THE PASTORAL LETTER. So, this is all, the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter! When laymen think-when women preachA war of words, a Pastoral Letter!" Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! 66 Was it thus with those, your predecessors, Who sealed with racks and fire and ropes Their loving-kindness to transgressors? A "Pastoral Letter," grave and dull— From him who bellows from St. Peter's! Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, Think ye, can words alone preserve them? Your wiser fathers taught the arm And sword of temporal power to serve them. O glorious days,-when Church and State Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers! But at his peril of the scar Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church And priest and bailiff joined in search, By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker! The stocks were at each church's door, The gallows stood on Boston Common, A Papist's ears the pillory bore, The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman! Your fathers dealt not as ye deal With "non-professing" frantic teachers; They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, And Salem's streets, could tell their story Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory! And will ye ask me why this taunt And suffering and heroic woman. No, for yourselves alone, I turn Of Freedom's day around ye dawning; If when an earthquake voice of power, The Spirit of the Lord is going And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light When for the sighing of the poor, And for the needy, God hath risen, And chains are breaking, and a door Is opening for the souls in prison— If then ye would, with puny hands, Arrest the very work of Heaven, M And bind anew the evil bands Which God's right arm of power hath riven, What marvel that, in many a mind, Those darker deeds of bigot madness Are closely with your own combined, Yet less in anger than in sadness? What marvel if the people learn To claim the right of free opinion? What marvel if at times they spurn The ancient yoke of your dominion? A glorious remnant linger yet Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, The coming of whose welcome feet Is beautiful upon our mountains: Men who the gospel tidings bring Of Liberty and Love for ever, Whose joy is an abiding spring, Whose peace is as a gentle river. But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, Which echoes here the mournful wail Of sorrow from Edisto's waters, Close while ye may the public ear,— With malice vex, with slander wound them,— The pure and good shall throng to hear, And tried and manly hearts surround them. Oh ever may the power which led Their way to such a fiery trial, And strengthened womanhood to tread Be round them in an evil land, With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand, And Deborah's song, for triumph given! And what are ye who strive with God Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, To perish, even as flax consuming, And thou, sad Angel, who so long The sounding trumpet shall be given, Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven! ICHABOD! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn The glory from his grey hairs gone Revile him not,-the Tempter hath And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Oh dumb be passion's stormy rage, Have lighted up and led his age Scorn? Would the angels laugh, to mark Let not the land once proud of him Nor brand with deeper shame his dim But let its humbled sons, instead, A long lament, as for the dead, Of all we loved and honoured, nought A fallen angel's pride of thought, All else is gone; from those great eyes When faith is lost, when honour dies, Then, pay the reverence of old days Walk backward, with averted gaze, THE PEACE OF EUROPE. 1852. "GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns Go lay to earth a listening ear; The tramp of measured marches hear,- |