TO LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 353 Along green hillsides, sown with shot | Stretched over those dusky foreheads and shell, Through vales once choked with war. The low reveille of their battle-drum Disturbs no morning prayer; His one-armed blessing. And he said: "Who hears can never With deeper peace in summer noons What shall I tell the children their hum Fills all the drowsy air. Up North about you?" Then ran round a whisper, a murmur, And Samson's riddle is our own to- And a little boy stood up: day, Of sweetness from the strong, Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away From the rent jaws of wrong. From Treason's death we draw a purer life, As, from the beast he slew, Tell 'em we 're rising! O black boy of Atlanta! But half was spoken: Massa, The slave's chain and the master's The one curse of the races A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife They are rising, - all are rising, The black and white together! THE sweet spring day is glad with music, But through it sounds a sadder strain; The worthiest of our narrowing circle Sings Loring's dirges o'er again. O woman greatly loved! I join thee In tender memories of our friend; With thee across the awful spaces The greeting of a soul I send! What cheer hath he? How is it with him? Where lingers he this weary while? Over what pleasant fields of Heaven Dawns the sweet sunrise of his smile? Does he not know our feet are treading The earth hard down on Slavery's grave? That, in our crowning exultations, We miss the charm his presence gave? Why on this spring air comes no whis- Back to the night from whence she per From him to tell us all is well? I feel the unutterable longing, The finger of God's silence lies; Will the lost hands in ours be folded? Will the shut eyelids ever rise? O friend! no proof beyond this yearning, This outreach of our hearts, we need ; God will not mock the hope He giveth, No love He prompts shall vainly plead. came, To unimagined grief or shame! Glide on, poor ghost of woe or sin! Some misery inarticulate, Pass on! The type of all thou art, Then let us stretch our hands in dark-In mute and strange companionship, Like thee we wander to and fro, Ah, who shall pray, since he who pleads Our want perchance hath greater needs? Of love from lips of self-despair: In vain remorse and fear and hate He prayeth best who leaves unguessed Or heads are white, thou need'st not know. Enough to note by many a sign "Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Monarchists, Of stripes and bondage braggarts, Pale Churchmen, with singed rubrics snatched From Puritanic fagots. "And last, not least, the Quakers came, With tongues still sore from burning, "Good friends," he says, "you reap a The Bay State's dust from off their field "I hear again the snuffled tones, "Each zealot thrust before my eyes feet "I proved the prophets false, I pricked The bubble of perfection, "Scourged at one cart-tail, each de- And clapped upon their inner light nied The hope of every other; Each martyr shook his branded fist At the conscience of his brother! The snuffers of election. "And, looking backward on my times, One thing, at least, I'm proud for; I kept each sectary's dish apart, "Where now the blending signs of sect "A common coat now serves for both, The hat's no more a fixture; And which was wet and which was dry, Who knows in such a mixture? "Well! He who fashioned Peter's dream To bless them all is able; And bird and beast and creeping thing Make clean upon His table! That holy life is more than rite, And spirit more than letter; That they who differ pole-wide serve For truth's worst foe is he who claims Who sets for heresy his traps Of verbal quirk and quibble, And weeds the garden of the Lord With Satan's borrowed dibble. To-day our hearts like organ keys One Master's touch are feeling; "I walked by my own light; but when The branches of a common Vine The ways of faith divided, Was I to force unwilling feet To tread the path that I did? "I touched the garment-hem of truth, "God left men free of choice, as when His Eden-trees were planted; "So, with a common sense of need, And His all-gracious dealing! "I kept His plan whose rain and sun Take heart with us, O man of old, Soul-freedom's brave confessor, So love of God and man wax strong, Let sect and creed be lesser. The jarring discords of thy day In ours one hymn are swelling; The wandering feet, the severed paths, All seek our Father's dwelling. And slowly learns the world the truth That makes us all thy debtor, — Have only leaves of healing. Co-workers, yet from varied fields, Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone, Still echo in the hearts of men The words that thou hast spoken; No forge of hell can weld again The fetters thou hast broken. The pilgrim needs a pass no more "THE LAURELS." AT THE TWENTIETH AND LAST ANNIVERSARY. FROM these wild rocks I look to-day O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see The far, low coast-line stretch away To where our river meets the sea. The light wind blowing off the land Is burdened with old voices; through |