IF I have seemed more prompt to censure wrong Than praise the right; if seldom to thine ear My voice hath mingled with the exultant cheer Borne upon all our Northern winds along; If I have failed to join the fickle throng
In wide-eyed wonder, that thou standest strong In victory, surprised in thee to find
Brougham's scathing power with Canning's grace combined;
That he, for whom the ninefold Muses sang, From their twined arms a giant athlete sprang, Barbing the arrows of his native tongue With the spent shafts Latona's archer flung, To smite the Python of our land and time, Fell as the monster born of Crissa's slime, Like the blind bard who in Castalian springs Tempered the steel that clove the crest of kings, And on the shrine of England's freedom laid The gifts of Cumæ and of Delphi's shade- Small need hast thou of words of praise from me. Thou knowest my heart, dear friend, and well canst guess
That, even though silent, I have not the less Rejoiced to see thy actual life agree
With the large future which I shaped for thee, When, years ago, beside the summer sea, White in the moon, we saw the long waves fall Baffled and broken from the rocky wall, That, to the menace of the brawling flood, Opposed alone its massive quietude,
Calm as a fate; with not a leaf nor vine Nor birch-spray trembling in the still moonshine, Crowning it like God's peace. I sometimes think That night-scene by the sea prophetical-
(For nature speaks in symbols and in signs, And through her pictures human fate divines)– That rock, wherefrom we saw the billows sink
In murmuring rout, uprising clear and tall In the white light of heaven, the type of one Who, momently by Error's host assailed, Stands strong as Truth, in greaves of granite mailed;
And, tranquil-fronted, listening over all The tumult, hears the angels say, Well done!
WE cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!
We go to rear a wall of men On Freedom's southern line And plant beside the cotton-tree The rugged Northern pine!
We're flowing from our native hills As our free rivers flow;
The blessing of our Mother-land Is on us as we go.
We go to plant her common schools On distant prairie swells, And give the Sabbaths of the wild The music of her bells.
Upbearing, like the Ark of old, The Bible in our van,
We go to test the truth of God Against the fraud of man.
No pause, nor rest, save where the streams That feed the Kansas run,
Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon Shall flout the setting sun!
We'll tread the prairie as of old
Our fathers sailed the sea,
And make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!
SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT.23
WHERE are we going? where are we going, Where are we going, Rubee?
Lord of peoples, lord of lands, Look across these shining sands, Through the furnace of the noon, Through the white light of the moon. Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing, Strange and large the world is growing! Speak and tell us where we are going, Where are we going, Rubee?
Bornou land was rich and good, Wells of water, fields of food, Dourra fields, and bloom of bean, And the palm-tree cool and green: Bornou land we see no longer, Here we thirst and here we hunger, Here the Moor-man smites in anger: Where are we going, Rubee?
When we went from Bornou land, We were like the leaves and sand, We were many, we are few; Life has one, and death has two:
Whitened bones our path are showing, Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing! Hear us, tell us, where are we going, Where are we going, Rubee?
Moons of marches from our eyes Bornou land behind us lies Stranger round us day by day Bends the desert circle gray; Wild the waves of sand are flowing, Hot the winds above them blowing,- Lord of all things!-where are we going? Where are we going, Rubee?
We are weak, but Thou art strong; Short our lives, but Thine is long; We are blind, but Thou hast eyes; We are fools, but Thou art wise!
Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing Through the strange world round us growing, Hear us, tell us where are we going, Where are we going, Rubee?
INSCRIBED TO FRIENDS UNDER ARREST FOR TREASON AGAINST THE SLAVE POWER.
THE age is dull and mean.
Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want;
Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant.
In such a time, give thanks to God, That somewhat of the holy rage With which the prophets in their age On all its decent seemings trod, Has set your feet upon the lie, That man and ox and soul and clod Are market stock to sell and buy!
The hot words from your lips, my own, To caution trained, might not repeat; But, if some tares among the wheat Of generous thought and deed were sown, No common wrong provoked your zeal ; The silken gauntlet that is thrown
In such a quarrel rings like steel.
The brave old strife the fathers saw For Freedom calls for men again Like those who battled not in vain For England's Charter, Alfred's law; And right of speech and trial just Wage in your name their ancient war With venal courts and perjured trust.
God's ways seem dark, but, soon or late, They touch the shining hills of day; The evil cannot brook delay, The good can well afford to wait.
Give ermined knaves their hour of crime;
Ye have the future grand and great,
The safe appeal of Truth to Time!
By fire and cloud, across the desert sand, And through the parted waves,
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