« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
So shalt thou deftly raise
The market-price of human flesh; and, while
Grave, reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest,
O shame! the Moslem thrall,
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
But our poor slave in vain
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes,—
God of all right! how long
Oh, from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell,From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell, And coffle's weary chain,—
Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry,
"How long, O God, how long?"
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!
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!
The beauty of your tranquil Zion,
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
Of memories sacred from the scorner?
And suffering and heroic woman.
No, for yourselves alone, I turn
To silence Freedom's voice of warning,
If when an earthquake voice of power,
The Spirit of the Lord is going—
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 prisonIf then ye would, with puny hands, Arrest the very work of Heaven,
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
To claim the right of free opinion?
A glorious remnant linger yet
Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains,
But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale
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,
Hast waited for the glorious token That Earth from all her bonds of wrong To liberty and light has broken,— Angel of Freedom! soon to thee
The sounding trumpet shall be given, And over Earth's full jubilee
Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven!
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his
For evermore !
grey hairs gone
Revile him not,-the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
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