Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform - LightNovelsOnl.com
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1856.
THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.
"Joseph Sturge, with a companion, Thomas Harvey, has been visiting the sh.o.r.es of Finland, to ascertain the amount of mischief and loss to poor and peaceable sufferers, occasioned by the gun-boats of the allied squadrons in the late war, with a view to obtaining relief for them."-- Friends' Review.
ACROSS the frozen marshes The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter Are white with early snow.
But where the low, gray headlands Look o'er the Baltic brine, A bark is sailing in the track Of England's battle-line.
No wares hath she to barter For Bothnia's fish and grain; She saileth not for pleasure, She saileth not for gain.
But still by isle or mainland She drops her anchor down, Where'er the British cannon Rained fire on tower and town.
Outspake the ancient Amtman, At the gate of Helsingfors "Why comes this s.h.i.+p a-spying In the track of England's wars?"
"G.o.d bless her," said the coast-guard,-- "G.o.d bless the s.h.i.+p, I say.
The holy angels trim the sails That speed her on her way!
"Where'er she drops her anchor, The peasant's heart is glad; Where'er she spreads her parting sail, The peasant's heart is sad.
"Each wasted town and hamlet She visits to restore; To roof the shattered cabin, And feed the starving poor.
"The sunken boats of fishers, The foraged beeves and grain, The spoil of flake and storehouse, The good s.h.i.+p brings again.
"And so to Finland's sorrow The sweet amend is made, As if the healing hand of Christ Upon her wounds were laid!"
Then said the gray old Amtman, "The will of G.o.d be done!
The battle lost by England's hate, By England's love is won!
"We braved the iron tempest That thundered on our sh.o.r.e; But when did kindness fail to find The key to Finland's door?
"No more from Aland's ramparts Shall warning signal come, Nor startled Sweaborg hear again The roll of midnight drum.
"Beside our fierce Black Eagle The Dove of Peace shall rest; And in the mouths of cannon The sea-bird make her nest.
"For Finland, looking seaward, No coming foe shall scan; And the holy bells of Abo Shall ring, 'Good-will to man!'
"Then row thy boat, O fisher!
In peace on lake and bay; And thou, young maiden, dance again Around the poles of May!
"Sit down, old men, together, Old wives, in quiet spin; Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon Is the brother of the Finn!"
1856.
THE EVE OF ELECTION.
FROM gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian Summer fades too soon; But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.
In its pale fire, The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance; The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance!
O'er fallen leaves The west-wind grieves, Yet comes a seed-time round again; And morn shall see The State sown free With baleful tares or healthful grain.
Along the street The shadows meet Of Destiny, whose hands conceal The moulds of fate That shape the State, And make or mar the common weal.
Around I see The powers that be; I stand by Empire's primal springs; And princes meet, In every street, And hear the tread of uncrowned kings!
Hark! through the crowd The laugh runs loud, Beneath the sad, rebuking moon.
G.o.d save the land A careless hand May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon!
No jest is this; One cast amiss May blast the hope of Freedom's year.
Oh, take me where Are hearts of prayer, And foreheads bowed in reverent fear!
Not lightly fall Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float; The crowning fact The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote!
For pearls that gem A diadem The diver in the deep sea dies; The regal right We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice;
The blood of Vane, His prison pain Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, And hers whose faith Drew strength from death, And prayed her Russell up to G.o.d!
Our hearts grow cold, We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain; The stake, the cord, The axe, the sword, Grim nurses at its birth of pain.
The shadow rend, And o'er us bend, O martyrs, with your crowns and palms; Breathe through these throngs Your battle songs, Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms.
Look from the sky, Like G.o.d's great eye, Thou solemn moon, with searching beam, Till in the sight Of thy pure light Our mean self-seekings meaner seem.
Shame from our hearts Unworthy arts, The fraud designed, the purpose dark; And smite away The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark.
To party claims And private aims, Reveal that august face of Truth, Whereto are given The age of heaven, The beauty of immortal youth.
So shall our voice Of sovereign choice Swell the deep ba.s.s of duty done, And strike the key Of time to be, When G.o.d and man shall speak as one!
1858.
FROM PERUGIA.
"The thing which has the most dissevered the people from the Pope,--the unforgivable thing,--the breaking point between him and them,--has been the encouragement and promotion he gave to the officer under whom were executed the slaughters of Perugia. That made the breaking point in many honest hearts that had clung to him before."--HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S Letters from Italy.
The tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread, Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red; And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff, And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff; Next, in red-legged pomp, come the cardinals forth, Each a lord of the church and a prince of the earth.
