Proud Switzerland (crag-locked on ev'ry side)
May chant the praises of her Winklereid;
Proclaim his deeds from lofty mountain peaks
Unto the world. With fitting pride she speaks
Of him who broke a path for the oppressed;
He took the Austrian spears into his breast
And died for liberty.
Home of the shamrock, justly claims, meanwhile,
The right on Freedom's altar to engrave
The name of Emmet, or O'Connell brave.
What though they vainly fought or vainly fell?
Warm-hearted Ireland's bosom can but swell
With fond emotion at the thought of men
gave their all, her honor to defend.
If from the Scottish peak of Ben-venue (Whose snow-capped summit, piercing fleecy clouds, Its barren forehead bold forever shrouds In misty haze); if in the Trossach's glade; On meadow heath, or in the forest shade ; In rocky glen of thickly-tangled brake Upon the shore of Katrine's dreamy lake, A spell be tried, to see what best-loved name The sylvan elves of echo would proclaim With most distinctness, lo! they cry a truceAnd sound together, Douglass, Wallace, Bruce.
And England-boasting mistress of the seas,
Whose flag is kissed and tossed by every breeze
That sweeps the earth, from where the silv'ry sheen
Perpetual gleams from fields of virgin snow,
To where the tropic rivers placid flow
Points to the monuments, on Freedom's course,
That mark the deeds of Pitt and Wilberforce.
Now Haiti rises from the surging waves,
Like Neptune mounting from his coral caves.
With sovereign dignity she calmly lifts,
From ocean's boiling depths, her stately cliffs,
And seems rejoicing with the elements;
For their wild freedom fitly represents
The wider freedom of the habitants
Of this lone isle, who, at the open door
Of Freedom's temple, place their gift of pure
And spotless manhood, Toussaint l'Ouverture!
Each hero of this number, in his place
A giant stood, to shield a helpless race;
Each fought for right, for right a vict'ry won;
But Liberty's great struggle yet goes on
Against the tyrant's power.
On nature's battlefield, day puts to flight
The sombre-mantled forces of the night;
Rescues the victims from her sable clutch
And wakens them to life with radiant touch.
Fierce seems this conflict, but 'tis mimicry
Beside the contest in which Liberty
Against Cyclopean foes of right arrays
Her Titan warriors.
What is nature's gloom,
Compared with darkness of benighted brains,
Whose cells intelligence doth not illume
With conscious knowledge? What the lofty chains
Of mountains, barring from the vale below
The sun's refulgence, to the chain of chance
Or foul design that turns the sparkling flow
Of wisdom from the thirsty soul that pants
For its refreshing draughts? Or what the crash
Of pealing thunder-bolts, when tempests rave,
Besides the cry drawn by Oppression's lash
From human lips? The raging ocean wave-
Foam-crested,-leaping toward an angry sky
In mountain masses, turbulent and high,
Is but the ripple of a summer sea
Beside emotion's waves, tempestuously
Tossing the human heart in agony.
Amid such conflict, waged 'twixt dark and light,
'Twixt ignorance and knowledge, wrong and right,
Was Douglass, by the force of changeless fate,
Hurled into life, to find, at length, his place;
A Prince in Freedom's court, though of a race
Despised on ev'ry hand.
Born was he, in the clutch
Of vilest bondage, whose polluted touch
All things defiled, and friend and foe alike
Bound with deceptive cords till it could strike
Its venom to their souls and poison thought
Of equal justice, by a prejudice
As wilful blind as was the avarice
Of its red-handed champions, who sold
Immortal human life, for blood-stained gold!
Like pigmies, by a giant's blows
Repelled, the savage horde of freedom's foes
Contended with him feebly for breath,
Then, vanquished, fell back in that living death
Of utter rout; while, from his arms and hands,
Like circlets made of glass, the heavy bands
With which 'twas sought to bind and make him fast
In slavery, with calm disdain he cast.
Long had he listened while Columbia's song
Of liberty entrancing rolled along
In wild and beauteous strains that rose and fell
With changeful cadences that seemed to swell
Into a sea of music, whose vast waves
Lashed slav'ry's stronghold, as the ocean raves
Against the headland.
On Douglass' ear and made his heart to swell
With strong desire that could not be repressed;
Nor ties of life nor fear of death possessed
The power to turn him from his noble plan
To battle for the "Equal Rights of Man."
Wherever justice has an altar raised;
Wherever liberty and right are praised,
His name is known,
Even age which with its wan
And chilling finger often withers grand
And noble minds, or curbs with rigid hand
Ambition's course,—was powerless to chain
The dauntless spirit of that giant brain.
Thou art our Douglass. To thy lofty name
What words of praise can add one lustrous spark?
'Twould take a pen divine, a tongue of fire
To coin in words the feelings of each heart.
Thus must it be, till some historian grand,
In this or mayhap in some distant age,
Shall truly paint thy hist'ry, noblest of our land,
The Nation's Hero: Anacostia's Sage!
FREDERICK DOUGLASS.
One whose majestic presence ever here
Was as an inspiration held so dear
Will greet us nevermore upon the earth.
The funeral bells have rung; there was no dearth
Of sorrow as the solemn cortege passed;
But ours is grief that will outlast
The civic splendor. Say, among all men,
Who was this hero that they buried then,
With saddest plaint and sorrow-stricken face?
Ay ! 'Twas a princely leader of his race!
And for a leader well equipped was he;
Nature had given him most regally
E'en of her choicest gifts. What matter then
That he in chains was held? What matter when
He could uplift himself to noblest heights?
For with his native greatness, neither slights
Nor wrongs could harm him; and a solemn wrath
Burned in his soul. He well saw duty's path;
His days heroic purposes did know,
And could he then his chosen work forego?
Born to a fate most wretched, most forlorn!
A slave! alas! of benefits all shorn
Upon his entrance into life. What lot
More destitute of hope! Yet e'en that blot
Could not suffice to dim the glowing page
He leaves to History; for he could wage
Against oppression's deadliest blows a war
That knew no ending, until nevermore
Should any man be called a bondman. Ay!
Such was a conflict for which one could die!
Panting for freedom early, he did dare
To throw aside his shackles; for the air
Of slavery is poison unto men
Moulded as Douglass was; they suffer, then
Manhood asserts itself; they are too brave-
Such souls as his, to die content a slave.
So being free, one path alone he trod,
To bring to liberty-sweet boon from God
His deeply injured race; his tireless zeal
Was consecrated to the bondman's weal.
He thought of children sobbing around the knees
Of hopeless mothers, where the summer breeze
Llew o'er the dark savannas. What of woe
In their sad story that he did not know!
He was a valiant leader in a cause,
Than none less noble, though the nation's laws
Did seem to spurn it; and his matchless speech
To Britain's sea-girt island shores did reach.
Our Cicero, and yet our warrior knight
Striving to show mankind might is not right!
He saw the slave uplifted from the dust,
A freeman! Loyal to the sacred trust
He gave himself in youth, with voice and pen,
He had been to the end. And now again
The grandest efforts of that brain and heart
In ev'ry human sorrow bore a part.
His regnant intellect, his dignity
Did make him honored among all to be;
And public trusts his country gladly gave
Unto this princely leader-born a slave!
Shall the race falter in its courage now
That the great chief is fallen? Shall it bow
Tamely to aught of injury? Ah, nay!
For daring souls are needed e'en to-day.
Let his example be a shining light,
Leading through duty's paths to some far height
Of undreamed victory. All honored be
The silv'ry head of him we no more see!
Children unborn will venerate his name,
And History keep spotless his fair fame.
The Romans wove bright leafy crowns for those
Who saved a life in battle with their foes;
And shall not we as rare a chaplet weave
To that great master-soul for whom we grieve?
Yea! Since not always on the battle field
Are the best vict'ries won; for they who yield
Themselves to conquer in a losing cause,
Because 'tis right in God's eternal laws,
Do noblest battle; therefore fitly we
Upon their brows a victor's crown would see.
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