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John Brown (search for this): chapter 1
smoky veil, Hard by, the city of his love is swinging Its clamorous iron flail. But round his grave are quietude and beauty, And the sweet heaven above,— The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love! 1859. Brown of Ossawatomie. John brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day: “I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!” John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die; And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child! The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart; And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent! P<
1864 AD (search for this): chapter 1
s at life's full span; But, dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these, The poet seems beside the man! So be it! let the garlands die, The singer's wreath, the painter's meed, Let our names perish, if thereby Our country may be saved and freed! 1864. Thomas Starr King. Published originally as a prelude to the posthumous volume of selections edited by Richard Frothingham. the great work laid upon his twoscore years Is done, and well done. If we drop our tears, Who loved him as few menud sorrow of the land, and tell That the brave sower saw his ripened grain. O East and West! O morn and sunset twain No more forever!—has he lived in vain Who, priest of Freedom, made ye one, and told Your bridal service from his lips of gold? 1864. Lines on a Fly-leaf. I need not ask thee, for my sake, To read a book which well may make Its way by native force of wit Without my manual sign to it. Its piquant writer needs from me No gravely masculine guaranty, And well might laugh her m
Saul (search for this): chapter 1
r yet to Hebrew seer A clearer voice of duty came. God said: “Break thou these yokes; undo These heavy burdens. I ordain A work to last thy whole life through, A ministry of strife and pain. Forego thy dreams of lettered ease, Put thou the scholar's promise by, The rights of man are more than these. “ He heard, and answered: ‘Here am I!’ He set his face against the blast, His feet against the flinty shard, Till the hard service grew, at last, Its own exceeding great reward. Lifted like Saul's above the crowd, Upon his kingly forehead fell The first sharp bolt of Slavery's cloud, Launched at the truth he urged so well. Ah! never yet, at rack or stake, Was sorer loss made Freedom's gain, Than his, who suffered for her sake The beak-torn Titan's lingering pain! The fixed star of his faith, through all Loss, doubt, and peril, shone the same; As through a night of storm, some tall, Strong lighthouse lifts its steady flame. Beyond the dust and smoke he saw The sheaves of Freedom'
1863 AD (search for this): chapter 1
l no more be pain, Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain, Writing the grave with flowers: ‘Arisen again!’ 1860. A Memorial. Moses Austin Cartland, a dear friend and relation, who led a faithful life as a teacher and died in the summer of 1863. Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing, The solemn vista to the tomb Must know henceforth another shadow, And give another cypress room. In love surpassing that of brothers, We walked, O friend, from childhood's day; And, looking back o'er fifty sreen pastures, blossom-sown, And smiles of saintly recognition, As sweet and tenders thy own. Thou com'st not from the hush and shadow To meet us, but to thee we come, With thee we never can be strangers, And where thou art must still be home. 1863. Bryant on his Birthday. Mr. Bryant's seventieth birthday, November 3, 1864, was celebrated by a festival to which these verses were sent. we praise not now the poet's art, The rounded beauty of his song; Who weighs him from his life apa
1866 AD (search for this): chapter 1
d, Counted her life-long losses gain, And made her own her sisters' pain; Or her who, in her greenwood shade, Heard the sharp call that Freedom made, And, answering, struck from Sappho's lyre Of love the Tyrtaean carmen's fire: Or that young girl,—Domremy's maid Revived a nobler cause to aid,— Shaking from warning finger-tips The doom of her apocalypse; Or her, who world-wide entrance gave To the log-cabin of the slave, Made all his want and sorrow known, And all earth's languages his own. 1866. George L. Stearns. No man rendered greater service to the cause of freedom than Major Stearns in the great struggle between invading slaveholders and the free settlers of Kansas. he has done the work of a true man,— Crown him, honor him, love him. Weep over him, tears of woman, Stoop manliest brows above him! O dusky mothers and daughters, Vigils of mourning keep for him! Up in the mountains, and down by the waters, Lift up your voices and weep for him! For the warmest of hearts is <
Christ (search for this): chapter 1
tening hair,— The song of freedom's bloodless victories! Rejoice, O Garibaldi! Though thy sword Failed at Rome's gates, and blood seemed vainly poured Where, in Christ's name, the crowned infidel Of France wrought murder with the arms of hell On that sad mountain slope whose ghostly dead, Unmindful of the gray exorcist's ban, Wais for frames and moods Who followed Duty where she went. The broad, fair fields of God he saw Beyond the bigot's narrow bound; The truths he moulded into law In Christ's beatitudes he found. His state-craft was the Golden Rule, His right of vote a sacred trust; Clear, over threat and ridicule, All heard his challenge: ‘Is it jate, he knew The generous victor's graceful part To sheathe the sword he drew. When Earth, as if on evil dreams, Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams From the red disk of Mars, His fame who led the stormy van Of battle well may cease, But never that which crowns the man Whose victory was Peace. Mo
Paul (search for this): chapter 1
, hate of wrong, Are underlaid by love as strong; The genial play of mirth that lights Grave themes of thought, as when, on nights Of summer-time, the harmless blaze Of thunderless heat-lightning plays, And tree and hill-top resting dim And doubtful on the sky's vague rim, Touched by that soft and lambent gleam, Start sharply outlined from their dream. Talk not to me of woman's sphere, Nor point with Scripture texts a sneer, Nor wrong the manliest saint of all By doubt, if he were here, that Paul Would own the heroines who have lent Grace to truth's stern arbitrament, Foregone the praise to woman sweet, And cast their crowns at Duty's feet; Like her, who by her strong Appeal Made Fashion weep and Mammon feel, Who, earliest summoned to withstand The color-madness of the land, Counted her life-long losses gain, And made her own her sisters' pain; Or her who, in her greenwood shade, Heard the sharp call that Freedom made, And, answering, struck from Sappho's lyre Of love the Tyrtaean ca
Merrimac (search for this): chapter 1
And words of fitness to his lips were given, And strength as from above: How the sad captive listened to the Word, Until his chain Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt The healing balm of consolation melt Upon its life-long pain: How the armed warrior sat him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, And fair and bright-eyed youth. Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy. And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,— Its woods around, Its still stream winding on in light and shade, Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade,— To me is holy ground. And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still; Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, Or Virgil's laurelled hill. To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete, To Juliet's
Essex (search for this): chapter 1
the battle's trumpet-note, To welcome and restore; A hand, that all unwilling smote, To heal and build once more! A soul of fire, a tender heart Too warm for hate, he knew The generous victor's graceful part To sheathe the sword he drew. When Earth, as if on evil dreams, Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams From the red disk of Mars, His fame who led the stormy van Of battle well may cease, But never that which crowns the man Whose victory was Peace. Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore Thy beautiful and brave, Whose failing hand the olive bore, Whose dying lips forgave! Let age lament the youthful chief, And tender eyes be dim; The tears are more of joy than grief That fall for one like him! 1878. Bayard Taylor. I ‘and where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?’ My sister asked our guest one winter's day. Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way Common to both: “Wherever thou shalt send! What wouldst thou have me see for thee?” Sh
Channing (search for this): chapter 1
ain of ages, help to bind His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind! 1846. Channing. The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my EngliDr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his summer residence in Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit,the way, Our hearts within us burn. And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame, As one of Heaven's anointed men, Have sanctified his name. In vain shall Rome her porffering children know, The squalor of the city's throng, The green field's want and woe. O'er Channing's face the tenderness Of sympathetic sorrow stole, Like a still shadow, passionless, The sorrowef meeting, each pursued The path allotted him. How echoes yet each Western hill And vale with Channing's dying word! How are the hearts of freemen still By that great warning stirred! The stranger
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