I saw her dragged along the aisle, Her shackles harshly clanking; I heard the parson, over all, The Lord devoutly thanking!
My brain took fire: "Is this," I cried, "The end of prayer and preaching?
Then down with pulpit, down with priest, And give us Nature's teaching!
"Foul shame and scorn be on ye all Who turn the good to evil, And steal the Bible, from the Lord, To give it to the Devil!
"Than garbled text or parchment law I own a statute higher; And God is true, though every book And every man's a liar!"
Just then I felt the deacon's hand In wrath my coattail seize on; I heard the priest cry, "Infidel!"
The lawyer mutter, "Treason!"
I started up,--where now were church, Slave, master, priest, and people?
I only heard the supper-bell, Instead of clanging steeple.
But, on the open window's sill, O'er which the white blooms drifted, The pages of a good old Book The wind of summer lifted,
And flower and vine, like angel wings Around the Holy Mother, Waved softly there, as if God's truth And Mercy kissed each other.
And freely from the cherry-bough Above the casement swinging, With golden bosom to the sun, The oriole was singing.
As bird and flower made plain of old The lesson of the Teacher, So now I heard the written Word Interpreted by Nature.
For to my ear methought the breeze Bore Freedom's blessed word on; Thus saith the Lord: Break every yoke, Undo the heavy burden
1850.
IN THE EVIL DAYS.
This and the four following poems have special reference to that darkest hour in the aggression of slavery which preceded the dawn of a better day, when the conscience of the people was roused to action.
THE evil days have come, the poor Are made a prey; Bar up the hospitable door, Put out the fire-lights, point no more The wanderer's way.
For Pity now is crime; the chain Which binds our States Is melted at her hearth in twain, Is rusted by her tears' soft rain Close up her gates.
Our Union, like a glacier stirred By voice below, Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, A beggar's crust, a kindly word May overthrow!
Poor, whispering tremblers! yet we boast Our blood and name; Bursting its century-bolted frost, Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast Cries out for shame!
Oh for the open firmament, The prairie free, The desert hillside, cavern-rent, The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent, The Bushman's tree!
Than web of Persian loom most rare, Or soft divan, Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, Or hollow tree, which man may share With suffering man.
I hear a voice: "Thus saith the Law, Let Love be dumb; Clasping her liberal hands in awe, Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw From hearth and home."
I hear another voice: "The poor Are thine to feed; Turn not the outcast from thy door, Nor give to bonds and wrong once more Whom God hath freed."
Dear Lord! between that law and Thee No choice remains; Yet not untrue to man's decree, Though spurning its rewards, is he Who bears its pains.
Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast And threatening word; I read the lesson of the Past, That firm endurance wins at last More than the sword.
O clear-eyed Faith, and Patience thou So calm and strong!
Lend strength to weakness, teach us how The sleepless eyes of God look through This night of wrong.
1850.
MOLOCH IN STATE STREET.
In a foot-note of the Report of the Senate of Massachusetts on the case of the arrest and return to bondage of the fugitive slave Thomas Sims it is stated that--"It would have been impossible for the U. S. marshal thus successfully to have resisted the law of the State, without the assistance of the municipal authorities of Boston, and the countenance and support of a numerous, wealthy, and powerful body of citizens. It was in evidence that 1500 of the most wealthy and respectable citizens-merchants, bankers, and others--volunteered their services to aid the marshal on this occasion. . . . No watch was kept upon the doings of the marshal, and while the State officers slept, after the moon had gone down, in the darkest hour before daybreak, the accused was taken out of our jurisdiction by the armed police of the city of Boston."
THE moon has set: while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn Bear off your prey!
On, swift and still! the conscious street Is panged and stirred; Tread light! that fall of serried feet The dead have heard!
The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins Gushed where ye tread; Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red!
Beneath the slowly waning stars And whitening day, What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way?
What faces frown upon ye, dark With shame and pain?
Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark?
Is that young Vane?
Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on With mocking cheer?
Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage are here!
For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch's fire, Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed The Tyrian sire.
Ye make that ancient sacrifice Of Mail to Gain, Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, Beneath the chain.
Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn And hate, is near; How think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear?
Thank God! our mother State can yet Her fame retrieve; To you and to your children let The scandal cleave.
Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, Make gods of gold; Let honor, truth, and manliness Like wares be sold.
Your hoards are great, your walls are strong, But God is just; The gilded chambers built by wrong Invite the rust.
What! know ye not the gains of Crime Are dust and dross; Its ventures on the waves of time Foredoomed to loss!
And still the Pilgrim State remains What she hath been; Her inland hills, her seaward plains, Still nurture men!
Nor wholly lost the fallen mart; Her olden blood Through many a free and generous heart Still pours its flood.