A pleasant print to peddle out In lands of rice and cotton; The model of that face in dough Would make the artist's fortune.
For Fame to thee has come unsought, While others vainly woo her, In proof how mean a thing can make A great man of its doer.
To whom shall men thyself compare, Since common models fail 'em, Save classic goose of ancient Rome, Or sacred ass of Balaam?
The gabble of that wakeful goose Saved Rome from sack of Brennus; The braying of the prophet's ass Betrayed the angel's menace!
So when Guy Fawkes, in petticoats, And azure-tinted hose oil, Was twisting from thy love-lorn sheets The slow-match of explosion-- An earthquake blast that would have tossed The Union as a feather, Thy instinct saved a perilled land And perilled purse together.
Just think of Carolina's sage Sent whirling like a Dervis, Of Quattlebum in middle air Performing strange drill-service!
Doomed like Assyria's lord of old, Who fell before the Jewess, Or sad Abimelech, to sigh, "Alas! a woman slew us!"
Thou saw'st beneath a fair disguise The danger darkly lurking, And maiden bodice dreaded more Than warrior's steel-wrought jerkin.
How keen to scent the hidden plot!
How prompt wert thou to balk it, With patriot zeal and pedler thrift, For country and for pocket!
Thy likeness here is doubtless well, But higher honor's due it; On auction-block and negro-jail Admiring eyes should view it.
Or, hung aloft, it well might grace The nation's senate-chamber-- A greedy Northern bottle-fly Preserved in Slavery's amber!
1850.
DERNE.
The storming of the city of Derne, in 1805, by General Eaton, at the head of nine Americans, forty Greeks, and a motley array of Turks and Arabs, was one of those feats of hardihood and daring which have in all ages attracted the admiration of the multitude. The higher and holier heroism of Christian self-denial and sacrifice, in the humble walks of private duty, is seldom so well appreciated.
NIGHT on the city of the Moor!
On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore, On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock The narrow harbor-gates unlock, On corsair's galley, carack tall, And plundered Christian caraval!
The sounds of Moslem life are still; No mule-bell tinkles down the hill; Stretched in the broad court of the khan, The dusty Bornou caravan Lies heaped in slumber, beast and man; The Sheik is dreaming in his tent, His noisy Arab tongue o'erspent; The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone, The merchant with his wares withdrawn; Rough pillowed on some pirate breast, The dancing-girl has sunk to rest; And, save where measured footsteps fall Along the Bashaw's guarded wall, Or where, like some bad dream, the Jew Creeps stealthily his quarter through, Or counts with fear his golden heaps, The City of the Corsair sleeps.
But where yon prison long and low Stands black against the pale star-glow, Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves, There watch and pine the Christian slaves; Rough-bearded men, whose far-off wives Wear out with grief their lonely lives; And youth, still flashing from his eyes The clear blue of New England skies, A treasured lock of whose soft hair Now wakes some sorrowing mother's prayer; Or, worn upon some maiden breast, Stirs with the loving heart's unrest.
A bitter cup each life must drain, The groaning earth is cursed with pain, And, like the scroll the angel bore The shuddering Hebrew seer before, O'erwrit alike, without, within, With all the woes which follow sin; But, bitterest of the ills beneath Whose load man totters down to death, Is that which plucks the regal crown Of Freedom from his forehead down, And snatches from his powerless hand The sceptred sign of self-command, Effacing with the chain and rod The image and the seal of God; Till from his nature, day by day, The manly virtues fall away, And leave him naked, blind and mute, The godlike merging in the brute!
Why mourn the quiet ones who die Beneath affection's tender eye, Unto their household and their kin Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in?
O weeper, from that tranquil sod, That holy harvest-home of God, Turn to the quick and suffering, shed Thy tears upon the living dead Thank God above thy dear ones' graves, They sleep with Him, they are not slaves.
What dark mass, down the mountain-sides Swift-pouring, like a stream divides?
A long, loose, straggling caravan, Camel and horse and armed man.
The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er Its grave of waters to the shore, Lights tip that mountain cavalcade, And gleams from gun and spear and blade Near and more near! now o'er them falls The shadow of the city walls.
Hark to the sentry's challenge, drowned In the fierce trumpet's charging sound!
The rush of men, the musket's peal, The short, sharp clang of meeting steel!
Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured So freely on thy foeman's sword!
Not to the swift nor to the strong The battles of the right belong; For he who strikes for Freedom wears The armor of the captive's prayers, And Nature proffers to his cause The strength of her eternal laws; While he whose arm essays to bind And herd with common brutes his kind Strives evermore at fearful odds With Nature and the jealous gods, And dares the dread recoil which late Or soon their right shall vindicate.
'T is done, the horned crescent falls The star-flag flouts the broken walls Joy to the captive husband! joy To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy!
In sullen wrath the conquered Moor Wide open flings your dungeon-door, And leaves ye free from cell and chain, The owners of yourselves again.
Dark as his allies desert-born, Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn With the long marches of his band Through hottest wastes of rock and sand, Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath Of the red desert's wind of death, With welcome words and grasping hands, The victor and deliverer stands!
The tale is one of distant skies; The dust of half a century lies Upon it; yet its hero's name Still lingers on the lips of Fame.
Men speak the praise of him who gave Deliverance to the Moorman's slave, Yet dare to brand with shame and crime The heroes of our land and time,-- The self-forgetful ones, who stake Home, name, and life for Freedom's sake.
God mend his heart who cannot feel The impulse of a holy zeal, And sees not, with his sordid eyes, The beauty of self-sacrifice Though in the sacred place he stands, Uplifting consecrated hands, Unworthy are his lips to tell Of Jesus' martyr-miracle, Or name aright that dread embrace Of suffering for a fallen race!
1850.
A SABBATH SCENE.
This poem finds its justification in the readiness with which, even in the North, clergymen urged the prompt execution of the Fugitive Slave Law as a Christian duty, and defended the system of slavery as a Bible institution.
SCARCE had the solemn Sabbath-bell Ceased quivering in the steeple, Scarce had the parson to his desk Walked stately through his people, When down the summer-shaded street A wasted female figure, With dusky brow and naked feet,
Came rushing wild and eager.
She saw the white spire through the trees, She heard the sweet hymn swelling O pitying Christ! a refuge give That poor one in Thy dwelling!
Like a scared fawn before the hounds, Right up the aisle she glided, While close behind her, whip in hand, A lank-haired hunter strided.
She raised a keen and bitter cry, To Heaven and Earth appealing; Were manhood's generous pulses dead?
Had woman's heart no feeling?
A score of stout hands rose between The hunter and the flying: Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes Flashed tearful, yet defying.
"Who dares profane this house and day?"
Cried out the angry pastor.
"Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave, And I'm her lord and master!
"I've law and gospel on my side, And who shall dare refuse me?"
Down came the parson, bowing low, "My good sir, pray excuse me!
"Of course I know your right divine To own and work and whip her; Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott Before the wench, and trip her!"
Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er Its sacred pages stumbling, Bound hand and foot, a slave once more, The hapless wretch lay trembling.
I saw the parson tie the knots, The while his flock addressing, The Scriptural claims of slavery With text on text impressing.
"Although," said he, "on Sabbath day All secular occupations Are deadly sins, we must fulfil Our moral obligations:
"And this commends itself as one To every conscience tender; As Paul sent back Onesimus, My Christian friends, we send her!"
Shriek rose on shriek,--the Sabbath air Her wild cries tore asunder; I listened, with hushed breath, to hear God answering with his thunder!
All still! the very altar's cloth Had smothered down her shrieking, And, dumb, she turned from face to face, For human pity seeking!