Anti Slavery Poems III, vol 3, part 3 | Page 2

cause?The strength of her eternal laws;?While he whose arm essays to bind?And herd with common brutes his kind?Strives evermore at fearful odds?With Nature and the jealous gods,?And dares the dread recoil which late?Or soon their right shall vindicate.
'T is done, the horned crescent falls?The star-flag flouts the broken walls?Joy to the captive husband! joy?To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy!?In sullen wrath the conquered Moor?Wide open flings your dungeon-door,?And leaves ye free from cell and chain,?The owners of yourselves again.?Dark as his allies desert-born,?Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn?With the long marches of his band?Through hottest wastes of rock and sand,?Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath?Of the red desert's wind of death,?With welcome words and grasping hands,?The victor and deliverer stands!
The tale is one of distant skies;?The dust of half a century lies?Upon it; yet its hero's name?Still lingers on the lips of Fame.?Men speak the praise of him who gave?Deliverance to the Moorman's slave,?Yet dare to brand with shame and crime?The heroes of our land and time,--?The self-forgetful ones, who stake?Home, name, and life for Freedom's sake.?God mend his heart who cannot feel?The impulse of a holy zeal,?And sees not, with his sordid eyes,?The beauty of self-sacrifice?Though in the sacred place he stands,?Uplifting consecrated hands,?Unworthy are his lips to tell?Of Jesus' martyr-miracle,?Or name aright that dread embrace?Of suffering for a fallen race!?1850.
A SABBATH SCENE.
This poem finds its justification in the readiness with which, even in the North, clergymen urged the prompt execution of the Fugitive Slave Law as a Christian duty, and defended the system of slavery as a Bible institution.
SCARCE had the solemn Sabbath-bell?Ceased quivering in the steeple,?Scarce had the parson to his desk?Walked stately through his people,?When down the summer-shaded street?A wasted female figure,?With dusky brow and naked feet,
Came rushing wild and eager.?She saw the white spire through the trees,?She heard the sweet hymn swelling?O pitying Christ! a refuge give?That poor one in Thy dwelling!
Like a scared fawn before the hounds,?Right up the aisle she glided,?While close behind her, whip in hand,?A lank-haired hunter strided.
She raised a keen and bitter cry,?To Heaven and Earth appealing;?Were manhood's generous pulses dead??Had woman's heart no feeling?
A score of stout hands rose between?The hunter and the flying:?Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes?Flashed tearful, yet defying.
"Who dares profane this house and day?"?Cried out the angry pastor.?"Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave,?And I'm her lord and master!
"I've law and gospel on my side,?And who shall dare refuse me?"?Down came the parson, bowing low,?"My good sir, pray excuse me!
"Of course I know your right divine?To own and work and whip her;?Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott?Before the wench, and trip her!"
Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er?Its sacred pages stumbling,?Bound hand and foot, a slave once more,?The hapless wretch lay trembling.
I saw the parson tie the knots,?The while his flock addressing,?The Scriptural claims of slavery?With text on text impressing.
"Although," said he, "on Sabbath day?All secular occupations?Are deadly sins, we must fulfil?Our moral obligations:
"And this commends itself as one?To every conscience tender;?As Paul sent back Onesimus,?My Christian friends, we send her!"
Shriek rose on shriek,--the Sabbath air?Her wild cries tore asunder;?I listened, with hushed breath, to hear?God answering with his thunder!
All still! the very altar's cloth?Had smothered down her shrieking,?And, dumb, she turned from face to face,?For human pity seeking!
I saw her dragged along the aisle,?Her shackles harshly clanking;?I heard the parson, over all,?The Lord devoutly thanking!
My brain took fire: "Is this," I cried,?"The end of prayer and preaching??Then down with pulpit, down with priest,?And give us Nature's teaching!
"Foul shame and scorn be on ye all?Who turn the good to evil,?And steal the Bible, from the Lord,?To give it to the Devil!
"Than garbled text or parchment law?I own a statute higher;?And God is true, though every book?And every man's a liar!"
Just then I felt the deacon's hand?In wrath my coattail seize on;?I heard the priest cry, "Infidel!"?The lawyer mutter, "Treason!"
I started up,--where now were church,?Slave, master, priest, and people??I only heard the supper-bell,?Instead of clanging steeple.
But, on the open window's sill,?O'er which the white blooms drifted,?The pages of a good old Book?The wind of summer lifted,
And flower and vine, like angel wings?Around the Holy Mother,?Waved softly there, as if God's truth?And Mercy kissed each other.
And freely from the cherry-bough?Above the casement swinging,?With golden bosom to the sun,?The oriole was singing.
As bird and flower made plain of old?The lesson of the Teacher,?So now I heard the written Word?Interpreted by Nature.
For to my ear methought the breeze?Bore Freedom's blessed word on;?Thus saith the Lord: Break every yoke,?Undo the heavy burden?1850.
IN THE EVIL DAYS.
This and the four following poems have special reference to that darkest hour in the aggression of slavery which preceded the dawn of a better day, when the conscience of the people was roused to action.
THE evil days have come, the poor?Are made