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Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave
Nor length of years can part us : Your right is ours to shrine and grave, The common freehold of the brave,
The gift of saints and martyrs. Our very sins and follies teach
Our kindred frail and human : We carp
at faults with bitter speech, The while for one unshared by each,
We have a score in common.
We bowed the heart, if not the knee,
To England's Queen, God bless her ! We praised you when your slaves went free: We seek to unchain ours. Join hands with the oppressor
? And is it Christian England cheers
The bruiser, not the bruised ?
Amuck in Slavery's crusade ?
Too deep for tongue to phrase on! Tear from your flag its holy cross, And in your van of battle toss
The pirate's skull-bone blazon !
ASTRÆA AT THE CAPITOL.
ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT or COLUMBIA, 1862. Wuen first I saw our banner wave
Above the nation's council-hall,
I heard beneath its marble wall
In the foul market-place I stood,
And saw the Christian mother sold,
And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.
I shut my eyes, I held my breath,
And, smothering down the wrath and shame
That set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent—where to speak was death. Beside me gloomed the prison-cell
Where wasted one in slow decline
For uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well.
The flag that floated from the dome
Flapped menace in the morning air;
For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword
And Law their threefold sanction gave,
On the oppressor's side was power;
And yet I knew that every wrong,
However old, however strong, But waited God's avenging hour.
I knew that truth would crush the lie,
Somehow, sometime, the end would be ;
Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye.
But now I see it! In the sun
A free flag floats from yonder dome,
And at the nation's hearth and home
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 God 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 shore 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 God!
Rejoice! Our Marah's bitter springs
Are sweetened ; on our ground of grief
Are one with God, and one with them
Who see by faith the cloudy hem
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.
The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
No earthquake strives below.
Her ancient promise well,
The battle's breath of hell.
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,
And yellow locks of corn ?
And hearts with hate are bot;
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain ;
The war-field's crimson stain.
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm ; Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares th’ eternal calm.
She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn ;
She waits the rich return.
She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,-
And ripen like her corn.
The vision of her eyes ;
Our golden prophecies !
O, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din,
Ring peace and freedom in!
MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.42
Know'st thou, O slave-cursed land! How, when the Chian's
cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came
God's justice in the sword of flame That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand ?
The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove,
The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the Ægean wave The keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war.