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

to the swift nor to the strong
The battles of the right
belong;
For he who strikes for Freedom wears
The armor of the
captive's prayers,
And Nature proffers to his 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