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Who says thy day is o'er? Control,

My heart, that bitter first emotion ; While men shall reverence the steadfast

soul, The heart in silent self-devotion Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, Thou ’lt need no prop of marble, La

martine.

If France reject thee, 't is not thine,

But her own, exile that she utters; Ideal France, the deathless, the divine,

Will be where thy white pennon

flutters, As once the nobler Athens went With Aristides into banishment.

No fitting metewand hath To-day

For measuring spirits of thy

stature, Only the Future can reach up to lay

The laurel on that lofty nature, – Bard, who with some diviner art Has touched the bard's true lyre, u

nation's heart.

And stamped their dusty adoration ; I but looked upward with the rest, And, when they shouted Greatest,

whispered Best. They raised thee not, but rose to thee,

Their fickle wreaths about thee

flinging; Soon some marble Phæbus the high sea

Might leave his worthless seaweed

clinging, But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sub

limely bare. Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again,

'Thou art secure from panegyric, Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain,

And actedst Freedom's noblest

lyric; This side the Blessed Isles, no tree Grows

green enough to make a wreath

for thee. Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow

From swinish footprints takes no

staining, But, leaving the gross soils of earth

below, Its spirit mounts, the skies regain

ing, And unresenting falls again, To beautify the world with dews and

rain. The highest duty to mere man vouch

safed Was laid on thee, - out of wild

chaos, When the roused popular ocean foamed

and chafed, And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely

Peace, And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what

though Time was not granted ? Aye in

history, Like that Dawn's face which baifled

Angelo
Left shapeless, grander for its

mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far

away.

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Wnwichering in the adverse popular

breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's

applause ; 'Tis they who stand for Freedom and

God's laws.

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And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell

stood, Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be

wooed To trust the playful tiger's velvet

paws: And if the second Charles brought in

decay Ofancient virtue, if it well might wring Souls that had broadened 'neath

nobler day, To see a losel, marketable king Fearfully watering with his realm's best

blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst

had cracked and flamed, Scaring, through all their depths of

courtier mud,
Europe's crowned bloodsuckers,

how more ashamed Ought we to be, who see Corruption's

flood Still rise o'er last year's mark, to mine

away Our brazen idols' feet of treacherous

clay!

Beauty and Truth, and all that these

contain, Drop not like ripened fruit about our

feet ; We climb to them through years of

sweat and pain ; Without long struggle, none did e er

attain The downward look from Quiet's bliss

ful seat : Though present loss may be the hero's

part, Yet none can rob him of the victor

heart Whereby the broad-realmed future is

subdued, And Wrong, which now insults from

triumph's car,
Sending her vulture hope to raven far,
Is made unwilling tributary of Good.
O Mother State, how quenched thy

Sinai fires !
Is there none left of thy stanch May-

flower breed ? No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling

seed? Are these thy great men, these ihat

cringe and creep, And writhe through slimy ways to

place and power?How long, O Lord, before thy wrath Our frail-stemmed summer prosper

ings in their flower ? O for one hour of that undaunted stock That went with Vane and Syduey to

the block ! O for a whiff of Naseby, that would

sweep, With its stern Puritan besom, all this

chaff From the Lord's threshing-floor! Yet

more than half The victory is attained, when one or

two, Through the fool's laughter and the

traitor's scorn, Beside thy sepulchre can abide the

morn, Cruci ied Truth, bez thou shalt rise

anew.

shall reap

Outter degradation ! Freedom turned Slavery's vile bawd, to cozen and

betray To the old lecher's clutch a maiden

prey, If so a loathsome pander's fee be earned! And we are silent, – we who daily

tread A soil sublime, at least, with heroes'

graves ! Beckon no more, shades of the noble

dead ! Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of

winds and waves ! Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard,

bid Ages ago, wrapt stiffly, fold on fold, With cerements close, to wither in the

cold Forever hushed, and sunless pyramid!

TO W. L. GARRISON.

No! said one man in Genoa, and that

No Out of the dark created this New

World.

"Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his ofhce was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors." - Letter oj H. G. Otis.

Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it hath no: strength to stand

alone? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward

MUST? He and his works, like sand, from

earth are blown.

In a small chamber, friendless and un

seen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, un

learned young man ; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and

mean; Yet there the freedom of a race began.

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles,

look here ! See one straightforward conscience

put in pawn To win a world ; see the obedient

sphere Bybravery’ssimplegravitation drawn! Shall we not heed the lesson taught of

old, And by the Present's lips repeated

still, In our own single manhood to be bold, Fortressed in conscience and impreg

nable will ?

We stride the river daily at its spring, Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness,

foresee What myriad vassal streams shall trib

ute bring, How like an equal shall greet the

Help came but slowly ; surely no man

yet Put lever to the heavy world with

less : What need of help? He knew how

types were set, He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, The compact nucleus, round which

systems grow! Mass after mass becomes inspired there

with, And whirls impregnate with the cen

tral glow. O Truth ! O Freedom ! how are ye still

born In the rude stable, in the manger

nursed ! What humble hands unbar those gates

of morn Through which the splendors of the

New Day burst ! What ! shall one monk, scarce known

beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and

scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered YES ; that

thunder's swell Rocked Europe, and discharmed the

triple crown. Whatever can be known of earth we

know, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their

snail-shells curled;

sea.

O small beginnings, ye are great and

strong, Based on a faithful heart and weari

less brain ! Ye build the future fair, ye conquer

wrong, Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in

vain.

ON THE DEATH OF C. T.

TORREY.

Woe worth the hour when it is crime To plead the poor dumb bondman's

cause,

When all that makes the heart sublime, The glorious throbs that conquer time,

Are traitors to our cruel laws !

The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of

Heaven's flowers.

He strove among God's suffering poor

One gleam of brotherhood to send ; The dungeon oped its hungry door To give the truth one martyr more, Then shut, - and here behold the

end !

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O Mother State ! when this was done, No pitying throe thy bosom

gave ; Silent thou saw'st the death-shroud

spun, And now thou givest to thy son

The stranger's charity, - a grave. Must it be thus forever? No!

The hand of God sows not in vain ; Long sleeps the darkling seed below, The seasons come, and change, and go,

And all the fields are deep with grain. Although our brother lie asleep, Man's heart still struggles, still as

pires; His grave shall quiver yet, while deep Through the brave Bay State's pulses

leap Her ancient energies and fires. When hours like this the senses' gush

Have stilled, and left the spirit room, It hears amid the eternal hush The swooping pinions' dreadful rush, That bring the vengeance and the

doom;

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Not man's brute vengeance, such as

rends What rivets man to man apart, God doth not so bring round his ends, But waits the ripened time, and sends

His mercy to the oppressor's heart.

The poor are crushed; the tyrants link

their chain ; The poet sings through narrow dun

geon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched ; -and, lo!

with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of ad

verse fates. Men slay the prophets ; fagot, rack, and

cross Make up the groaning record of the

past; But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, And sovereign Beauty wins the soul

at last. No power can die that ever wrought for

Truth; Thereby a law of Nature it became,

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF

DR. CHANNING.

I do not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble

powers;

And lives unwithered in its sinewy

youth, When he who called it forth is but a

name Therefore I cannot think thee wholly

gone; The better part of thee is with us

stil!; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath

thrown, And freer wrestles with the Ill. Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Free

dom shall not die ; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love

hath wings To scar where hence thy Hope could

hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on

this Some gleams from great souls gone

before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer

bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more

divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere

Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength, to perfect what it dreamed

of here Is all the crown and glory that it asks. For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers,

there is room For love and pity, and for helpful

deeds, Else were our summons thither but a

doom To life more vain than this in clayey

weeds. From off the starry mountain-peak of

song: Thy spirit shows me, in the coming

time, An earth unwithered by the foot of

wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime. What wars, what martyrdoms, what

crimes, may come, ou knowest not, nor I ; but God

will lead

The prodigal soul from want and sorrow

home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's

seed. Farewell ! good man, good angel now!

this hand Soon, like thine own, shall lose its

cunning too; Soon shall this soul, like thine, be

wildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, un

fathomed blue : When that day comes, O, may this hand

grow cold, Busy, like thine, for Freedom and

the Right ; O, may this soul, like thine, be ever

bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching

blight! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy

wreath intwine ; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless

tear, For us weep rather thou in calm di

vine ! 1842.

TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. Another star 'neath Time's horizon

dropped, To gleam o'er unknown lands and

seas; Another heart that beat for freedom

stopped, What mournful words are these ! O Love Divine, that claspest our tired

earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, Thou knowest how much a gentle soul

is worth
To teach men what thou art !

His was a spirit that to all thy poor

Was kind as slumber after pain : Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep

Quiet's door
And call him home again?

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