Four million bodies in chains-four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women, and children. The wand of progress touches the auction block, the whipping post, and we see homes, and firesides, and schoolhouses, and books, and where all was want, and crime, and cruelty, and fetters, we see the faces of the free. These heroes are dead. They died for liberty--they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless; under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run réd with other wars-they are at peace. In the midst of battles, in the roar of conflict they found the serenity of death. (A voice-"Glory.") I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead--cheers for the living, and tears for the dead. I Laus Deo! [On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the Constitutional Amendment abolishing slavery.] T is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun How the belfries rock and reel! Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Loud and long, that all may hear, Of Eternity and Time! Let us kneel: God's own voice is in that peal, Lord, forgive us! What are we, For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; He has smitten with his thunder And the gates of brass are broken! Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea: He has cast the mighty down; Did we dare, In our agony of prayer, How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, Blotted out! All within and all about Freer breathe the universe The beaming sword shall never rust, Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Come, 'tis the red dawn of the day, Come with the panoplied array, With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland, Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland. She meets her sisters on the plain, "Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland! Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan song, Maryland, my Maryland! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, But lo! there surges forth a shriek, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-hum! Maryland! The "Old Line's" bugle, fife and drum, She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland! God of justice! God of power! Do we dream? Can it be, In this land, at this hour, With the blossom on the tree, In the gladsome month of May, When the young lambs play, When Nature looks around On her waking children now, The seed within the ground, The bud upon the bough? Is it right, is it fair, Where our destiny is set, Which we cultured with our toil, And watered with our sweat? We have plowed, we have sown, God of mercy! must this last? And the future, to be chained,— Do our numbers multiply But to perish and to die? Is this all our destiny below,— That our bodies, as they rot; May fertilize the spot Where the harvests of the stranger grow? If this be, indeed, our fate, Far, far better now, though late That we seek some other land and try some other zone; The coldest, bleakest shore Will surely yield us more Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own. Kindly brothers of the West, Who from Liberty's full breast Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a stepdame's frown, Behold our happy state, And weep your wretched fate That you share not in the splendors of our empire and our crown! -C. F. MacCarthy. L A Patriot's Last Appeal. ET no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would have fought on the threshold of my country, and its enemy should enter by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the dangers of a jealous and watchful oppressor, and the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country its independence—am I to be loaded with calumny, and not suffered to resent or repel it? No, God forbid ! If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, O ever-dear and venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life. My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice- the blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors that surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven. Be ye patient! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run, the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world; it is the charity of its silence! Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth-then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I HAVE DONE. -Robert Emmet. WHAT Patriotism. HAT is patriotism? Is it a narrow affection for the spot where a man was born? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener? No, sir; this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it; for what rights of a citizen wili be deemed inviolable when a State renounces the principles that constitute their security? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dishonored in his own? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent? The sense of having one would die within him; he would blush for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native land. |