But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!
The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, While vainly alike on her eye and her ear Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper, Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.
As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, As a star that is lost when the daylight is given, As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.
1834.
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,
Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the cause of Human Freedom.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord With thy last breath crying "Onward!"
And thy hand upon the sword.
The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles!
When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,-- When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword!
When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then?
And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men?
Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.
But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven;
Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God,-- There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!
A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine?
The wall of fire is round us, Our Present Help was thine.
Lo, the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep; The murmur of a Universe, Deep calling unto Deep!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!
On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's voice is given!
Glory to God forever!
Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still.
The words which thou hast uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come, In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom,-- We will think of thee, O brother!
And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free.
1834
LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY,
SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.
Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land!
Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand.
Who shall offer youth and beauty On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine?
Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting Who again shall see?
Who amidst the solemn meeting Gaze again on thee?
Who when peril gathers o'er us, Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us, So serene as thou?
Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love!
Autumn's faded earth around thee, And its storms above!
Evermore that turf lie lightly, And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly Blow the summer flowers
In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing On thy fair young cheek; Eyes of light and lips of roses, Such as Hylas wore,-- Over all that curtain closes, Which shall rise no more!
Will the vigil Love is keeping Round that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weeping Over Sibmah's vine; Will the pleasant memories, swelling Gentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwelling All unheeded be?
If the spirit ever gazes, From its journeyings, back; If the immortal ever traces O'er its mortal track; Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us Sometimes on our way, And, in hours of sadness, greet us As a spirit may?
Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-land Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand.
Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours!
1837.
TO ------,
WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.
"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart."--Essays of Elia.
Maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.
Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide,-- Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide.
Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold.