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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Personal Poems (search)
d Sword! When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men? Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time. But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven; Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God,— There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man! Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Appendix (search)
acknowledged excellence; and as a very dull editor to the people of New York.— Where art thou now? feeding with hickory ladle The curs of Faction with thy daily twaddle! Men have looked up to thee, as one to be A portion of our glory; and the light And fairy hands of woman beckoned thee On to thy laurel guerdon; and those bright And gifted spirits, whom the broad blue sea Hath shut from thy communion, bid thee, ‘Write,’ Like John of Patmos. Is all this forgotten, For Yankee brawls and Carolina cotton? Are autumn's rainbow hues no longer seen? Flows the ‘Green River’ through its vale no more? Steals not thy ‘Rivulet’ by its banks of green? Wheels upward from its dark and sedgy shore Thy ‘Water Fowl’ no longer?—that the mean And vulgar strife, the ranting and the roar Extempore, like Bottom's should be thine,— Thou feeblest truck-horse in the Hero's line! Lost trio! —turn ye to the minstrel pride Of classic Britain. Even effeminate Moore Has cast the wine-cup