Why take we up the accursed thing again?
Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.
16th First mo., 1861.
"EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT."
LUTHER'S HYMN.
WE wait beneath the furnace-blast The pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire Where wrongs expire; Nor spares the hand That from the land Uproots the ancient evil.
The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared Its bloody rain is dropping; The poison plant the fathers spared All else is overtopping.
East, West, South, North, It curses the earth; All justice dies, And fraud and lies Live only in its shadow.
What gives the wheat-field blades of steel?
What points the rebel cannon?
What sets the roaring rabble's heel On the old star-spangled pennon?
What breaks the oath Of the men o' the South?
What whets the knife For the Union's life?-- Hark to the answer: Slavery!
Then waste no blows on lesser foes In strife unworthy freemen.
God lifts to-day the veil, and shows The features of the demon O North and South, Its victims both, Can ye not cry, "Let slavery die!"
And union find in freedom?
What though the cast-out spirit tear The nation in his going?
We who have shared the guilt must share The pang of his o'erthrowing!
Whate'er the loss, Whate'er the cross, Shall they complain Of present pain Who trust in God's hereafter?
For who that leans on His right arm Was ever yet forsaken?
What righteous cause can suffer harm If He its part has taken?
Though wild and loud, And dark the cloud, Behind its folds His hand upholds The calm sky of to-morrow!
Above the maddening cry for blood, Above the wild war-drumming, Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good The evil overcoming.
Give prayer and purse To stay the Curse Whose wrong we share, Whose shame we bear, Whose end shall gladden Heaven!
In vain the bells of war shall ring Of triumphs and revenges, While still is spared the evil thing That severs and estranges.
But blest the ear That yet shall hear The jubilant bell That rings the knell Of Slavery forever!
Then let the selfish lip be dumb, And hushed the breath of sighing; Before the joy of peace must come The pains of purifying.
God give us grace Each in his place To bear his lot, And, murmuring not, Endure and wait and labor!
1861.
TO JOHN C. FREMONT.
On the 31st of August, 1861, General Fremont, then in charge of the Western Department, issued a proclamation which contained a clause, famous as the first announcement of emancipation: "The property," it declared, "real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri, who shall take up arms against the United States, or who shall be directly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in the field, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and their slaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men." Mr. Lincoln regarded the proclamation as premature and countermanded it, after vainly endeavoring to persuade Fremont of his own motion to revoke it.
THY error, Fremont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, And, taking counsel but of common sense, To strike at cause as well as consequence.
Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own, Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn It had been safer, doubtless, for the time, To flatter treason, and avoid offence To that Dark Power whose underlying crime Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence.
But if thine be the fate of all who break The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make A lane for freedom through the level spears, Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!
The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.
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 grass 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?