ANTI-SLAVERY POEMS SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER CONTENTS: IN WAR TIME. TO SAMUEL E. SEWALL AND HARRIET W. SEWALL THY WILL BE DONE A WORD FOR THE HOUR "EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT" TO JOHN C. FREMONT THE WATCHERS TO ENGLISHMEN MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS AT PORT ROYAL ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862 OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. THE PROCLAMATION ANNIVERSARY POEM BARBARA FRIETCHIE HAT THE BIRDS SAID THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATRA LADS DEO! HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPATION AT NEWBURYPORT IN WAR TIME. TO SAMUEL E. SEWALL AND HARRIET W. SEWAll, OF MELROSE. These lines to my old friends stood as dedication in the volume whichcontained a collection of pieces under the general title of In War Time. The group belonging distinctly under that title I have retained here;the other pieces in the volume are distributed among the appropriatedivisions. OLOR ISCANUS queries: "Why should weVex at the land's ridiculous miserie?"So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawnOf England's civil strife, did careless VaughanBemock his times. O friends of many years!Though faith and trust are stronger than our fears, And the signs promise peace with liberty, Not thus we trifle with our country's tearsAnd sweat of agony. The future's gainIs certain as God's truth; but, meanwhile, painIs bitter and tears are salt: our voices takeA sober tone; our very household songsAre heavy with a nation's griefs and wrongs;And innocent mirth is chastened for the sakeOf the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat, The eyes that smile no more, the unreturningfeet!1863 THY WILL BE DONE. WE see not, know not; all our wayIs night, --with Thee alone is dayFrom out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift, Thy will be done! The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, But who are we to make complaint, Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease?Thy will be done! We take with solemn thankfulnessOur burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even weMay suffer, serve, or wait for Thee, Whose will be done! Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace Thy picture's wise design, And thank Thee that our age suppliesIts dark relief of sacrifice. Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press;If from Thy ordeal's heated barsOur feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done! If, for the age to come, this hourOf trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by Thee, our present pain, Be Liberty's eternal gain, Thy will be done! Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, The anthem of the destinies!The minor of Thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done!1861. A WORD FOR THE HOUR. THE firmament breaks up. In black eclipseLight after light goes out. One evil star, Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, As in the dream of the Apocalypse, Drags others down. Let us not weakly weepNor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keepOur faith and patience; wherefore should we leapOn one hand into fratricidal fight, Or, on the other, yield eternal right, Frame lies of law, and good and ill confound?What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage-groundOur feet are planted: let us there remainIn unrevengeful calm, no means untriedWhich truth can sanction, no just claim denied, The sad spectators of a suicide!They break the links of Union: shall we lightThe fires of hell to weld anew the chainOn that red anvil where each blow is pain?Draw we not even now a freer breath, As from our shoulders falls a load of deathLoathsome as that the Tuscan's victim boreWhen keen with life to a dead horror bound?Why take we up the accursed thing again?Pity, forgive, but urge them back no moreWho, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's ragWith its vile reptile-blazon. Let us pressThe golden cluster on our brave old flagIn closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain. 16th First mo. , 1861. "EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT. " LUTHER'S HYMN. WE wait beneath the furnace-blastThe pangs of transformation;Not painlessly doth God recastAnd mould anew the nation. Hot burns the fireWhere wrongs expire;Nor spares the handThat from the landUproots the ancient evil. The hand-breadth cloud the sages fearedIts bloody rain is dropping;The poison plant the fathers sparedAll else is overtopping. East, West, South, North, It curses the earth;All justice dies, And fraud and liesLive only in its shadow. What gives the wheat-field blades of steel?What points the rebel cannon?What sets the roaring rabble's heelOn the old star-spangled pennon?What breaks the oathOf the men o' the South?What whets the knifeFor the Union's life?--Hark to the answer: Slavery! Then waste no blows on lesser foesIn strife unworthy freemen. God lifts to-day the veil, and showsThe features of the demonO North and South, Its victims both, Can ye not cry, "Let slavery die!"And union find in freedom? What though the cast-out spirit tearThe nation in his going?We who have shared the guilt must shareThe pang of his o'erthrowing!Whate'er the loss, Whate'er the cross, Shall they complainOf present painWho trust in God's hereafter? For who that leans on His right armWas ever yet forsaken?What righteous cause can suffer harmIf He its part has taken?Though wild and loud, And dark the cloud, Behind its foldsHis hand upholdsThe calm sky of to-morrow! Above the maddening cry for blood, Above the wild war-drumming, Let Freedom's voice be heard, with goodThe evil overcoming. Give prayer and purseTo stay the CurseWhose wrong we share, Whose shame we bear, Whose end shall gladden Heaven! In vain the bells of war shall ringOf triumphs and revenges, While still is spared the evil thingThat severs and estranges. But blest the earThat yet shall hearThe jubilant bellThat rings the knellOf Slavery forever! Then let the selfish lip be dumb, And hushed the breath of sighing;Before the joy of peace must comeThe pains of purifying. God give us graceEach in his placeTo bear his lot, And, murmuring not, Endure and wait and labor!1861. TO JOHN C. FREMONT. On the 31st of August, 1861, General Fremont, then in charge of theWestern Department, issued a proclamation which contained a clause, famous as the first announcement of emancipation: "The property, " itdeclared, "real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri, who shall take up arms against the United States, or who shall bedirectly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in thefield, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and theirslaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men. " Mr. Lincolnregarded the proclamation as premature and countermanded it, aftervainly endeavoring to persuade Fremont of his own motion to revoke it. THY error, Fremont, simply was to actA brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, And, taking counsel but of common sense, To strike at cause as well as consequence. Oh, never yet since Roland wound his hornAt Roncesvalles, has a blast been blownFar-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlornIt had been safer, doubtless, for the time, To flatter treason, and avoid offenceTo that Dark Power whose underlying crimeHeaves upward its perpetual turbulence. But if thine be the fate of all who breakThe ground for truth's seed, or forerun their yearsTill lost in distance, or with stout hearts makeA lane for freedom through the level spears, Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull earTurns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. Who would recall them now must first arrestThe winds that blow down from the free Northwest, Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll backThe Mississippi to its upper springs. Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lackBut the full time to harden into things. 1861. THE WATCHERS. BESIDE a stricken field I stood;On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood. Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, But all the air was quick with painAnd gusty sighs and tearful rain. Two angels, each with drooping headAnd folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead. The one, with forehead saintly blandAnd lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. The other's brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. "How long!"--I knew the voice of Peace, --"Is there no respite? no release?When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? "O Lord, how long!! One human soulIs more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll. "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave?How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? "O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me. " Then Freedom sternly said: "I shunNo strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won. "I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block. "The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped. "But now, through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fightFor leave to strike one blow aright. "On either side my foe they ownOne guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown. "Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraidTo speed thy coming through my aid? "Why watch to see who win or fall?I shake the dust against them all, I leave them to their senseless brawl. " "Nay, " Peace implored: "yet longer wait;The doom is near, the stake is greatGod knoweth if it be too late. "Still wait and watch; the way prepareWhere I with folded wings of prayerMay follow, weaponless and bare. " "Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied, "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed, In low lament the answer died. A rustling as of wings in flight, An upward gleam of lessening white, So passed the vision, sound and sight. But round me, like a silver bellRung down the listening sky to tellOf holy help, a sweet voice fell. "Still hope and trust, " it sang; "the rodMust fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!"1862. TO ENGLISHMEN. Written when, in the stress of our terrible war, the English rulingclass, with few exceptions, were either coldly indifferent or hostile tothe party of freedom. Their attitude was illustrated by caricatures ofAmerica, among which was one of a slaveholder and cowhide, with themotto, "Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger?" You flung your taunt across the waveWe bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slaveLeft friendly lips no option saveTo pity or to blame us. You scoffed our plea. "Mere lack of will, Not lack of power, " you told usWe showed our free-state records; stillYou mocked, confounding good and ill, Slave-haters and slaveholders. We struck at Slavery; to the vergeOf power and means we checked it;Lo!--presto, change! its claims you urge, Send greetings to it o'er the surge, And comfort and protect it. But yesterday you scarce could shake, In slave-abhorring rigor, Our Northern palms for conscience' sakeTo-day you clasp the hands that acheWith "walloping the nigger!" O Englishmen!--in hope and creed, In blood and tongue our brothers!We too are heirs of Runnymede;And Shakespeare's fame and Cromwell's deedAre not alone our mother's. "Thicker than water, " in one rillThrough centuries of storyOur Saxon blood has flowed, and stillWe share with you its good and ill, The shadow and the glory. Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of waveNor length of years can part usYour right is ours to shrine and grave, The common freehold of the brave, The gift of saints and martyrs. Our very sins and follies teachOur kindred frail and humanWe carp at faults with bitter speech, The while, for one unshared by each, We have a score in common. We bowed the heart, if not the knee, To England's Queen, God bless herWe praised you when your slaves went freeWe seek to unchain ours. Will yeJoin hands with the oppressor? And is it Christian England cheersThe bruiser, not the bruised?And must she run, despite the tearsAnd prayers of eighteen hundred years, Amuck in Slavery's crusade? Oh, black disgrace! Oh, shame and lossToo deep for tongue to phrase onTear from your flag its holy cross, And in your van of battle tossThe pirate's skull-bone blazon!1862. MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS. It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithridates ofCappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried awaycaptive to Colchis. Athenxus considers this a just punishment for theirwickedness in first introducing the slave-trade into Greece. From thisancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, "The Chian hath boughthimself a master. " KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed landHow, when the Chian's cup of guiltWas full to overflow, there cameGod's justice in the sword of flameThat, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand? The heavens are still and far;But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slaveWas answered, when the AEgean waveThe keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war. "Robbers of Chios! hark, "The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree!Pluck your last cluster from the vine, Drain your last cup of Chian wine;Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark. " Then rose the long lamentFrom the hoar sea-god's dusky cavesThe priestess rent her hair and cried, "Woe! woe! The gods are sleepless-eyed!"And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went. "The gods at last pay well, "So Hellas sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught, The Chian hath his master bought;"And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable. Once more the slow, dumb yearsBring their avenging cycle round, And, more than Hellas taught of old, Our wiser lesson shall be told, Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with theirblood and tears. 1868. AT PORT ROYAL. In November, 1861, a Union force under Commodore Dupont and GeneralSherman captured Port Royal, and from this point as a basis ofoperations, the neighboring islands between Charleston and Savannah weretaken possession of. The early occupation of this district, where thenegro population was greatly in excess of the white, gave an opportunitywhich was at once seized upon, of practically emancipating the slavesand of beginning that work of civilization which was accepted as thegrave responsibility of those who had labored for freedom. THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea;The night-wind smooths with drifting sandOur track on lone Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing;And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his giftsOf music and of songThe gold that kindly Nature siftsAmong his sands of wrong: The power to make his toiling daysAnd poor home-comforts please;The quaint relief of mirth that playsWith sorrow's minor keys. Another glow than sunset's fireHas filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night. The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast;From hand to hand, from gate to gateThe flaming brand is passed. The lurid glow falls strong acrossDark faces broad with smilesNot theirs the terror, hate, and lossThat fire yon blazing piles. With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple laysThe pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days, -- The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birdsSoftening with Afric's mellow tongueTheir broken Saxon words. SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he comeTo set de people free;An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Red Sea wavesHe jus' as 'trong as den;He say de word: we las' night slaves;To-day, de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn;Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hearDe driver blow his horn! Ole massa on he trabbels gone;He leaf de land behindDe Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind. We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold;We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn;Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hearDe driver blow his horn! We pray de Lord: he gib us signsDat some day we be free;De norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea;We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream;De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when be scream. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' cornOh nebber you fear, if nebber you hearDe driver blow his horn! We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word;So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de LordAn' now he open ebery door, An' trow away de key;He tink we lub him so before, We hub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn;Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hearDe driver blow his horn! So sing our dusky gondoliers;And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain. We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny;We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die. Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder stillWe start to think that hapless raceMust shape our good or ill; That laws of changeless justice bindOppressor with oppressed;And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast. Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall beOur sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom!1862. ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL. ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862. WHEN first I saw our banner waveAbove the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wallThe clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood. I shut my eyes, I held my breath, And, smothering down the wrath and shameThat set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent, --where to speak was death. Beside me gloomed the prison-cellWhere wasted one in slow declineFor uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well. The flag that floated from the domeFlapped menace in the morning air;I stood a perilled stranger whereThe human broker made his home. For crime was virtue: Gown and SwordAnd Law their threefold sanction gave, And to the quarry of the slaveWent hawking with our symbol-bird. On the oppressor's side was power;And yet I knew that every wrong, However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour. I knew that truth would crush the lie, Somehow, some time, the end would be;Yet scarcely dared I hope to seeThe triumph with my mortal eye. But now I see it! In the sunA free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and homeThe justice long delayed is done. Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drumsOn waves of battle-troubled air! Midst sounds that madden and appall, The song that Bethlehem's shepherds knew!The harp of David melting throughThe demon-agonies of Saul! Not as we hoped; but what are we?Above our broken dreams and plansGod lays, with wiser hand than man's, The corner-stones of liberty. I cavil not with Him: the voiceThat freedom's blessed gospel tellsIs sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice! Dear friends still toiling in the sun;Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal shoreThe slow work by your hands begun, Rejoice with me! The chastening rodBlossoms with love; the furnace heatGrows cool beneath His blessed feetWhose form is as the Son of God! Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springsAre sweetened; on our ground of griefRise day by day in strong reliefThe prophecies of better things. Rejoice in hope! The day and nightAre one with God, and one with themWho see by faith the cloudy hemOf Judgment fringed with Mercy's light1862. THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keepsHer ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweepsThe battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hoursThrough harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowersLike jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grainAnd yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot;But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain;She mocks with tint of flower and leafThe war-field's crimson stain. Still, in the cannon's pause, we hearHer sweet thanksgiving-psalm;Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe belowThe fires that blast and burn;For all the tears of blood we sowShe waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eve than oursThe good of suffering born, --The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn. Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes;And make her fields and fruited treesOur golden prophecies Oh, give to us her finer earAbove this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheerRing peace and freedom in. 1862. HYMN, SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C. OH, none in all the world beforeWere ever glad as we!We're free on Carolina's shore, We're all at home and free. Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, Who suffered for our sake, To open every prison door, And every yoke to break! Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, And help us sing and pray;The hand that blessed the little child, Upon our foreheads lay. We hear no more the driver's horn, No more the whip we fear, This holy day that saw Thee bornWas never half so dear. The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile;Oh, never shone a day so gladOn sweet St. Helen's Isle. We praise Thee in our songs to-day, To Thee in prayer we call, Make swift the feet and straight the wayOf freedom unto all. Come once again, O blessed Lord!Come walking on the sea!And let the mainlands hear the wordThat sets the islands free!1863. THE PROCLAMATION. President Lincoln's proclamation of emancipation was issuedJanuary 1, 1863. SAINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herdsOf Ballymena, wakened with these words"Arise, and fleeOut from the land of bondage, and be free!" Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heavenThe angels singing of his sins forgiven, And, wondering, seesHis prison opening to their golden keys, He rose a man who laid him down a slave, Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, And outward trodInto the glorious liberty of God. He cast the symbols of his shame away;And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limbSmarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardonhim!" So went he forth; but in God's time he cameTo light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;And, dying, gaveThe land a saint that lost him as a slave. O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumbWaiting for God, your hour at last has come, And freedom's songBreaks the long silence of your night of wrong! Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraintOf ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, The oppressor spare, Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. Go forth, like him! like him return again, To bless the land whereon in bitter painYe toiled at first, And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed. 1863. ANNIVERSARY POEM. Read before the Alumni of the Friends' Yearly Meeting School, at theAnnual Meeting at Newport, R. I. , 15th 6th mo. , 1863. ONCE more, dear friends, you meet beneathA clouded skyNot yet the sword has found its sheath, And on the sweet spring airs the breathOf war floats by. Yet trouble springs not from the ground, Nor pain from chance;The Eternal order circles round, And wave and storm find mete and boundIn Providence. Full long our feet the flowery waysOf peace have trod, Content with creed and garb and phrase:A harder path in earlier daysLed up to God. Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear, Are made our own;Too long the world has smiled to hearOur boast of full corn in the earBy others sown; To see us stir the martyr firesOf long ago, And wrap our satisfied desiresIn the singed mantles that our siresHave dropped below. But now the cross our worthies boreOn us is laid;Profession's quiet sleep is o'er, And in the scale of truth once moreOur faith is weighed. The cry of innocent blood at lastIs calling downAn answer in the whirlwind-blast, The thunder and the shadow castFrom Heaven's dark frown. The land is red with judgments. WhoStands guiltless forth?Have we been faithful as we knew, To God and to our brother true, To Heaven and Earth. How faint, through din of merchandiseAnd count of gain, Have seemed to us the captive's cries!How far away the tears and sighsOf souls in pain! This day the fearful reckoning comesTo each and all;We hear amidst our peaceful homesThe summons of the conscript drums, The bugle's call. Our path is plain; the war-net drawsRound us in vain, While, faithful to the Higher Cause, We keep our fealty to the lawsThrough patient pain. The levelled gun, the battle-brand, We may not takeBut, calmly loyal, we can standAnd suffer with our suffering landFor conscience' sake. Why ask for ease where all is pain?Shall we aloneBe left to add our gain to gain, When over Armageddon's plainThe trump is blown? To suffer well is well to serve;Safe in our LordThe rigid lines of law shall curveTo spare us; from our heads shall swerveIts smiting sword. And light is mingled with the gloom, And joy with grief;Divinest compensations come, Through thorns of judgment mercies bloomIn sweet relief. Thanks for our privilege to bless, By word and deed, The widow in her keen distress, The childless and the fatherless, The hearts that bleed! For fields of duty, opening wide, Where all our powersAre tasked the eager steps to guideOf millions on a path untriedThe slave is ours! Ours by traditions dear and old, Which make the raceOur wards to cherish and uphold, And cast their freedom in the mouldOf Christian grace. And we may tread the sick-bed floorsWhere strong men pine, And, down the groaning corridors, Pour freely from our liberal storesThe oil and wine. Who murmurs that in these dark daysHis lot is cast?God's hand within the shadow laysThe stones whereon His gates of praiseShall rise at last. Turn and o'erturn, O outstretched HandNor stint, nor stay;The years have never dropped their sandOn mortal issue vast and grandAs ours to-day. Already, on the sable groundOf man's despairIs Freedom's glorious picture found, With all its dusky hands unboundUpraised in prayer. Oh, small shall seem all sacrificeAnd pain and loss, When God shall wipe the weeping eyes, For suffering give the victor's prize, The crown for cross. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of theincident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources. It hassince been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and thestory was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted byall that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemedgentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that whenthe Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, shedenounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, anddrove them out; and when General Burnside's troops followed close uponJackson's, she waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that MayQnantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did waveher flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there hasbeen a blending of the two incidents. Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn. The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag, " she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirredTo life at that woman's deed and word. "Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet. All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!1863. WHAT THE BIRDS SAID. THE birds against the April windFlew northward, singing as they flew;They sang, "The land we leave behindHas swords for corn-blades, blood for dew. " "O wild-birds, flying from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down?""We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town! "Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die;In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie. "We heard the starving prisoner's sighs, And saw, from line and trench, your sonsFollow our flight with home-sick eyesBeyond the battery's smoking guns. " "And heard and saw ye only wrongAnd pain, " I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?""We heard, " they sang, "the freedman's song, The crash of Slavery's broken locks! "We saw from new, uprising StatesThe treason-nursing mischief spurned, As, crowding Freedom's ample gates, The long estranged and lost returned. "O'er dusky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, With hope in every rustling fold, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. "And struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air;A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening heavens with prayer. "And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, Till, drowning all the noise of war, It sings the blessed song of peace!" So to me, in a doubtful dayOf chill and slowly greening spring, Low stooping from the cloudy gray, The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing. They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight;But lo! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light. April, 1864. THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE, " A. D. 1154-1864. A STRONG and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible, and bright, The cross in blended red and blueUpon his mantle white. Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raisethThe dead to life again! Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this, " the Angel said;"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign, The white, the blue, and red. " Then rose up John de MathaIn the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of FranceThe ransom of the slave. The gates of tower and castleBefore him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax;And the hearts of lord and peasantWere in his hands as wax. At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven-score Christian soulsWhose ransom he had paid. But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung;And on the wild waves, rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung. "God save us!" cried the captain, "For naught can man avail;Oh, woe betide the ship that lacksHer rudder and her sail! "Behind us are the Moormen;At sea we sink or strandThere's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!" Then up spake John de Matha"God's errands never fail!Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail. " They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red;And straight before the wind off-shoreThe ship of Freedom sped. "God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skillThe good ship on a stormy seaIs drifting at its will. " Then up spake John de Matha"My mariners, never fearThe Lord whose breath has filled her sailMay well our vessel steer!" So on through storm and darknessThey drove for weary hours;And lo! the third gray morning shoneOn Ostia's friendly towers. And on the walls the watchersThe ship of mercy knew, They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, and blue. And the bells in all the steeplesRang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soilThe ransomed of the Lord. So runs the ancient legendBy bard and painter told;And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old! With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight seaIs waiting for the morn. Before her, nameless terror;Behind, the pirate foe;The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below. The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, How long, O Lord I how long? But courage, O my marinersYe shall not suffer wreck, While up to God the freedman's prayersAre rising from your deck. Is not your sail the bannerWhich God hath blest anew, The mantle that De Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue? Its hues are all of heaven, The red of sunset's dye, The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud, The blue of morning's sky. Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, For daylight and for land;The breath of God is in your sail, Your rudder is His hand. Sail on, sail on, deep-freightedWith blessings and with hopes;The saints of old with shadowy handsAre pulling at your ropes. Behind ye holy martyrsUplift the palm and crown;Before ye unborn ages sendTheir benedictions down. Take heart from John de Matha!--God's errands never fail!Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail! Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win;And all the bells of God shall ringThe good ship bravely in!1865. LAUS DEO! On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the constitutional amendmentabolishing slavery. The resolution was adopted by Congress, January 31, 1865. The ratification by the requisite number of states was announcedDecember 18, 1865. IT is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town! Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time! Let us kneelGod's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound! For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake He has spoken;He has smitten with His thunderThe iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken. Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the sea, He has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;"He hath triumphed gloriously!" Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done?When was ever His right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun? How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise! Blotted outAll within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin! It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth! Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chainsTell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God!1865. HYMNFOR THE CELEBRATION OF EMANCIPATION AT NEWBURYPORT. NOT unto us who did but seekThe word that burned within to speak, Not unto us this day belongThe triumph and exultant song. Upon us fell in early youthThe burden of unwelcome truth, And left us, weak and frail and few, The censor's painful work to do. Thenceforth our life a fight became, The air we breathed was hot with blame;For not with gauged and softened toneWe made the bondman's cause our own. We bore, as Freedom's hope forlorn, The private hate, the public scorn;Yet held through all the paths we trodOur faith in man and trust in God. We prayed and hoped; but still, with awe, The coming of the sword we saw;We heard the nearing steps of doom, We saw the shade of things to come. In grief which they alone can feelWho from a mother's wrong appeal, With blended lines of fear and hopeWe cast our country's horoscope. For still within her house of lifeWe marked the lurid sign of strife, And, poisoning and imbittering all, We saw the star of Wormwood fall. Deep as our love for her becameOur hate of all that wrought her shame, And if, thereby, with tongue and penWe erred, --we were but mortal men. We hoped for peace; our eyes surveyThe blood-red dawn of Freedom's dayWe prayed for love to loose the chain;'T is shorn by battle's axe in twain! Nor skill nor strength nor zeal of oursHas mined and heaved the hostile towers;Not by our hands is turned the keyThat sets the sighing captives free. A redder sea than Egypt's waveIs piled and parted for the slave;A darker cloud moves on in light;A fiercer fire is guide by night. The praise, O Lord! is Thine alone, In Thy own way Thy work is done!Our poor gifts at Thy feet we cast, To whom be glory, first and last!1865. AFTER THE WAR. THE PEACE AUTUMN. Written for the Fssex County Agricultural Festival, 1865. THANK God for rest, where none molest, And none can make afraid;For Peace that sits as Plenty's guestBeneath the homestead shade! Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge, The negro's broken chains, And beat them at the blacksmith's forgeTo ploughshares for our plains. Alike henceforth our hills of snow, And vales where cotton flowers;All streams that flow, all winds that blow, Are Freedom's motive-powers. Henceforth to Labor's chivalryBe knightly honors paid;For nobler than the sword's shall beThe sickle's accolade. Build up an altar to the Lord, O grateful hearts of oursAnd shape it of the greenest swardThat ever drank the showers. Lay all the bloom of gardens there, And there the orchard fruits;Bring golden grain from sun and air, From earth her goodly roots. There let our banners droop and flow, The stars uprise and fall;Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow, Let sighing breezes call. Their names let hands of horn and tanAnd rough-shod feet applaud, Who died to make the slave a man, And link with toil reward. There let the common heart keep timeTo such an anthem sungAs never swelled on poet's rhyme, Or thrilled on singer's tongue. Song of our burden and relief, Of peace and long annoy;The passion of our mighty griefAnd our exceeding joy! A song of praise to Him who filledThe harvests sown in tears, And gave each field a double yieldTo feed our battle-years. A song of faith that trusts the endTo match the good begun, Nor doubts the power of Love to blendThe hearts of men as one! TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS. The thirty-ninth congress was that which met in 1565 after the close ofthe war, when it was charged with the great question of reconstruction;the uppermost subject in men's minds was the standing of those who hadrecently been in arms against the Union and their relations to thefreedmen. O PEOPLE-CHOSEN! are ye notLikewise the chosen of the Lord, To do His will and speak His word? From the loud thunder-storm of warNot man alone hath called ye forth, But He, the God of all the earth! The torch of vengeance in your handsHe quenches; unto Him belongsThe solemn recompense of wrongs. Enough of blood the land has seen, And not by cell or gallows-stairShall ye the way of God prepare. Say to the pardon-seekers: KeepYour manhood, bend no suppliant knees, Nor palter with unworthy pleas. Above your voices sounds the wailOf starving men; we shut in vain *Our eyes to Pillow's ghastly stain. ** What words can drown that bitter cry?What tears wash out the stain of death?What oaths confirm your broken faith? From you alone the guarantyOf union, freedom, peace, we claim;We urge no conqueror's terms of shame. Alas! no victor's pride is ours;We bend above our triumphs wonLike David o'er his rebel son. Be men, not beggars. Cancel allBy one brave, generous action; trustYour better instincts, and be just. Make all men peers before the law, Take hands from off the negro's throat, Give black and white an equal vote. Keep all your forfeit lives and lands, But give the common law's redressTo labor's utter nakedness. Revive the old heroic will;Be in the right as brave and strongAs ye have proved yourselves in wrong. Defeat shall then be victory, Your loss the wealth of full amends, And hate be love, and foes be friends. Then buried be the dreadful past, Its common slain be mourned, and letAll memories soften to regret. Then shall the Union's mother-heartHer lost and wandering ones recall, Forgiving and restoring all, -- And Freedom break her marble tranceAbove the Capitolian dome, Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome homeNovember, 1865. * Andersonville prison. ** The massacre of Negro troops at Fort Pillow. THE HIVE AT GETTYSBURG. IN the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, So terrible alive, Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, becameThe wandering wild bees' hive;And he who, lone and naked-handed, toreThose jaws of death apart, In after time drew forth their honeyed storeTo strengthen his strong heart. Dead seemed the legend: but it only sleptTo wake beneath our sky;Just on the spot whence ravening Treason creptBack to its lair to die, Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, A stained and shattered drumIs now the hive where, on their flowery rounds, The wild bees go and come. Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, They wander wide and far, Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell, Through vales once choked with war. The low reveille of their battle-drumDisturbs no morning prayer;With deeper peace in summer noons their humFills all the drowsy air. And Samson's riddle is our own to-day, Of sweetness from the strong, Of union, peace, and freedom plucked awayFrom the rent jaws of wrong. From Treason's death we draw a purer life, As, from the beast he slew, A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strifeThe old-time athlete drew!1868. HOWARD AT ATLANTA. RIGHT in the track where ShermanPloughed his red furrow, Out of the narrow cabin, Up from the cellar's burrow, Gathered the little black people, With freedom newly dowered, Where, beside their Northern teacher, Stood the soldier, Howard. He listened and heard the childrenOf the poor and long-enslavedReading the words of Jesus, Singing the songs of David. Behold!--the dumb lips speaking, The blind eyes seeing!Bones of the Prophet's visionWarmed into being! Transformed he saw them passingTheir new life's portalAlmost it seemed the mortalPut on the immortal. No more with the beasts of burden, No more with stone and clod, But crowned with glory and honorIn the image of God! There was the human chattelIts manhood taking;There, in each dark, bronze statue, A soul was waking!The man of many battles, With tears his eyelids pressing, Stretched over those dusky foreheadsHis one-armed blessing. And he said: "Who hears can neverFear for or doubt you;What shall I tell the childrenUp North about you?"Then ran round a whisper, a murmur, Some answer devising:And a little boy stood up: "General, Tell 'em we're rising!" O black boy of Atlanta!But half was spokenThe slave's chain and the master'sAlike are broken. The one curse of the racesHeld both in tetherThey are rising, --all are rising, The black and white together! O brave men and fair women!Ill comes of hate and scorningShall the dark faces onlyBe turned to mourning?--Make Time your sole avenger, All-healing, all-redressing;Meet Fate half-way, and make itA joy and blessing!1869. THE EMANCIPATION GROUP. Moses Kimball, a citizen of Boston, presented to the city a duplicateof the Freedman's Memorial statue erected in Lincoln Square, Washington. The group, which stands in Park Square, represents the figure of aslave, from whose limbs the broken fetters have fallen, kneeling ingratitude at the feet of Lincoln. The group was designed by Thomas Ball, and was unveiled December 9, 1879. These verses were written for theoccasion. AMIDST thy sacred effigiesOf old renown give place, O city, Freedom-loved! to hisWhose hand unchained a race. Take the worn frame, that rested notSave in a martyr's grave;The care-lined face, that none forgot, Bent to the kneeling slave. Let man be free! The mighty wordHe spake was not his own;An impulse from the Highest stirredThese chiselled lips alone. The cloudy sign, the fiery guide, Along his pathway ran, And Nature, through his voice, deniedThe ownership of man. We rest in peace where these sad eyesSaw peril, strife, and pain;His was the nation's sacrifice, And ours the priceless gain. O symbol of God's will on earthAs it is done above!Bear witness to the cost and worthOf justice and of love. Stand in thy place and testifyTo coming ages long, That truth is stronger than a lie, And righteousness than wrong. THE JUBILEE SINGERS. A number of students of Fisk University, under the direction of one ofthe officers, gave a series of concerts in the Northern States, for thepurpose of establishing the college on a firmer financial foundation. Their hymns and songs, mostly in a minor key, touched the hearts of thepeople, and were received as peculiarly expressive of a race deliveredfrom bondage. VOICE of a people suffering long, The pathos of their mournful song, The sorrow of their night of wrong! Their cry like that which Israel gave, A prayer for one to guide and save, Like Moses by the Red Sea's wave! The stern accord her timbrel lentTo Miriam's note of triumph sentO'er Egypt's sunken armament! The tramp that startled camp and town, And shook the walls of slavery down, The spectral march of old John Brown! The storm that swept through battle-days, The triumph after long delays, The bondmen giving God the praise! Voice of a ransomed race, sing onTill Freedom's every right is won, And slavery's every wrong undone1880. GARRISON. The earliest poem in this division was my youthful tribute to the greatreformer when himself a young man he was first sounding his trumpet inEssex County. I close with the verses inscribed to him at the end of hisearthly career, May 24, 1879. My poetical service in the cause offreedom is thus almost synchronous with his life of devotion to thesame cause. THE storm and peril overpast, The hounding hatred shamed and still, Go, soul of freedom! take at lastThe place which thou alone canst fill. Confirm the lesson taught of old--Life saved for self is lost, while theyWho lose it in His service holdThe lease of God's eternal day. Not for thyself, but for the slaveThy words of thunder shook the world;No selfish griefs or hatred gaveThe strength wherewith thy bolts were hurled. From lips that Sinai's trumpet blewWe heard a tender under song;Thy very wrath from pity grew, From love of man thy hate of wrong. Now past and present are as one;The life below is life above;Thy mortal years have but begunThy immortality of love. With somewhat of thy lofty faithWe lay thy outworn garment by, Give death but what belongs to death, And life the life that cannot die! Not for a soul like thine the calmOf selfish ease and joys of sense;But duty, more than crown or palm, Its own exceeding recompense. Go up and on thy day well done, Its morning promise well fulfilled, Arise to triumphs yet unwon, To holier tasks that God has willed. Go, leave behind thee all that marsThe work below of man for man;With the white legions of the starsDo service such as angels can. Wherever wrong shall right denyOr suffering spirits urge their plea, Be thine a voice to smite the lie, A hand to set the captive free!