O utter degradation! Freedom turned And we are silent,-we who daily tread With cerements close, to wither in the cold Beauty and Truth, and all that these contain, We climb to them through years of sweat and pain; Without long struggle, none did e'er attain The downward look from Quiet's blissful 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 staunch Mayflower breed? No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling seed? Are these thy great men, these that cringe and creep, Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? O for one hour of that undaunted stock That went with Vane and Sydney 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, Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise anew. TO W. L. GARRISON. 161 TO W. L. GARRISON. 'Some time afterwards, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.'-Letter of H. G. Otis. In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man; Help came but slowly; surely no man yet What need of help? He knew how types were set, Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, The compact nucleus round which systems grow! 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; No! said one man in Genoa, and that No Out of the dark created this New World. Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST? He and his works, like sand, from earth ure blown. Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! To win a world; see the obedient sphere L We stride the river daily at its spring, Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, How like an equal it shall greet the sea. O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, Based on a faithful heart and weariless 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. To plead the poor dumb bondman's cause, O Mother State! when this was done, The stranger's charity—a grave. Must it be thus forever? No! The hand of God sows not in vain; Although our brother lie asleep, Man's heart still struggles, still aspires; When hours like this the senses' gush It hears amid the eternal hush The swooping pinions' dreadful rush, That bring the vengeance and the doom; Not man's brute vengeance, such as rends ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. I Do not come to weep above thy pall, ・ And mourn the dying-out of noble powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers. Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, Through Nature's veins her strength, undying, tides. Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. I watch the circle of the eternal years, And read for ever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,- The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; 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 still; Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. may shine And often, from that other world, on this Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here, For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes may come, Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, 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 entwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear, For us weep rather thou in calm divinę ! |