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TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS
Gone to thy Heavenly Father's rest!
The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,
And on thine ear the murmurs blest
Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
And wandering by that sacred river,
The city of our God forever!
mourn to know thou art a free
When Autumn's sun is downward going
Around thy place of slumber glowing !
woe for us! who linger still With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, And minds less steadfast to the will
Of Him whose every work is holy.
And for the outcast and forsaken,
Our weaker sympathies awaken.
Darkly upon our struggling way
The storm of human hate is sweeping;
Our watch amidst the darkness keeping,
And constant in the hour of trial,
In meekness and in self-denial.
Oh! for that spirit, meek and mild,
Derided, spurned, yet uncomplainingBy man deserted and reviled,
Yet faithful to its trust remaining. Still prompt
and resolute to save From scourge and chain the hunted slave! Unwavering in the Truth's defence,
Even where the fires of Hate were burning, Th’ unquailing eye of innocence Alone
upon th' oppressor turning! O loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee; The poor man and the rescued slave
Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee; And grateful tears, like summer rain, Quickened its dying grass again! And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
Shall come the outcast and the lowly, Of gentle deeds and words of thine
Recalling memories sweet and holy !
Oh! for the death the righteous die !
An end, like Autumn's day declining,
With holier, tenderer beauty shining;
As if that pure and blessed light,
From off th' Eternal altar flowing, Were bathing, in its upward flight,
The spirit to its worship going!
TO A SOUTHERN STATESMAN.
Is this thy voice, whose treble notes of fear
' on Slavery's track ? Where's now the boast, which even thy guarded
tongue, Cold, calm and proud, in the teeth o' the Senate
flung, O'er the fulfilment of thy baleful plan, Like Satan's triumph at the fall of man ? How stood'st thou then, thy feet on Freedom
planting, And pointing to the lurid heaven afar, Whence all could see, through the south windows
But, when the task was done, kept pouring still,
master drowned !
be, That the roused spirits of Democracy, May leave to freer States the same wide door Through which thy slave-cursed Texas entered in, From out the blood and fire, the wrong and sin, Of the stormed city and the ghastly plain, Beat by hot hail, and wet with bloody rain, A myriad-handed Aztec host may pour, And swarthy South with pallid North combine, Back on thyself to turn thy dark design.
WRITTEN on the adoption of Pinckney's Resolutions, in the House of Representatives, and the passage of Calhoun's “ Bill for excluding papers written or printed, touching the subject ! Slavery from the U. S. Post-office,” in the Senate of the United States.
MEN of the North-land! where's the manly spirit
Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone ? Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit
Their names alone ?
Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched within us,
Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low, That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us
To silence now?
Now, when our land to ruin's brink is verging,
In God's name, let us speak while there is time ! Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging,
Silence is crime!
What! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors
Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter, For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us,
God and our charter ?
Here shall the statesman forge his human fetters,
Here the false jurist human rights deny, And, in the church, their proud and skilled abettors
Make truth a lie ?
Torture the pages of the hallowed Bible,
To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood ? And, in Oppression's hateful service, libel
Both man and God ?
Shall our New England stand erect no longer,
But stoop in chains upon her downward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger
Day after day?
Oh, no; methinks from all her wild, green moun
tainsTrom valleys where her slumbering fathers lieFrom her blue rivers and her welling fountains,
And clear, cold sky
From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry
Ocean Gnaws with his surges—from the fisher's skiff, With white sail swaying to the billows' motion
Round rock and cliff
From the free fire-side of her unbought farmer
From her free laborer at his loom and wheel