;
Than when they stoop, their fervid limbs to rest,
And drink the cooling waters of the west?—
And why on man, when buoyant hope beats high,
Health on his cheek, and lustre in his eye,
256
Brace every nerve, and every muscle swell;
Than when his frame displays the ruthless rage
Of care, and sorrow, and disease, and age?—
Why, but because the Author of the mind,
Enthroned in glory, and in light enshrined,
When first he beamed, upon the breathing clay,
The light divine of intellectual day,—
Perfect himself,—infused that spark of fire,
That still pursues its nature to aspire,
And warms the bosom with a generous glow,
Whene'er it meets perfection here below,
But sinks within us, with expiring ray,
When doomed to dwell on emblems of decay?
And, if the mind can thus, delighted, scan
A tree,—a flower,—the orb of day,—a man;
How must it swell, when from the womb of earth
It sees a nation “bursting into birth,”
And, by enchantment, planting on her strand
A flag, that waving o'er the sea and land,
By stripes and stars, on silken folds unfurled,
Displays her strength and splendor to the world!—
But if this prospect cheers the heart of man,
Whether he dwells in England or Japan,
Whether he hears the billowy Baltic roar,
Or courts the breeze on Coromandel's shore;
What a strong current of delight must roll,
Resistless, o'er the veteran soldier's soul,
Who, in the volume of that nation's fame,
By Clio written, reads his General's name!—
And if, my friends, the hardy soldier's pride
Would swell his breast, with such a generous tide,
While musing on his country, while he saw
The harmonious couple, Liberty and Law,
Attend his person wheresoe'er he roved,
And shield, at home, the family he loved,—
That wife, who, yielding to her country's call,
Resigned her husband, and in him her all;—
That child, who since upon his knees has hung,
And learned the battle from his father's tongue,
And, while the soldier proudly said, “My son,
That,”—pointing to his musket,—“that 's the gun
That gave you freedom, and when you 're a man,
Use it for me, when I no longer can,”—
Would weep to hear his sire's prophetic sigh,
And see the tear that trembled in his eye;—
If such a breast would swell with such a tide,
If such a heart would glow with such a pride,
If such an eye in tears of joy would melt,
What, while on earth, must Washington have felt!
A tree,—a flower,—the orb of day,—a man;
How must it swell, when from the womb of earth
It sees a nation “bursting into birth,”
And, by enchantment, planting on her strand
A flag, that waving o'er the sea and land,
By stripes and stars, on silken folds unfurled,
Displays her strength and splendor to the world!—
But if this prospect cheers the heart of man,
Whether he dwells in England or Japan,
Whether he hears the billowy Baltic roar,
Or courts the breeze on Coromandel's shore;
What a strong current of delight must roll,
Resistless, o'er the veteran soldier's soul,
Who, in the volume of that nation's fame,
By Clio written, reads his General's name!—
257
Would swell his breast, with such a generous tide,
While musing on his country, while he saw
The harmonious couple, Liberty and Law,
Attend his person wheresoe'er he roved,
And shield, at home, the family he loved,—
That wife, who, yielding to her country's call,
Resigned her husband, and in him her all;—
That child, who since upon his knees has hung,
And learned the battle from his father's tongue,
And, while the soldier proudly said, “My son,
That,”—pointing to his musket,—“that 's the gun
That gave you freedom, and when you 're a man,
Use it for me, when I no longer can,”—
Would weep to hear his sire's prophetic sigh,
And see the tear that trembled in his eye;—
If such a breast would swell with such a tide,
If such a heart would glow with such a pride,
If such an eye in tears of joy would melt,
What, while on earth, must Washington have felt!
Thou spotless patriot! thou illustrious man!
Methinks, while yet on earth, thy heaven began;
For is there pleasure purer, more refined,
More worthy of thine own ethereal mind,
Than thrilled, with lively transport, through thy frame,
And played around thy heart, with lambent flame,
To see Columbia, guided by thy hand,
Plant, in the bosom of thy native land,
That tree that flourished so divinely fair,
And took such root, beneath thy fostering care,
As soon o'er half a continent to spread
Its fragrant leaves, and give a nation shade;—
That tree, whose root descended from the skies,
That grows by culture, but neglected dies,
That tree, beneath whose boughs thy spirit fled,
That tree, whose fading leaves deplore the dead?
And now, great Father of thy Country, say,
Ere angels bore thee to the fields of day,
Did not thine eye, with holy rapture, view
That Tree of Liberty, while yet it grew
Vigorous and green?—And did it not impart,
To every fibre of thy godlike heart,
A joy, while waving o'er thy mortal brow,
Next to the amaranth, that shades thee now?
Methinks, while yet on earth, thy heaven began;
For is there pleasure purer, more refined,
More worthy of thine own ethereal mind,
Than thrilled, with lively transport, through thy frame,
And played around thy heart, with lambent flame,
To see Columbia, guided by thy hand,
Plant, in the bosom of thy native land,
That tree that flourished so divinely fair,
And took such root, beneath thy fostering care,
258
Its fragrant leaves, and give a nation shade;—
That tree, whose root descended from the skies,
That grows by culture, but neglected dies,
That tree, beneath whose boughs thy spirit fled,
That tree, whose fading leaves deplore the dead?
And now, great Father of thy Country, say,
Ere angels bore thee to the fields of day,
Did not thine eye, with holy rapture, view
That Tree of Liberty, while yet it grew
Vigorous and green?—And did it not impart,
To every fibre of thy godlike heart,
A joy, while waving o'er thy mortal brow,
Next to the amaranth, that shades thee now?
That hero 's dead!—And does his country mourn,
Embalm his ashes in a golden urn,
And in a sculptured vault the relics lay,
Where fires, like Vesta's, emulate the day
With light divine, as through its silent halls
The holy rays reflect from porphyry walls?—
Do temples, arched with Parian marble, rise
In regal pomp, beneath these western skies,
And on their front, emblazoned by the sun,
Give to the world the name of Washington?—
Breathes he in marble, in her senate's hall?
Lives he in bronze, within her Capitol?
Does the imperial mausoleum show,
In proud magnificence, her depth of woe?
And do her children, with a holy zeal,
From rough St. Lawrence to the warm Mobile,
For pilgrim's staff, their friends, their home resign,
And, like the Arab to Mohammed's shrine,
To that majestic monument repair,
And, for their country, pour a pilgrim's prayer?
Embalm his ashes in a golden urn,
And in a sculptured vault the relics lay,
Where fires, like Vesta's, emulate the day
With light divine, as through its silent halls
The holy rays reflect from porphyry walls?—
Do temples, arched with Parian marble, rise
In regal pomp, beneath these western skies,
And on their front, emblazoned by the sun,
Give to the world the name of Washington?—
Breathes he in marble, in her senate's hall?
Lives he in bronze, within her Capitol?
Does the imperial mausoleum show,
In proud magnificence, her depth of woe?
And do her children, with a holy zeal,
From rough St. Lawrence to the warm Mobile,
259
And, like the Arab to Mohammed's shrine,
To that majestic monument repair,
And, for their country, pour a pilgrim's prayer?
Shame on that country! everlasting shame!
She bids no blazing sunbeam write his name;
His sacred ashes consecrate no urn;
No vault is sculptured, and no vestals mourn;
No marble temple meets the rising day;
No obelisk reflects the evening ray;
Those lips, long hushed in death, among his sons
Nor smile in marble, nor yet breathe in bronze;
No solemn anthem o'er his tomb is sung;
No prayer is heard there, from a pilgrim's tongue!—
But o'er the grave, where Vernon's hero sleeps,
The tall grass sighs, the waving willow weeps;
And, while the pale moon trembles through the trees,
That bend and rustle to the nightly breeze,
The bird of night,—the only mourner there,—
Pours on the chilling wind her solemn air;
While flows Potomac silently along,
And listens to her melancholy song.
She bids no blazing sunbeam write his name;
His sacred ashes consecrate no urn;
No vault is sculptured, and no vestals mourn;
No marble temple meets the rising day;
No obelisk reflects the evening ray;
Those lips, long hushed in death, among his sons
Nor smile in marble, nor yet breathe in bronze;
No solemn anthem o'er his tomb is sung;
No prayer is heard there, from a pilgrim's tongue!—
But o'er the grave, where Vernon's hero sleeps,
The tall grass sighs, the waving willow weeps;
And, while the pale moon trembles through the trees,
That bend and rustle to the nightly breeze,
The bird of night,—the only mourner there,—
Pours on the chilling wind her solemn air;
While flows Potomac silently along,
And listens to her melancholy song.
And shall, my friends, the venerable dust,
That once enshrined the spirit of THE JUST,
Slumber forgotten?—Shall no patriot's tear,
Warm as the life-blood, trickle on his bier,
And soothe his mighty shade, that hovers nigh,
To catch the tear, and mingle with the sigh,
That flows for him, or breaks the silence dread,
That fills the oblivious mansion of the dead?
Nay,—shall the freemen whom his valor saved,
For whom, in life, a thousand deaths he braved,
And on whose sons, in rich profusion, poured
The joys of peace, the trophies of his sword,
In the black robes of infamy be drest,
Because their saviour's bones unhonored rest;—
And yet shall we, who meet with kindred minds,
Whom honor animates, and friendship binds;—
We, through whose veins,—as warmly as the blood
That warms our hearts,—rolls a congenial flood
Of fearless indignation, that belongs
To federal freemen, under federal wrongs;—
Shall we, on whom his sacred mantle rests,
Who wear the badge of union on our breasts;—
Shall we neglect the few pale flowers that bloom,
And shed their fragrance, on our father's tomb,
Braving, while rooted there, thy tempest rude,
And all thy wintry frosts, Ingratitude?
Then let each string that wakes, within my soul,—
Untaught by reason, and above control,—
A tone, accordant with the notes sublime,
That trembling float upon the tide of time,
Blown from the trump of Fame, to bear along
The warrior's valor, and the poet's song,
Cease its vibration;—let oblivion, then,
That first of federalists, that first of men,
Hide from my view for ever;—let no joy
Beam on my days;—let blighting blasts destroy
My every hope;—here let me live accursed,
The best my enemies, my friends the worst;—
And when Death's icy touch shall hush my tongue,
Be no grave opened, and no requiem sung;
But, from Earth's consecrated bosom thrust,
Let asps and adders coil upon my dust!
That once enshrined the spirit of THE JUST,
Slumber forgotten?—Shall no patriot's tear,
Warm as the life-blood, trickle on his bier,
And soothe his mighty shade, that hovers nigh,
To catch the tear, and mingle with the sigh,
260
That fills the oblivious mansion of the dead?
Nay,—shall the freemen whom his valor saved,
For whom, in life, a thousand deaths he braved,
And on whose sons, in rich profusion, poured
The joys of peace, the trophies of his sword,
In the black robes of infamy be drest,
Because their saviour's bones unhonored rest;—
And yet shall we, who meet with kindred minds,
Whom honor animates, and friendship binds;—
We, through whose veins,—as warmly as the blood
That warms our hearts,—rolls a congenial flood
Of fearless indignation, that belongs
To federal freemen, under federal wrongs;—
Shall we, on whom his sacred mantle rests,
Who wear the badge of union on our breasts;—
Shall we neglect the few pale flowers that bloom,
And shed their fragrance, on our father's tomb,
Braving, while rooted there, thy tempest rude,
And all thy wintry frosts, Ingratitude?
Then let each string that wakes, within my soul,—
Untaught by reason, and above control,—
A tone, accordant with the notes sublime,
That trembling float upon the tide of time,
Blown from the trump of Fame, to bear along
The warrior's valor, and the poet's song,
Cease its vibration;—let oblivion, then,
That first of federalists, that first of men,
Hide from my view for ever;—let no joy
Beam on my days;—let blighting blasts destroy
261
The best my enemies, my friends the worst;—
And when Death's icy touch shall hush my tongue,
Be no grave opened, and no requiem sung;
But, from Earth's consecrated bosom thrust,
Let asps and adders coil upon my dust!
Then, while the hours pursue their viewless flight,
And roll along the sable car of night,
Let us, my friends, turn back our eyes, and gaze
On the bright orbs that gilded other days;
Each in his sphere, revolving round the sun,
That gave them warmth and lustre,—Washington.
But, while we see them in their orbits roll,
Bright as the stars, unshaken as the pole,
Pure as the dew, as summer's evening mild,
By no cloud shaded, by no lust defiled,
While all around their common centre sweep,
Illume the earth, or blaze along the deep,
Who, but exclaims, beneath the o'erwhelming light,
“Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight!”
And roll along the sable car of night,
Let us, my friends, turn back our eyes, and gaze
On the bright orbs that gilded other days;
Each in his sphere, revolving round the sun,
That gave them warmth and lustre,—Washington.
But, while we see them in their orbits roll,
Bright as the stars, unshaken as the pole,
Pure as the dew, as summer's evening mild,
By no cloud shaded, by no lust defiled,
While all around their common centre sweep,
Illume the earth, or blaze along the deep,
Who, but exclaims, beneath the o'erwhelming light,
“Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight!”
Thou hoary monarch! since thy tyrant hand
First shook o'er earth thy sceptre and thy sand,
Or waved thy sithe, commissioned to destroy,
O'er Balbec's columns, or the towers of Troy,—
Nay, since in youth, thou bad'st the rosy hours
Smile upon Adam, under Eden's bowers,
Hadst thou e'er seen a clime, more blest than this,
More richly fraught with beauty and with bliss?
E'er seen a brighter constellation glow,
With all that 's pure and dignified below,
Than moved, harmonious, round that wondrous man,
Whose deeds of glory with his life began,
Whose name, the proudest on thy proudest page,
Shall fill with admiration every age!
First shook o'er earth thy sceptre and thy sand,
Or waved thy sithe, commissioned to destroy,
O'er Balbec's columns, or the towers of Troy,—
Nay, since in youth, thou bad'st the rosy hours
Smile upon Adam, under Eden's bowers,
Hadst thou e'er seen a clime, more blest than this,
More richly fraught with beauty and with bliss?
262
With all that 's pure and dignified below,
Than moved, harmonious, round that wondrous man,
Whose deeds of glory with his life began,
Whose name, the proudest on thy proudest page,
Shall fill with admiration every age!
Then, with such rays as gild the morning, shone,
In peerless pomp, thy genius, Hamilton!
Sublime as heaven, and vigorous as sublime,
He, in his flight, outstripped the march of Time,
Plucked from each age the product of each soil,
And o'er thy country poured the generous spoil.
By thine own labors, without aid from France,
We saw the splendid fabric of finance,—
Beneath whose dome, confusion, in thy hands,
Order became; and (even as did the sands,
O'er which the waters of Puctolus rolled,
When Midas touched them,) paper turned to gold,—
At once, the boast and wonder of mankind,
Rise at thy spell,—the creature of thy mind.
Thus, when Amphion left Cithæron's shade,
Beside Ismenus' wave the shepherd strayed;
And, as he roamed in solitude along,
And charmed the ear of Silence with a song,
Sweeping, in symphony, his tuneful string,
That flung its wild notes on the Zephyr's wing,
The walls of Thebes with many a glittering spire,
Rose to the strong enchantment of his lyre.
Immortal statesman! while the stars shall burn,
Or to the pole the trembling needle turn,
Ne'er shall the tide of dark oblivion roll
Over that “strong divinity of soul
That conquered fate,“ and traversed, unconfined,
The various fields of matter and of mind,—
Thy heart, to charity so warmly strung,
And all the sweet persuasion of thy tongue.
Yet, wast thou spotless in thine exit?—Nay;—
Nor spotless is the monarch of the day;—
Still, but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast,
And that shall shade no action, but thy last.
In peerless pomp, thy genius, Hamilton!
Sublime as heaven, and vigorous as sublime,
He, in his flight, outstripped the march of Time,
Plucked from each age the product of each soil,
And o'er thy country poured the generous spoil.
By thine own labors, without aid from France,
We saw the splendid fabric of finance,—
Beneath whose dome, confusion, in thy hands,
Order became; and (even as did the sands,
O'er which the waters of Puctolus rolled,
When Midas touched them,) paper turned to gold,—
At once, the boast and wonder of mankind,
Rise at thy spell,—the creature of thy mind.
Thus, when Amphion left Cithæron's shade,
Beside Ismenus' wave the shepherd strayed;
And, as he roamed in solitude along,
And charmed the ear of Silence with a song,
Sweeping, in symphony, his tuneful string,
That flung its wild notes on the Zephyr's wing,
The walls of Thebes with many a glittering spire,
Rose to the strong enchantment of his lyre.
263
Or to the pole the trembling needle turn,
Ne'er shall the tide of dark oblivion roll
Over that “strong divinity of soul
That conquered fate,“ and traversed, unconfined,
The various fields of matter and of mind,—
Thy heart, to charity so warmly strung,
And all the sweet persuasion of thy tongue.
Yet, wast thou spotless in thine exit?—Nay;—
Nor spotless is the monarch of the day;—
Still, but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast,
And that shall shade no action, but thy last.
Then, with a milder, though congenial ray,
Like Hesper, shone the kindred soul of Jay.
His hand unshaken by an empire's weight,
His eye undazzled by the glare of state,
Even in the shadow of “Power's purple robe,”
He gave our land the charter of the globe,
And bade our eagle leave her native pine,
To bathe in light beneath the sultry line,
O'er every tide, with lightning's speed, to sweep,
Cleave every cloud that whitens o'er the deep,
Tower o'er the heads of conquerors and kings,
And soar to glory on her canvass wings.
Like Hesper, shone the kindred soul of Jay.
His hand unshaken by an empire's weight,
His eye undazzled by the glare of state,
Even in the shadow of “Power's purple robe,”
He gave our land the charter of the globe,
And bade our eagle leave her native pine,
To bathe in light beneath the sultry line,
O'er every tide, with lightning's speed, to sweep,
Cleave every cloud that whitens o'er the deep,
Tower o'er the heads of conquerors and kings,
And soar to glory on her canvass wings.
Then, where Ohio rolls her silver flood,
If e'er a tomahawk was dyed in blood;
Or if the war-whoop broke an infant's rest,
Where Erie drinks the rivers of the West;
Or if an arrow, from an unseen bow,
Thrown by a savage, laid a white-man low;
Or if a captive heard the hideous yell,
Or felt the tortures of those fiends of hell;—
On his pale horse the king of terrors sped,
The fires were quenched, the howling savage bled;
The grisly monarch feasted on the slain,
And blest the courage, and the sword, of Wayne.
If e'er a tomahawk was dyed in blood;
264
Where Erie drinks the rivers of the West;
Or if an arrow, from an unseen bow,
Thrown by a savage, laid a white-man low;
Or if a captive heard the hideous yell,
Or felt the tortures of those fiends of hell;—
On his pale horse the king of terrors sped,
The fires were quenched, the howling savage bled;
The grisly monarch feasted on the slain,
And blest the courage, and the sword, of Wayne.
Then,—ere, by Gallic perfidy beguiled,
“The other Adams” was again a child,—
When a grim monster rose with many a head,
More foul than e'er the lake of Lerna bred;—
Whose bloody hands no sacred tie could bind,
Whose lurid eye rolled ruin on mankind;—
And frowning dared a tribute to demand,
Of “beaucoup d'argent,” from a Pinckney's hand;—
Fire in his eye, and thunder on his tongue,
Fierce from his seat, the hoary veteran sprung,
And gave the hydra in her den to know,
He bought no friendship,—for he feared no foe.
“The other Adams” was again a child,—
When a grim monster rose with many a head,
More foul than e'er the lake of Lerna bred;—
Whose bloody hands no sacred tie could bind,
Whose lurid eye rolled ruin on mankind;—
And frowning dared a tribute to demand,
Of “beaucoup d'argent,” from a Pinckney's hand;—
Fire in his eye, and thunder on his tongue,
Fierce from his seat, the hoary veteran sprung,
And gave the hydra in her den to know,
He bought no friendship,—for he feared no foe.
265
Then, nay since then, while yet a twilight grey
Gave to our eyes the parting beams of day,—
For, when our sun, our glory, sunk to rest,
He fringed with gold the curtains of the west,
And poured a lustre on the world behind,
That faded as the mighty orb declined,—
Our eagle, soaring with unwearied flight,
'Mid clouds to enjoy the last, faint gleam of light,
With piercing eye glanced o'er the watery waste,
And saw her flag by Mussulmans disgraced;
Nay,—heard her children, on Numidia's plains,
Sigh for their homes, and clank the Moslem's chains;
The generous bird, at that incensing view,
Caught from the clouds her thunder as she flew,
With deathful shriek alarmed the guilty coast,
And launched the bolt on Caramelli's host;
Crescents and turbans sunk in wild dismay;
The Turkish soul, indignant, left its clay,—
Though to the brave, a rich reward is given,
The arms of Houris, and the bowers of heaven,—
And Eaton trod in triumph o'er his foe,
Where once fought Hannibal and Scipio.
Gave to our eyes the parting beams of day,—
For, when our sun, our glory, sunk to rest,
He fringed with gold the curtains of the west,
And poured a lustre on the world behind,
That faded as the mighty orb declined,—
Our eagle, soaring with unwearied flight,
'Mid clouds to enjoy the last, faint gleam of light,
With piercing eye glanced o'er the watery waste,
And saw her flag by Mussulmans disgraced;
Nay,—heard her children, on Numidia's plains,
Sigh for their homes, and clank the Moslem's chains;
The generous bird, at that incensing view,
Caught from the clouds her thunder as she flew,
With deathful shriek alarmed the guilty coast,
And launched the bolt on Caramelli's host;
Crescents and turbans sunk in wild dismay;
The Turkish soul, indignant, left its clay,—
Though to the brave, a rich reward is given,
The arms of Houris, and the bowers of heaven,—
And Eaton trod in triumph o'er his foe,
Where once fought Hannibal and Scipio.
Then, a bright spirit, free from every vice,
As was the rose that bloomed in Paradise;
A zeal, as warm, to see his country blest,
As lived in Cato's or Lycurgus' breast;
A fancy chaste and vigorous as strung,
To holy themes, Isaiah's hallowed tongue;
And strains as eloquent as Zion heard,
When, on his golden harp, her royal bard
Waked to a glow devotion's dying flames,
Flowed from the lips, and warmed the soul of Ames.
Like Memnon's harp, that breathed a mournful tone,
When on its strings the rays of morning shone,
That stainless spirit, on approaching night,
Was touched and saddened by prophetic light;
And, as the vision to his view was given,
That spirit sunk, and, sighing, fled to heaven.
As was the rose that bloomed in Paradise;
A zeal, as warm, to see his country blest,
As lived in Cato's or Lycurgus' breast;
A fancy chaste and vigorous as strung,
To holy themes, Isaiah's hallowed tongue;
And strains as eloquent as Zion heard,
When, on his golden harp, her royal bard
266
Flowed from the lips, and warmed the soul of Ames.
Like Memnon's harp, that breathed a mournful tone,
When on its strings the rays of morning shone,
That stainless spirit, on approaching night,
Was touched and saddened by prophetic light;
And, as the vision to his view was given,
That spirit sunk, and, sighing, fled to heaven.
Should we attempt on each bright name to dwell,
The evening song would to a volume swell;
As on a beach, where mighty surges roar,
Wave after wave rolls onward to the shore,
So, on the page that History gives to Fame,
And Fame to Glory, name succeeds to name.
See Franklin, Adams, Rutledge, gliding by;—
There Henry, Hillhouse, Trumbull, meet the eye;—
Here Ellsworth, Marshall, Tracy, rush along,
King, Griswold, Otis, Pickering, and Strong.
The evening song would to a volume swell;
As on a beach, where mighty surges roar,
Wave after wave rolls onward to the shore,
So, on the page that History gives to Fame,
And Fame to Glory, name succeeds to name.
See Franklin, Adams, Rutledge, gliding by;—
There Henry, Hillhouse, Trumbull, meet the eye;—
Here Ellsworth, Marshall, Tracy, rush along,
King, Griswold, Otis, Pickering, and Strong.
Like heavenly dew, that evening's hour distils
On Sharon's valleys or Gilboa's hills,
Men, such as these, a holy influence shed,—
Their deeds while living, and their names when dead;
Men, such as these, could guide Bellona's car,
Or smooth to smiles the iron brow of war;
Men, such as these, could brave a monarch's frown,
Could pluck the diamonds from a tyrant's crown,
And, when the oppression ceased, such men could show
A god-like greatness,—and forgive a foe;
Such men could call religion from the skies,
To guide their feet before a nation's eyes;
Where such men trod, the flowers of Science sprung,
With hymns to Peace the humble cottage rung,
Contentment spread the table of the poor,
And Ceres blushed and waved beside his door;—
All, in such men, reposed unshaken trust;
The ruled were happy, and their rulers just.
On Sharon's valleys or Gilboa's hills,
Men, such as these, a holy influence shed,—
Their deeds while living, and their names when dead;
Men, such as these, could guide Bellona's car,
Or smooth to smiles the iron brow of war;
Men, such as these, could brave a monarch's frown,
Could pluck the diamonds from a tyrant's crown,
267
A god-like greatness,—and forgive a foe;
Such men could call religion from the skies,
To guide their feet before a nation's eyes;
Where such men trod, the flowers of Science sprung,
With hymns to Peace the humble cottage rung,
Contentment spread the table of the poor,
And Ceres blushed and waved beside his door;—
All, in such men, reposed unshaken trust;
The ruled were happy, and their rulers just.
Say then, O Time! since thy pervading eye
Waked from the slumber of eternity,
Hadst thou e'er seen a spot so highly blest,
In bliss and beauty so superbly drest?
Waked from the slumber of eternity,
Hadst thou e'er seen a spot so highly blest,
In bliss and beauty so superbly drest?
When erst, beyond the bright Ægean isles,
From the green billows rose the Queen of smiles,
Pure as her parent foam, and heavenly fair;—
When her dark tresses of ambrosial hair
Flowed round her waist, in many a wanton curl,
Played in the breeze, and swept her car of pearl,
Whose amber wheels, in quick rotation, glide,
Drawn by her doves, along the sparkling tide;
While, all around her, choirs of Tritons swell
The mellow music of their twisted shell,
As on she moves, with an exulting smile,
To rear her temple on the Cyprian isle,
Or rest, voluptuous, amid springing flowers,
On rosy couches, under myrtle bowers;—
From Ida's top, the thunderer viewed the fair,
The clouds that veiled him, melting into air;
And all the beauties of the Queen of love,
In spite of Juno, fired the breast of Jove.
From the green billows rose the Queen of smiles,
Pure as her parent foam, and heavenly fair;—
When her dark tresses of ambrosial hair
Flowed round her waist, in many a wanton curl,
Played in the breeze, and swept her car of pearl,
268
Drawn by her doves, along the sparkling tide;
While, all around her, choirs of Tritons swell
The mellow music of their twisted shell,
As on she moves, with an exulting smile,
To rear her temple on the Cyprian isle,
Or rest, voluptuous, amid springing flowers,
On rosy couches, under myrtle bowers;—
From Ida's top, the thunderer viewed the fair,
The clouds that veiled him, melting into air;
And all the beauties of the Queen of love,
In spite of Juno, fired the breast of Jove.
So shone Columbia, when in happier days,
O'er eastern mountains, with “unbounded blaze”
She saw the sun of Independence rise,
And roll, rejoicing, through unclouded skies.—
So shone Columbia, when her infant hand
With magic power, along her verdant strand,
Charmed into life the city's busy throng,
And rolled of wealth the swelling tide along,
While Freedom's pure and consecrated fires
Glowed in her halls, and glittered on her spires.—
So shone Columbia, when her naval pine
Bowed, at her touch, to float beneath the line,
And proudly bear, on every wave unfurled,
Her swelling canvass o'er the watery world.—
So shone Columbia, when the trembling wave
Heard Preble's thunder, and was Somers' grave;—
So shone, whene'er she trod her native plain,—
(For she emerged, like Venus, from the main,)
Till doomed from Neptune's empire to retire,
And dew with tears the ashes of her sire.
O'er eastern mountains, with “unbounded blaze”
She saw the sun of Independence rise,
And roll, rejoicing, through unclouded skies.—
So shone Columbia, when her infant hand
With magic power, along her verdant strand,
Charmed into life the city's busy throng,
And rolled of wealth the swelling tide along,
While Freedom's pure and consecrated fires
Glowed in her halls, and glittered on her spires.—
So shone Columbia, when her naval pine
Bowed, at her touch, to float beneath the line,
And proudly bear, on every wave unfurled,
Her swelling canvass o'er the watery world.—
So shone Columbia, when the trembling wave
Heard Preble's thunder, and was Somers' grave;—
So shone, whene'er she trod her native plain,—
(For she emerged, like Venus, from the main,)
269
And dew with tears the ashes of her sire.
From realms, where, waving o'er celestial vales,
Green groves of amaranth bend to spicy gales;
From emerald rocks, where crystal water flows;
Where sainted spirits of the just repose;
Where patriots bleed not, in their country's wars,
Nor roam in beggary, nor show their scars
To their ungrateful country's tearless eye,
Nor on that country's frozen bosom die;—
But where, in peace, they breathe an air of balm,
And bind their temples with immortal palm;
Where choral symphonies no discord mars,
Nor drowns the music of the morning stars,
Who, crowned with light, around the Eternal's throne
Pour on the ravished car the mingled tone
Of voice and golden lyre, that fill the sky
With the wild notes of heavenly minstrelsy;—
There, while the star-paved walks of Heaven he trod,
Cheered by the unclouded vision of his God,
Great Washington beheld the fair; and smiled,
And said to wondering seraphs,—“Lo! my child.”
Green groves of amaranth bend to spicy gales;
From emerald rocks, where crystal water flows;
Where sainted spirits of the just repose;
Where patriots bleed not, in their country's wars,
Nor roam in beggary, nor show their scars
To their ungrateful country's tearless eye,
Nor on that country's frozen bosom die;—
But where, in peace, they breathe an air of balm,
And bind their temples with immortal palm;
Where choral symphonies no discord mars,
Nor drowns the music of the morning stars,
Who, crowned with light, around the Eternal's throne
Pour on the ravished car the mingled tone
Of voice and golden lyre, that fill the sky
With the wild notes of heavenly minstrelsy;—
There, while the star-paved walks of Heaven he trod,
Cheered by the unclouded vision of his God,
Great Washington beheld the fair; and smiled,
And said to wondering seraphs,—“Lo! my child.”
But now, how changed the scene!—Ye blissful days,
Withdraw the dazzling splendor of your blaze!
And, Memory, snatch thy record from my sight,
Whose leaves, emblazoned with the beams of light,
Pour on the eye, that glances o'er thy page,
The strong effulgence of a golden age.
Come, Lethe, come! thy tide oblivious roll
O'er all that proud complacency of soul,
That generous ardor, that enlivening flame,
That warmed my bosom, when I heard the name
Of my once honored country;—let thy wave,
Dark as Avernus, gloomy as the grave,
Drown every vestige of that country's fame,
And shade the light that bursts upon her shame!
Say,—shall we paint her as she meets the eye?
No;—drop the pallet,—throw the pencil by;—
Why should you wish that shrivelled form to trace,
Or stain the canvass with Columbia's face!
No fame awaits the artist;—though he give
Each feature life, his memory ne'er shall live;
Ne'er shall he stand in Raphael's honors drest,
Nor snatch the laurels from the brows of West.
Time was, indeed, when he who'd paint the fair,
Must mix the blending colors, soft as air;
To hit the piercing lustre of her eye,
Must catch the light and azure of the sky;
To fill the piece with corresponding glow,
Must dip his pencil in the eastern bow;
Then, o'er her locks and dimpled cheeks, must shed
The paly orange and the rose's red;—
Must shade the mellow back-ground of the scene
With mingled tints of violet and green;
Upon her lips must smiles and graces play;
The coral, melting in the dews of May,
Must just disclose the ivory beneath,
And if she breathed not, she must seem to breathe.
But let not now the merest novice dread,
(This same Columbia sitting for her head,)
With painting frenzy fired, to grasp the brush;—
He'll hit her to the life, and need not blush
To have his work inspected;—if he'll mix
The kindred streams of Acheron and Styx,
Shut close his windows, that no ray of light
May give a single feature to his sight,—
Then, on the ready canvass turn his back,
And daub it o'er with bitter and with black.
Withdraw the dazzling splendor of your blaze!
And, Memory, snatch thy record from my sight,
Whose leaves, emblazoned with the beams of light,
Pour on the eye, that glances o'er thy page,
The strong effulgence of a golden age.
270
O'er all that proud complacency of soul,
That generous ardor, that enlivening flame,
That warmed my bosom, when I heard the name
Of my once honored country;—let thy wave,
Dark as Avernus, gloomy as the grave,
Drown every vestige of that country's fame,
And shade the light that bursts upon her shame!
Say,—shall we paint her as she meets the eye?
No;—drop the pallet,—throw the pencil by;—
Why should you wish that shrivelled form to trace,
Or stain the canvass with Columbia's face!
No fame awaits the artist;—though he give
Each feature life, his memory ne'er shall live;
Ne'er shall he stand in Raphael's honors drest,
Nor snatch the laurels from the brows of West.
Time was, indeed, when he who'd paint the fair,
Must mix the blending colors, soft as air;
To hit the piercing lustre of her eye,
Must catch the light and azure of the sky;
To fill the piece with corresponding glow,
Must dip his pencil in the eastern bow;
Then, o'er her locks and dimpled cheeks, must shed
The paly orange and the rose's red;—
Must shade the mellow back-ground of the scene
With mingled tints of violet and green;
Upon her lips must smiles and graces play;
The coral, melting in the dews of May,
Must just disclose the ivory beneath,
And if she breathed not, she must seem to breathe.
271
(This same Columbia sitting for her head,)
With painting frenzy fired, to grasp the brush;—
He'll hit her to the life, and need not blush
To have his work inspected;—if he'll mix
The kindred streams of Acheron and Styx,
Shut close his windows, that no ray of light
May give a single feature to his sight,—
Then, on the ready canvass turn his back,
And daub it o'er with bitter and with black.
Look at Columbia!—see her sickly form,
Exposed, unsheltered, to the howling storm;
No friendly taper glimmering on her sight,
Her thin robes draggled in the dews of night,
Her bosom shrinking from the piercing blasts,
On Earth's cold lap her fainting limbs she casts;—
And as she sinks, despairing and forlorn,
The clouds her curtains, and her couch the thorn,
Her Evil Genius, envying e'en such rest,
Broods like an incubus upon her breast;—
Forbids the fluid through her veins to dart,
And locks up every function of her heart.
And yet, the authors of their country's shame,
(In rank, too high; in worth, too low to name,)
Viewing her dying agonies the while,
With fiend-like triumph “grin a ghastly smile.”
Exposed, unsheltered, to the howling storm;
No friendly taper glimmering on her sight,
Her thin robes draggled in the dews of night,
Her bosom shrinking from the piercing blasts,
On Earth's cold lap her fainting limbs she casts;—
And as she sinks, despairing and forlorn,
The clouds her curtains, and her couch the thorn,
Her Evil Genius, envying e'en such rest,
Broods like an incubus upon her breast;—
Forbids the fluid through her veins to dart,
And locks up every function of her heart.
272
(In rank, too high; in worth, too low to name,)
Viewing her dying agonies the while,
With fiend-like triumph “grin a ghastly smile.”
Look at our Commerce!—driven from the deep,
Our sails no more its curling surface sweep;
No more the silks of India swell our stores;
No more Arabia's gums perfume our shores;
But Desolation hovers o'er our ships
With raven pinions;—and with skinny lips,
And cheeks all shrivelled, Famine stalks our streets,
And clings, with withered hand, to all she meets.
Our sails no more its curling surface sweep;
No more the silks of India swell our stores;
No more Arabia's gums perfume our shores;
But Desolation hovers o'er our ships
With raven pinions;—and with skinny lips,
And cheeks all shrivelled, Famine stalks our streets,
And clings, with withered hand, to all she meets.
Look at our army!—See its bristling van,
Led on to conquest by that wondrous man,
Who dares the aid of powder to despise,
And “looks down opposition” with his eyes!
See! how the forests shudder as he comes!
How their recesses echo to his drums!
See him, with Victory perching on his crest,
Leap boldly o'er the barriers of the West,
And bid his eagles, stooping to the plain,
Fix their strong talons in the Lion's mane!—
Then see him, wheeling with resistless sweep,
Exchange his army—for a flock of sheep!
Led on to conquest by that wondrous man,
Who dares the aid of powder to despise,
And “looks down opposition” with his eyes!
See! how the forests shudder as he comes!
How their recesses echo to his drums!
See him, with Victory perching on his crest,
Leap boldly o'er the barriers of the West,
And bid his eagles, stooping to the plain,
Fix their strong talons in the Lion's mane!—
Then see him, wheeling with resistless sweep,
Exchange his army—for a flock of sheep!
273
Look at our navy!—does it proudly ride,
And roll its thunders o'er the subject tide,
As once it rode and thundered? Rogers, say,
When, from our coasts, thy squadron bore away,
Stretched o'er the Atlantic, and its flags unfurled,
To catch the breezes of the Eastern world,
Sought for a foe on Afric's sultry shores,
And ploughed the circling waves, that washed the Azores;
For thee, what garlands floated on the main?
What did thy squadron?—It came back again!
And roll its thunders o'er the subject tide,
As once it rode and thundered? Rogers, say,
When, from our coasts, thy squadron bore away,
Stretched o'er the Atlantic, and its flags unfurled,
To catch the breezes of the Eastern world,
Sought for a foe on Afric's sultry shores,
And ploughed the circling waves, that washed the Azores;
For thee, what garlands floated on the main?
What did thy squadron?—It came back again!
How gratefully, amid the horrid gloom,
That rests incumbent on our Honor's tomb,
Should we all hail one solitary ray,
Were it indeed the harbinger of day;—
When even now, amid the tenfold night
Of dark despair, we hail, with fond delight,
Nay, with triumphant pride, the beam that 's poured,
Conqueror of Dacres, from thy flaming sword!
Then, would the patriot's heart, that sinks oppressed
By humbling shame, throb proudly in his breast;
Then, would he say, “The reign of night is o'er!
The day is dawning that shall close no more!
My hopes were sunk; but brighter prospects rise,
And other suns shall yet adorn our skies.
Thus would the ear, when fever fires the brain,
Restless, all night, with sympathetic pain,
By jarring discord's harshest gratings torn,
Wake to the airy melodies of morn.”
But now, what is it? 'T is the lightning's glare,
That flames at midnight through the murky air,
And shows what clouds the face of heaven deform,
And all the fearful horrors of the storm.
Thus, when Apollo to his son resigned
His car and coursers, to illume mankind,
His car and coursers, stooping from the skies,
Cleft earth with heat, and opened to the eyes
Of the pale tenants of the realms below,
The boundless chaos, and the scenes of woe,
That reigned around;—e'en Pluto and his bride,
Who swayed the infernal sceptre, side by side,
Trembled beneath the intolerable light;—
And the ghosts shrunk and shuddered at the sight.
Still, gallant Hull, the meed of praise is thine,
Still Victory's wreaths around thy brow shall twine,
Still, child of Washington, thy name shall live,
While valor immortality can give!
That rests incumbent on our Honor's tomb,
Should we all hail one solitary ray,
Were it indeed the harbinger of day;—
When even now, amid the tenfold night
Of dark despair, we hail, with fond delight,
Nay, with triumphant pride, the beam that 's poured,
Conqueror of Dacres, from thy flaming sword!
Then, would the patriot's heart, that sinks oppressed
By humbling shame, throb proudly in his breast;
Then, would he say, “The reign of night is o'er!
The day is dawning that shall close no more!
My hopes were sunk; but brighter prospects rise,
And other suns shall yet adorn our skies.
Thus would the ear, when fever fires the brain,
Restless, all night, with sympathetic pain,
274
Wake to the airy melodies of morn.”
But now, what is it? 'T is the lightning's glare,
That flames at midnight through the murky air,
And shows what clouds the face of heaven deform,
And all the fearful horrors of the storm.
Thus, when Apollo to his son resigned
His car and coursers, to illume mankind,
His car and coursers, stooping from the skies,
Cleft earth with heat, and opened to the eyes
Of the pale tenants of the realms below,
The boundless chaos, and the scenes of woe,
That reigned around;—e'en Pluto and his bride,
Who swayed the infernal sceptre, side by side,
Trembled beneath the intolerable light;—
And the ghosts shrunk and shuddered at the sight.
Still, gallant Hull, the meed of praise is thine,
Still Victory's wreaths around thy brow shall twine,
Still, child of Washington, thy name shall live,
While valor immortality can give!
Hark!—as it shuts, with triple-bolted bars,
The ponderous door on grating hinges jars;
The massy key springs the reluctant locks;
Echoes the clang from adamantine rocks;—
There, in a dungeon's gloom, 'mid vapors dank,
Where rattle manacles, and fetters clank,
To perfidy and treachery self-resigned,
Children of Liberty, were ye confined!
Children of Honor, thither basely led!
Children of Washington,—'t was there ye bled!
And why?—What nameless deed that hates the sun,
And courts congenial darkness, had ye done?
Some ruined virgin had ye left to sigh,
And die in guilt, or live in infamy?
Covered her father's reverend cheeks with shame?
Or shot her brother to redeem your fame?—
No; but in times like these, when Virtue weeps,
When high-born Honor in retirement sleeps,
When Vice triumphant fills the chair of state,
When most great men are infamously great,
When sots and demagogues to election come,—
Those to give votes and these to pay in rum,—
When place is venal, nay, by auction bought,
Ye dared to think, and publish as ye thought!
The ponderous door on grating hinges jars;
The massy key springs the reluctant locks;
Echoes the clang from adamantine rocks;—
There, in a dungeon's gloom, 'mid vapors dank,
Where rattle manacles, and fetters clank,
275
Children of Liberty, were ye confined!
Children of Honor, thither basely led!
Children of Washington,—'t was there ye bled!
And why?—What nameless deed that hates the sun,
And courts congenial darkness, had ye done?
Some ruined virgin had ye left to sigh,
And die in guilt, or live in infamy?
Covered her father's reverend cheeks with shame?
Or shot her brother to redeem your fame?—
No; but in times like these, when Virtue weeps,
When high-born Honor in retirement sleeps,
When Vice triumphant fills the chair of state,
When most great men are infamously great,
When sots and demagogues to election come,—
Those to give votes and these to pay in rum,—
When place is venal, nay, by auction bought,
Ye dared to think, and publish as ye thought!
Hark!—'t is the Demon!—at the door he treads!
Alecto's mantle shrouds his hundred heads;
Back fly the bolts; his bloody eye-balls glare;
Long, dangling snakes hiss in his horrent hair;
Blue flames of sulphur issue from his jaws;
Each giant hand a naked dagger draws;
The steely clashing echoes from the walls,
And at his feet the hoary Lingan falls!
The monster speaks;—“There, traitor, take thy rest!
Ha!—are those scars, that scam thy aged breast?—
And didst thou think ‘those poor dumb wounds would plead,
Like angels, trumpet-tongued,’ against my deed?
Simple old fool!—I glory in my work;—
Here,—see thy blood that trickles from my dirk!
Die not, till thou hast seen what joy I feel,
To kiss that trophy of my faithful steel;—
That trophy must command a generous price,
Where I shall show it;—great men are not nice,
Who have employed me in these high affairs;
I'll have my pay,—as doubtless they have theirs
From those, who still a prouder state enjoy,—
Who bribed Speranski, —and who bought Godoy!
Ah! not yet dead!—give me thy hoary locks,
And let thy brains besmear these gory rocks;—
Thus do I dash thee,—Tory as thou art,—
Thus drink thy blood,—thus craunch thy quivering heart!”
Alecto's mantle shrouds his hundred heads;
Back fly the bolts; his bloody eye-balls glare;
Long, dangling snakes hiss in his horrent hair;
Blue flames of sulphur issue from his jaws;
Each giant hand a naked dagger draws;
The steely clashing echoes from the walls,
And at his feet the hoary Lingan falls!
276
Ha!—are those scars, that scam thy aged breast?—
And didst thou think ‘those poor dumb wounds would plead,
Like angels, trumpet-tongued,’ against my deed?
Simple old fool!—I glory in my work;—
Here,—see thy blood that trickles from my dirk!
Die not, till thou hast seen what joy I feel,
To kiss that trophy of my faithful steel;—
That trophy must command a generous price,
Where I shall show it;—great men are not nice,
Who have employed me in these high affairs;
I'll have my pay,—as doubtless they have theirs
277
Who bribed Speranski, —and who bought Godoy!
Ah! not yet dead!—give me thy hoary locks,
And let thy brains besmear these gory rocks;—
Thus do I dash thee,—Tory as thou art,—
Thus drink thy blood,—thus craunch thy quivering heart!”
Soul of the brave, look backward in thy flight;
Our eyes pursue thee till thou 'rt lost in light;
There rest in peace, thy earthly pains forgot;—
Soul of the brave, how happy is thy lot!
Our eyes pursue thee till thou 'rt lost in light;
There rest in peace, thy earthly pains forgot;—
Soul of the brave, how happy is thy lot!
Johnson, Montgomery, Stricker!—when grim Death
Shall stop the volumes of mephitic breath,
That spread contagion round you; when your ear
The curse of freemen can no longer hear;
Your memory like your carcasses shall rot,
On earth detested,—in the grave forgot.
While Lingan, Hanson, Thompson, Biglow fire
The poet's raptures, and the minstrel's lyre,
Rise, their deluded countrymen to bless,
And, from the ruins of the falling Press,
Diffuse such lustre, as dispels the gloom
From Sidney's scaffold and from Hampden's tomb.
Shall stop the volumes of mephitic breath,
That spread contagion round you; when your ear
The curse of freemen can no longer hear;
Your memory like your carcasses shall rot,
On earth detested,—in the grave forgot.
278
The poet's raptures, and the minstrel's lyre,
Rise, their deluded countrymen to bless,
And, from the ruins of the falling Press,
Diffuse such lustre, as dispels the gloom
From Sidney's scaffold and from Hampden's tomb.
When on the ruins of Palmyra's walls,
Through fleecy clouds, the sober moonlight falls,
Trembling among the ivy leaves, that shade
The crumbling arch and broken colonnade,
As some lone bard, that gives his silver hair
To float, dishevelled, on the sighing air,
While glories, long departed, rush along,
Pours on the ear of night, in mournful song,
The fond remembrance of that splendid day,
When round Longinus' temples twined the bay,
When on those towers the beams of science shone,
And princes kneeled around Zenobia's throne;—
Some future minstrel thus his lyre shall sweep,
Where glides Potomac to the azure deep.
Through fleecy clouds, the sober moonlight falls,
Trembling among the ivy leaves, that shade
The crumbling arch and broken colonnade,
As some lone bard, that gives his silver hair
To float, dishevelled, on the sighing air,
While glories, long departed, rush along,
Pours on the ear of night, in mournful song,
The fond remembrance of that splendid day,
When round Longinus' temples twined the bay,
When on those towers the beams of science shone,
And princes kneeled around Zenobia's throne;—
Some future minstrel thus his lyre shall sweep,
Where glides Potomac to the azure deep.
“Where now these ruins moulder on the ground,
Where Desolation walks her silent round,
The slippery serpent drags his sinuous trail,
To marble columns clings the slimy snail,
The solemn raven croaks, the cricket sings,
And bats and owlets flap their sooty wings;—
Once, a proud temple rose, with front sublime,
By Wisdom reared, to brave the shocks of Time,
And consecrated to the smiling Three,
Religion, Peace, and Civil Liberty.
Its earliest priests, in stainless robes arrayed,
By no threats daunted, by no arts betrayed,
Ne'er let the censer nor the olive drop,
Though clouds and tempests brooded o'er its top.
Time brought their pious labors to a close;
Others succeeded, and new scenes arose;—
The hovering tempests fell upon its walls,
The brooding clouds were welcomed to its halls,
The shuddering altars felt the fires of hell,
The olive withered, and the censer fell,
The columns broke, the trembling arches frowned,
The Temple sunk, and ruin stalks around.”
Where Desolation walks her silent round,
The slippery serpent drags his sinuous trail,
To marble columns clings the slimy snail,
The solemn raven croaks, the cricket sings,
And bats and owlets flap their sooty wings;—
Once, a proud temple rose, with front sublime,
By Wisdom reared, to brave the shocks of Time,
279
Religion, Peace, and Civil Liberty.
Its earliest priests, in stainless robes arrayed,
By no threats daunted, by no arts betrayed,
Ne'er let the censer nor the olive drop,
Though clouds and tempests brooded o'er its top.
Time brought their pious labors to a close;
Others succeeded, and new scenes arose;—
The hovering tempests fell upon its walls,
The brooding clouds were welcomed to its halls,
The shuddering altars felt the fires of hell,
The olive withered, and the censer fell,
The columns broke, the trembling arches frowned,
The Temple sunk, and ruin stalks around.”
Geneva, the native country of A. Gallatin, our present Secretary of the Treasury, now (1812) forms a part of the French Empire.
John Randolph's cutting distinction between the late President and the truly republican Samuel Adams.
Both the text and the notes of this poem occasionally show the warmth of political feeling, and the strength of party prejudice, that belonged to the time when it was written. Both text and notes are allowed to remain, as memorials of fires that raged once, but have long since gone out.
The reader will trace the outline of this scene, in the following passage from Akenside.
“Or as Venus, when she stoodEffulgent on her pearly car, and smiled,
Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form,
To see the Tritons tune their vocal shells,
And each cærulean sister of the flood,
With loud acclaim, attend her o'er the waves,
To seek the Idalian bower.”
Pleasures of Imagination.
Two rivers, said by mythologists to flow through the infernal regions, the one remarkable for the bitter taste, and the other for the “inky hue” of its waters.
“The virtue of the people, &c. routed and put to flight that corruption, which sat like an incubus on the heart of the metropolis, chaining the current of its blood, and locking up every healthful function and energy of life.” Curran's Speech on the Election of Lord Mayor.
“I have a force which will look down all opposition.”—Hull's emancipating Proclamation to the Oppressed Canadians, July 12th, 1812.
Some of the early bulletins of the northwestern army give an account of having taken prisoners eight hundred and thirty Merino sheep.
Look at the Commodore's own account of this “scurvy” expedition, in his letter to the Secretary of the Navy, September 1st, 1812.
For the particulars of the ruin in which Phaëton involved not only himself, but the world, by his rash experiment at illuminating mankind, see Ovid's Metamorphoses, Lib. ii.
The reader of the present day may need to be informed that this passage relates to the Baltimore Mob of 1812;—that had taken place just before this poem was written; that had for its object the suppression of Hanson's “Federal Republican”; and that resulted on the destruction of the printing office,—the storming of the city prison within whose cells the defenders of the press had allowed themselves to be locked up, as the only protection the laws could afford them from popular violence,—and in the murder of the venerable General Lingan, within those cells!
This, I believe, was the first of a series,—disgraceful to our land,—of mobs for the suppression of the liberty of the press and of discussion, and for the destruction of the lives of its defenders. That in Philadelphia, May 17th, 1838, in which Pennsylvania Hall was burnt, is, I believe, the last. May it ever be! These lines, now more than a quarter of a century old, show that my indignation towards mobs is no new flame.
1840.“Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths!
And bid them speak for me.”
Julius Cæsar. “His virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking off.”
Macbeth.
And bid them speak for me.”
Julius Cæsar. “His virtues
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking off.”
Macbeth.
Speranski, raised by the Emperor Alexander from humble life to the highest civil office in the Russian empire,—lately banished to Siberia, for communicating to Buonaparte the whole plan of the Emperor's operations in the present war.
Godoy, the infamous Prince of Peace, who, while he enjoyed all the wealth and honor his King could lavish upon him, as well as all the more flattering favors of his Queen, held a treasonable correspondence with the Tyrant of France, the object of which was the destruction of the Spanish monarchy. Thus we see, that from Madrid to St. Petersburgh, neither wealth, nor power, nor love can resist the omnipotence of French intrigue. Are its operations confined to the Eastern continent?
280
II.
NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS,
Years roll along; and, as they glide away
In silent lapse, on every New-Year's day
'T is claimed by custom that we carriers sing;
And thus the tribute of the Muse we bring.
Not that the strain with classic smoothness flows,
Nor that the same might not be said in prose;
But while there's nought the fancy to amuse,
Or waken wonder in the form of news,
You'll pause with pleasure, in this gloomy season,
If song be sense, and if our rhyme be reason,—
While all around us clouds and tempests lower,
The frosts of winter, and the frown of power,—
To listen where a rippling rill of rhyme
Steals through the wild and dreary waste of Time.
In silent lapse, on every New-Year's day
'T is claimed by custom that we carriers sing;
And thus the tribute of the Muse we bring.
Not that the strain with classic smoothness flows,
Nor that the same might not be said in prose;
But while there's nought the fancy to amuse,
Or waken wonder in the form of news,
You'll pause with pleasure, in this gloomy season,
If song be sense, and if our rhyme be reason,—
While all around us clouds and tempests lower,
The frosts of winter, and the frown of power,—
To listen where a rippling rill of rhyme
Steals through the wild and dreary waste of Time.
No pomp of battle shall our numbers swell;
No deathless wreaths for those who fought and fell
Shall we entwine; nor pour a mournful dirge
O'er those, who, sinking in the swallowing surge,
Saw, e'er they sunk into their billowy grave,
The sword of Blakeley, gleaming o'er the wave,
Pluck the green laurel from the azure plain,
And from the mighty mistress of the main;—
Nor yet o'er those who fell with equal fame,
On sweeter waters, though of humbler name;
Who by Macdonough to the combat led,
By valor conquered, and with glory bled.
No deathless wreaths for those who fought and fell
Shall we entwine; nor pour a mournful dirge
O'er those, who, sinking in the swallowing surge,
Saw, e'er they sunk into their billowy grave,
The sword of Blakeley, gleaming o'er the wave,
281
And from the mighty mistress of the main;—
Nor yet o'er those who fell with equal fame,
On sweeter waters, though of humbler name;
Who by Macdonough to the combat led,
By valor conquered, and with glory bled.
Here check the Muse, e'er yet in full career,
And pay the passing tribute of a tear
To the brave tars who triumphed on the wave,
But e'en in victory found a watery grave;—
Who sunk in silence, and now sweetly sleep
Within the coral caverns of the deep.
Still shall their spirits hover o'er the flood,
Now stained and rendered sacred by their blood,
From where St. Lawrence spreads his bosom wide
And meets the main with his gigantic tide,
To where Champlain his emerald basin fills
With crystal waters from surrounding hills.
Still shall their ghosts on the dark tempest ride,
Still o'er the fury of the fight preside;
Still of their country claim a generous tear,
Pledged by their comrades each returning year;
And, as their memory consecrates the bowl,
Swell the rich tide in each congenial soul,
As kindred streams to kindred oceans roll.
And pay the passing tribute of a tear
To the brave tars who triumphed on the wave,
But e'en in victory found a watery grave;—
Who sunk in silence, and now sweetly sleep
Within the coral caverns of the deep.
Still shall their spirits hover o'er the flood,
Now stained and rendered sacred by their blood,
From where St. Lawrence spreads his bosom wide
And meets the main with his gigantic tide,
To where Champlain his emerald basin fills
With crystal waters from surrounding hills.
Still shall their ghosts on the dark tempest ride,
Still o'er the fury of the fight preside;
Still of their country claim a generous tear,
Pledged by their comrades each returning year;
And, as their memory consecrates the bowl,
Swell the rich tide in each congenial soul,
As kindred streams to kindred oceans roll.
Peace to their shades!—nor let the Muse presume
O'er Europe's fields to wave the historic plume;
For me to sing, or you to hear the song,
Of e'en her mighty deeds were far too long.
One moment still, as o'er her fields I run,
I pause to hail the splendor of the sun,
That rises cloudless from her vales of blood,
Gilds the blue mountain, glances on the flood,
Darts his glad beams to even the Atlantic shore,
And lights the waves that whiten as they roar.
O'er Europe's fields to wave the historic plume;
For me to sing, or you to hear the song,
Of e'en her mighty deeds were far too long.
282
I pause to hail the splendor of the sun,
That rises cloudless from her vales of blood,
Gilds the blue mountain, glances on the flood,
Darts his glad beams to even the Atlantic shore,
And lights the waves that whiten as they roar.
But stop;—while gazing upon eastern glory,
The time runs on, and I delay my story.
The time runs on, and I delay my story.
Surrounded by his parasites and tools,—
Those arrant knaves, and these as arrant fools;
Those raised to seats of power for what they 'd said,
And these kept in them by congenial lead,
But all pure patriots,—sat in full divan
A mighty statesman, but a little man.
Though short his person, 't was genteelly slim,
His step was stately, and his dress was prim;
Proud of his station, of himself still prouder,
His shirt no plaiting lacked, his hair no powder.—
'T was silence all, when thus the sage expressed
The calm complacency that filled his breast:
Those arrant knaves, and these as arrant fools;
Those raised to seats of power for what they 'd said,
And these kept in them by congenial lead,
But all pure patriots,—sat in full divan
A mighty statesman, but a little man.
Though short his person, 't was genteelly slim,
His step was stately, and his dress was prim;
Proud of his station, of himself still prouder,
His shirt no plaiting lacked, his hair no powder.—
'T was silence all, when thus the sage expressed
The calm complacency that filled his breast:
“Oh happy state, where foes each other claw,
Where power is liberty, and license law;
All then are fools, if not of all possessed,
Which, wanted, leaves a void within the breast,
And thus are we, my friends, supremely blest.
But, if we all are blest in stations high,
Then how superlatively so am I!
Ask for what end yourselves around me shine?
Each for whose use?—I answer, whose but mine!
Me the kind nation clothes with boundless power,
And feeds with sweetest herbs and finest flour;
Annual for me does either house renew
The tax on whisky,—never paid when due;
To me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me wealth gushes from a thousand springs;
Blacks count, to choose me, mobs to help me rise;
Be earth my throne, and never mind the skies.
Where power is liberty, and license law;
All then are fools, if not of all possessed,
Which, wanted, leaves a void within the breast,
And thus are we, my friends, supremely blest.
But, if we all are blest in stations high,
Then how superlatively so am I!
283
Each for whose use?—I answer, whose but mine!
Me the kind nation clothes with boundless power,
And feeds with sweetest herbs and finest flour;
Annual for me does either house renew
The tax on whisky,—never paid when due;
To me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me wealth gushes from a thousand springs;
Blacks count, to choose me, mobs to help me rise;
Be earth my throne, and never mind the skies.
“How doubly blest in this propitious hour,
Are those who gave, or we who stole, the power,
To banish commerce from each busy mart,
To check the warm tide bounding through the heart,
Lest, should the current too profusely spread,
Dance through the limbs, and riot in the head,
It might gush out through some unguarded chink,
And the poor patient through exhaustion sink.
True, we deny the multitude their wishes;—
But what of that?—we take their loaves and fishes;
For, faithful to the wise Egyptian law,
We claim their bricks, though we refuse them straw;
While they are ‘prompt,’ the dear, enlightened elves,
To feed their rulers, though they starve themselves.
O happy rulers, who can taxes lay!
O happy people, who must taxes pay!—
But ha!—what awful vision meets my sight,
That moves majestic, though involved in night!
Pale sheets of lightning quiver on the cloud,
That robes some demon in a sulphurous shroud,
And hark! the swelling thunder rolls aloud.
'T is he, 't is War!—I snuff his blasting breath!
Save me, my friends, then save yourselves, from death!”
Are those who gave, or we who stole, the power,
To banish commerce from each busy mart,
To check the warm tide bounding through the heart,
Lest, should the current too profusely spread,
Dance through the limbs, and riot in the head,
It might gush out through some unguarded chink,
And the poor patient through exhaustion sink.
True, we deny the multitude their wishes;—
But what of that?—we take their loaves and fishes;
For, faithful to the wise Egyptian law,
We claim their bricks, though we refuse them straw;
While they are ‘prompt,’ the dear, enlightened elves,
To feed their rulers, though they starve themselves.
O happy rulers, who can taxes lay!
O happy people, who must taxes pay!—
But ha!—what awful vision meets my sight,
That moves majestic, though involved in night!
284
That robes some demon in a sulphurous shroud,
And hark! the swelling thunder rolls aloud.
'T is he, 't is War!—I snuff his blasting breath!
Save me, my friends, then save yourselves, from death!”
Pale as the plaster, sunk the great beholder,
Cold as the marble of the floor, or colder.
Cold as the marble of the floor, or colder.
Meantime, 'mid lurid smoke and withering flame,
In gloomy pomp, the Fiend of darkness came.
Two dragons fierce, by spells infernal bound,
Roll on his iron car, that shakes the ground!
Their breath around a hellish horror flings,
That darkens as they flap their leathern wings;
While viscid drops exude between the scales,
That rustle as they writhe their coiling tails;—
Heaven frowns above them, earth, with hollow groan,
Shudders beneath the steeds of Phlegethon.
The Fiend, who goaded on the panting pair,
Had wreathed his temples, and his clotted hair,
With shrivelled hemlock and with cypress round;—
So should the gory God of War be crowned.
His stiffening locks on his broad shoulders curled;—
O'er him his bloody banner was unfurled;—
He breathes, and dun smoke rolls in volumes dire;—
Beneath his black brow, flash his eyes of fire;—
In either hand he waves a weapon fell,
In this a glowing shot, in that a shell,
Both snatched still hissing from the forge of hell.
And round the Demon, as in wrath he comes,
Bright bayonets bristle, burst the bellowing bombs,
Red rockets dart, and rattling roll the drums.
In gloomy pomp, the Fiend of darkness came.
Two dragons fierce, by spells infernal bound,
Roll on his iron car, that shakes the ground!
Their breath around a hellish horror flings,
That darkens as they flap their leathern wings;
While viscid drops exude between the scales,
That rustle as they writhe their coiling tails;—
Heaven frowns above them, earth, with hollow groan,
Shudders beneath the steeds of Phlegethon.
The Fiend, who goaded on the panting pair,
Had wreathed his temples, and his clotted hair,
With shrivelled hemlock and with cypress round;—
So should the gory God of War be crowned.
His stiffening locks on his broad shoulders curled;—
O'er him his bloody banner was unfurled;—
He breathes, and dun smoke rolls in volumes dire;—
Beneath his black brow, flash his eyes of fire;—
In either hand he waves a weapon fell,
In this a glowing shot, in that a shell,
Both snatched still hissing from the forge of hell.
285
Bright bayonets bristle, burst the bellowing bombs,
Red rockets dart, and rattling roll the drums.
The affrighted chief, who on the floor had sunk,
With “brief authority,” not brandy, drunk,
Burst the cold bands of syncopè asunder,
And, starting as he heard the approaching thunder,
Sprung from the floor and cried with all his force,
“A horse! a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!”
His steed, obedient to his sovereign's call,
In splendid trappings bounded from his stall,
Neighed as he stopped before the palace gate,
And kneeled expectant of the illustrious freight.
Quick to his seat the enlightened statesman sprung;—
The conscious saddle creaked, the stirrups rung,
Loud cracked the lash, loose hung the useless rein,
And floated freely on his courser's mane.
Swift though that courser bore his lord from home,
Whitening his dusty flanks with flakes of foam,
Yet for those flanks the rider felt no bowels,
But galled them sorely with his bloody rowels,
Nor once looked backward till far on the way
That leads from Washington to Montpelier.
With “brief authority,” not brandy, drunk,
Burst the cold bands of syncopè asunder,
And, starting as he heard the approaching thunder,
Sprung from the floor and cried with all his force,
“A horse! a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!”
His steed, obedient to his sovereign's call,
In splendid trappings bounded from his stall,
Neighed as he stopped before the palace gate,
And kneeled expectant of the illustrious freight.
Quick to his seat the enlightened statesman sprung;—
The conscious saddle creaked, the stirrups rung,
Loud cracked the lash, loose hung the useless rein,
And floated freely on his courser's mane.
Swift though that courser bore his lord from home,
Whitening his dusty flanks with flakes of foam,
Yet for those flanks the rider felt no bowels,
But galled them sorely with his bloody rowels,
Nor once looked backward till far on the way
That leads from Washington to Montpelier.
Immortal Gilpin! did thy charger caper,
Charged though he were with the bold linen-draper;
With hoofs of iron spurn the paving-stones,
Nor heed thy bottles, nor regard thy bones,—
Though those were dashed to atoms at thy back,
And these endured the tortures of the rack?—
Did his high mettle, heedless of the rein,
Prompt him, without a scourge, to scour the plain
With such resistless fury as to baffle
The united force of martingal and snaffle?
Such fury as to leave thy hat behind,
And give thy wig, all powdered, to the wind?
Such that nor bits could curb, nor turnpikes check?
(Much to the peril, Gilpin, of thy neck;)
Did postboys see thee pass like lightning by,
Mount their fleet steeds, and raise their hue and cry;
And in this crisis did thy generous steed,
As they increased their noise, increase his speed?
And didst thou, finding all thy efforts vain
To curb him with thy bridle, drop the rein,
And, to thyself lest there might happen some ill,
With this hand grasp the mane, with that the pommel,
And, leaning forward, to their Fates resign
Thy wife, thy wig, thy bottles, and thy wine;
Till far behind the chase was heard no more,
And thy good steed had halted at thy door,
And dropped thee, bruised and weary, from the crupper,
But just in season to sit down to supper?
O Captain Gilpin, hush!—no longer seek
To palm thy tale upon us as unique;
For, as his homeward course our hero steers,
Leaving his palace to “his valiant peers,”
These seem resolved, if there is aught in speed,
Ne'er to desert him “in his utmost need,”
And least of all to stay, and at the altar bleed.
Thus ever duteous, each his groom bestirs,
Pulls on his boots, and buckles on his spurs,
Ne'er asks the question, which demands him most,
In danger's hour, his pony or his post,
But mounts at once, and à la mode de Boncy,
Deserts his post, and pricks his prancing pony.
Yet, gentle reader, do not think that fear
Impelled their heels, to urge their swift career;
They knew not fear, for, even when the air
Smelt strong of powder, they could nobly dare,
Could laugh at balls as they innoxious fell,
And,—when it once had burst,—despise a shell;
Nay one, 't is said, whose birth the auspicious stars
Had kindly cast beneath the sign of Mars,
E'en cracked his whip at an expiring rocket,
(He had, it seems, his pistols in his pocket,)
Nor was he by his bravery incommoded,
For, strange to tell, the rocket ne'er exploded!
Charged though he were with the bold linen-draper;
With hoofs of iron spurn the paving-stones,
Nor heed thy bottles, nor regard thy bones,—
Though those were dashed to atoms at thy back,
And these endured the tortures of the rack?—
286
Prompt him, without a scourge, to scour the plain
With such resistless fury as to baffle
The united force of martingal and snaffle?
Such fury as to leave thy hat behind,
And give thy wig, all powdered, to the wind?
Such that nor bits could curb, nor turnpikes check?
(Much to the peril, Gilpin, of thy neck;)
Did postboys see thee pass like lightning by,
Mount their fleet steeds, and raise their hue and cry;
And in this crisis did thy generous steed,
As they increased their noise, increase his speed?
And didst thou, finding all thy efforts vain
To curb him with thy bridle, drop the rein,
And, to thyself lest there might happen some ill,
With this hand grasp the mane, with that the pommel,
And, leaning forward, to their Fates resign
Thy wife, thy wig, thy bottles, and thy wine;
Till far behind the chase was heard no more,
And thy good steed had halted at thy door,
And dropped thee, bruised and weary, from the crupper,
But just in season to sit down to supper?
O Captain Gilpin, hush!—no longer seek
To palm thy tale upon us as unique;
For, as his homeward course our hero steers,
Leaving his palace to “his valiant peers,”
These seem resolved, if there is aught in speed,
Ne'er to desert him “in his utmost need,”
And least of all to stay, and at the altar bleed.
Thus ever duteous, each his groom bestirs,
Pulls on his boots, and buckles on his spurs,
287
In danger's hour, his pony or his post,
But mounts at once, and à la mode de Boncy,
Deserts his post, and pricks his prancing pony.
Yet, gentle reader, do not think that fear
Impelled their heels, to urge their swift career;
They knew not fear, for, even when the air
Smelt strong of powder, they could nobly dare,
Could laugh at balls as they innoxious fell,
And,—when it once had burst,—despise a shell;
Nay one, 't is said, whose birth the auspicious stars
Had kindly cast beneath the sign of Mars,
E'en cracked his whip at an expiring rocket,
(He had, it seems, his pistols in his pocket,)
Nor was he by his bravery incommoded,
For, strange to tell, the rocket ne'er exploded!
In the short moment that they 're thus delayed,
What deathless deeds of daring are displayed!
That little moment!—But new lightnings flash,
And nearer roars the thunder; hark! the lash,
That cracked defiance at all Congreve's powder,
Now o'er the flying courser cracks still louder.
Away they start, and, as each rider feels
War's sulphurous breath already scorch his heels,
(Those heels where plated silver shines so bright,)
His heels with greater vigor urge the flight.
Swift is the steed, they know, that bears their master,
But, though he leads them fast, they follow faster;—
All strive to pass their fellows as they fly,
And, “Devil take the hindmost,” is the cry,
Till far remote from danger they descried
Our Hero seated by his horse's side,
Who, sad as Sancho when he saw the vile end
Of all his hopes, his palace, and his island,
Seemed to apostrophize the distant flame,
And thus be closed, as on their coursers came:
“It is no more! Yet nought beneath the stars
Can stand the shock of Vulcan and of Mars;
Neither the city's pomp, nor rustic bowers,
‘Nor gorgeous palaces, nor cloud-capt towers,’
Nor e'en the pillars of this mighty globe;—
Nor—all the brick and mortar of Latrobe.”
What deathless deeds of daring are displayed!
That little moment!—But new lightnings flash,
And nearer roars the thunder; hark! the lash,
That cracked defiance at all Congreve's powder,
Now o'er the flying courser cracks still louder.
Away they start, and, as each rider feels
War's sulphurous breath already scorch his heels,
(Those heels where plated silver shines so bright,)
His heels with greater vigor urge the flight.
Swift is the steed, they know, that bears their master,
But, though he leads them fast, they follow faster;—
All strive to pass their fellows as they fly,
And, “Devil take the hindmost,” is the cry,
288
Our Hero seated by his horse's side,
Who, sad as Sancho when he saw the vile end
Of all his hopes, his palace, and his island,
Seemed to apostrophize the distant flame,
And thus be closed, as on their coursers came:
“It is no more! Yet nought beneath the stars
Can stand the shock of Vulcan and of Mars;
Neither the city's pomp, nor rustic bowers,
‘Nor gorgeous palaces, nor cloud-capt towers,’
Nor e'en the pillars of this mighty globe;—
Nor—all the brick and mortar of Latrobe.”
Patrons, my tale is told, and shall I hush?
I will, indeed,—to hide the crimson blush
That kindles on my cheek with parching flame,
When doomed to dwell upon these scenes of shame.
Fain would I dash the records from my page,
And veil the present from the future age.—
But no;—what Truth compels the Muse to trace,
No tears can wash away, no art crase.
Fain would I check the tide;—but flow it must.
Who can repress the invincible disgust,
That finds a place in every patriot's breast,
Who knows he is not governed but oppressed;—
Who sees his sacred rights the jest of knaves,
His bleeding sons, the tools of abject slaves!
Who sees, beneath the feet of tyrants trod,
The laws of man, the oracles of God,—
And, where the historic Muse, with diamond pen,
Once wrote the immortal names of godlike men,
Now, catching through the gloom a sickening glimpse,
Sees Infamy, begirt with grinning imps,
Trace on her sooty page with pitchy swab
The damning deeds of Madison and Mob!
I will, indeed,—to hide the crimson blush
That kindles on my cheek with parching flame,
When doomed to dwell upon these scenes of shame.
Fain would I dash the records from my page,
And veil the present from the future age.—
But no;—what Truth compels the Muse to trace,
No tears can wash away, no art crase.
Fain would I check the tide;—but flow it must.
Who can repress the invincible disgust,
That finds a place in every patriot's breast,
Who knows he is not governed but oppressed;—
Who sees his sacred rights the jest of knaves,
His bleeding sons, the tools of abject slaves!
Who sees, beneath the feet of tyrants trod,
The laws of man, the oracles of God,—
And, where the historic Muse, with diamond pen,
Once wrote the immortal names of godlike men,
289
Sees Infamy, begirt with grinning imps,
Trace on her sooty page with pitchy swab
The damning deeds of Madison and Mob!
My New-Year's wish, though warm, is briefly told;—
May the New-Year be happier than the Old;
May scenes of peace succeed to those of blood;
May Commerce spread her white wings o'er the flood;
May good men live, but every tyrant knave,
Who rules to curse his country, find a grave,
Whether by angry Heaven in vengeance made,
Or dug by Brutus with his patriot blade.
May the New-Year be happier than the Old;
May scenes of peace succeed to those of blood;
May Commerce spread her white wings o'er the flood;
May good men live, but every tyrant knave,
Who rules to curse his country, find a grave,
Whether by angry Heaven in vengeance made,
Or dug by Brutus with his patriot blade.
A better wish, in behalf of such a man, would have been, that he might live to see the error of his ways, and a better man in his place. The “patriot blade” of Brutus put one Cæsar out of the way, only to make room for another; and, when there was not virtue enough left in Roome to uphold a Republic, the people gained little by exchanging the ambition of Julius Cæsar for the stern despotism of Augustus.
290
III.
A WORD FROM A PETITIONER.
What! our petitions spurned! The prayer
Of thousands,—tens of thousands,—cast
Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!
But ye will hear us, first or last.
The thousands that, last year, ye scorned,
Are millions now. Be warned! Be warned!
Of thousands,—tens of thousands,—cast
Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!
But ye will hear us, first or last.
The thousands that, last year, ye scorned,
Are millions now. Be warned! Be warned!
Turn not, contemptuous, on your heel;—
It is not for an act of grace
That, suppliants, at your feet we kneel,—
We stand;—we look you in the face,
And say,—and we have weighed the word,—
That our petitions SHALL be heard.
It is not for an act of grace
That, suppliants, at your feet we kneel,—
We stand;—we look you in the face,
And say,—and we have weighed the word,—
That our petitions SHALL be heard.
There are two powers above the laws
Ye make or mar:—they 're our allies.
Beneath their shield we'll urge our cause,
Though all your hands against us rise.
We've proved them, and we know their might;
The Constitution and the Right.
Ye make or mar:—they 're our allies.
Beneath their shield we'll urge our cause,
Though all your hands against us rise.
We've proved them, and we know their might;
The Constitution and the Right.
We say not, ye shall snap the links
That bind you to your dreadful slaves;
Hug, if ye will, a corpse that stinks,
And toil on with it to your graves!
But, that ye may go, coupled thus,
Ye never shall make slaves of us.
That bind you to your dreadful slaves;
291
And toil on with it to your graves!
But, that ye may go, coupled thus,
Ye never shall make slaves of us.
And what, but more than slaves, are they
Who're told they ne'er shall be denied
The right of prayer; yet, when they pray,
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside?
Such mockery they will tamely bear,
Who're fit an iron chain to wear.
Who're told they ne'er shall be denied
The right of prayer; yet, when they pray,
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside?
Such mockery they will tamely bear,
Who're fit an iron chain to wear.
“The ox, that treadeth out the corn,
Thou shalt not muzzle.”—Thus saith God.
And will ye muzzle the free-born,—
The man,—the owner of the sod,—
Who “gives the grazing ox his meat,”
And you,—his servants here,—your seat?
Thou shalt not muzzle.”—Thus saith God.
And will ye muzzle the free-born,—
The man,—the owner of the sod,—
Who “gives the grazing ox his meat,”
And you,—his servants here,—your seat?
There's a cloud, blackening up the sky!
East, west, and north its curtain spreads;
Lift to its muttering folds your eye!
Beware! for, bursting on your heads,
It hath a force to bear you down;—
'T is an insulted people's frown.
East, west, and north its curtain spreads;
Lift to its muttering folds your eye!
Beware! for, bursting on your heads,
It hath a force to bear you down;—
'T is an insulted people's frown.
Ye may have heard of the Soultan',
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidan',
He barred, and fired;—and their death-yell
Went to the stars,—and their blood ran
In brooks across the Atmeidan'.
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidan',
He barred, and fired;—and their death-yell
292
In brooks across the Atmeidan'.
The despot spake; and, in one night,
The deed was done. He wields, alone,
The sceptre of the Ottomite,
And brooks no brother near his throne.
Even now, the bow-string, at his beck,
Goes round his mightiest subject's neck;
The deed was done. He wields, alone,
The sceptre of the Ottomite,
And brooks no brother near his throne.
Even now, the bow-string, at his beck,
Goes round his mightiest subject's neck;
Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop,—
I've seen him, in his palace-yard,—
To take petitions from a troop
Of women, who, behind his guard,
Come up, their several suits to press,
To state their wrongs, and ask redress.
I've seen him, in his palace-yard,—
To take petitions from a troop
Of women, who, behind his guard,
Come up, their several suits to press,
To state their wrongs, and ask redress.
And these, into his house of prayer,
I've seen him take; and, as he spreads
His own before his Maker there,
These women's prayers he hears or reads;—
For, while he wears the diadem,
He is instead of God to them.
I've seen him take; and, as he spreads
His own before his Maker there,
These women's prayers he hears or reads;—
For, while he wears the diadem,
He is instead of God to them.
And this he must do. He may grant,
Or may deny; but hear he must.
Were his Seven Towers all adamant,
They'd soon be levelled with the dust,
And “public feeling” make short work,—
Should he not hear them,—with the Turk.
Or may deny; but hear he must.
Were his Seven Towers all adamant,
They'd soon be levelled with the dust,
And “public feeling” make short work,—
Should he not hear them,—with the Turk.
293
Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread
Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell!
These shall not fall upon your head,
As once upon your house they fell.
We have a weapon, firmer set
And better than the bayonet;—
Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell!
These shall not fall upon your head,
As once upon your house they fell.
We have a weapon, firmer set
And better than the bayonet;—
A weapon that comes down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you;—'t is the ballot-box.
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you;—'t is the ballot-box.
Black as your deed shall be the balls
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.
Not women, now,—the people pray.
Hear us,—or from us ye will hear!
Beware!—a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear,—
Kings though ye be,—may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake!—Ye're warned.
Hear us,—or from us ye will hear!
Beware!—a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear,—
Kings though ye be,—may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake!—Ye're warned.
1837.
294
IV.
THE TOCSIN.
“If the pulpit be silent, whenever or wherever there may be a sinner, bloody with this guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust.”
—D. Webster.
Wake! children of the men who said,
“All are born free!”—Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled
In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves
And hugging there your chains,—ye slaves!
“All are born free!”—Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled
In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves
And hugging there your chains,—ye slaves!
Ay,—slaves of slaves! What, sleep ye yet,
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,—dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,—while deep
The chain her quivering flesh endures
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,—dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,—while deep
The chain her quivering flesh endures
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
Hah! say ye that I've falsely spoken,
Calling you slaves?—Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press!—ye'll see it broken;
Stand to defend it!—ye'll be shot. —
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what “the brotherhood” won't bear!
Calling you slaves?—Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press!—ye'll see it broken;
Stand to defend it!—ye'll be shot. —
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what “the brotherhood” won't bear!
295
Then from your lips let words of grace,
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race
Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;—
And pray,—“Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race
Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;—
And pray,—“Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.
Yes, men of God! ye may not speak,
As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,—the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And, if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;—
And why?—“The brethren” will not hear it.
As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,—the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And, if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;—
And why?—“The brethren” will not hear it.
Since, then, through pulpit, or through press,
To prove your freedom ye 're not able,
Go,—like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,—to a stable!
Bend there to Liberty your knee!
Say there that God made all men free!
To prove your freedom ye 're not able,
Go,—like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,—to a stable!
296
Say there that God made all men free!
Even there,—ere Freedom's vows ye've plighted,
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there, are fires infernal lighted,
And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.
Ah, well!—“so persecuted they
The prophets” of a former day!
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there, are fires infernal lighted,
And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.
Ah, well!—“so persecuted they
The prophets” of a former day!
Go, then, and build yourselves a hall,
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write “Freedom,” on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of Penn;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;—
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write “Freedom,” on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of Penn;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;—
Within let Freedom's anthem swell;—
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you—Hark! the yell,—
The torch,—the torrent of the Mob!—
They 're Slavery's troops that round you sweep,
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you—Hark! the yell,—
The torch,—the torrent of the Mob!—
297
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!
At Slavery's beck, the prayers ye urge
On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,—that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,—
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,—that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,—
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
At Slavery's beck, ye send your sons
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!—Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!—Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
At Slavery's beck, the very hands
Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye 're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,—tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!
Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye 're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,—tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!
298
Vengeance is thine, Almighty God!
To pay it hath thy justice bound thee;
Even now, I see thee take thy rod,—
Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee;—
Slip them not yet, in mercy!—Deign
Thy wrath yet longer to restrain!—
To pay it hath thy justice bound thee;
Even now, I see thee take thy rod,—
Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee;—
Slip them not yet, in mercy!—Deign
Thy wrath yet longer to restrain!—
Or,—let thy kingdom, Slavery, come!
Let Church, let State, receive thy chain!
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb,
If so “the brotherhood” ordain!
The Muse her own indignant spirit
Will yet speak out;—and men shall hear it.
Let Church, let State, receive thy chain!
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb,
If so “the brotherhood” ordain!
The Muse her own indignant spirit
Will yet speak out;—and men shall hear it.
Yes;—while, at Concord, there's a stone
That she can strike her fire from still;
While there's a shaft at Lexington,
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,
There shall she stand and strike her lyre,
And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her.
That she can strike her fire from still;
While there's a shaft at Lexington,
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,
There shall she stand and strike her lyre,
And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her.
But, should she thence by mobs be driven,
For purer heights she'll plume her wing;—
Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven
She'll soar, where she can safely sing.
God of our fathers, speed her thither!
God of the free, let me go with her!
For purer heights she'll plume her wing;—
Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven
She'll soar, where she can safely sing.
God of our fathers, speed her thither!
God of the free, let me go with her!
1838.
Bear witness, “Grounds of Complaint preferred against the Rev. John Pierpont, by a Committee of the Parish, called ‘The Proprietors of Hollis-Street Meetinghouse,’ to be submitted to a mutual Ecclesiastical Council, as Reasons for dissolving his Connexion with said Parish,” July 27th, 1840: one of which runs thus;—Because “of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of prohibiting the sale of ardent spirits;—of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of imprisonment for debt;—of his too busy interference with the popular controversy on the subject of the abolition of slavery.” And this, in the eighteen hundred and fortieth year of Him whom the Lord God sent “to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound”!
Bear witness, that large “upper room,” the hay-loft over the stable of the Marlborough Hotel, standing upon the ground now covered by the Marlborough Chapel; the only temple in Boston, into which the friends of human liberty, that is, of the liberty of man as man, irrespective of color or caste, could gain admittance for the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, January 25th, 1837. Bear witness, too, that smaller room in Summer Street, where a meeting was held the same day, by members of the same Society; where their only altar was an iron stove,—their only incense, the fumes of a quantity of cayenne pepper, that some one of the “imps” had sprinkled upon the hot stove-plates, to drive the friends of the freedom of all men out of that little asylum.
Bear witness, ye ruins of “Pennsylvania Hall”!—a heap of ruins made by a Philadelphia mob, May 17th, 1838,—and still allowed to remain a heap of ruins, as I was lately told in Philadelphia, from the fear, on the part of the city government, that, should the noble structure be reared again, and dedicated again to Liberty, the fiery tragedy of the 17th of May would be encored.
The Ladies are now exerting themselves to make the shaft on Bunker's Hill a whole one. Success to them!
299
V.
THE GAG.
Ho! children of the granite hills
That bristle with the hackmatack,
And sparkle with the crystal rills
That hurry toward the Merrimack,
Dam up those rills!—for, while they run,
They all rebuke your Atherton.
That bristle with the hackmatack,
And sparkle with the crystal rills
That hurry toward the Merrimack,
Dam up those rills!—for, while they run,
They all rebuke your Atherton.
Dam up those rills!—they flow so free
O'er icy slope, o'er beetling crag,
That soon they'll all be off at sea,
Beyond the reach of Charlie's gag;—
And when those waters are the sea's,
They'll speak and thunder as they please!
O'er icy slope, o'er beetling crag,
That soon they'll all be off at sea,
Beyond the reach of Charlie's gag;—
And when those waters are the sea's,
They'll speak and thunder as they please!
Then freeze them stiff!—but let there come
No winds to chain them;—should they blow,
They'll speak of freedom;—let the dumb
And breathless frost forbid their flow.
Then, all will be so hushed and mum
You'll think your Atherton has come.
No winds to chain them;—should they blow,
They'll speak of freedom;—let the dumb
And breathless frost forbid their flow.
300
You'll think your Atherton has come.
Not he!—“Of all the airts
that blow,”
He dearly loves the soft South-west,
That tells where rice and cotton grow,
And man is, like the Patriarchs, blest
(So say some eloquent divines)
With God-given slaves ; and concubines.
He dearly loves the soft South-west,
That tells where rice and cotton grow,
And man is, like the Patriarchs, blest
(So say some eloquent divines)
With God-given slaves ; and concubines.
Let not the winds go thus at large,
That now o'er all your hills career,—
Your Sunapee and Kearsarge,—
Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer
That, like the winds, sweep round their hill,
Should all be gagged, to keep them still.
That now o'er all your hills career,—
Your Sunapee and Kearsarge,—
Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer
That, like the winds, sweep round their hill,
Should all be gagged, to keep them still.
And all your big and little brooks,
That rush down laughing towards the sea,
Your Lampreys, Squams, and Contoocooks,
That show a spirit to be free,
Should learn they 're not to take such airs;—
Your mouths are stopped;—then why not theirs?
That rush down laughing towards the sea,
Your Lampreys, Squams, and Contoocooks,
That show a spirit to be free,
Should learn they 're not to take such airs;—
Your mouths are stopped;—then why not theirs?
Plug every spring that dares to play
At bubble, in its gravel cup,
Or babble, as it runs away!—
Nay,—catch and coop your eagles up!
It is not meet that thy should fly,
And scream of freedom, through your sky.
At bubble, in its gravel cup,
Or babble, as it runs away!—
Nay,—catch and coop your eagles up!
301
And scream of freedom, through your sky.
Ye've not done yet! Your very trees,—
Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag
In concert with the mountain breeze,—
Unless they're silenced by a gag,
Will whisper,—“We will stand our ground!
Our heads are up! Our hearts are sound!”
Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag
In concert with the mountain breeze,—
Unless they're silenced by a gag,
Will whisper,—“We will stand our ground!
Our heads are up! Our hearts are sound!”
Yea, Atherton, the upright firs
O'er thee exult, and taunt thee thus,—
“Though THOU art fallen, no feller stirs
His foot, or lifts his axe at us.
‘Hell from beneath, is moved at thee,’
Since thou hast crouched to Slavery.
O'er thee exult, and taunt thee thus,—
“Though THOU art fallen, no feller stirs
His foot, or lifts his axe at us.
‘Hell from beneath, is moved at thee,’
Since thou hast crouched to Slavery.
“Thou saidst, ‘I will exalt my throne”
Above the stars; and, in the north
Will sit upon the mount alone,
And send my Slavery “Orders” forth’!
Our White Hills spurn thee from their sight;
Their blasts shall speed thee in thy flight.
Above the stars; and, in the north
Will sit upon the mount alone,
And send my Slavery “Orders” forth’!
Our White Hills spurn thee from their sight;
Their blasts shall speed thee in thy flight.
302
“Go! breathe amid the aguish damps
That gather o'er the Congaree;—
Go! hide thee in the cypress swamps
That darken o'er the black Santee,—
And be the moss, above thy head,
The gloomy drapery of thy bed!
That gather o'er the Congaree;—
Go! hide thee in the cypress swamps
That darken o'er the black Santee,—
And be the moss, above thy head,
The gloomy drapery of thy bed!
“The moss, that creeps from bough to bough,
And hangs in many a dull festoon;—
There, peeping through thy curtain, thou
Mayest catch some ‘glimpses of the moon’;
Or, better, twist of it a string,
Noose in thy neck, repent, and—swing!”
And hangs in many a dull festoon;—
There, peeping through thy curtain, thou
Mayest catch some ‘glimpses of the moon’;
Or, better, twist of it a string,
Noose in thy neck, repent, and—swing!”
Sons of the granite hills, your birds
Your winds, your waters, and your trees,
Of faith and freedom speak, in words
That should be felt in times like these;
Their voice comes to you from the sky!
In them, God speaks of Liberty.
Your winds, your waters, and your trees,
Of faith and freedom speak, in words
That should be felt in times like these;
Their voice comes to you from the sky!
In them, God speaks of Liberty.
Sons of the granite hills, awake!
Ye're on a mighty stream afloat,
With all your liberties at stake;—
A faithless pilot's on your boat!
And, while ye've lain asleep, ye're snagged
Nor can ye cry for help,—YE'RE GAGGED!
Ye're on a mighty stream afloat,
With all your liberties at stake;—
A faithless pilot's on your boat!
And, while ye've lain asleep, ye're snagged
Nor can ye cry for help,—YE'RE GAGGED!
1839.
I have no feelings of personal hostility towards the Hon. Charles G. Atherton. But if, by stifling the prayers of more than one million of his fellow men, in order that he may perpetuate the slavery of more than two millions, the best friend I have on earth shall seek to make his name immortal, I will do my best to—help him.
“Yea, the fir trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell, from beneath, is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming.—For thou hast said in thy heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt myself above the stars of God; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north.”
—Isaiah, xiv. 8, 9, 13.These fir trees that grow upon the granite hills, though they seem to have some heart, can certainly have no bowels, or only granite ones, else they could never give such suicidal counsel.
303
VI.
THE CHAIN.
Is it his daily toil that wrings
From the slave's bosom that deep sigh?
Is it his niggard fare that brings
The tear into his down-cast eye?
From the slave's bosom that deep sigh?
Is it his niggard fare that brings
The tear into his down-cast eye?
O no; by toil and humble fare
Earth's sons their health and vigor gain;
It is because the slave must wear
His chain.
Earth's sons their health and vigor gain;
It is because the slave must wear
His chain.
Is it the sweat from every pore
That starts, and glistens in the sun,
As, the young cotton bending o'er,
His naked back it shines upon?
That starts, and glistens in the sun,
As, the young cotton bending o'er,
His naked back it shines upon?
Is it the drops that, from his breast
Into the thirsty furrow fall,
That scald his soul, deny him rest,
And turn his cup of life to gall?
Into the thirsty furrow fall,
That scald his soul, deny him rest,
And turn his cup of life to gall?
No;—for, that man with sweating brow
Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain;
This the slave's spirit doth not bow;
It is his chain.
Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain;
This the slave's spirit doth not bow;
It is his chain.
304
Is it, that scorching sands and skies
Upon his velvet skin have set
A hue, admired in beauty's eyes,
In Genoa's silks, and polished jet?
Upon his velvet skin have set
A hue, admired in beauty's eyes,
In Genoa's silks, and polished jet?
No; for this color was his pride,
When roaming o'er his native plain;
Even here, his hue can he abide,
But not his chain.
When roaming o'er his native plain;
Even here, his hue can he abide,
But not his chain.
Nor is it, that his back and limbs
Are scored with many a gory gash,
That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,
And the Man dies beneath the lash.
Are scored with many a gory gash,
That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,
And the Man dies beneath the lash.
For Baäl's priests, on Carmel's slope,
Themselves with knives and lancets scored,
Till the blood spirted,—in the hope
The god would hear, whom they adored;—
Themselves with knives and lancets scored,
Till the blood spirted,—in the hope
The god would hear, whom they adored;—
And Christian flagellants their backs
All naked to the scourge have given;
And martyrs to their stakes and racks
Have gone, of choice, in hope of heaven;—
All naked to the scourge have given;
And martyrs to their stakes and racks
Have gone, of choice, in hope of heaven;—
For here there was an inward WILL!
Here spake the spirit, upward tending;
And o'er Faith's cloud-girt altar, still,
Hope hung her rainbow, heaven-ward bending.
Here spake the spirit, upward tending;
And o'er Faith's cloud-girt altar, still,
Hope hung her rainbow, heaven-ward bending.
305
But will and hope hath not the slave,
His bleeding spirit to sustain:—
No,—he must drag on, to the grave,
His chain.
His bleeding spirit to sustain:—
No,—he must drag on, to the grave,
His chain.
1839.
VII.
THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APOSTROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR.
Star of the North! though night winds drift
The fleecy drapery of the sky
Between thy lamp and me, I lift,
Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest,
And of a land of freedom tellest.
The fleecy drapery of the sky
Between thy lamp and me, I lift,
Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest,
And of a land of freedom tellest.
Star of the North! while blazing day
Pours round me its full tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
I, too, lie hid, and long for night:
For night;—I dare not walk at noon,
Nor dare I trust the faithless moon,—
Pours round me its full tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
I, too, lie hid, and long for night:
For night;—I dare not walk at noon,
Nor dare I trust the faithless moon,—
Nor faithless man, whose burning lust
For gold hath riveted my chain;
Nor other leader can I trust,
But thee, of even the starry train;
For, all the host around thee burning,
Like faithless man, keep turning, turning.
For gold hath riveted my chain;
Nor other leader can I trust,
But thee, of even the starry train;
For, all the host around thee burning,
Like faithless man, keep turning, turning.
306
I may not follow where they go:
Star of the North, I look to thee
While on I press; for well I know
Thy light and truth shall set me free;—
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth;
Thy truth, that all my soul believeth.
Star of the North, I look to thee
While on I press; for well I know
Thy light and truth shall set me free;—
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth;
Thy truth, that all my soul believeth.
They of the East beheld the star
That over Bethlehem's manger glowed;
With joy they hailed it from afar,
And followed where it marked the road,
Till, where its rays directly fell,
They found the Hope of Israel.
That over Bethlehem's manger glowed;
With joy they hailed it from afar,
And followed where it marked the road,
Till, where its rays directly fell,
They found the Hope of Israel.
Wise were the men who followed thus
The star that sets man free from sin!
Star of the North! thou art to us,—
Who're slaves because we wear a skin
Dark as is night's protecting wing,—
Thou art to us a holy thing.
The star that sets man free from sin!
Star of the North! thou art to us,—
Who're slaves because we wear a skin
Dark as is night's protecting wing,—
Thou art to us a holy thing.
And we are wise to follow thee!
I trust thy steady light alone:
Star of the North! thou seem'st to me
To burn before the Almighty's throne,
To guide me, through these forests dim
And vast, to liberty and Him.
I trust thy steady light alone:
Star of the North! thou seem'st to me
To burn before the Almighty's throne,
To guide me, through these forests dim
And vast, to liberty and Him.
Thy beam is on the glassy breast
Of the still spring, upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
And bow my parching lips to drink.
Guide of the friendless negro's way,
I bless thee for this quiet ray!
Of the still spring, upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
And bow my parching lips to drink.
307
I bless thee for this quiet ray!
In the dark top of southern pines
I nestled, when the driver's horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows at the break of morn.
And there I lay, till thy sweet face
Looked in upon “my hiding-place.”
I nestled, when the driver's horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows at the break of morn.
And there I lay, till thy sweet face
Looked in upon “my hiding-place.”
The tangled cane-brake,—where I crept
For shelter from the heat of noon,
And where, while others toiled, I slept
Till wakened by the rising moon,—
As its stalks felt the night wind free,
Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee.
For shelter from the heat of noon,
And where, while others toiled, I slept
Till wakened by the rising moon,—
As its stalks felt the night wind free,
Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee.
Star of the North! in bright array
The constellations round thee sweep,
Each holding on its nightly way,
Rising, or sinking in the deep,
And, as it hangs in mid heaven flaming,
The homage of some nation claiming.
The constellations round thee sweep,
Each holding on its nightly way,
Rising, or sinking in the deep,
And, as it hangs in mid heaven flaming,
The homage of some nation claiming.
This nation to the Eagle
cowers;
Fit ensign! she's a bird of spoil;—
Like worships like! for each devours
The earnings of another's toil.
I've felt her talons and her beak,
And now the gentler Lion seek.
Fit ensign! she's a bird of spoil;—
Like worships like! for each devours
The earnings of another's toil.
308
And now the gentler Lion seek.
The Lion, at the Virgin's feet
Crouches, and lays his mighty paw
Into her lap!—an emblem meet
Of England's Queen and English law:—
Queen, that hath made her Islands free!
Law, that holds out its shield to me!
Crouches, and lays his mighty paw
Into her lap!—an emblem meet
Of England's Queen and English law:—
Queen, that hath made her Islands free!
Law, that holds out its shield to me!
Star of the North! upon that shield
Thou shinest!—O, for ever shine!
The negro, from the cotton-field,
Shall then beneath its orb recline,
And feed the Lion couched before it,
Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it!
Thou shinest!—O, for ever shine!
The negro, from the cotton-field,
Shall then beneath its orb recline,
And feed the Lion couched before it,
Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it!
VIII.
ECONOMY OF SLAVERY.
“One mouth and one back to two hands,” is the lawThat the hand of his Maker has stamped upon man;
But Slavery lays on God's image her paw,
And fixes him out on a different plan;—
Two mouths and two backs to two hands she creates;
And the consequence is, as she might have expected;
Let the hands do their best, upon all her estates,
The mouths go half fed, and the backs half protected.
1840.
| Airs of Palestine, and other poems | |