Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 27

Who would recall them now must first arrest The winds that blow down from the free Northwest, Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back The Mississippi to its upper springs.

Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack But the full time to harden into things.

1861.

THE WATCHERS.

BESIDE a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on gra.s.s and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, But all the air was quick with pain And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head And folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one, with forehead saintly bland And 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 soul Is 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 shun No 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 fight For leave to strike one blow aright.

"On either side my foe they own One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

"Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To 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 great G.o.d knoweth if it be too late.

"Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May 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 pa.s.sed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell Rung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with G.o.d!"

1862.

TO ENGLISHMEN.

Written when, in the stress of our terrible war, the English ruling cla.s.s, with few exceptions, were either coldly indifferent or hostile to the party of freedom. Their att.i.tude was ill.u.s.trated by caricatures of America, among which was one of a slaveholder and cowhide, with the motto, "Haven't I a right to wallop my n.i.g.g.e.r?"

You flung your taunt across the wave We bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slave Left friendly lips no option save To pity or to blame us.

You scoffed our plea. "Mere lack of will, Not lack of power," you told us We showed our free-state records; still You mocked, confounding good and ill, Slave-haters and slaveholders.

We struck at Slavery; to the verge Of 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' sake To-day you clasp the hands that ache With "walloping the n.i.g.g.e.r!"

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 deed Are not alone our mother's.

"Thicker than water," in one rill Through centuries of story Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still We share with you its good and ill, The shadow and the glory.

Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave Nor length of years can part us Your right is ours to shrine and grave, The common freehold of the brave, The gift of saints and martyrs.

Our very sins and follies teach Our kindred frail and human We 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, G.o.d bless her We praised you when your slaves went free We seek to unchain ours. Will ye Join hands with the oppressor?

And is it Christian England cheers The bruiser, not the bruised?

And must she run, despite the tears And prayers of eighteen hundred years, Amuck in Slavery's crusade?

Oh, black disgrace! Oh, shame and loss Too deep for tongue to phrase on Tear from your flag its holy cross, And in your van of battle toss The pirate's skull-bone blazon!

1862.

MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.

It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithridates of Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried away captive to Colchis. Athenxus considers this a just punishment for their wickedness in first introducing the slave-trade into Greece. From this ancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, "The Chian hath bought himself a master."