"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 God 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 passed 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 God!"
1862.
TO ENGLISHMEN.
Written when, in the stress of our terrible war, the English ruling class, with few exceptions, were either coldly indifferent or hostile to the party of freedom. Their attitude was illustrated by caricatures of America, among which was one of a slaveholder and cowhide, with the motto, "Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger?"
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 nigger!"
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, God 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."
KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land How, when the Chian's cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came God's justice in the sword of flame That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?
The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the AEgean wave The keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war.
"Robbers of Chios! hark,"
The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree!
Pluck your last cluster from the vine, Drain your last cup of Chian wine; Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark."
Then rose the long lament From the hoar sea-god's dusky caves The priestess rent her hair and cried, "Woe! woe! The gods are sleepless-eyed!"
And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went.
"The gods at last pay well,"
So Hellas sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught, The Chian hath his master bought;"
And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable.
Once more the slow, dumb years Bring their avenging cycle round, And, more than Hellas taught of old, Our wiser lesson shall be told, Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.
1868.
AT PORT ROYAL.
In November, 1861, a Union force under Commodore Dupont and General Sherman captured Port Royal, and from this point as a basis of operations, the neighboring islands between Charleston and Savannah were taken possession of. The early occupation of this district, where the negro population was greatly in excess of the white, gave an opportunity which was at once seized upon, of practically emancipating the slaves and of beginning that work of civilization which was accepted as the grave responsibility of those who had labored for freedom.
THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee.
At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong:
The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys.
Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate The flaming brand is passed.
The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles.