And pointed many sharpened spires above,
With rugged front and visages all carved
In purposed rudeness imitating life.
And now I seem thus looking up to thee,
Thou frost-built prison of the captured flood!
What solemn awe and what emotions deep,
Of grandeur and sublimity arise
Within my wondering soul at sight of thee!
Now like a Switzer huntsman on the Alps,
With sandaled foot and iron-pointed staff,
I traverse here the pathway of thy tide,
All strongly paved with massive blocks of ice!
Down steep declivities, whose sharpened sides
With jutting icicles oppose my steps,
I pass securely through with beating heart;
Across the clefts by thy convulsions formed,
I leap along nor see the chasm below!
O'er towering peaks whose craggy ascents tire,
I slowly creep with clinging hand and foot;
Now up thy steep, while deaf to caution's voice,
I mount unwearied, heeding not the threat,
Thou thunderest forth behind these ponderous walls,
In smothered tones like those of muffled drums!
Aye! almost to thy verge do I ascend,
And give thee back my loud triumphant shout!
E'en now can I rejoice o'er thee subdued!
Yet no! I glory not o'er vanquished foes,
O'er captives made to feel their bondage thus,
And much the less, since not by strength of mine
Or wondrous valor thou art thus enslaved; 'Tis more magnanimous and just by far,
To weep and sympathize in love with those
Whom God hath placed beneath our hand's control, As hostages of trust, not collared serfs,
O'er whom with rule of arbitrary will,
e are to tyrannize and lift the scourge,
But to relieve and cherish, making thus
Friends of our foes, of aliens, citizens,
As did the Romans with their hosts subdued;
So then I leave thee till thy ransom comes,
Till liberty of speech and act, as erst,
Are thine once more, O conquered Cataract ! 13
It comes! it comes! the freeing touch of spring,
It brings its engines to these icy walls,
And batters down their gates and razes them;
The Frost-king's bulwarks tumble to decay,
With dismal rumblings, as if earth convulsed,
Had opened every mouth to speak her wo!
Swift from their thraldom rush the pent-up tides,
Repeating thus the freeman's heartfelt song:
"O Liberty! thou boon of Heaven to earth,
How priceless more than gems invaluable,
Thy presence to the heart that beats for thee!
How bitter is thine absence to the soul,
Though other joys in plenty crowd around!
What is the light of Hope, the eye of Love,
The ease of toilless hours, the voice of Truth,
The page of Wisdom or the pen of fire?
What is the fine-spun garment to the form,
What are the lute's soft tones, the song of peace,
If cramped within a narrow prison's walls,
Or chained to iron-weights, or e'en paroled
Within a little circle of the earth we move?
Without the free light shining on our brows,
Without the free air passing through our lips,
Without the action of unfettered limbs,
Life is not life, 'tis a protracted death!
Yes! e'en the sunlight and the freshening air,
And sinewy limb are nothing in themselves,
Save we are born and live and die all free!
Our voice unheard amid the loving throng,
Our hearts unblessed while others know Life's joys,
Our frames not loosed to be where Nature wills,
All this is wormwood to the free-born soul,
That cannot brook another's tyrant hand!
Oh! you may give me earth's most needful gifts,
Her fruits, her flowers, and all her nourishment;
You may envelope me with broidered gold,
And place me on a brilliant throne of gems;
Yet if you keep me back from Freedom's paths,
If you divest me of my chartered rights,
If you declare 'no further shalt thou go,'
You take the blessing of these gifts away!
But ah! if such enslavement makes life curst,
What is the bondage of yon southern serf,
Who, reeking oft beneath the driver's thrall,
Burns with the sun's hot rays on naked limbs,
Weeps at the memory of his distant home,
And yearns for hearts like his in servitude,
But kept from him by separating bars?
If other servile states seem lengthened death,
Then this of all is most like Hell itself!
Oh! place me on some barren shore of rocks,
On desert-islands, or 'mid sterile wastes,
In fruitless forests, or on snowy mounts,
Let griping poverty my nature clutch,
And cursed foes my life for aye besiege,
But let me breathe the free air, ever free,
Wield my own arms and move my feet unchained,
To roam o'er earth where'er I would, unchecked,
And then I ask no more; for stern resolve,
A most indomitable will, a heart
O'erfull of hope and confidence in God,
A purpose right with Truth my leading-star,
Will bring me all that life demands below;
Oh! give me Freedom and you give me life!
Then will I grapple with my hell-born foes,
Make them retreat in terror to their homes,
Harness Life's lightning-steeds, its griefs, its pains,
In curbed subjection to my victor-car,
Or crowd Care's vapor-breath between its wheels,
And make them speed me to my destined bliss!
Yes! I will e'en the best incentives draw
To nobler action from discouragements,
For when I fall, 'tis but to rise again
To higher summits than I've yet attained,
And not lie down in dust and sackcloth wrapped,
In overwhelming grief that palsies life.
I'll feel, when hills of opposition rise,
They must be levelled to my footsteps' course;
When vales of gloomy doubt sink down within,
They must be raised to heights of sure success;
When filled with weighty purposes of soul
I'll see Hope's sunlight far beyond Grief's cloud,
And mark my path as with an iron-track,
O'er which I'll fly to reach the promised joy;
Oh! give me Freedom, and you give me life!"
Along the beetling crags of thy freed stream,
And down its banks of loosened rock I creep,
To view the wonders of thy realm, O Fall!
Lo! now I stand before the emerald tide 14
That laves my feet while here I frame a lay,
To this swift issue of thine ebbing heart:
“Hail, River of the Fall! begot of Eld! 15
Patrician 'mid the plebeian throng of rills,
Born in the fountain of Jehovah's hand!
Far from the mountains' rock-ribbed sides,
Pierced by Convulsion's spear, thou flowest down,
The life-blood of their hearts; thou too art formed
Of all the myriad sweat-drops from the brows
Of earth's young hills, in toiling strength that strive
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