The matron whose sons are lying In graves on a distant sh.o.r.e; The maiden, whose promised husband Comes back from the war no more?
I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard, That bask in the mellow light;
And I know that, when our couriers With news of victory come, They will bring a bitter message Of hopeless grief to some.
Again I turn to the woodlands, And shudder as I see The mock-grape"s blood-red banner Hung out on the cedar-tree;
And I think of days of slaughter, And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee"s meadows, And the wasted banks of the James.
Oh, for the fresh spring-season, When the groves are in their prime; And far away in the future Is the frosty autumn-time!
Oh, for that better season, When the pride of the foe shall yield, And the hosts of G.o.d and Freedom March back from the well-won field;
And the matron shall clasp her first-born With tears of joy and pride; And the scarred and war-worn lover Shall claim his promised bride!
The leaves are swept from the branches; But the living buds are there, With folded flower and foliage, To sprout in a kinder air.
_October, _1864.
DANTE.
Who, mid the gra.s.ses of the field That spring beneath our careless feet, First found the shining stems that yield The grains of life-sustaining wheat:
Who first, upon the furrowed land, Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow, And ripen for the reaper"s hand-- We know not, and we cannot know.
But well we know the hand that brought And scattered, far as sight can reach, The seeds of free and living thought On the broad field of modern speech.
Mid the white hills that round us lie, We cherish that Great Sower"s fame, And, as we pile the sheaves on high, With awe we utter Dante"s name.
Six centuries, since the poet"s birth, Have come and flitted o"er our sphere: The richest harvest reaped on earth Crowns the last century"s closing year.
1865.
THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of G.o.d, didst bear The sword of power, a nation"s trust!
In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall.
Thy task is done; the bond are free: We bear thee to an honored grave, Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.
Pure was thy life; its b.l.o.o.d.y close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the n.o.ble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right.
_April_, 1865.
THE DEATH OF SLAVERY.
O thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, And turn a stony gaze on human tears, Thy cruel reign is o"er; Thy bondmen crouch no more In terror at the menace of thine eye; For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, Long-suffering, hath heard the captive"s cry, And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled.
A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks Send up hosannas to the firmament!
Fields where the bondman"s toil No more shall trench the soil, Seem now to bask in a serener day; The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs Of heaven with more caressing softness play, Welcoming man to liberty like theirs.
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, For the great land and all its coasts are free.
Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, And they by whom the nation"s laws were made, And they who filled its judgment-seats obeyed Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate.
Fierce men at thy right hand, With gesture of command, Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not, Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought; While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, Proved, from the book of G.o.d, thy right to reign.
Great as thou wert, and feared from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, The wrath of Heaven o"ertook thee in thy pride; Thou sitt"st a ghastly shadow; by thy side Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore.
And they who quailed but now Before thy lowering brow, Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art.
And they who ruled in thine imperial name, Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, And shattered at a blow the prisoner"s chain.
Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare Life"s tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part Husband and wife, and from the mother"s heart Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer; Thy inner lair became The haunt of guilty shame; Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side, Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due.
Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, Until the measure of thy sins at last Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast!
Go now, accursed of G.o.d, and take thy place With hateful memories of the elder time, With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, And b.l.o.o.d.y war that thinned the human race; With the Black Death, whose way Through wailing cities lay, Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt-- Death at the stake to those that held them not.
Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room.
I see the better years that hasten by Carry thee back into that shadowy past, Where, in the dusty s.p.a.ces, void and vast, The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie.
The slave-pen, through whose door Thy victims pa.s.s no more, Is there, and there shall the grim block remain At which the slave was sold; while at thy feet Scourges and engines of restraint and pain Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat.
There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times.
_May_, 1866.
"RECEIVE THY SIGHT."
When the blind suppliant in the way, By friendly hands to Jesus led, Prayed to behold the light of day, "Receive thy sight," the Saviour said.
At once he saw the pleasant rays That lit the glorious firmament; And, with firm step and words of praise, He followed where the Master went.
Look down in pity, Lord, we pray, On eyes oppressed by moral night, And touch the darkened lids and say The gracious words, "Receive thy sight."
Then, in clear daylight, shall we see Where walked the sinless Son of G.o.d; And, aided by new strength from Thee, Press onward in the path He trod.