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- Poetry · UpdatedThe Rape of FloridaThe poet hath a realm within, and throne, And in his own soul singeth his lament. A comer often in the world unknown — A flaming minister to mortals sent; In an apocalypse of sentiment He shows in colors true the right or wrong, And lights the soul of virtue with content; Oh! could the world without him please us long? What truth is there that lives and does not live in song? "The stuff's in him of robust manliness, He is a poet, singing more by ear Than note." His great heart filled with tenderness, Thus spoke the patriarch bard of Cedarmere Of me, who dwelt in a most obscure sphere; For I was in the tents of bondage when The muse inspired, and ere my song grew clear, The graceful Bryant called his fellow-men To mark what in my lay seemed pleasing to him then. O! shade of our departed Sire of song! If what to us is dim be clear to thee, Hear while my yet rude numbers flow along! If spirit may a mortal's teacher be, Stand thou near by and guidance offer me! That, like thy verses, clear as summer blue, — Bright mirrors of the peaceful and the free, Reflecting e'er the good, the great and true, — So mine may be, and I my pleasing task pursue. Say, then, of that too soon forgotten race That flourished once, but long has been obscure In Florida, and where the seas embrace The Spanish isles; say if e'er lives more pure Warmed veins, or patriots could more endure Around the altars of their native bourne! Say, when their flow'ry landscapes could allure, What peaceful seasons did to them return, And how requited labor filled his golden urn! How sweet their little fields of golden corn! How pleasure smiled o'er all the varying scene! How, 'mid her dewy murmurs dreamt the morn, As Summer lingered in the deep serene! How nibbling flocks spread on the hillsides green, And cattle herded in the vales below; And how wild meadows stretched in bloom-sweet sheen, Beneath unconquered shades, where lovers go When comes the evening star above the dark to glow! In this delightful valley of the isle, Where dwelt the proud Maroon, were not deeds done Which roused the Seminole and fierce exile To more than savage daring? Here begun The valiant struggles of a forest son; And tho' by wrong's leagued numbers overborne, His deeds of love and valor for him won The envied wreath by heroes only worn, And which from manhood's brow oppression ne'er hath torn! The negro slave by Swanee river sang; Well-pleased he listened to his echoes ringing; For in his heart a secret comfort sprang, When Nature seemed to join his mournful singing. To mem'ry's cherished objects fondly clinging; His bosom felt the sunset's patient glow, And spirit whispers into weird life springing, Allured to worlds he trusted yet to know, And lightened for awhile life's burdens here below. The drowsy dawn from many a low-built shed, Beheld his kindred driven to their task; Late evening saw them turn with weary tread And painful faces back; and dost thou ask How sang these bondmen? how their suff'rings mask? Song is the soul of sympathy divine, And hath an inner ray where hope may bask; Song turns the poorest waters into wine, Illumines exile hearts and makes their faces shine. The negro slave by Swanee river sang, There, soon, the human hunter rode along; And eagerly behind him came a gang Of hounds and men, — the bondman hushed his song — Around him came a silent, list'ning throng; "Some runaway!" he muttered; said no more, But sank from view the growing corn among; And though deep pangs his wounded spirit bore, He hushed his soul, and went on singing as before. So fared the land where slaves were groaning yet — Where beauty's eyes must feed the lusts of men! 'Tis as when horrid dreams we half forget, Would then relate, and still relate again — Ah! cold abhorrence hesitates my pen! The heavens were sad, and hearts of men were faint; Philanthropy implored and wept, but then The wrong, unblushing, trampled on Restraint, While feeble Law sat by and uttered no complaint. "Fly and be free!" A whisper comes from heaven, "Thy cries are heard!" the bondman's up and gone! To grasp the dearest boon to mortals given, He frantic flies, unaided and alone. To him the red man's dwellings are unknown; But he can crave the freedom of his race, Can find his harvests in the desert sown, And in the cypress forest's dark embrace A pathway to his habitations safely trace. The sable slave, from Georgia's utmost bounds, Escapes for life into the Great Wahoo. Here he has left afar the savage hounds And human hunters that did late pursue; There in the hommock darkly hid from view, His wretched limbs are stretched awhile to rest, Till some kind Seminole shall guide him thro' To where by hound nor hunter more distrest, He, in a flow'ry home, shall be the red man's guest. If tilled profusion does not crown the view, Nor wide-ranged farms begirt with fences spread; The cultivated plot is well to do; And where no slave his groaning life has led, The songs of plenty fill the lowliest shed. Who could wish more, when Nature, always green, Brings forth fruit-bearing woods and fields of bread? Wish more, where cheerful valleys bloom between, And herds browse on the hills, where winter's ne'er has been? Shall high-domed mosque or steepled cathedral, Alone, to man his native land endear? Shall pride's palatial pomp and ease withal, The only shrines of patriotism rear? Oh! who can limit adoration's sphere, Or check the inspiring currents of the soul? — Who hush the whispers of the vernal year, Or press the sons of freedom from their goal? Or who from Nature wrest the mystery of control! Plebian, Savage, Sage, or lord or fiend, Man hath of justice and of right a cause. Prior to all that e'er has contravened, Or e'en to man's existence, justice was. Right would be right amid the wreck of laws: 'Tis so, and all ordaining Nature gives Somewhere to live, to every child she has; She gives, and to her bosom each receives, Inducing it to love the spot whereon it lives. Fair Florida! whose scenes could so enhance — Could in the sweetness of the earth excel! Wast thou the Seminole's inheritance? Yea, it was thee he loved, and loved so well! 'Twas 'neath thy palms and pines he strove to dwell. Not savage, but resentful to the knife, For thee he sternly struggled — sternly fell! Thoughtful and brave, in long uneven strife, He held the verge of manhood mid dark hights of life. A wild-born pride endeared him to thy soil! Where roamed his herds without a keeper's care — Where man knew not the pangs of slavish toil! And where thou didst not blooming pleasures spare, But well allotted each an ample share, He loved to dwell: Oh! isn't the goal of life Where man has plenty and to man is fair? When free from avarice's pinch and strife, Is earth not like the Eden-home of man and wife? If earth were freed from those who buy and sell, It soon were free from most, or all its ills; For that which makes it, most of all, a hell, Is what the stingy of purse of Fortune fills: The man who blesses and the man who kills, Oft have a kindred purpose after all, — A purpose that will ring in Mammon's tills; And that has ne'er unheeded made a call, Since Eve and Adam trod the thistles of their Fall. What meant the actions of the great and good — The Christ and His Apostles — holy men! Why wandered they about in solitude, Despising what the world called greatness then? Why shun the num'rous city's places, when Eternal themes their warning tongues inspired — Why, but to reach Edenic source again In nature? Why, if not that they aspired To tarry, till seraphic touch and flame had fired Their hearts to work man's restoration? This, This is the voice of Time unfolding truth! Oh! does not Nature teach us primal bliss? Who has not felt her lessons in his youth? And having felt, who can forget forsooth! The voice of birds, the toil and hum of bees, And air all filled with sounds, sweet or uncouth, Dark hights, majestic woods and rolling seas Have been my teachers, and my teachers still be these! Have I not seen the hills of Candahar Clothed in the fury of a thunder storm, When Majesty rolled in His cloud-dark car — Wreathed His dread brow with lightning's livid form, And with a deluge robed His threat'ning arm! Not seen, when night fled His terrific feet, The great deep rose to utter forth alarm, The hills in dreadful hurry rushed to meet, And rocking mountains started from their darkened seat! In happy childhood I have even loved To sport the wild, and in the front and face Of dreadest Nature, watch the storm unmoved, That tore the oak tree from its ancient place And took the hilltops in its dark embrace; And then I've loved the pleasing after-view — The quiet valleys spanned with light and grace — The watery field, replete with life anew, And sunset robing earth in love's sublimest hue. Thus, when afar the wide Bahamas shone, — In lucent stillness gleamed the sunset sea — When day's last rim sank like a molten zone, Emblaz'ning in Omnific heraldry The far-off crag and latest mountain tree; Thus, on a stand dividing worlds I've stood, Till, touched by the dark wand of mystery, I felt the brow of night, and earth imbued With dread emotions of a great eternal Good Upon the shells by Carribea's wave I've heard the anthems of the mighty sea; Heard there the dark pines that their voices gave, And heard a stream denote its minstrelsy — How sweet, all lonely, was it there to be! The stars were bright, the moon was up and clear; But, when I thought of those who once were free, And came at wonted times to worship there; The sea's deep voice grew sad and claimed of me a tear! Oh! sing it in the light of freedom's morn, Tho' tyrant wars have made the earth a grave; The good, the great, and true, are, if so, born, And so with slaves, chains do not make the slave! If high-souled birth be what the mother gave, — If manly birth, and manly to the core, — Whate'er the test, the man will he behave! Crush him to earth and crush him o'er and o'er, A man he'll rise at last and meet you as before. So with our young Atlassa, hero-born, — Free as the air within his palmy shade, The nobler traits that do the man adorn, In him were native: Not the music made In Tampa's forests or the everglade Was fitter, than in this young Seminole Was the proud spirit which did life pervade, And glow and tremble in his ardent soul — Which, lit his inmost-self, and spurned all mean control. Than him none followed chase with nimbler feet, None readier in the forest council rose; To speak for war, e'er sober and discreet, In battle stern, but kind to fallen foes. He led the charge, but halted, — slow to close The vexed retreat: In front of battle he, Handsome and wild his proud form would expose; But in the cheering van of victory, Gentle and brave he was the real chief to see. Lo! mid a thousand warriors where he stands, Pride of all hearts and idol of his race! Look how the chieftains of his war-tried bands Kindle their courage in his valiant face! And as his lips in council open, trace How deep suspense her earnest furrows makes On ev'ry brow! How rings the forest-place With sounding cheers! when native valor wakes His dark intrepid eyes, and he their standard takes! Proud spirit of the hommock-bounded home Well wast thy valor like a buckler worn! And when the light of other times shall come, — When history's muse shall venture to adorn The brow of all her children hero-born, — When the bold truth to man alike assigns The place he merits, of no honor shorn; The wreath shall be, that thy brave front entwines, As green as Mickasukie's everlasting pines! Well bled thy warriors at their leader's side! Well stood they the oppressor's wasting fire; For years sweep on, and in their noiseless tide, Bear down the mem'ries of the past! The dire And gloomful works of tyrants shall expire, Till naught survives, save truth's great victories; Then shall the voyager on his way aspire To ponder what vast wrecks of time he sees, And on Fame's temple columns read their memories! Not so with Osceola, thy dark mate; The hidden terror of the hommock, he Sat gloomily and nursed a bitter hate, — The white man was his common enemy — He rubbed the burning wounds of injury, And plotted in his dreadful silent gloom; As dangerous as a rock beneath the sea. And when in fray he showed his fearless plume, Revenge made sweet the blows that dealt the white man's doom. The pent-up wrath that rankled in his breast, O'er smould'ring embers shot a lurid glare, And wrongs that time itself had not redrest, In ghost-like silence stalked and glimmered there. And from the wizzard caverns of despair, Came voice and groan, reminding o'er and o'er The outrage on his wife so young and fair; And so, by heaven and earth and hell he swore To treat in council with the white man never more. Such were the chiefs who led their daring braves In many a battle nobly lost or won, And consecrated Mickasukie's graves To that sweet province of the summer sun! And still shall history forgetful run? Shall legend too be mute? then Poesy, Divinest chronicler of deeds well done, From thy blest shrine and annals of the free, Sing forth thy praise and man shall hear attentively The poorest negro coming to their shore, To them was brother — their own flesh and blood, — They sought his wretched manhood to restore, — They found his hidings in the swampy wood, And brought him forth — in arms before him stood, — The citizens of God and sovran earth, — They shot straight forward looks with flame imbued, Till in him manhood sprang, a noble birth, And warrior-armed he rose to all that manhood's worth. On the dark front of battle often seen, Or holding dang'rous posts through dreadful hours, — In ranks obedient, in command serene, His comrades learn to note the tested powers Which prove that valor is not always ours, Be whomsoever we: A common race Soon from this union flows — soon rarest flowers Bloom out and smile in beauty's blending grace, And rivals they become for love's sublimest place. The native warrior leads his ebon maid, The dark young brave his bloom-hued lover wins; And where soft spruce and willows mingle shade, Young life mid sunniest hours its course begins: All Nature pours its never-ending dins In groves of rare-hued leaf without'n end, — 'Tis as if Time, forgetting Eden's sins, Relents, and spirit visitors descend In love's remembered tokens, earth once more to blend. The sleepy mosses wave within the sun, And on the dark elms climbs the mistletoe; Great tangled vines through pendant branches run, And hang their purple clusters far below; The old pines wave their summits to and fro, And dancing to the earth, impatient light Touches the languid scene, to quickly go, Like some gay spirit in its sunny plight, That, visiting the earth, did glance and take its flight. Here lapped in Sylvia's all-composing shade, Reposed a lake beneath the thick-wood hill Whose shady base, by night and day was made The scene of trystings: Pining there until The shadow crept upon the midnight sill, The love-sick youth spoke vows unto the moon; And pond'ring by the waters lone and still, The old man conned his lifetime's Afternoon, And turned the pleasing view, "I shall be going soon." "Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; Upon the waters is my light canoe; Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make A music on the parting wave for you, — Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!" This is the song that on the lake was sung, The boatman sang it over when his heart was young. The boatman's song is hushed; the night is still, Still as the vault of heaven, — a plashy oar Starts from the shadows by the darkling hill, And softly dips towards the farther shore; Now stops, now dips again — is heard no more. But follow the nook by yonder tree, — Where spouts a tiny stream with fretish roar, His light canoe is riding noiselessly — A Chieftain's light canoe, in which his maid you see. Ah! how her wild dark wealth of tresses spread Below the arm that round her partly lies! And as she leans her half reluctant head, See how intense the glances that she tries! Her very soul is mounting to her eyes Lit with the fires of her proud ancestry; And as her chieftain hears her faint replies, How his high spirit doth adore to see His princess-child, the bright star of his destiny! "A maid from islands in a far, far sea, Came to our shores, upon a day, a day; A beauty fair, a beauty fair was she, And took our young Chief's heart away, away; Tho' all the world could not we heard him say. And oh! we love our chieftain and his maid, And so will we, and so will we for aye!" This was the night-song on the lake delayed, — The boatman sang it over in the willows' shade. The scout at eve to Mickasukie came; The stories of Twasinta were his boast, — A stately chief, Palmecho was his name, Had numerous herds and fields, and had a host Of servants in the vale from Tampa's coast. A proud descendant of a House of Spain, Distinguished as a patron, gen'rous most, Whoever sought his roof, sought not in vain, And he who tarried once, must shelter there again. What if his child, of Maroon mother born, Were not so white as fancy's marble art? What if Care's tedious skill did not adorn? — A native air did nobler charms impart; For beauty blossomed wildly in her heart: The rosebud's youngest tinge was in her cheek, And her dark restless eyes could dance and start As if the sparkling sense were wont to speak, And hurl the insult back that woman's heart is weak. Lo! where yon age-browned mansion meets the eyes! The brook below it winds how placidly! A house of proud ancestral families, How venerable is its history! Whilom here met the sons of liberty; The counsel and the courage of a time When civilization, crossing o'er the sea, Courted the perils of an unknown clime, And reared the Cross of Spain to mark conquests sublime. But of thy conquests, what remains for thee, Except our sighs, thou proud but feeble Spain! Thy flow'r and pride, Lisboa's chivalry, Could not on these wild shores prolong thy reign. For man waxed mighty and his God was Gain. What if thy ancient mounts are castle-crowned? What if thy vales do open to the main, With cloisters in the distance time-embrowned? These are but glimmerings of what was once renowned. Was not thy standard on these shores unfurled? — Dominions named for thy "most Christian Queen" The smile-provoking jest of a New World, Whose sons in battle had victorious been, O'er English vet'rans, who had service seen? Yea, when the luchre-loving Saxon grew And fattened on the blood of slaves, I ween Not much remained for errant hands to do, Except to seize and hold the weak in bondage too! But Saragossa's flash o'er war's red field, That nerved thy sons in havoc's revelry, Held in young Ewald's softer glance concealed, The dark springs of Astrusian chivalry, — The lash-hid fires of valor's destiny — Such eyes, the raging battle could not tame: Yet they could shed the sweet light of a plea; Enkindling in love's soft consenting flame, A pride that nobly linked with beauty's charming name. But we return; By Carribea's shore And Tampa far, the Maroon's race is run! Gone are his children; him they call no more! No more they gather in the setting sun To join their pastimes, after toil is done! Pathetic silence covers with a pall The scene which all the living seem to shun, And something seems to whisper, after all: "And, ah! did such and such Twasinta's homes befall!" Here many an exile found his long sought rest, And built his cot in woods afar, or lane. Warm were his greetings for the weary guest, Who wandered thither from the distant main. And those who came were pressed to come again. And for what news he gathered by the way, Of frontier happens, or of maid and swain On foreign shores, — prolonged from day to day, The total stranger might at will extend his stay. Here erst came exiles from their little farms, To greet Palmecho and some honored guest; Then ranged in rows, they sat with folded arms, And heaven with rude, but fervent songs addrest: A nameless longing kindled in each breast, Gave soul to song, and as their voices rose, And rolled, and echoed, dying in the West, It seemed as if the dark hills did enclose Unearthly choirs that chanted Nature to repose. But where are they? Their voices are no more, Where is the proud Palmecho? Where his child? Ah! shall we seek them on a foreign shore, Or follow where they wander in the wild? Oh God! and hath our garments been defiled With their shed blood; or what the frost and blight That withered life where erst so sweet it smiled? Let time's unerring finger point aright, If Babylon be doomed, the truth should see the light. Pass by their dwellings! they are desolate! The dog has wandered there and howled and gone! Rank weeds are growing over the broken gate, And silence holds her dismal reign alone. Ah! see what devastation there has done! How o'er the scene a mournful spirit falls! Here where a cheerful hearth whilom hast shone, The dim mole burrows — sunken lean the walls, And wizard voices whisper in the naked halls! Thus have we, Mickasukie, seen thy brave, And, too, Twasinta, seen thy homes decline! Thus have we found how yearns the poorest slave For freedom — how at patriotism's shrine, The ardor of the exile is divine; And now, that in the tide of years o'erflown, There's scarcely left a trace of thee and thine, We pause and sigh, mid wrecks that time hath strewn; Of all the world has been how little now is known! The plowman's furrow marks the crumbling field, Where all unnoticed, war's rude weapons spread; While neath his heedless step may lie concealed, The strange and thrilling annals of the dead! On some eventful day there may have bled, Freemen as brave as Balaklava knew; While there may rest some glorious leader's head, Whose matchless valor to his standard drew Brave hosts, who round their homes a wall of battle threw. Oh! would the muse of history rend the veil, And bring her hidden instances to light; How many standards of the proud would trail, As thousands all unknown would rush in sight! From steepled vale and celebrated hight! Wherever civilization spreads her name, Nations that perished in the scourge and blight Of wars would rise, and in the book of fame, Record their struggles and their heroes' deeds proclaim. Not Albion's will nor Scotia's price alone, Could drum and slogan till the air should shriek With martial praise, — nor with their lips of stone, Could Tyber's Mistress and Illyrium speak The godlike deeds of Roman and of Greek; Nay, where the orange blows in yellow gold, — Where eve is thoughtful and the morn is meek, — Where stood the quick-eyed warrior dark and bold, Applausing earth would hear the deeds of glory told. Then from the lips of unforgetting time, To hear what did Twasinta's homes befall When war-storms overspread that peaceful clime — To know what anguish did all hearts appall, When separations brought death after all — To hear how love can mortal dread unmask, — To hear, and write at candor's earnest call, That I may answer if mankind shall ask, In truth — this be my aim, this be my further task.
- Poetry · UpdatedFreedomO Freedom! Freedom! O! how oft Thy loving children call on Thee! In wailings loud, and breathings soft, Beseeching God, Thy face to see. With agonizing hearts we kneel, While 'round us howls the oppressor's cry,— And suppliant pray, that we may feel The ennob'ling glances of Thine eye. We think of Thee as once we saw Thee, jewel'd by Thy Father's hand, Afar beside dark Egypt's shore, Exulting with Thy ransom'd band. We hear, as then, the thrilling song, That hail'd Thy passage through the sea,— While distant echoes still prolong The cymbal'd anthem, sung to Thee. And wafted yet, upon the gales Borne pure and fresh from sunny skies, Come startling words! that 'long the vales Where Pelion and Ossa rise, Were shouted by Thine own clear voice! And Grecian hearts leap'd at the call: E'en as now Patriot souls rejoice, To see invading tyrants fall. We view Thy stately form, loom o'er The topmost of the seven hills! Around Thee glittering eagles soar— The symbol'd rise of freeborn wills. Down in the plains, we still behold The circled forums built to Thee;— Hear Tully's strains, and Brutus bold, Call on his country to be free. When from those groves of citron bloom, And classic Helle's vine clad shore,— Through countries hung in castled gloom, Attending winds Thy chariot bore,— We followed Thee o'er all the fields Of Europe, crimson-dyed with blood; Where broken spears, and buried shields, Now mark the spots where Thou hast stood. At Morgarten, through drifting snows, That seem'd to guard the Switzer's home!— And where the walls of Sempach rose, We saw the mail-clad Austrians come. Three times we saw Thee bear the shock Of stalwart knight, and plunging steed;— And crush their front, as does the rock The waves, that 'gainst its bosom speed. Yet, vainly striving, Thou, to part That brist'ling sea of pikes had'st tried, Till Underwalden's patriot heart Bore down the foe, and glorious died. Yes! Victory, as Arnold fell, Her white plume waved from every peak,— And ringing loud, the voice of Tell Still greater triumphs bade Thee seek. With trophies from Thy conflicts deck'd, (Allied by God to injured men,) We saw Thy struggle at Utrecht, At Zealand, Brabant, and Lutzen. Where e'er the sunbeams flash'd, Thy shield Lit up oppression's funeral pile; And though o'erwhelm'd on Calsgrave field, And banished from Thy Shamrock isle; Yet cheering on Thy gallant Poles, From Slavon bondage to be free, We see Thy hurried pace, as rolls The alarm of danger o'er the sea. Above the heaving mountain crest, As to the isles of thought and song Thou bad'st adieu,—from out the west, Were heard, deep mutterings of wrong. On many a frozen battle ground, Opposing swords were gleaming bright; While 'long the skies, the thundering sound Of cannon, 'woke the silent night. Exulting in their mission high, Columbia's sons had pledged Thy cause— Thy first endeavor,—“to untie The cords of caste and slavish laws.” Long years roll'd by, and still went on The strife of man, 'gainst regal power: Till, bravely, in Thy strength, was won, Thy since, polluted, blood-stained dower. We mourn for this! yet joyfully O Freedom! we loud praises give, That on Thine altar in the sea, For us Thy hallowed fires live. O! grant! unto our parent home, Thy constant presence and Thy shield! That when again rude hirelings come, Though starr'd from every battle field, The spirit of the patriot true, Toussaint, the “man of men,” may ring The shrill war cry the welkin through, And mount to plain the echo sing. But not 'mid trick'ling blood and smoke, The wailings of the dying foe, The bayonet thrust—the sabre stroke,— Canst Thou alone great victories show. Along Thy pathway, glory shines: And grateful wreaths before Thee fall:— More worth than all Golconda's mines, Or power, that twines in Coronal. Thine is the mission, to subdue The soul, encased in triple steel; And so the world with love imbue, That tyrants shall before Thee kneel. When from the slave's crush'd, aching heart, The cry went up to Sabaoth's God,— And man, with his immortal part, Was pressed e'en down unto the sod, We saw Thee wield convictions strength, And heard Thy blows fall thick and fast; While loud and clear through all the length Of Britain, blew Thy trumpet blast. Thou wast the answer! Clarkson! thou The mighty soul that led the strife! Taking a consecrated vow, To conquer or to yield thy life. Well hast thou fought, great pioneer! The snows of age upon thy head, Were Freedom's wreaths; by far, more dear, Than finest sculpture o'er the dead. We leave thee to thy long repose! Offering the blessings of the slave: Assured that at the world's dread close, Thou'lt rise enfranchised from the grave. What more can we O! Freedom! speak In praise of Thee? our hearts grow faint! Where else shall we Thy triumphs seek? What fairer pictures can we paint? We stand upon the shaking ground Of tyranny! we call it home: The earth is strewn with Christians bound,— We've cried to Thee—Thou dost not come. We know Thou hast Thy chosen few,— The men of heart, who live by right,— Who steadily their way pursue, Though round them pall the shades of night. We hold them dear: defamed, beset, They fight the civil war of man: The fiercest struggle, that has yet Been waged against oppressions ban. We give them thanks: the bondman's prayer As holy incense soars on high, That nought to Thee their love impair, 'Till shall be gained the victory. But, O! Great Spirit! see'st Thou Thy spotless ermine men defile? God's civil rulers cringing bow To hate, and fraud, and customs vile! The CHURCH, to her great charge untrue, Keeps pious guard, o'er slavery's den! While guilty laymen, wrong pursue, Her recreant priesthood, say—amen. O! purify each holy court! The ministry of law and light! That man, no longer, may be bought To trample down his brother's right. We lift imploring hands to Thee! We cry for those in prison bound! O! in Thy strength, come! Liberty! And 'stablish right the wide world round. We pray to see Thee, face to face: To feel our souls grow strong and wide: So ever shall our injured race, By Thy firm principles abide.
- Poetry · UpdatedLincolnTo-day, O martyred chief, beneath the sun We would unveil thy form; to thee who won Th’applause of nations for thy soul sincere, A loving tribute we would offer here. ’T was thine not worlds to conquer, but men’s hearts; To change to balm the sting of slavery’s darts; In lowly charity thy joy to find, And open “gates of mercy on mankind.” And so they come, the freed, with grateful gift, From whose sad path the shadows thou didst lift. Eleven years have rolled their seasons round, Since its most tragic close thy life-work found. Yet through the vistas of the vanished days We see thee still, responsive to our gaze, As ever to thy country’s solemn needs. Not regal coronets, but princely deeds Were thy chaste diadem; of truer worth Thy modest virtues than the gems of earth. Stanch, honest, fervent in the purest cause, Truth was thy guide; her mandates were thy laws. Rare heroism, spirit-purity, The storied Spartan’s stern simplicity, Such moral strength as gleams like burnished gold Amid the doubt of men of weaker mould, Were thine. Called in thy country’s sorest hour, When brother knew not brother—mad for power— To guide the helm through bloody deeps of war, While distant nations gazed in anxious awe, Unflinching in the task, thou didst fulfill Thy mighty mission with a deathless will. Born to a destiny the most sublime, Thou wert, O Lincoln! in the march of time, God bade thee pause and bid the oppressed go free— Most glorious boon giv’n to humanity. While slavery ruled the land, what deeds were done? What tragedies enacted ’neath the sun! Her page is blurred with records of defeat, Of lives heroic lived in silence, meet For the world’s praise; of woe, despair and tears, The speechless agony of weary years. Thou utteredst the word, and Freedom fair Rang her sweet bells on the clear winter air; She waved her magic wand, and lo! from far A long procession came. With many a scar Their brows were wrinkled, in the bitter strife, Full many had said their sad farewell to life But on they hastened, free, their shackles gone; The aged, young,—e’en infancy was borne To offer unto thee loud paeans of praise,— Their happy tribute after saddest days. A race set free! The deed brought joy and light! It bade calm Justice from her sacred height, When faith and hope and courage slowly waned, Unfurl the stars and stripes, at last unstained! The nations rolled acclaim from sea to sea, And Heaven’s vault rang with Freedom’s harmony. The angels ’mid the amaranths must have hushed Their chanted cadences, as upward rushed The hymn sublime: and as the echoes pealed, God’s ceaseless benison the action sealed. As now we dedicate this shaft to thee, True champion! in all humility And solemn earnestness, we would erect A monument invisible, undecked, Save by our allied purpose to be true To Freedom’s loftiest precepts, so that through The fiercest contests we may walk secure, Fixed on foundations that may still endure, When granite shall have crumbled to decay, And generations passed from earth away. Exalted patriot! illustrious chief! Thy life’s immortal work compels belief. To-day in radiance thy virtues shine, And how can we a fitting garland twine? Thy crown most glorious to a ransomed race! High on our country’s scroll we fondly trace, In lines of fadeless light that softly blend, Emancipator, hero, martyr, friend! While Freedom may her holy sceptre claim, The world shall echo with Our Lincoln’s name.
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