Personal Poems II, vol 4, part 2 | Page 2

higher tests of manhood?Than battle ever knew.
"Wouldst know him now? Behold him,?The Cadmus of the blind,?Giving the dumb lip language,?The idiot-clay a mind.
"Walking his round of duty?Serenely day by day,?With the strong man's hand of labor?And childhood's heart of play.
"True as the knights of story,?Sir Lancelot and his peers,?Brave in his calm endurance?As they in tilt of spears.
"As waves in stillest waters,?As stars in noonday skies,?All that wakes to noble action?In his noon of calmness lies.
"Wherever outraged Nature?Asks word or action brave,?Wherever struggles labor,?Wherever groans a slave,--
"Wherever rise the peoples,?Wherever sinks a throne,?The throbbing heart of Freedom finds?An answer in his own.
"Knight of a better era,?Without reproach or fear!?Said I not well that Bayards?And Sidneys still are here?"?1853.
RANTOUL.
No more fitting inscription could be placed on the tombstone of Robert Rantoul than this: "He died at his post in Congress, and his last words were a protest in the name of Democracy against the Fugitive-Slave Law."
One day, along the electric wire?His manly word for Freedom sped;?We came next morn: that tongue of fire?Said only, "He who spake is dead!"
Dead! while his voice was living yet,?In echoes round the pillared dome!?Dead! while his blotted page lay wet?With themes of state and loves of home!
Dead! in that crowning grace of time,?That triumph of life's zenith hour!?Dead! while we watched his manhood's prime?Break from the slow bud into flower!
Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise,?While the mean thousands yet drew breath;?How deepened, through that dread surprise,?The mystery and the awe of death!
From the high place whereon our votes?Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell?His first words, like the prelude notes?Of some great anthem yet to swell.
We seemed to see our flag unfurled,?Our champion waiting in his place?For the last battle of the world,?The Armageddon of the race.
Through him we hoped to speak the word?Which wins the freedom of a land;?And lift, for human right, the sword?Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand.
For he had sat at Sidney's feet,?And walked with Pym and Vane apart;?And, through the centuries, felt the beat?Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart.
He knew the paths the worthies held,?Where England's best and wisest trod;?And, lingering, drank the springs that welled?Beneath the touch of Milton's rod.
No wild enthusiast of the right,?Self-poised and clear, he showed alway?The coolness of his northern night,?The ripe repose of autumn's day.
His steps were slow, yet forward still?He pressed where others paused or failed;?The calm star clomb with constant will,?The restless meteor flashed and paled.
Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew?And owned the higher ends of Law;?Still rose majestic on his view?The awful Shape the schoolman saw.
Her home the heart of God; her voice?The choral harmonies whereby?The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,?The rhythmic rule of earth and sky.
We saw his great powers misapplied?To poor ambitions; yet, through all,?We saw him take the weaker side,?And right the wronged, and free the thrall.
Now, looking o'er the frozen North,?For one like him in word and act,?To call her old, free spirit forth,?And give her faith the life of fact,--
To break her party bonds of shame,?And labor with the zeal of him?To make the Democratic name?Of Liberty the synonyme,--
We sweep the land from hill to strand,?We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,?And, sad of heart, return to stand?In silence by a new-made grave!
There, where his breezy hills of home?Look out upon his sail-white seas,?The sounds of winds and waters come,?And shape themselves to words like these.
"Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power?Was lent to Party over-long,?Heard the still whisper at the hour?He set his foot on Party wrong?
"The human life that closed so well?No lapse of folly now can stain?The lips whence Freedom's protest fell?No meaner thought can now profane.
"Mightier than living voice his grave?That lofty protest utters o'er;?Through roaring wind and smiting wave?It speaks his hate of wrong once more.
"Men of the North! your weak regret?Is wasted here; arise and pay?To freedom and to him your debt,?By following where he led the way!"?1853.
WILLIAM FORSTER.
William Forster, of Norwich, England, died in East Tennessee, in the 1st month, 1854, while engaged in presenting to the governors of the States of this Union the address of his religious society on the evils of slavery. He was the relative and coadjutor of the Buxtons, Gurneys, and Frys; and his whole life, extending al-most to threescore and ten years, was a pore and beautiful example of Christian benevolence. He had travelled over Europe, and visited most of its sovereigns, to plead against the slave-trade and slavery; and had twice before made visits to this country, under impressions of religious duty. He was the father of the Right Hon. William Edward Forster. He visited my father's house in Haverhill during his first tour in the United States.
The years are many since his hand?Was laid upon my head,?Too weak and young to understand?The serious words he said.
Yet