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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Anti-Slavery Poems (search)
orehead 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. 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,