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Above the maddening cry for blood,

Above the wild war-drumming,
Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good
The evil overcoming.
Give
prayer

and

purse
To stay the Curse
Whose wrong we share,

'Whose shame we bear,
Whose end shall gladden Heaven !
In vain the bells of war shall ring

Of triumphs and revenges,
While still is spared the evil thing
That severs and estranges.
But blest the ear

That yet shall hear
The jubilant bell

That rings the knell
Of Slavery forever!

Then let the selfish lip be dumb,

And hushed the breath of sighing;
Before the joy of peace must come
The pains of purifying.

God give us grace
Each in bis place
To bear his lot,

And, murmuring not,
Endure and wait and labor!

TO JOHN C. FREMONT.

Thy error, Fremont, simply was to act
A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,
And, taking counsel but of common sense,

To strike at cause as well as consequence.
(), never yet since Roland wound bis horn
At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown
Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,
Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn !
It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,
To flatter treason, and avoid offence
To that Dark Power whose underlying crime
Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence.
But, if thine be the fate of all who break
The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years
Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make
A lane for freedom through the level spears,
Still take thou courage! God has spoken through

thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull

ear

Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.
Who would recall them now must first arrest
The winds that blow down from the free Northwest,
Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back
The Mississippi to its upper springs.
Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack
But the full time to harden into things.

THE WATCHERS.

BESIDE a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.
Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one, with forehead saintly bland
And lips of blessing, not command,
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit,
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

“How long !"_I knew the voice of Peace, " Is there no respite ?-no release ?When shall the hopeless quarrel cease ? “O Lord, how long !-One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll. “What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave ?

“O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me.

Then Freedom sternly said : “ I shun
No strife nor pang beneath the sun,
When human rights are staked and won.
6 I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock,
I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock,
I walked with Sidney to the block.

“ The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped.

“ But now, through weary day and night,
I watch a vague and aimless fight
For leave to strike one blow aright.

" On either side my foe they own:
One guards through love his ghastly throne,
And one through fear to reverence grown.

66

Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed,
By open foes, or those afraid
To speed thy coming through my aid ?

“ Why watch to see who win or fall ?-
I shake the dust against them all,
I leave them to their senseless brawl.”

66

Nay,” Peace implored : “ yet longer wait ;
The doom is near, the stake is great :
God knoweth if it be too late.

“ Still wait and watch ; the way prepare
Where I with folded wings of prayer
May follow, weaponless and bare.”
“ Too late!” the stern, sad voice replied,
“ Too late!” its mournful echo sighed,
In low lament the answer died.

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A rustling as of wings in flight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.
But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.
“ Still hope and trust,” it sang; "the rod
Must fall, the wine-press must be trod,
But all is possible with God!”

! TO ENGLISHMEN.

You flung your taunt across the wave;

We bore it as became us,
Well knowing that the fettered slave
Left friendly lips no option save

To pity or to blame us.
You scoffed our plea. “ Mere lack of will,

Not lack of power,” you told us :
We showed our free-state records; still
You mocked, confounding good and ill,

Slave-haters and slaveholders.

We struck at Slavery; to the verge

Of power and means we checked it;
Lo !-presto, change ! its claims you urge,
Send greetings to it o'er the surge,

And comfort and protect it.

" 41

But yesterday you scarce could shake,

In slave-abhorring rigor,
Our Northern palms for conscience' sake:
To-day you clasp the hands that ache
With

walloping the nigger!”
O Englishmen in hope and creed,

In blood and tongue our brothers ! We too are heirs of Runnymede ; And Shakspeare's fame and Cromwell's deed

Are not alone our mother's.

“ Thicker than water," in one rill

Through centuries of story
Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still
We share with you its good and ill,

The shadow and the glory.

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