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

works, like streams that intermingle,
In the same
channel ran
The crystal clearness of an eye kept single
Shamed all
the frauds of man.
The very gentlest of all human natures
He joined to courage strong,

And love outreaching unto all God's creatures
With sturdy hate of
wrong.
Tender as woman, manliness and meekness
In him were so allied

That they who judged him by his strength or weakness
Saw but a
single side.
Men failed, betrayed him, but his zeal seemed nourished
By failure
and by fall;
Still a large faith in human-kind he cherished,
And in
God's love for all.
And now he rests: his greatness and his sweetness
No more shall
seem at strife,
And death has moulded into calm completeness
The
statue of his life.
Where the dews glisten and the songbirds warble,
His dust to dust is
laid,
In Nature's keeping, with no pomp of marble
To shame his
modest shade.
The forges glow, the hammers all are ringing;
Beneath its smoky vale,

Hard by, the city of his love is swinging
Its clamorous iron flail.
But round his grave are quietude and beauty,
And the sweet 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