The outworn rite, the old abuse, The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use Of wrong alone,—

These wait their doom, from that great law Which makes the past time serve to-day; And fresher life the world shall draw From their decay.

Oh, backward-looking son of time! The new is old, the old is new, The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through.

So wisely taught the Indian seer; Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, Are one, the same.

Idly as thou, in that old day Thou mournest, did thy sire repine; So, in his time, thy child grown gray Shall sigh for thine.

But life shall on and upward go; Th' eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow, Which God repeats.

Take heart! the Waster builds again, A charmed life old Goodness bath; The tares may perish, but the grain Is not for death.

God works in all things; all obey His first propulsion from the night Wake thou and watch! the world is gray With morning light!

1848.



THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

STILL in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stain Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain; Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through, And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew, When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread, At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed The yawning trenches with her noble dead; Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride; Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall; On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.

"What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, With sneering lip, and wise world-knowing eyes, "While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, And round the green earth, to the church-bell's chime, The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms, Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood, Like tipplers answering Father Matthew's call; The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life, The Yankee swaggering with his bowie-knife, The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared, The blood still dripping from his amber beard, Quitting their mad Berserker dance to hear The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer; Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, Where men for dice each titled gambler flings, To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, For tea and gossip, like old country dames No! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant, Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues, Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er, Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar; Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade Of "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made, Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hope To capsize navies with a windy trope; Still shall the glory and the pomp of War Along their train the shouting millions draw; Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave; Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song, Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong; Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine, To plumed and sworded auditors, shall prove Their trade accordant with the Law of Love; And Church for State, and State for Church, shall fight, And both agree, that "Might alone is Right!" Despite of sneers like these, O faithful few, Who dare to hold God's word and witness true, Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time, And o'er the present wilderness of crime Sees the calm future, with its robes of green, Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between,— Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread, Though worldly wisdom shake the cautious head; No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere, Without the greeting of the skeptic's sneer; Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall, Common as dew and sunshine, over all."

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace; As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre, Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell, And love subdued the maddened heart of hell. Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue, Which the glad angels of the Advent sung, Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth, Glory to God, and peace unto the earth Through the mad discord send that calming word Which wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard, Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword! Not vain the vision which the prophets saw, Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm. Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, The great hope resting on the truth of God,— Evil shall cease and Violence pass away, And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day.

11th mo., 1848.



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

Before the law authorizing imprisonment for debt had been abolished in Massachusetts, a revolutionary pensioner was confined in Charlestown jail for a debt of fourteen dollars, and on the fourth of July was seen waving a handkerchief from the bars of his cell in honor of the day.

Look on him! through his dungeon grate, Feebly and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed, His hand upholds his drooping head; His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, Unshorn his gray, neglected beard; And o'er his bony fingers flow His long, dishevelled locks of snow. No grateful fire before him glows, And yet the winter's breath is chill; And o'er his half-clad person goes The frequent ague thrill! Silent, save ever and anon, A sound, half murmur and half groan, Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer's bearded lip; Oh, sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chained and desolate!

Just God! why lies that old man there? A murderer shares his prison bed, Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, Gleam on him, fierce and red; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear, And, or in wakefulness or sleep, Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, Crimson with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so; his crime's a fouler one; God made the old man poor! For this he shares a felon's cell, The fittest earthly type of hell For this, the boon for which he poured His young blood on the invader's sword, And counted light the fearful cost; His blood-gained liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, And Saratoga's plain? Look forth, thou man of many scars, Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars; It must be joy, in sooth, to see Yon monument upreared to thee; Piled granite and a prison cell, The land repays thy service well!

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And fling the starry banner out; Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones Give back their cradle-shout; Let boastful eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame; Still let the poet's strain be heard, With glory for each second word, And everything with breath agree To praise "our glorious liberty!"

But when the patron cannon jars That prison's cold and gloomy wall, And through its grates the stripes and stars Rise on the wind, and fall, Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, What is your carnival to him?

Down with the law that binds him thus! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of God and human-kind Open the prison's living tomb, And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code To the free sun and air of God; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Almighty's hand.

1849.



THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS.

The reader of the biography of William Allen, the philanthropic associate of Clarkson and Romilly, cannot fail to admire his simple and beautiful record of a tour through Europe, in the years 1818 and 1819, in the company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett.

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest Goaded from shore to shore; No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest, The leaves of empire o'er. Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts The love of man and God, Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, And Scythia's steppes, they trod.

Where the long shadows of the fir and pine In the night sun are cast, And the deep heart of many a Norland mine Quakes at each riving blast; Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, A baptized Scythian queen, With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, The North and East between!

Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore, And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray, And Dian weeps once more; Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds; And Stamboul from the sea Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds Black with the cypress-tree.

From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, Following the track of Paul, And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home Their vast, eternal wall; They paused not by the ruins of old time, They scanned no pictures rare, Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains climb The cold abyss of air!

But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, To haunts where Hunger pined, To kings and courts forgetful of the pains And wants of human-kind, Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good, Along their way, like flowers, Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could, With princes and with powers;

Their single aim the purpose to fulfil Of Truth, from day to day, Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight, Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright.

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off the Cyprian shore, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought; And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies Make glad its way, unsought.

In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done; Sure stands the promise,—ever to the meek A heritage is given; Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek The righteousness of Heaven!

1849.



THE MEN OF OLD.

"WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs The effigies of old confessors lie, God's witnesses; the voices of His will, Heard in the slow march of the centuries still Such were the men at whose rebuking frown, Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due."

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate,— Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. "Man is worth more than temples!" he replied To such as came his holy work to chide. And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man,—"An earthen dish The last sad supper of the Master bore Most miserable sinners! do ye wish More than your Lord, and grudge His dying poor What your own pride and not His need requires? Souls, than these shining gauds, He values more Mercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires!" O faithful worthies! resting far behind In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep, Much has been done for truth and human-kind; Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind; Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap Through peoples driven in your day like sheep; Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, Though widening still, is walled around by night; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, Skeptic at heart, the lessons of its Head; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress; World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed; Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride And vanity stand shrined and deified, Careless that in the shadow of its walls God's living temple into ruin falls. We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, And startling tyrants with the fear of hell Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well; But to rebuke the age's popular crime, We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time!

1849.



TO PIUS IX.

The writer of these lines is no enemy of Catholics. He has, on more than one occasion, exposed himself to the censures of his Protestant brethren, by his strenuous endeavors to procure indemnification for the owners of the convent destroyed near Boston. He defended the cause of the Irish patriots long before it had become popular in this country; and he was one of the first to urge the most liberal aid to the suffering and starving population of the Catholic island. The severity of his language finds its ample apology in the reluctant confession of one of the most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father Ventura.

THE cannon's brazen lips are cold; No red shell blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old, Are silent as despair.

The Lombard stands no more at bay, Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain; The ravens scattered by the day Come back with night again.

Now, while the fratricides of France Are treading on the neck of Rome, Hider at Gaeta, seize thy chance! Coward and cruel, come!

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt; Thy mummer's part was acted well, While Rome, with steel and fire begirt, Before thy crusade fell!

Her death-groans answered to thy prayer; Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call; Thy lights, the burning villa's glare; Thy beads, the shell and ball!

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands Foul from Ancona's cruel sack, And Naples, with his dastard bands Of murderers, lead thee back!

Rome's lips are dumb; the orphan's wail, The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, The unsexed shaveling's cheer!

Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight, The double curse of crook and crown, Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate From wall and roof flash down!

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall, Not Tiber's flood can wash away, Where, in thy stately Quirinal, Thy mangled victims lay!

Let the world murmur; let its cry Of horror and disgust be heard; Truth stands alone; thy coward lie Is backed by lance and sword!

The cannon of St. Angelo, And chanting priest and clanging bell, And beat of drum and bugle blow, Shall greet thy coming well!

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves Fit welcome give thee; for her part, Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves, Shall curse thee from her heart!

No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers Shall childhood in thy pathway fling; No garlands from their ravaged bowers Shall Terni's maidens bring;

But, hateful as that tyrant old, The mocking witness of his crime, In thee shall loathing eyes behold The Nero of our time!

Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call Its curses on the patriot dead, Its blessings on the Gaul!

Or sit upon thy throne of lies, A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, Whom even its worshippers despise, Unhonored, unrevered!

Yet, Scandal of the World! from thee One needful truth mankind shall learn That kings and priests to Liberty And God are false in turn.

Earth wearies of them; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail; Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong Wake, struggle, and prevail!

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled To feed the Crosier and the Crown, If, roused thereby, the world shall tread The twin-born vampires down.

1849.



CALEF IN BOSTON.

1692.

IN the solemn days of old, Two men met in Boston town, One a tradesman frank and bold, One a preacher of renown.

Cried the last, in bitter tone: "Poisoner of the wells of truth Satan's hireling, thou hast sown With his tares the heart of youth!"

Spake the simple tradesman then, "God be judge 'twixt thee and me; All thou knowed of truth hath been Once a lie to men like thee.

"Falsehoods which we spurn to-day Were the truths of long ago; Let the dead boughs fall away, Fresher shall the living grow.

"God is good and God is light, In this faith I rest secure; Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.

"Of your spectral puppet play I have traced the cunning wires; Come what will, I needs must say, God is true, and ye are liars."

When the thought of man is free, Error fears its lightest tones; So the priest cried, "Sadducee!" And the people took up stones.

In the ancient burying-ground, Side by side the twain now lie; One with humble grassy mound, One with marbles pale and high.

But the Lord hath blest the seed Which that tradesman scattered then, And the preacher's spectral creed Chills no more the blood of men.

Let us trust, to one is known Perfect love which casts out fear, While the other's joys atone For the wrong he suffered here.

1849.



OUR STATE.

THE South-land boasts its teeming cane, The prairied West its heavy grain, And sunset's radiant gates unfold On rising marts and sands of gold.

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State Is scant of soil, of limits strait; Her yellow sands are sands alone, Her only mines are ice and stone!

From Autumn frost to April rain, Too long her winter woods complain; From budding flower to falling leaf, Her summer time is all too brief.

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, And wintry hills, the school-house stands, And what her rugged soil denies, The harvest of the mind supplies.

The riches of the Commonwealth Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; And more to her than gold or grain, The cunning hand and cultured brain.

For well she keeps her ancient stock, The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; And still maintains, with milder laws, And clearer light, the Good Old Cause.

Nor heeds the skeptic's puny hands, While near her school the church-spire stands; Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, While near her church-spire stands the school.

1849.



THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES.

I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound In Naples, dying for the lack of air And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain, Where hope is not, and innocence in vain Appeals against the torture and the chain! Unfortunates! whose crime it was to share Our common love of freedom, and to dare, In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned, And her base pander, the most hateful thing Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground Makes vile the old heroic name of king. O God most merciful! Father just and kind Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind. Or, if thy purposes of good behind Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find Strong consolations; leave them not to doubt Thy providential care, nor yet without The hope which all thy attributes inspire, That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain; Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth, Electrical, with every throb of pain, Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain Of fire and spirit over all the earth, Making the dead in slavery live again. Let this great hope be with them, as they lie Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky; From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze, The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees; Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease And sins abhorred make loathsome; let them share Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear Years of unutterable torment, stern and still, As the chained Titan victor through his will! Comfort them with thy future; let them see The day-dawn of Italian liberty; For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee, And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be.

I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize Of name or place, and more than I have lost Have gained in wider reach of sympathies, And free communion with the good and wise; May God forbid that I should ever boast Such easy self-denial, or repine That the strong pulse of health no more is mine; That, overworn at noonday, I must yield To other hands the gleaning of the field; A tired on-looker through the day's decline. For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing That kindly Providence its care is showing In the withdrawal as in the bestowing, Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray. Beautiful yet for me this autumn day Melts on its sunset hills; and, far away, For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm, To me the pine-woods whisper; and for me Yon river, winding through its vales of calm, By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred, And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay, Flows down in silent gladness to the sea, Like a pure spirit to its great reward!

Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear, Whose love is round me like this atmosphere, Warm, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me What shall I render, O my God, to thee? Let me not dwell upon my lighter share Of pain and ill that human life must bear; Save me from selfish pining; let my heart, Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget The bitter longings of a vain regret, The anguish of its own peculiar smart. Remembering others, as I have to-day, In their great sorrows, let me live alway Not for myself alone, but have a part, Such as a frail and erring spirit may, In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou art!

1851.



THE PEACE OF EUROPE.

"GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!" So say her kings and priests; so say The lying prophets of our day.

Go lay to earth a listening ear; The tramp of measured marches hear; The rolling of the cannon's wheel, The shotted musket's murderous peal, The night alarm, the sentry's call, The quick-eared spy in hut and hall! From Polar sea and tropic fen The dying-groans of exiled men! The bolted cell, the galley's chains, The scaffold smoking with its stains! Order, the hush of brooding slaves Peace, in the dungeon-vaults and graves!

O Fisher! of the world-wide net, With meshes in all waters set, Whose fabled keys of heaven and hell Bolt hard the patriot's prison-cell, And open wide the banquet-hall, Where kings and priests hold carnival! Weak vassal tricked in royal guise, Boy Kaiser with thy lip of lies; Base gambler for Napoleon's crown, Barnacle on his dead renown! Thou, Bourbon Neapolitan, Crowned scandal, loathed of God and man And thou, fell Spider of the North! Stretching thy giant feelers forth, Within whose web the freedom dies Of nations eaten up like flies! Speak, Prince and Kaiser, Priest and Czar I If this be Peace, pray what is War?

White Angel of the Lord! unmeet That soil accursed for thy pure feet. Never in Slavery's desert flows The fountain of thy charmed repose; No tyrant's hand thy chaplet weaves Of lilies and of olive-leaves; Not with the wicked shalt thou dwell, Thus saith the Eternal Oracle; Thy home is with the pure and free! Stern herald of thy better day, Before thee, to prepare thy way, The Baptist Shade of Liberty, Gray, scarred and hairy-robed, must press With bleeding feet the wilderness! Oh that its voice might pierces the ear Of princes, trembling while they hear A cry as of the Hebrew seer Repent! God's kingdom draweth near!

1852.



ASTRAEA.

"Jove means to settle Astraea in her seat again, And let down from his golden chain An age of better metal." BEN JONSON, 1615.

O POET rare and old! Thy words are prophecies; Forward the age of gold, The new Saturnian lies.

The universal prayer And hope are not in vain; Rise, brothers! and prepare The way for Saturn's reign.

Perish shall all which takes From labor's board and can; Perish shall all which makes A spaniel of the man!

Free from its bonds the mind, The body from the rod; Broken all chains that bind The image of our God.

Just men no longer pine Behind their prison-bars; Through the rent dungeon shine The free sun and the stars.

Earth own, at last, untrod By sect, or caste, or clan, The fatherhood of God, The brotherhood of man!

Fraud fail, craft perish, forth The money-changers driven, And God's will done on earth, As now in heaven.

1852.



THE DISENTHRALLED.

HE had bowed down to drunkenness, An abject worshipper The pride of manhood's pulse had grown Too faint and cold to stir; And he had given his spirit up To the unblessed thrall, And bowing to the poison cup, He gloried in his fall!

There came a change—the cloud rolled off, And light fell on his brain— And like the passing of a dream That cometh not again, The shadow of the spirit fled. He saw the gulf before, He shuddered at the waste behind, And was a man once more.

He shook the serpent folds away, That gathered round his heart, As shakes the swaying forest-oak Its poison vine apart; He stood erect; returning pride Grew terrible within, And conscience sat in judgment, on His most familiar sin.

The light of Intellect again Along his pathway shone; And Reason like a monarch sat Upon his olden throne. The honored and the wise once more Within his presence came; And lingered oft on lovely lips His once forbidden name.

There may be glory in the might, That treadeth nations down; Wreaths for the crimson conqueror, Pride for the kingly crown; But nobler is that triumph hour, The disenthralled shall find, When evil passion boweth down, Unto the Godlike mind.



THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY.

THE proudest now is but my peer, The highest not more high; To-day, of all the weary year, A king of men am I. To-day, alike are great and small, The nameless and the known; My palace is the people's hall, The ballot-box my throne!

Who serves to-day upon the list Beside the served shall stand; Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, The gloved and dainty hand! The rich is level with the poor, The weak is strong to-day; And sleekest broadcloth counts no more Than homespun frock of gray.

To-day let pomp and vain pretence My stubborn right abide; I set a plain man's common sense Against the pedant's pride. To-day shall simple manhood try The strength of gold and land; The wide world has not wealth to buy The power in my right hand!

While there's a grief to seek redress, Or balance to adjust, Where weighs our living manhood less Than Mammon's vilest dust,— While there's a right to need my vote, A wrong to sweep away, Up! clouted knee and ragged coat A man's a man to-day.

1848.



THE DREAM OF PIO NONO.

IT chanced that while the pious troops of France Fought in the crusade Pio Nono preached, What time the holy Bourbons stayed his hands (The Hun and Aaron meet for such a Moses), Stretched forth from Naples towards rebellious Rome To bless the ministry of Oudinot, And sanctify his iron homilies And sharp persuasions of the bayonet, That the great pontiff fell asleep, and dreamed.

He stood by Lake Tiberias, in the sun Of the bight Orient; and beheld the lame, The sick, and blind, kneel at the Master's feet, And rise up whole. And, sweetly over all, Dropping the ladder of their hymn of praise From heaven to earth, in silver rounds of song, He heard the blessed angels sing of peace, Good-will to man, and glory to the Lord.

Then one, with feet unshod, and leathern face Hardened and darkened by fierce summer suns And hot winds of the desert, closer drew His fisher's haick, and girded up his loins, And spake, as one who had authority "Come thou with me."

Lakeside and eastern sky And the sweet song of angels passed away, And, with a dream's alacrity of change, The priest, and the swart fisher by his side, Beheld the Eternal City lift its domes And solemn fanes and monumental pomp Above the waste Campagna. On the hills The blaze of burning villas rose and fell, And momently the mortar's iron throat Roared from the trenches; and, within the walls, Sharp crash of shells, low groans of human pain, Shout, drum beat, and the clanging larum-bell, And tramp of hosts, sent up a mingled sound, Half wail and half defiance. As they passed The gate of San Pancrazio, human blood Flowed ankle-high about them, and dead men Choked the long street with gashed and gory piles,— A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh, From which at times, quivered a living hand, And white lips moved and moaned. A father tore His gray hairs, by the body of his son, In frenzy; and his fair young daughter wept On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash Clove the thick sulphurous air, and man and maid Sank, crushed and mangled by the shattering shell.

Then spake the Galilean: "Thou hast seen The blessed Master and His works of love; Look now on thine! Hear'st thou the angels sing Above this open hell? Thou God's high-priest! Thou the Vicegerent of the Prince of Peace! Thou the successor of His chosen ones! I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee, In the dear Master's name, and for the love Of His true Church, proclaim thee Antichrist, Alien and separate from His holy faith, Wide as the difference between death and life, The hate of man and the great love of God! Hence, and repent!"

Thereat the pontiff woke, Trembling, and muttering o'er his fearful dream. "What means he?" cried the Bourbon, "Nothing more Than that your majesty hath all too well Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth, The Holy Father's supper troubleth him," Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a smile.

1853.



THE VOICES.

WHY urge the long, unequal fight, Since Truth has fallen in the street, Or lift anew the trampled light, Quenched by the heedless million's feet?

"Give o'er the thankless task; forsake The fools who know not ill from good Eat, drink, enjoy thy own, and take Thine ease among the multitude.

"Live out thyself; with others share Thy proper life no more; assume The unconcern of sun and air, For life or death, or blight or bloom.

"The mountain pine looks calmly on The fires that scourge the plains below, Nor heeds the eagle in the sun The small birds piping in the snow!

"The world is God's, not thine; let Him Work out a change, if change must be The hand that planted best can trim And nurse the old unfruitful tree."

So spake the Tempter, when the light Of sun and stars had left the sky; I listened, through the cloud and night, And beard, methought, a voice reply:

"Thy task may well seem over-hard, Who scatterest in a thankless soil Thy life as seed, with no reward Save that which Duty gives to Toil.

"Not wholly is thy heart resigned To Heaven's benign and just decree, Which, linking thee with all thy kind, Transmits their joys and griefs to thee.

"Break off that sacred chain, and turn Back on thyself thy love and care; Be thou thine own mean idol, burn Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there.

"Released from that fraternal law Which shares the common bale and bliss, No sadder lot could Folly draw, Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this.

"The meal unshared is food unblest Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend; Self-ease is pain; thy only rest Is labor for a worthy end;

"A toil that gains with what it yields, And scatters to its own increase, And hears, while sowing outward fields, The harvest-song of inward peace.

"Free-lipped the liberal streamlets run, Free shines for all the healthful ray; The still pool stagnates in the sun, The lurid earth-fire haunts decay.

"What is it that the crowd requite Thy love with hate, thy truth with lies? And but to faith, and not to sight, The walls of Freedom's temple rise?

"Yet do thy work; it shall succeed In thine or in another's day; And, if denied the victor's meed, Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay.

"Faith shares the future's promise; Love's Self-offering is a triumph won; And each good thought or action moves The dark world nearer to the sun.

"Then faint not, falter not, nor plead Thy weakness; truth itself is strong; The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong.

"Thy nature, which, through fire and flood, To place or gain finds out its way, Hath power to seek the highest good, And duty's holiest call obey!

"Strivest thou in darkness?—Foes without In league with traitor thoughts within; Thy night-watch kept with trembling Doubt And pale Remorse the ghost of Sin?

"Hast thou not, on some week of storm, Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair, And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form The curtains of its tent of prayer?

"So, haply, when thy task shall end, The wrong shall lose itself in right, And all thy week-day darkness blend With the long Sabbath of the light!"

1854.



THE NEW EXODUS.

Written upon hearing that slavery had been formally abolished in Egypt. Unhappily, the professions and pledges of the vacillating government of Egypt proved unreliable.

BY fire and cloud, across the desert sand, And through the parted waves, From their long bondage, with an outstretched hand, God led the Hebrew slaves!

Dead as the letter of the Pentateuch, As Egypt's statues cold, In the adytum of the sacred book Now stands that marvel old.

"Lo, God is great!" the simple Moslem says. We seek the ancient date, Turn the dry scroll, and make that living phrase A dead one: "God was great!"

And, like the Coptic monks by Mousa's wells, We dream of wonders past, Vague as the tales the wandering Arab tells, Each drowsier than the last.

O fools and blind! Above the Pyramids Stretches once more that hand, And tranced Egypt, from her stony lids, Flings back her veil of sand.

And morning-smitten Memnon, singing, wakes; And, listening by his Nile, O'er Ammon's grave and awful visage breaks A sweet and human smile.

Not, as before, with hail and fire, and call Of death for midnight graves, But in the stillness of the noonday, fall The fetters of the slaves.

No longer through the Red Sea, as of old, The bondmen walk dry shod; Through human hearts, by love of Him controlled, Runs now that path of God.

1856.



THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.

"Joseph Sturge, with a companion, Thomas Harvey, has been visiting the shores of Finland, to ascertain the amount of mischief and loss to poor and peaceable sufferers, occasioned by the gun-boats of the allied squadrons in the late war, with a view to obtaining relief for them."— Friends' Review.

ACROSS the frozen marshes The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter Are white with early snow.

But where the low, gray headlands Look o'er the Baltic brine, A bark is sailing in the track Of England's battle-line.

No wares hath she to barter For Bothnia's fish and grain; She saileth not for pleasure, She saileth not for gain.

But still by isle or mainland She drops her anchor down, Where'er the British cannon Rained fire on tower and town.

Outspake the ancient Amtman, At the gate of Helsingfors "Why comes this ship a-spying In the track of England's wars?"

"God bless her," said the coast-guard,— "God bless the ship, I say. The holy angels trim the sails That speed her on her way!

"Where'er she drops her anchor, The peasant's heart is glad; Where'er she spreads her parting sail, The peasant's heart is sad.

"Each wasted town and hamlet She visits to restore; To roof the shattered cabin, And feed the starving poor.

"The sunken boats of fishers, The foraged beeves and grain, The spoil of flake and storehouse, The good ship brings again.

"And so to Finland's sorrow The sweet amend is made, As if the healing hand of Christ Upon her wounds were laid!"

Then said the gray old Amtman, "The will of God be done! The battle lost by England's hate, By England's love is won!

"We braved the iron tempest That thundered on our shore; But when did kindness fail to find The key to Finland's door?

"No more from Aland's ramparts Shall warning signal come, Nor startled Sweaborg hear again The roll of midnight drum.

"Beside our fierce Black Eagle The Dove of Peace shall rest; And in the mouths of cannon The sea-bird make her nest.

"For Finland, looking seaward, No coming foe shall scan; And the holy bells of Abo Shall ring, 'Good-will to man!'

"Then row thy boat, O fisher! In peace on lake and bay; And thou, young maiden, dance again Around the poles of May!

"Sit down, old men, together, Old wives, in quiet spin; Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon Is the brother of the Finn!"

1856.



THE EVE OF ELECTION.

FROM gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian Summer fades too soon; But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire, The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance; The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance!

O'er fallen leaves The west-wind grieves, Yet comes a seed-time round again; And morn shall see The State sown free With baleful tares or healthful grain.

Along the street The shadows meet Of Destiny, whose hands conceal The moulds of fate That shape the State, And make or mar the common weal.

Around I see The powers that be; I stand by Empire's primal springs; And princes meet, In every street, And hear the tread of uncrowned kings!

Hark! through the crowd The laugh runs loud, Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. God save the land A careless hand May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon!

No jest is this; One cast amiss May blast the hope of Freedom's year. Oh, take me where Are hearts of prayer, And foreheads bowed in reverent fear!

Not lightly fall Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float; The crowning fact The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote!

For pearls that gem A diadem The diver in the deep sea dies; The regal right We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice;

The blood of Vane, His prison pain Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, And hers whose faith Drew strength from death, And prayed her Russell up to God!

Our hearts grow cold, We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain; The stake, the cord, The axe, the sword, Grim nurses at its birth of pain.

The shadow rend, And o'er us bend, O martyrs, with your crowns and palms; Breathe through these throngs Your battle songs, Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms.

Look from the sky, Like God's great eye, Thou solemn moon, with searching beam, Till in the sight Of thy pure light Our mean self-seekings meaner seem.

Shame from our hearts Unworthy arts, The fraud designed, the purpose dark; And smite away The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark.

To party claims And private aims, Reveal that august face of Truth, Whereto are given The age of heaven, The beauty of immortal youth.

So shall our voice Of sovereign choice Swell the deep bass of duty done, And strike the key Of time to be, When God and man shall speak as one!

1858.



FROM PERUGIA.

"The thing which has the most dissevered the people from the Pope,—the unforgivable thing,—the breaking point between him and them,—has been the encouragement and promotion he gave to the officer under whom were executed the slaughters of Perugia. That made the breaking point in many honest hearts that had clung to him before."—HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S Letters from Italy.

The tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread, Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red; And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff, And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff; Next, in red-legged pomp, come the cardinals forth, Each a lord of the church and a prince of the earth.

What's this squeak of the fife, and this batter of drum Lo! the Swiss of the Church from Perugia come; The militant angels, whose sabres drive home To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred, The good Father's missives, and "Thus saith the Lord!" And lend to his logic the point of the sword!

O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn O'er dark Thrasymenus, dishevelled and torn! O fathers, who pluck at your gray beards for shame! O mothers, struck dumb by a woe without name! Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling behaves, And his tender compassion of prisons and graves!

There they stand, the hired stabbers, the blood-stains yet fresh, That splashed like red wine from the vintage of flesh; Grim instruments, careless as pincers and rack How the joints tear apart, and the strained sinews crack; But the hate that glares on them is sharp as their swords, And the sneer and the scowl print the air with fierce words!

Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad! Here's the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick, Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick, Who the role of the priest and the soldier unites, And, praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights!

Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome; With whose advent we dreamed the new era began When the priest should be human, the monk be a man? Ah, the wolf's with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl, When freedom we trust to the crosier and cowl!

Stand aside, men of Rome! Here's a hangman-faced Swiss— (A blessing for him surely can't go amiss)— Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss. Short shrift will suffice him,—he's blest beyond doubt; But there 's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out, Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout!

Make way for the next! Here's another sweet son What's this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulets done? He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid!) At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did. And the mothers? Don't name them! these humors of war They who keep him in service must pardon him for.

Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold, Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence!

Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead!

There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's day. Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys, Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise. Te Deum laudamus! All round without stint The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in 't!

And now for the blessing! Of little account, You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount. Its giver was landless, His raiment was poor, No jewelled tiara His fishermen wore; No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home, No Swiss guards! We order things better at Rome.

So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak; Let Austria's vulture have food for her beak; Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again, With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain; Put reason, and justice, and truth under ban; For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man!

1858.



ITALY.

ACROSS the sea I heard the groans Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, And sucked by priestly cannibals.

I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained By martyr meekness, patience, faith, And lo! an athlete grimly stained, With corded muscles battle-strained, Shouting it from the fields of death!

I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, Among the clamoring thousands mute, I only know that God is right, And that the children of the light Shall tread the darkness under foot.

I know the pent fire heaves its crust, That sultry skies the bolt will form To smite them clear; that Nature must The balance of her powers adjust, Though with the earthquake and the storm.

God reigns, and let the earth rejoice! I bow before His sterner plan. Dumb are the organs of my choice; He speaks in battle's stormy voice, His praise is in the wrath of man!

Yet, surely as He lives, the day Of peace He promised shall be ours, To fold the flags of war, and lay Its sword and spear to rust away, And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!

1860.



FREEDOM IN BRAZIL.

WITH clearer light, Cross of the South, shine forth In blue Brazilian skies; And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth From sunset to sunrise,

From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves Thy joy's long anthem pour. Yet a few years (God make them less!) and slaves Shall shame thy pride no more. No fettered feet thy shaded margins press; But all men shall walk free Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness, Hast wedded sea to sea.

And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth The word of God is said, Once more, "Let there be light!"—Son of the South, Lift up thy honored head, Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert More than by birth thy own, Careless of watch and ward; thou art begirt By grateful hearts alone. The moated wall and battle-ship may fail, But safe shall justice prove; Stronger than greaves of brass or iron mail The panoply of love.

Crowned doubly by man's blessing and God's grace, Thy future is secure; Who frees a people makes his statue's place In Time's Valhalla sure. Lo! from his Neva's banks the Scythian Czar Stretches to thee his hand, Who, with the pencil of the Northern star, Wrote freedom on his land. And he whose grave is holy by our calm And prairied Sangamon, From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's palm To greet thee with "Well done!"

And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet, And let thy wail be stilled, To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat Her promise half fulfilled. The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still, No sound thereof hath died; Alike thy hope and Heaven's eternal will Shall yet be satisfied. The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long, And far the end may be; But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong Go out and leave thee free.

1867.



AFTER ELECTION.

THE day's sharp strife is ended now, Our work is done, God knoweth how! As on the thronged, unrestful town The patience of the moon looks down, I wait to hear, beside the wire, The voices of its tongues of fire.

Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first Be strong, my heart, to know the worst! Hark! there the Alleghanies spoke; That sound from lake and prairie broke, That sunset-gun of triumph rent The silence of a continent!

That signal from Nebraska sprung, This, from Nevada's mountain tongue! Is that thy answer, strong and free, O loyal heart of Tennessee? What strange, glad voice is that which calls From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls?

From Mississippi's fountain-head A sound as of the bison's tread! There rustled freedom's Charter Oak In that wild burst the Ozarks spoke! Cheer answers cheer from rise to set Of sun. We have a country yet!

The praise, O God, be thine alone! Thou givest not for bread a stone; Thou hast not led us through the night To blind us with returning light; Not through the furnace have we passed, To perish at its mouth at last.

O night of peace, thy flight restrain! November's moon, be slow to wane! Shine on the freedman's cabin floor, On brows of prayer a blessing pour; And give, with full assurance blest, The weary heart of Freedom rest!

1868.



DISARMAMENT.

"PUT up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe Down which a groaning diapason runs From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons Of desolate women in their far-off homes, Waiting to hear the step that never comes! O men and brothers! let that voice be heard. War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!

Fear not the end. There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit With grave responses listening unto it Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent, Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. "O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate." The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace Of fear or anger, in the monster's face, In pity said: "Poor fiend, even thee I love." Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank Into the form and fashion of a dove; And where the thunder of its rage was heard, Circling above him sweetly sang the bird "Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song; "And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"

1871.



THE PROBLEM.

I. NOT without envy Wealth at times must look On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook And scythe, or at the forge-fire shape the plough Or the steel harness of the steeds of steam; All who, by skill and patience, anyhow Make service noble, and the earth redeem From savageness. By kingly accolade Than theirs was never worthier knighthood made. Well for them, if, while demagogues their vain And evil counsels proffer, they maintain Their honest manhood unseduced, and wage No war with Labor's right to Labor's gain Of sweet home-comfort, rest of hand and brain, And softer pillow for the head of Age.

II. And well for Gain if it ungrudging yields Labor its just demand; and well for Ease If in the uses of its own, it sees No wrong to him who tills its pleasant fields And spreads the table of its luxuries. The interests of the rich man and the poor Are one and same, inseparable evermore; And, when scant wage or labor fail to give Food, shelter, raiment, wherewithal to live, Need has its rights, necessity its claim. Yea, even self-wrought misery and shame Test well the charity suffering long and kind. The home-pressed question of the age can find No answer in the catch-words of the blind Leaders of blind. Solution there is none Save in the Golden Rule of Christ alone.

1877.



OUR COUNTRY.

Read at Woodstock, Conn., July 4,1883.

WE give thy natal day to hope, O Country of our love and prayer I Thy way is down no fatal slope, But up to freer sun and air.

Tried as by furnace-fires, and yet By God's grace only stronger made, In future tasks before thee set Thou shalt not lack the old-time aid.

The fathers sleep, but men remain As wise, as true, and brave as they; Why count the loss and not the gain? The best is that we have to-day.

Whate'er of folly, shame, or crime, Within thy mighty bounds transpires, With speed defying space and time Comes to us on the accusing wires;

While of thy wealth of noble deeds, Thy homes of peace, thy votes unsold, The love that pleads for human needs, The wrong redressed, but half is told!

We read each felon's chronicle, His acts, his words, his gallows-mood; We know the single sinner well And not the nine and ninety good.

Yet if, on daily scandals fed, We seem at times to doubt thy worth, We know thee still, when all is said, The best and dearest spot on earth.

From the warm Mexic Gulf, or where Belted with flowers Los Angeles Basks in the semi-tropic air, To where Katahdin's cedar trees

Are dwarfed and bent by Northern winds, Thy plenty's horn is yearly filled; Alone, the rounding century finds Thy liberal soil by free hands tilled.

A refuge for the wronged and poor, Thy generous heart has borne the blame That, with them, through thy open door, The old world's evil outcasts came.

But, with thy just and equal rule, And labor's need and breadth of lands, Free press and rostrum, church and school, Thy sure, if slow, transforming hands

Shall mould even them to thy design, Making a blessing of the ban; And Freedom's chemistry combine The alien elements of man.

The power that broke their prison bar And set the dusky millions free, And welded in the flame of war The Union fast to Liberty,

Shall it not deal with other ills, Redress the red man's grievance, break The Circean cup which shames and kills, And Labor full requital make?

Alone to such as fitly bear Thy civic honors bid them fall? And call thy daughters forth to share The rights and duties pledged to all?

Give every child his right of school, Merge private greed in public good, And spare a treasury overfull The tax upon a poor man's food?

No lack was in thy primal stock, No weakling founders builded here; Thine were the men of Plymouth Rock, The Huguenot and Cavalier;

And they whose firm endurance gained The freedom of the souls of men, Whose hands, unstained with blood, maintained The swordless commonwealth of Penn.

And thine shall be the power of all To do the work which duty bids, And make the people's council hall As lasting as the Pyramids!

Well have thy later years made good Thy brave-said word a century back, The pledge of human brotherhood, The equal claim of white and black.

That word still echoes round the world, And all who hear it turn to thee, And read upon thy flag unfurled The prophecies of destiny.

Thy great world-lesson all shall learn, The nations in thy school shall sit, Earth's farthest mountain-tops shall burn With watch-fires from thy own uplit.

Great without seeking to be great By fraud or conquest, rich in gold, But richer in the large estate Of virtue which thy children hold,

With peace that comes of purity And strength to simple justice due, So runs our loyal dream of thee; God of our fathers! make it true.

O Land of lands! to thee we give Our prayers, our hopes, our service free; For thee thy sons shall nobly live, And at thy need shall die for thee!



ON THE BIG HORN.

In the disastrous battle on the Big Horn River, in which General Custer and his entire force were slain, the chief Rain-in-the-Face was one of the fiercest leaders of the Indians. In Longfellow's poem on the massacre, these lines will be remembered:—

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenge upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags reechoed the cry Of his anger and despair.

He is now a man of peace; and the agent at Standing Rock, Dakota, writes, September 28, 1886: "Rain-in-the-Face is very anxious to go to Hampton. I fear he is too old, but he desires very much to go." The Southern Workman, the organ of General Armstrong's Industrial School at Hampton, Va., says in a late number:—

"Rain-in-the-Face has applied before to come to Hampton, but his age would exclude him from the school as an ordinary student. He has shown himself very much in earnest about it, and is anxious, all say, to learn the better ways of life. It is as unusual as it is striking to see a man of his age, and one who has had such an experience, willing to give up the old way, and put himself in the position of a boy and a student."

THE years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where Straight into a slaughter pen, With his doomed three hundred men, Rode the chief with the yellow hair.

O Hampton, down by the sea! What voice is beseeching thee For the scholar's lowliest place? Can this be the voice of him Who fought on the Big Horn's rim? Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?

His war-paint is washed away, His hands have forgotten to slay; He seeks for himself and his race The arts of peace and the lore That give to the skilled hand more Than the spoils of war and chase.

O chief of the Christ-like school! Can the zeal of thy heart grow cool When the victor scarred with fight Like a child for thy guidance craves, And the faces of hunters and braves Are turning to thee for light?

The hatchet lies overgrown With grass by the Yellowstone, Wind River and Paw of Bear; And, in sign that foes are friends, Each lodge like a peace-pipe sends Its smoke in the quiet air.

The hands that have done the wrong To right the wronged are strong, And the voice of a nation saith "Enough of the war of swords, Enough of the lying words And shame of a broken faith!"

The hills that have watched afar The valleys ablaze with war Shall look on the tasselled corn; And the dust of the grinded grain, Instead of the blood of the slain, Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!

The Ute and the wandering Crow Shall know as the white men know, And fare as the white men fare; The pale and the red shall be brothers, One's rights shall be as another's, Home, School, and House of Prayer!

O mountains that climb to snow, O river winding below, Through meadows by war once trod, O wild, waste lands that await The harvest exceeding great, Break forth into praise of God!

1887.



NOTES

Note 1, page 18. The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of William Wordsworth, addressed to Toussaint L'Ouverture, during his confinement in France.

"Toussaint!—thou most unhappy man of men Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough Within thy hearing, or thou liest now Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den; O miserable chieftain!—where and when Wilt thou find patience?—Yet, die not, do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow; Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies,— There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies. Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind."

Note 2, page 67. The Northern author of the Congressional rule against receiving petitions of the people on the subject of Slavery.

Note 3, page 88. There was at the time when this poem was written an Association in Liberty County, Georgia, for the religious instruction of negroes. One of their annual reports contains an address by the Rev. Josiah Spry Law, in which the following passage occurs: "There is a growing interest in this community in the religious instruction of negroes. There is a conviction that religious instruction promotes the quiet and order of the people, and the pecuniary interest of the owners."

Note 4, page 117. The book-establishment of the Free-Will Baptists in Dover was refused the act of incorporation by the New Hampshire Legislature, for the reason that the newspaper organ of that sect and its leading preachers favored abolition.

Note 5, page 118. The senatorial editor of the Belknap Gazette all along manifested a peculiar horror of "niggers" and "nigger parties."

Note 6, page 118. The justice before whom Elder Storrs was brought for preaching abolition on a writ drawn by Hon. M. N., Jr., of Pittsfield. The sheriff served the writ while the elder was praying.

Note 7, page 118. The academy at Canaan, N. H., received one or two colored scholars, and was in consequence dragged off into a swamp by Democratic teams.

Note 8, page 119. "Papers and memorials touching the subject of slavery shall be laid on the table without reading, debate, or reference." So read the gag-law, as it was called, introduced in the House by Mr. Atherton.

Note 9, page 120. The Female Anti-Slavery Society, at its first meeting in Concord, was assailed with stones and brickbats.

Note 10, page 168. The election of Charles Sumner to the United States Senate "followed hard upon" the rendition of the fugitive Sims by the United States officials and the armed police of Boston.

Note 11, page 290. For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, in his inimitable sonnet to the Rhodora,—

"If eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being."



VOLUME IV. PERSONAL POEMS

CONTENTS

PERSONAL POEMS A LAMENT TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY TO ——, WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL LEGGETT'S MONUMENT TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE LUCY HOOPER FOLLEN TO J. P. CHALKLEY HALL GONE TO RONGE CHANNING TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER DANIEL WHEELER TO FREDRIKA BREMER TO AVIS KEENE THE HILL-TOP ELLIOTT ICHABOD THE LOST OCCASION WORDSWORTH TO —— LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION IN PEACE BENEDICITE KOSSUTH TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER THE CROSS THE HERO RANTOUL WILLIAM FORSTER TO CHARLES SUMNER BURNS TO GEORGE B. CHEEVER TO JAMES T. FIELDS THE MEMORY OF BURNS IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOSEPH STURGER BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE NAPLES A MEMORIAL BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY THOMAS STARR KING LINES ON A FLY-LEAF GEORGE L. STEARNS GARIBALDI TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD THE SINGER HOW MARY GREW SUMNER THIERS FITZ-GREENE HALLECK WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT BAYARD TAYLOR OUR AUTOCRAT WITHIN THE GATE IN MEMORY: JAMES T. FIELDS WILSON THE POET AND THE CHILDREN A WELCOME TO LOWELL AN ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL MULFORD TO A CAPE ANN SCHOONER SAMUEL J. TILDEN

OCCASIONAL POEMS. EVA A LAY OF OLD TIME A SONG OF HARVEST KENOZA LAKE FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL THE QUAKER ALUMNI OUR RIVER REVISITED "THE LAURELS" JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF THOMAS STARR KING'S HOUSE OF WORSHIP HYMN FOR THE HOUSE OF WORSHIP AT GEORGETOWN, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER A SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATION CHICAGO KINSMAN THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF LONGWOOD HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF PLYMOUTH CHURCH, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA LEXINGTON THE LIBRARY "I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN" CENTENNIAL HYMN AT SCHOOL-CLOSE HYMN OF THE CHILDREN THE LANDMARKS GARDEN A GREETING GODSPEED WINTER ROSES THE REUNION NORUMBEGA HALL THE BARTHOLDI STATUE ONE OF THE SIGNERS

THE TENT ON THE BEACH. PRELUDE THE TENT ON THE BEACH THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE THE BROTHER OF MERCY THE CHANGELING THE MAIDS OF ATTITASH KALLUNDBORG CHURCH THE CABLE HYMN THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL THE PALATINE ABRAHAM DAVENPORT THE WORSHIP OF NATURE

AT SUNDOWN. TO E. C. S. THE CHRISTMAS OF 1888. THE Vow OF WASHINGTON THE CAPTAIN'S WELL AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION R. S. S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC BURNING DRIFT-WOOD. O. W. HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL HAVERHILL. 1640-1890 To G. G. PRESTON POWERS, INSCRIPTION FOR BASS-RELIEF LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, INSCRIPTION ON TABLET MILTON, ON MEMORIAL WINDOW THE BIRTHDAY WREATH THE WIND OF MARCH BETWEEN THE GATES THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892



NOTE. The portrait prefacing this volume is from an engraving on steel by J. A. J. WILCOX in 1888, after a photograph taken by Miss ISA E. GRAY in July, 1885.



A LAMENT

"The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not Its blessing to our tears?"

The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken, One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken; One heart from among us no longer shall thrill With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.

Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering now The light of her glances, the pride of her brow; Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.

Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim From its silence and darkness is ever the same; The hope of that world whose existence is bliss May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.

For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw On the scene of its troubled probation below, Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead, To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.

Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over lips moved with music and feeling the while, The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.

And the charm of her features, while over the whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul; And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!

But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!

The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, While vainly alike on her eye and her ear Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper, Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray.

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, As a star that is lost when the daylight is given, As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.

1834.



TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,

Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the cause of Human Freedom.

Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord With thy last breath crying "Onward!" And thy hand upon the sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles!

When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,— When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword!

When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.

But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven;

Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God,— There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man!

Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine? The wall of fire is round us, Our Present Help was thine.

Lo, the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep; The murmur of a Universe, Deep calling unto Deep! Joy to thy spirit, brother! On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's voice is given!

Glory to God forever! Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou hast uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come, In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom,— We will think of thee, O brother! And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free.

1834



LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY,

SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.

Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land! Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand. Who shall offer youth and beauty On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine?

Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting Who again shall see? Who amidst the solemn meeting Gaze again on thee? Who when peril gathers o'er us, Wear so calm a brow? Who, with evil men before us, So serene as thou?

Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love! Autumn's faded earth around thee, And its storms above! Evermore that turf lie lightly, And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly Blow the summer flowers

In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing On thy fair young cheek; Eyes of light and lips of roses, Such as Hylas wore,— Over all that curtain closes, Which shall rise no more!

Will the vigil Love is keeping Round that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weeping Over Sibmah's vine; Will the pleasant memories, swelling Gentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwelling All unheeded be?

If the spirit ever gazes, From its journeyings, back; If the immortal ever traces O'er its mortal track; Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us Sometimes on our way, And, in hours of sadness, greet us As a spirit may?

Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-land Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours!

1837.



TO ———,

WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.

"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart."—Essays of Elia.

Maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide,— Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold.

And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies,

Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun.

But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies; And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes.

With an early introversion, Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the bidden springs.

Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been.

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime.

All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed,— Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest:

That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw.

From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast,

Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching What and where is Truth?

Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead.

Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet scorn,— Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn.

But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest.

O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail

O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow.

And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply.

But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within.

Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy.

But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught; More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought.

Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came.

Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our being's end;

Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily striving And performance shown.

Earnest toil and strong endeavor Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil And besetting sin;

And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong.

Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet!

O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.

All which glows in Pascal's pages, All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head.

Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known.

When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue,

All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one,— Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun!

Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee; Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be.

If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living waters And diviner food;

If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look!

If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith,—

Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak, Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek;

And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise.

1840.



LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.

William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer. His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system.

"Ye build the tombs of the prophets."—Holy Writ.

Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame!

1841.



TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.

How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over.

Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender.

Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell, Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swell With its isles teeming.

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spears Autumn's blue heaven Loose rock and frozen slide, Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glide Downward, storm-driven!

Rhine-stream, by castle old, Baron's and robber's hold, Peacefully flowing; Sweeping through vineyards green, Or where the cliffs are seen O'er the broad wave between Grim shadows throwing.

Or, where St. Peter's dome Swells o'er eternal Rome, Vast, dim, and solemn; Hymns ever chanting low, Censers swung to and fro, Sable stoles sweeping slow Cornice and column!

Oh, as from each and all Will there not voices call Evermore back again? In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again?

New forms thy presence haunt, New voices softly chant, New faces greet thee! Pilgrims from many a shrine Hallowed by poet's line, At memory's magic sign, Rising to meet thee.

And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band Whence thou wast taken?

While, at the sunset time, Swells the cathedral's chime, Yet, in thy dreaming, While to thy spirit's eye Yet the vast mountains lie Piled in the Switzer's sky, Icy and gleaming:

Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture there In the mind's chamber, And, through each coming day Him who, as staff and stay, Watched o'er thy wandering way, Freshly remember.

So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven!

1841



LUCY HOOPER.

Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged twenty-four years.

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted day Whose fading light is cold and vain, The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave to the pure, the true, and good; And sympathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best. Of them—of thee—remains there naught But sorrow in the mourner's breast? A shadow in the land of thought? No! Even my weak and trembling faith Can lift for thee the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death.

Even as thou wast I see thee still; And, save the absence of all ill And pain and weariness, which here Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, The same as when, two summers back, Beside our childhood's Merrimac, I saw thy dark eye wander o'er Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown, There's not a charm of soul or brow, Of all we knew and loved in thee, But lives in holier beauty now, Baptized in immortality! Not mine the sad and freezing dream Of souls that, with their earthly mould, Cast off the loves and joys of old, Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No! I have friends in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band, Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came; Their change,—the holy morn-light breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,— A change from twilight into day.

They 've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie; Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted to thy bosom taken, As symbols of a faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, As. when on Chebar's banks of old, The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, A spirit filled the vast machine, A life, "within the wheels" was seen.

Farewell! A little time, and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity. Yet shall we cherish not the less All that is left our hearts meanwhile; The memory of thy loveliness Shall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set, A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong, The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song. All lovely things, by thee beloved, Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved, Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory.

1841.



FOLLEN. ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE."

Charles Follen, one of the noblest contributions of Germany to American citizenship, was at an early age driven from his professorship in the University of Jena, and compelled to seek shelter from official prosecution in Switzerland, on account of his liberal political opinions. He became Professor of Civil Law in the University of Basle. The governments of Prussia, Austria, and Russia united in demanding his delivery as a political offender; and, in consequence, he left Switzerland, and came to the United States. At the time of the formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society he was a Professor in Harvard University, honored for his genius, learning, and estimable character. His love of liberty and hatred of oppression led him to seek an interview with Garrison and express his sympathy with him. Soon after, he attended a meeting of the New England Anti-Slavery Society. An able speech was made by Rev. A. A. Phelps, and a letter of mine addressed to the Secretary of the Society was read. Whereupon he rose and stated that his views were in unison with those of the Society, and that after hearing the speech and the letter, he was ready to join it, and abide the probable consequences of such an unpopular act. He lost by so doing his professorship. He was an able member of the Executive Committee of the American Anti-Slavery Society. He perished in the ill-fated steamer Lexington, which was burned on its passage from New York, January 13, 1840. The few writings left behind him show him to have been a profound thinker of rare spiritual insight.

Friend of my soul! as with moist eye I look up from this page of thine, Is it a dream that thou art nigh, Thy mild face gazing into mine?

That presence seems before me now, A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, When, dew-like, on the earth below Descends the quiet of the skies.

The calm brow through the parted hair, The gentle lips which knew no guile, Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care With the bland beauty of their smile.

Ah me! at times that last dread scene Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea Will cast its shade of doubt between The failing eyes of Faith and thee.

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page, Where through the twilight air of earth, Alike enthusiast and sage, Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth,

Lifting the Future's solemn veil; The reaching of a mortal hand To put aside the cold and pale Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land;

Shall these poor elements outlive The mind whose kingly will, they wrought? Their gross unconsciousness survive Thy godlike energy of thought?

In thoughts which answer to my own, In words which reach my inward ear, Like whispers from the void Unknown, I feel thy living presence here.

The waves which lull thy body's rest, The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, Unwasted, through each change, attest The fixed economy of God.

Thou livest, Follen! not in vain Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne The burthen of Life's cross of pain, And the thorned crown of suffering worn.

Oh, while Life's solemn mystery glooms Around us like a dungeon's wall, Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, Silent the heaven which bends o'er all!

While day by day our loved ones glide In spectral silence, hushed and lone, To the cold shadows which divide The living from the dread Unknown;

While even on the closing eye, And on the lip which moves in vain, The seals of that stern mystery Their undiscovered trust retain;

And only midst the gloom of death, Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, Smile dimly on us through their tears;

'T is something to a heart like mine To think of thee as living yet; To feel that such a light as thine Could not in utter darkness set.

Less dreary seems the untried way Since thou hast left thy footprints there, And beams of mournful beauty play Round the sad Angel's sable hair.

Oh! at this hour when half the sky Is glorious with its evening light, And fair broad fields of summer lie Hung o'er with greenness in my sight;

While through these elm-boughs wet with rain The sunset's golden walls are seen, With clover-bloom and yellow grain And wood-draped hill and stream between;

I long to know if scenes like this Are hidden from an angel's eyes; If earth's familiar loveliness Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies.

For sweetly here upon thee grew The lesson which that beauty gave, The ideal of the pure and true In earth and sky and gliding wave.

And it may be that all which lends The soul an upward impulse here, With a diviner beauty blends, And greets us in a holier sphere.

Through groves where blighting never fell The humbler flowers of earth may twine; And simple draughts-from childhood's well Blend with the angel-tasted wine.

But be the prying vision veiled, And let the seeking lips be dumb, Where even seraph eyes have failed Shall mortal blindness seek to come?

We only know that thou hast gone, And that the same returnless tide Which bore thee from us still glides on, And we who mourn thee with it glide.

On all thou lookest we shall look, And to our gaze erelong shall turn That page of God's mysterious book We so much wish yet dread to learn.

With Him, before whose awful power Thy spirit bent its trembling knee; Who, in the silent greeting flower, And forest leaf, looked out on thee,

We leave thee, with a trust serene, Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we lean On Him whose dearest name is Love!

1842.



TO J. P.

John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston.

Not as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine,— Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless trust my offering How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Yet well I know that thou Last deemed with me Life all too earnest, and its time too short For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport; And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!

1843.



CHALKLEY HALL.

Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., was the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the west Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow-men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city. I have referred to my youthful acquaintance with his writings in Snow-Bound.

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze To him who flies From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, Till far behind him like a hideous dream The close dark city lies Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng The marble floor Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din Of the world's madness let me gather in My better thoughts once more.

Oh, once again revive, while on my ear The cry of Gain And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away, Ye blessed memories of my early day Like sere grass wet with rain!

Once more let God's green earth and sunset air Old feelings waken; Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, Oh, let me feel that my good angel still Hath not his trust forsaken.

And well do time and place befit my mood Beneath the arms Of this embracing wood, a good man made His home, like Abraham resting in the shade Of Mamre's lonely palms.

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, The virgin soil Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil.

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, Weary and worn, He came to meet his children and to bless The Giver of all good in thankfulness And praise for his return.

And here his neighbors gathered in to greet Their friend again, Safe from the wave and the destroying gales, Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, And vex the Carib main.

To hear the good man tell of simple truth, Sown in an hour Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, From the parched bosom of a barren soil, Raised up in life and power.

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, A tendering love Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above.

How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain

How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, And fair and bright-eyed youth.

Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy.

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,— Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade,— To me is holy ground.

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still; Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, Or Virgil's laurelled hill.