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erable length and descriptive interest, was published in. 1848. In the same year' appeared Voices of Freedom, a col. lection of some forty poems, written during the preceding fifteen years, and upon themes suggested by Slavery. In these poems may be felt the intensest heart-throbbings of Whittier's freedom- and right-loving nature./
These “Voices of Freedom' are no bad reading at the present day. They are themselves battles, and stir the blood like the blast of a trumpet. What a beat in them of fiery pulses! What a heat, as of molten metal, or coalmines burning underground! What anger! What desire ! And yet we have in vain searched these poems to find one trace of base wrath, or of any degenerate or selfish passion. He is angry, and sins not. . . . All the fires of his heart burn for justice and mercy, for God and humanity; and they who are most scathed by them owe him no hatred in return, whether they pay him any or not."
The subjoined Lines, written on the passage of a "Bill for excluding papers written or printed, touching the subjes of Slavery, from the U.S. Post-office," will fully sustain the a.bove criticism.
MEN of the North-land! where's the manly spirit
Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone?
Their names alone?
Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low,
To silence now?
In God's name, let us speak while there is time!
Silence is crime!
Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter,
God and our charter ?
Here snall the statesman forge his human fetters,
Here the false jurist human rights deny,
Make truth a lie?
To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood ? And, in Oppression's hateful service, libel
Both man and God? Shall our New England stand erect no longer,
But stoop in chains upon her downward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger
Day after day? Oh, no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains,
From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,
And clear, cold skyFrom her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean
Gnaws with his surges—from the fisher's skiff, With white sail swaying to the billow's motion
Round rock and cliffFrom the free fire-side of her unbought farmer
From her free laborer at his loom and wheel From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer
Rings the red steel From each and all, if God hath not forsaken
Our land, and left us to an evil choice,
A People's voice.
Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave;
Within her grave.
By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane,
Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile,
Bless us the while.
Oh, for your ancient freedom, pure and holy,
For the deliverance of a groaning earth,
Let it go forth!
With all they left ye perilled and at stake?
The fire awake!
Put on the harness for the moral fight,
MAINTAIN THE RIGHT!
Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal, a series of prose essays, written in an antique style, and descriptive of the habits and customs of 1678, appeared in 1849. This volume was, the next year, succeeded by Old Portraits and Modern Sketches, which consisted of prose essays on Bunyan, Bax ter, Ellwood, Nayler, Andrew Marvill, the Quaker John Roberts, for the Ancients, and the Americans, Leggett, Rogers, and Dinsmore, for the Moderns.
In the same year with the last-named publication was also issued a volume of poems, under the name, Songs of Labor, and other Poems. These “Songs" are six in number, and are severally ascribed to The Ship-builders, The Shoemakers, The Drovers, The Fishermen, The Huskers, and The Lumbermen. They abound in accurate pencillings of the industrial spheres they commemorate, and in devout and poetic expressions.
WILDLY round our woodland quarters,
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Float his fallen leaves.
Column-like and old,
From their skies of gold.
O'er us, to the South-land heading,
Screams the gray wild-goose;
Of the brindled moose.
Frost his task-work plies;
Shall our log-piles rise.
When, with sounds of smothered thunder,
On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder
Winter's weakened chain, Down the wiid March flood shall bear them
To the saw-mill's wheel, Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them
With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight,
In these vales below,
Streak the mountain's snow,
To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.
Where the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
Hide the browsing deer:
Or through rocky walls,
White with foamy falls;
Where, through clouds, are glimpses given
Of Katahdin's sides,-
Torn and ploughed by slides!
In the sunshine warm;
Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!
Than the Persian weaves,
Seem the fading leaves;
From the pine-tree's height,
On the wind of night;
And, through sleet and snow,
On our hearth shall glow. Here, with inirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.
But their hearth is brighter burning
For our toil to-day;
Shall our loss repay,
From the woods we come, Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters,
Angels of our home!
From the village spire,
Of the sweet-voiced choir:
Where God's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample,
Propped by lofty pines!
Through each branch-enwoven skyliglit,
Speaks He in the breeze, As of old beneath the twilight
Of lost Eden's trees!