1843.
TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND.
This poem was addressed to those who like Richard Cobden and John Bright were seeking the reform of political evils in Great Britain by peaceful and Christian means. It will be remembered that the Anti-Corn Law League was in the midst of its labors at this time.
GOD bless ye, brothers! in the fight Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail, For better is your sense of right Than king-craft's triple mail.
Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban, More mighty is your simplest word; The free heart of an honest man Than crosier or the sword.
Go, let your blinded Church rehearse The lesson it has learned so well; It moves not with its prayer or curse The gates of heaven or hell.
Let the State scaffold rise again; Did Freedom die when Russell died?
Forget ye how the blood of Vane From earth's green bosom cried?
The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong; All holy memories and sublime And glorious round ye throng.
The bluff, bold men of Runnymede Are with ye still in times like these; The shades of England's mighty dead, Your cloud of witnesses!
The truths ye urge are borne abroad By every wind and every tide; The voice of Nature and of God Speaks out upon your side.
The weapons which your hands have found Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, Light, Truth, and Love; your battle-ground The free, broad field of Thought.
No partial, selfish purpose breaks The simple beauty of your plan, Nor lie from throne or altar shakes Your steady faith in man.
The languid pulse of England starts And bounds beneath your words of power, The beating of her million hearts Is with you at this hour!
O ye who, with undoubting eyes, Through present cloud and gathering storm, Behold the span of Freedom's skies, And sunshine soft and warm;
Press bravely onward! not in vain Your generous trust in human-kind; The good which bloodshed could not gain Your peaceful zeal shall find.
Press on! the triumph shall be won Of common rights and equal laws, The glorious dream of Harrington, And Sidney's good old cause.
Blessing the cotter and the crown, Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup; And, plucking not the highest down, Lifting the lowest up.
Press on! and we who may not share The toil or glory of your fight May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, God's blessing on the right!
1843.
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE.
Some leading sectarian papers had lately published the letter of a clergyman, giving an account of his attendance upon a criminal (who had committed murder during a fit of intoxication), at the time of his execution, in western New York. The writer describes the agony of the wretched being, his abortive attempts at prayer, his appeal for life, his fear of a violent death; and, after declaring his belief that the poor victim died without hope of salvation, concludes with a warm eulogy upon the gallows, being more than ever convinced of its utility by the awful dread and horror which it inspired.
I.
FAR from his close and noisome cell, By grassy lane and sunny stream, Blown clover field and strawberry dell, And green and meadow freshness, fell The footsteps of his dream.
Again from careless feet the dew Of summer's misty morn he shook; Again with merry heart he threw His light line in the rippling brook.
Back crowded all his school-day joys; He urged the ball and quoit again, And heard the shout of laughing boys Come ringing down the walnut glen.
Again he felt the western breeze, With scent of flowers and crisping hay; And down again through wind-stirred trees He saw the quivering sunlight play.
An angel in home's vine-hung door, He saw his sister smile once more; Once more the truant's brown-locked head Upon his mother's knees was laid, And sweetly lulled to slumber there, With evening's holy hymn and prayer!
II.
He woke. At once on heart and brain The present Terror rushed again; Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain He woke, to hear the church-tower tell Time's footfall on the conscious bell, And, shuddering, feel that clanging din His life's last hour had ushered in; To see within his prison-yard, Through the small window, iron barred, The gallows shadow rising dim Between the sunrise heaven and him; A horror in God's blessed air; A blackness in his morning light; Like some foul devil-altar there Built up by demon hands at night.
And, maddened by that evil sight, Dark, horrible, confused, and strange, A chaos of wild, weltering change, All power of check and guidance gone, Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on.
In vain he strove to breathe a prayer, In vain he turned the Holy Book, He only heard the gallows-stair Creak as the wind its timbers shook.
No dream for him of sin forgiven, While still that baleful spectre stood, With its hoarse murmur, "Blood for Blood!"
Between him and the pitying Heaven.
III.
Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, And smote his breast, and on his chain, Whose iron clasp he always felt, His hot tears fell like rain; And near him, with the cold, calm look And tone of one whose formal part, Unwarmed, unsoftened of the heart, Is measured out by rule and book, With placid lip and tranquil blood, The hangman's ghostly ally stood, Blessing with solemn text and word The gallows-drop and strangling cord; Lending the sacred Gospel's awe And sanction to the crime of Law.
IV.
He saw the victim's tortured brow, The sweat of anguish starting there, The record of a nameless woe In the dim eye's imploring stare, Seen hideous through the long, damp hair,-- Fingers of ghastly skin and bone Working and writhing on the stone!
And heard, by mortal terror wrung From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, The choking sob and low hoarse prayer; As o'er his half-crazed fancy came A vision of the eternal flame, Its smoking cloud of agonies, Its demon-worm that never dies, The everlasting rise and fall Of fire-waves round the infernal wall; While high above that dark red flood, Black, giant-like, the gallows stood; Two busy fiends attending there One with cold mocking rite and prayer, The other with impatient grasp, Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp.
V.
The unfelt rite at length was done, The prayer unheard at length was said, An hour had passed: the noonday sun Smote on the features of the dead!
And he who stood the doomed beside, Calm gauger of the swelling tide Of mortal agony and fear, Heeding with curious eye and ear Whate'er revealed the keen excess Of man's extremest wretchedness And who in that dark anguish saw An earnest of the victim's fate, The vengeful terrors of God's law, The kindlings of Eternal hate, The first drops of that fiery rain Which beats the dark red realm of pain, Did he uplift his earnest cries Against the crime of Law, which gave His brother to that fearful grave, Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies, And Faith's white blossoms never wave To the soft breath of Memory's sighs; Which sent a spirit marred and stained, By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, In madness and in blindness stark, Into the silent, unknown dark?
No, from the wild and shrinking dread, With which he saw the victim led Beneath the dark veil which divides Ever the living from the dead, And Nature's solemn secret hides, The man of prayer can only draw New reasons for his bloody law; New faith in staying Murder's hand By murder at that Law's command; New reverence for the gallows-rope, As human nature's latest hope; Last relic of the good old time, When Power found license for its crime, And held a writhing world in check By that fell cord about its neck; Stifled Sedition's rising shout, Choked the young breath of Freedom out, And timely checked the words which sprung From Heresy's forbidden tongue; While in its noose of terror bound, The Church its cherished union found, Conforming, on the Moslem plan, The motley-colored mind of man, Not by the Koran and the Sword, But by the Bible and the Cord.
VI.
O Thou at whose rebuke the grave Back to warm life its sleeper gave, Beneath whose sad and tearful glance The cold and changed countenance Broke the still horror of its trance, And, waking, saw with joy above, A brother's face of tenderest love; Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, And from Thy very garment's hem Drew life and healing unto them, The burden of Thy holy faith Was love and life, not hate and death; Man's demon ministers of pain, The fiends of his revenge, were sent From thy pure Gospel's element To their dark home again.
Thy name is Love! What, then, is he, Who in that name the gallows rears, An awful altar built to Thee, With sacrifice of blood and tears?
Oh, once again Thy healing lay On the blind eyes which knew Thee not, And let the light of Thy pure day Melt in upon his darkened thought.
Soften his hard, cold heart, and show The power which in forbearance lies, And let him feel that mercy now Is better than old sacrifice.
VII.
As on the White Sea's charmed shore, The Parsee sees his holy hill (10) With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er, Yet knows beneath them, evermore, The low, pale fire is quivering still; So, underneath its clouds of sin, The heart of man retaineth yet Gleams of its holy origin; And half-quenched stars that never set, Dim colors of its faded bow, And early beauty, linger there, And o'er its wasted desert blow Faint breathings of its morning air.
Oh, never yet upon the scroll Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul, Hath Heaven inscribed "Despair!"
Cast not the clouded gem away, Quench not the dim but living ray,-- My brother man, Beware!
With that deep voice which from the skies Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, God's angel cries, Forbear.
1843
SONGS OF LABOR.