Not as we hoped, in calm of prayer, The message of deliverance comes, But heralded by roll of drums On waves of battle-troubled air!
Midst sounds that madden and appall, The song that Bethlehem"s shepherds knew!
The harp of David melting through The demon-agonies of Saul!
Not as we hoped; but what are we?
Above our broken dreams and plans G.o.d lays, with wiser hand than man"s, The corner-stones of liberty.
I cavil not with Him: the voice That freedom"s blessed gospel tells Is sweet to me as silver bells, Rejoicing! yea, I will rejoice!
Dear friends still toiling in the sun; Ye dearer ones who, gone before, Are watching from the eternal sh.o.r.e The slow work by your hands begun,
Rejoice with me! The chastening rod Blossoms with love; the furnace heat Grows cool beneath His blessed feet Whose form is as the Son of G.o.d!
Rejoice! Our Marah"s bitter springs Are sweetened; on our ground of grief Rise day by day in strong relief The prophecies of better things.
Rejoice in hope! The day and night Are one with G.o.d, and one with them Who see by faith the cloudy hem Of Judgment fringed with Mercy"s light.
1862.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.
THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below.
And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o"er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle"s breath of h.e.l.l.
And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms.
What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn?
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field"s crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon"s pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to G.o.d for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.
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 sh.o.r.e, 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 emanc.i.p.ation 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 G.o.d.
He cast the symbols of his shame away; And, pa.s.sing where the sleeping Milcho lay, Though back and limb Smarted with wrong, he prayed, "G.o.d pardon him!"
So went he forth; but in G.o.d"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 G.o.d, 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.