Personal Poems II, vol 4, part 2 | Page 6

heaven above,--?The fitting symbols of a life of duty?Transfigured into love!?1859.
BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE
John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:?"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;?And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild, As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child.
The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;?And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good?Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood!?Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,?Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale, To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!
So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;?In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!?1859.
NAPLES
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.
Helen Waterston died at Naples in her eighteenth year, and lies buried in the Protestant cemetery there. The stone over her grave bears the lines,
Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between
Our human hearts and Thee.
I give thee joy!--I know to thee?The dearest spot on earth must be?Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb,?The land of Virgil gave thee room?To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down?Behind thee on the gleaming town,?On Baiae's baths and Posilippo's crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day?Burned Ischia's mountain lines away,?And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot?The sharp pang of a bitter thought?That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest?In giving thy beloved rest,?Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave?Was freedom's prophecy, and gave?The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear?The unchained city sends its cheer,?And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free?And happy by the summer sea,?And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain?The languid smile that follows pain,?Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call?From gray Camaldoli's convent-wall?And Elmo's towers to freedom's carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines?And olives, like the breath of pines?Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,?Rejoice as one who witnesseth?Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain,?Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain,?Writing the grave with flowers: "Arisen again!"?1860.
A MEMORIAL
Moses Austin Cartland, a dear friend and relation, who led a faithful life as a teacher and died in the summer of 1863.
Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing,?The solemn vista to the tomb?Must know henceforth another shadow,?And give another cypress room.
In love surpassing that of brothers,?We walked, O friend, from childhood's day;?And, looking back o'er fifty summers,?Our footprints track a common way.
One in our faith, and one our longing?To make the world within our reach?Somewhat the better for our living,?And gladder for our human speech.
Thou heard'st with me the far-off voices,?The old beguiling song of fame,?But life to thee was warm and present,?And love was better than a name.
To homely joys and loves and friendships?Thy genial nature fondly clung;?And so the shadow on the dial?Ran back and left thee always young.
And who could blame the generous weakness?Which, only to thyself unjust,?So overprized the worth of others,?And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust?
All hearts grew warmer in the presence?Of one who, seeking not his own,?Gave freely for the love of giving,?Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.
Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude?Of generous deeds and kindly words;?In thy large