I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound In Naples, dying for the lack of air And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain, Where hope is not, and innocence in vain Appeals against the torture and the chain ! Unfortunates! whose crime it was to share Our common love of freedom, and to dare, In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned, And her base pander, the most hateful thing Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground Makes vile the old heroic name of king. O, God most merciful! Father just and kind! Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind. Or, if thy purposes of good behind Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find Strong consolations; leave them not to doubt Thy providential care, nor yet without The hope which all thy attributes inspire, That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain; Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth, Electrical, with every throb of pain, Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain Of fire and spirit over all the earth, Making the dead in slavery live again. Let this great hope be with them, as they lie Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky, From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze, The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees; Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease And sins abhorred make loathsome; let them
Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear Years of unutterable torment, stern and still, As the chained Titan victor through his will!
Comfort them with thy future; let them see The day-dawn of Italian liberty; For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee, And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be!
I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize Of name or place, and more than I have lost Have gained in wider reach of sympathies, And free communion with the good and wise,- May God forbid that I should ever boast Such easy self-denial, or repine
That the strong pulse of health no more is mine; That, overworn at noonday, I must yield To other hands the gleaning of the field,- A tired on-looker through the day's decline. For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing That kindly Providence its care is showing In the withdrawal as in the bestowing, Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray. Beautiful yet for me this autumn day Melts on its sunset hills; and, far away, For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm, To me the pine-woods whisper; and for me Yon river, winding through its vales of calm, By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred, And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay, Flows down in silent gladness to the sea, Like a pure spirit to its great reward!
Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear, Whose love is round me like this atmosphere, Warm, soft and golden. For such gifts to me, What shall I render, O my God, to thee? Let me not dwell upon my lighter share Of pain and ill that human life must bear; Save me from selfish pining; let my heart, Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget The bitter longings of a vain regret,
The anguish of its own peculiar smart. Remembering others, as I have to-day, In their great sorrows, let me live alway Not for myself alone, but have a part, Such as a frail and erring spirit may, In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou
THE moon has set: while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn Bear off your prey!
On, swift and still!-the conscious street Is panged and stirred; Tread light! that fall of serried feet The dead have heard!
The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins Gushed where ye tread;
Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red!
Beneath the slowly waning stars And whitening day,
What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way?
What faces frown upon ye, dark With shame and pain ?
Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark ?
Is that young Vane?
Who, dimly beckoning, speed With mocking cheer?
Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage, are here!
For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch's fire Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed The Tyrian sire.
Ye make that ancient sacrifice
Of Man to Gain,
Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, Beneath the chain.
Ye sow to-day, your harvest scorn
And hate, is near; How, think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear?
Thank God! our mother State can yet Her fame retrieve;
To you and to your children let The scandal cleave.
Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, Make gods of gold;
Let honor, truth, and manliness, Like wares be sold.
Your hoards are great, your walls are strong,
The gilded chambers built by wrong
What! know ye not the gains of Crime Are dust and dross;
Its ventures on the waves of time
Foredoom'd to loss!
And still the Pilgrim State remains What she hath been;
Her inland hills, her seaward plains, Still nurture men!
Nor wholly lost the fallen mart- Her olden blood
Through many a free and generous heart Still pours its flood.
That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, Shall know no check, Till a free people's foot is set On Slavery's neck.
Even now, the peal of bell and gun, And hills aflame,
Tell of the first great triumph won In Freedom's name.15
The long night dies: the welcome gray Of dawn we see; Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, God of the free!
THE PEACE OF EUROPE-1852.
"GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!" So say her kings and priests; so say The lying prophets of our day.
Go lay to earth a listening ear; The tramp of measured marches hear,- The rolling of the cannon's wheel, The shotted musket's murderous peal, The night alarm, the sentry's call,
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