The matron whose sons are lying In graves on a distant shore; The maiden, whose promised husband Comes back from the war no more? I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard, That bask in the mellow light; And I know that, when our couriers Again I turn to the woodlands, And I think of days of slaughter, And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee's meadows, And the wasted banks of the James. Oh, for the fresh spring-season, When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future Is the frosty autumn-time! Oh, for that better season, When the pride of the foe shall yield, And the hosts of God and Freedom March back from the well-won field; And the matron shall clasp her first-born The leaves are swept from the branches; To sprout in a kinder air. ROSLYN, October, 1864. THE DEATH OF SLAVERY O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, And turn a stony gaze on human tears, Thy cruel reign is o'er; Thy bondmen crouch no more In terror at the menace of thine eye; For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, Long-suffering, hath heard the captive's cry, And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, And lo! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent; Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks Send up hosannas to the firmament ! Fields where the bondman's toil No more shall trench the soil, Seem now to bask in a serener day; The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs Of heaven with more caressing softness play, Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, For the great land and all its coasts are free. Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, And they by whom the nation's laws were made, And they who filled its judgment-seats, Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not, Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought; While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore, The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy pride; Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow; by thy side Thy once strong arms hang nerveless ever more. And they who quailed but now Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. And they who ruled in thine imperial name, Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain. Well was thy doom deserved; thou didst not spare Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer; Thy inner lair became The haunt of guilty shame; Thy lash dropped blood; the murderer, at thy side, Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, Until the measure of thy sins at last Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast! Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place With hateful memories of the elder time, With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, And bloody war that thinned the human race; With the Black Death, whose way Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guiltDeath at the stake to those that held them not. Lo! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. I see the better years that hasten by Carry thee back into that shadowy past, Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain Woodman and delver with the spade-is there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll. There groups of revellers whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, And as they raise their flowing cups and touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armëd men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief Sinks with his followers; the head that wears The imperial diadem goes down beside cheek. A funeral-train - -the torrent sweeps away Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; The wail is stifled and the sobbing group Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul ! The waters choke the shout and all is still. Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads The hands in prayer o'ertakes the engulfing wave The chisel, and the stricken marble grows Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile On her young babe that smiles to her again; The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. A beam like that of moonlight turns the Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, The broken altars of forgotten gods, Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, Around green islands with the breath In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled Or broke are healed forever. In the room Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie That waits on growth and action shall pro ceed With everlasting Concord hand in hand. |