She sees with clearer eve than ours The good of suffering born,-- The hearts that blossom like her flowers, And ripen like her corn.
Oh, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies
Oh, give to us her finer ear Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in.
1862.
HYMN,
SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA'S ISLAND, S. C.
OH, none in all the world before Were ever glad as we!
We're free on Carolina's shore, We're all at home and free.
Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, Who suffered for our sake, To open every prison door, And every yoke to break!
Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, And help us sing and pray; The hand that blessed the little child, Upon our foreheads lay.
We hear no more the driver's horn, No more the whip we fear, This holy day that saw Thee born Was never half so dear.
The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile; Oh, never shone a day so glad On sweet St. Helen's Isle.
We praise Thee in our songs to-day, To Thee in prayer we call, Make swift the feet and straight the way Of freedom unto all.
Come once again, O blessed Lord!
Come walking on the sea!
And let the mainlands hear the word That sets the islands free!
1863.
THE PROCLAMATION.
President Lincoln's proclamation of emancipation was issued January 1, 1863.
SAINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds Of Ballymena, wakened with these words "Arise, and flee Out from the land of bondage, and be free!"
Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven The angels singing of his sins forgiven, And, wondering, sees His prison opening to their golden keys,
He rose a man who laid him down a slave, Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave, And outward trod Into the glorious liberty of God.
He cast the symbols of his shame away; And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limb Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "God pardon him!"
So went he forth; but in God's time he came To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame; And, dying, gave The land a saint that lost him as a slave.
O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Waiting for God, your hour at last has come, And freedom's song Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!
Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint, The oppressor spare, Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.
Go forth, like him! like him return again, To bless the land whereon in bitter pain Ye toiled at first, And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.
1863.
ANNIVERSARY POEM.
Read before the Alumni of the Friends' Yearly Meeting School, at the Annual Meeting at Newport, R. I., 15th 6th mo., 1863.
ONCE more, dear friends, you meet beneath A clouded sky Not yet the sword has found its sheath, And on the sweet spring airs the breath Of war floats by.
Yet trouble springs not from the ground, Nor pain from chance; The Eternal order circles round, And wave and storm find mete and bound In Providence.
Full long our feet the flowery ways Of peace have trod, Content with creed and garb and phrase: A harder path in earlier days Led up to God.
Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear, Are made our own; Too long the world has smiled to hear Our boast of full corn in the ear By others sown;
To see us stir the martyr fires Of long ago, And wrap our satisfied desires In the singed mantles that our sires Have dropped below.
But now the cross our worthies bore On us is laid; Profession's quiet sleep is o'er, And in the scale of truth once more Our faith is weighed.
The cry of innocent blood at last Is calling down An answer in the whirlwind-blast, The thunder and the shadow cast From Heaven's dark frown.
The land is red with judgments. Who Stands guiltless forth?
Have we been faithful as we knew, To God and to our brother true, To Heaven and Earth.
How faint, through din of merchandise And count of gain, Have seemed to us the captive's cries!
How far away the tears and sighs Of souls in pain!
This day the fearful reckoning comes To each and all; We hear amidst our peaceful homes The summons of the conscript drums, The bugle's call.
Our path is plain; the war-net draws Round us in vain, While, faithful to the Higher Cause, We keep our fealty to the laws Through patient pain.
The levelled gun, the battle-brand, We may not take But, calmly loyal, we can stand And suffer with our suffering land For conscience' sake.
Why ask for ease where all is pain?
Shall we alone Be left to add our gain to gain, When over Armageddon's plain The trump is blown?
To suffer well is well to serve; Safe in our Lord The rigid lines of law shall curve To spare us; from our heads shall swerve Its smiting sword.