Anti Slavery Poems II, vol 3, part 2 | Page 8

woods, shall wear?Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold, keen air;?And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks?O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee,?When, at thy bidding, the electric wire?Shall tremble northward with its words of fire;?Glory and praise to God! another State is free!?1847.
YORKTOWN.
Dr. Thacher, surgeon in Scammel's regiment, in his description of the siege of Yorktown, says: "The labor on the Virginia plantations is performed altogether by a species of the human race cruelly wrested from their native country, and doomed to perpetual bondage, while their masters are manfully contending for freedom and the natural rights of man. Such is the inconsistency of human nature." Eighteen hundred slaves were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, and restored to their masters. Well was it said by Dr. Barnes, in his late work on Slavery: "No slave was any nearer his freedom after the surrender of Yorktown than when Patrick Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the hills and vales of Virginia."
FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still,?Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill?Who curbs his steed at head of one??Hark! the low murmur: Washington!?Who bends his keen, approving glance,?Where down the gorgeous line of France?Shine knightly star and plume of snow??Thou too art victor, Rochambeau!?The earth which bears this calm array?Shook with the war-charge yesterday,
Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel,?Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel;?October's clear and noonday sun?Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun,?And down night's double blackness fell,?Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.
Now all is hushed: the gleaming lines?Stand moveless as the neighboring pines;?While through them, sullen, grim, and slow,?The conquered hosts of England go?O'Hara's brow belies his dress,?Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless:?Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes,?Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes!
Nor thou alone; with one glad voice?Let all thy sister States rejoice;?Let Freedom, in whatever clime?She waits with sleepless eye her time,?Shouting from cave and mountain wood?Make glad her desert solitude,?While they who hunt her quail with fear;?The New World's chain lies broken here!
But who are they, who, cowering, wait?Within the shattered fortress gate??Dark tillers of Virginia's soil,?Classed with the battle's common spoil,?With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine,?With Indian weed and planters' wine,?With stolen beeves, and foraged corn,--?Are they not men, Virginian born?
Oh, veil your faces, young and brave!?Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave?Sons of the Northland, ye who set?Stout hearts against the bayonet,?And pressed with steady footfall near?The moated battery's blazing tier,?Turn your scarred faces from the sight,?Let shame do homage to the right!
Lo! fourscore years have passed; and where?The Gallic bugles stirred the air,?And, through breached batteries, side by side,?To victory stormed the hosts allied,?And brave foes grounded, pale with pain,?The arms they might not lift again,?As abject as in that old day?The slave still toils his life away.
Oh, fields still green and fresh in story,?Old days of pride, old names of glory,?Old marvels of the tongue and pen,?Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men,?Ye spared the wrong; and over all?Behold the avenging shadow fall!?Your world-wide honor stained with shame,--?Your freedom's self a hollow name!
Where's now the flag of that old war??Where flows its stripe? Where burns its star??Bear witness, Palo Alto's day,?Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey,?Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak,?Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak;?Symbol of terror and despair,?Of chains and slaves, go seek it there!
Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks?Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks!?Brave sport to see the fledgling born?Of Freedom by its parent torn!?Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell,?Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell?With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled,?What of the New World fears the Old??1847.
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.
O MOTHER EARTH! upon thy lap?Thy weary ones receiving,?And o'er them, silent as a dream,?Thy grassy mantle weaving,?Fold softly in thy long embrace?That heart so worn and broken,?And cool its pulse of fire beneath?Thy shadows old and oaken.
Shut out from him the bitter word?And serpent hiss of scorning;?Nor let the storms of yesterday?Disturb his quiet morning.?Breathe over him forgetfulness?Of all save deeds of kindness,?And, save to smiles of grateful eyes,?Press down his lids in blindness.
There, where with living ear and eye?He heard Potomac's flowing,?And, through his tall ancestral trees,?Saw autumn's sunset glowing,?He sleeps, still looking to the west,?Beneath the dark wood shadow,?As if he still would see the sun?Sink down on wave and meadow.
Bard, Sage, and Tribune! in himself?All moods of mind contrasting,--?The tenderest wail of human woe,?The scorn like lightning blasting;?The pathos which from rival eyes?Unwilling tears could summon,?The stinging taunt, the fiery burst?Of hatred scarcely human!
Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower,?From lips of life-long sadness;?Clear picturings of majestic thought?Upon a ground of madness;?And over all Romance and Song?A classic beauty throwing,?And laurelled Clio at his side?Her storied pages showing.
All parties feared him: each in turn?Beheld its schemes disjointed,?As right or left his fatal glance?And spectral finger pointed.?Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down?With