Joined in with nature's gladsome lay;
The lights went glancing up and down,
Riv'ling the stars--nay, seemed as they
Could stoop to claim, in their high home,
A sympathy with things of earth,
And had from their bright mansions come,
To join them in their festal mirth.
For the land of the Gaul had arose in its might,
And swept by as the wind of a wild, wintry night;
And the dreamings of greatness--the phantoms of power,
Had passed in its breath like the things of an hour.
Like the violet vapors that brilliantly play
Round the glass of the chemist, then vanish away,
The visions of grandeur which dazzlingly shone,
Had gleamed for a time, and all suddenly gone.
And the fabric of ages--the glory of kings,
Accounted most sacred mid sanctified things,
Reared up by the hero, preserved by the sage,
And drawn out in rich hues on the chronicler's page,
Had sunk in the blast, and in ruins lay spread,
While the altar of freedom was reared in its stead.
And a spark from that shrine in the free-roving breeze,
Had crossed from fair France to that isle of the seas;
And a flame was there kindled which fitfully shone
Mid the shout of the free, and the dark captive's groan;
As, mid contrary breezes, a torch-light will play,
Now streaming up brightly--now dying away.
* * * * *
The reptile slumbers in the stone,
Nor dream we of his pent abode;
The heart conceals the anguished groan,
With all the poignant griefs that goad
The brain to madness;
Within the hushed volcano's breast,
The molten fires of ruin lie;--
Thus human passions seem at rest,
And on the brow serene and high,
Appears no sadness.
But still the fires are raging there,
Of vengeance, hatred, and despair;
And when they burst, they wildly pour
Their lava flood of woe and fear,
And in one short--one little hour,
Avenge the wrongs of many a year.
* * * * *
And Ogé standeth in his hall;
But now he standeth not alone;--
A brother's there, and friends; and all
Are kindred spirits with his own;
For mind will join with kindred mind,
As matter's with its like combined.
They speak of wrongs they had received--
Of freemen, of their rights bereaved;
And as they pondered o'er the thought
Which in their minds so madly wrought,
Their eyes gleamed as the lightning's flash,
Their words seemed as the torrent's dash
That falleth, with a low, deep sound,
Into some dark abyss profound,--
A sullen sound that threatens more
Than other torrents' louder roar.
Ah! they had borne well as they might,
Such wrongs as freemen ill can bear;
And they had urged both day and night,
In fitting words, a freeman's prayer;
And when the heart is filled with grief,
For wrongs of all true souls accurst,
In action it must seek relief,
Or else, o'ercharged, it can but burst.
Why blame we them, if they oft spake
Words that were fitted to awake
The soul's high hopes--its noblest parts--
The slumbering passions of brave hearts,
And send them as the simoom's breath,
Upon a work of woe and death?
And woman's voice is heard amid
The accents of that warrior train;
And when has woman's voice e'er bid,
And man could from its hest refrain?
Hers is the power o'er his soul
That's never wielded by another,
And she doth claim this soft control
As sister, mistress, wife, or mother.
So sweetly doth her soft voice float
O'er hearts by guilt or anguish riven,
It seemeth as a magic note
Struck from earth's harps by hands of heaven.
And there's the mother of Ogé,
Who with firm voice, and steady heart,
And look unaltered, well can play
The Spartan mother's hardy part;
And send her sons to battle-fields,
And bid them come in triumph home,
Or stretched upon their bloody shields,
Rather than bear the bondman's doom.
"Go forth," she said, "to victory;
Or else, go bravely forth to die!
Go forth to fields where glory floats
In every trumpet's cheering notes!
Go forth, to where a freeman's death
Glares in each cannon's fiery breath!
Go forth and triumph o'er the foe;
Or failing that, with pleasure go
To molder on the battle-plain,
Freed ever from the tyrant's chain!
But if your hearts should craven prove,
Forgetful of your zeal--your love
For rights and franchises of men,
My heart will break; but even then,
Whilst bidding life and earth adieu,
This be the prayer I'll breathe for you:
'Passing from guilt to misery,
May this for aye your portion be,--
A life, dragged out beneath the rod--
An end, abhorred of man and God--
As monument, the chains you nurse--
As epitaph, your mother's curse!'"
* * * * *
A thousand hearts are breathing high,
And voices shouting "Victory!"
Which soon will hush in death;
The trumpet clang of joy that speaks,
Will soon be drowned in the shrieks
Of the wounded's stifling breath,
The tyrant's plume in dust lies low--
Th' oppressed has triumphed o'er his foe.
But ah! the lull in the furious blast
May whisper not of ruin past;
It may tell of the tempest hurrying on,
To complete the work the blast begun.
With the voice of a Syren, it may whisp'ringly tell
Of a moment of hope in the deluge of rain;
And the shout of the free heart may rapt'rously swell,
While the tyrant is gath'ring his power again.
Though the balm of the leech may soften the smart,
It never can turn the swift barb from its aim;
And thus the resolve of the true freeman's heart
May not keep back his fall, though it free it from shame.
Though the hearts of those heroes all well could accord
With freedom's most noble and loftiest word;
Their virtuous strength availeth them nought
With the power and skill that the tyrant brought.
Gray veterans trained in many a field
Where the fate of nations with blood was sealed,
In Italia's vales--on the shores of the Rhine--
Where the plains of fair France give birth to the vine--
Where the Tagus, the Ebro, go dancing along,
Made glad in their course by the Muleteer's song--
All these were poured down in the pride of their might,
On the land of Ogé, in that terrible fight.
Ah! dire was the conflict, and many the slain,
Who slept the last sleep on that red battle-plain!
The flash of the cannon o'er valley and height
Danced like the swift fires of a northern night,
Or the quivering glare which leaps forth as a token
That the King of the Storm from his cloud-throne has spoken.
And oh! to those heroes how welcome the fate
Of Sparta's brave sons in Thermopylæ's strait;
With what ardor of soul they then would have given
Their last look at earth for a long glance at heaven!
Their lives to their country--their backs to the sod--
Their heart's blood to the sword, and their souls to their God!
But alas! although many lie silent and slain,
More blest are they far than those clanking the chain,
In the hold of the tyrant, debarred from the day;--
And among these sad captives is Vincent Ogé!
* * * * *
Another day's bright sun has risen,
And shines upon the insurgent's prison;
Another night has slowly passed,
And Ogé smiles, for 'tis the last
He'll droop beneath the tyrant's power--
The galling chains! Another hour,
And answering to the jailor's call,
He stands within the Judgment Hall.
They've gathered there;--they who have pressed
Their fangs into the soul distressed,
To pain its passage to the tomb
With mock'ry of a legal doom.
They've gathered there;--they who have stood
Firmly and fast in hour of blood,--
Who've seen the lights of hope all die,
As stars fade from a morning sky,--
They've gathered there, in that dark hour--
The latest of the tyrant's power,--
An hour that speaketh of the day
Which never more shall pass away,--
The glorious day beyond the grave,
Which knows no master--owns no slave.
And there, too, are the rack--the wheel--
The torturing screw--the piercing steel,--
Grim powers of death all crusted o'er
With other victims' clotted gore.
Frowning they stand, and in their cold,
Silent solemnity, unfold
The strong one's triumph o'er the weak--
The awful groan--the anguished shriek--
The unconscious mutt'rings of despair--
The strained eyeball's idiot stare--
The hopeless clench--the quiv'ring frame--
The martyr's death--the despot's shame.
The rack--the tyrant--victim,--all
Are gathered in that Judgment Hall.
Draw we the veil, for 'tis a sight
But friends can gaze on with delight.
The sunbeams on the rack that play,
For sudden terror flit away
From this dread work of war and death,
As angels do with quickened breath,
From some dark deed of deepest sin,
Ere they have drunk its spirit in.
* * * * *
No mighty host with banners flying,
Seems fiercer to a conquered foe,
Than did those gallant heroes dying,
To those who gloated o'er their woe;--
Grim tigers, who have seized their prey,
Then turn and shrink abashed away;
And, coming back and crouching nigh,
Quail 'neath the flashing of the eye,
Which tells that though the life has started,
The will to strike has not departed.
* * * * *
Sad was your fate, heroic band!
Yet mourn we not, for yours' the stand
Which will secure to you a fame,
That never dieth, and a name
That will, in coming ages, be
A signal word for Liberty.
Upon the slave's o'erclouded sky,
Your gallant actions traced the bow,
Which whispered of deliv'rance nigh--
The meed of one decisive blow.
Thy coming fame, Ogé! is sure;
Thy name with that of L'Ouverture,
And all the noble souls that stood
With both of you, in times of blood,
Will live to be the tyrant's fear--
Will live, the sinking soul to cheer!
[Illustration: (signature) George B. Vashon.]
SYRACUSE, N. Y., August 31st, 1853.
The Law of Liberty
Freedom, under the proper restraint of Law and Duty, is a _political_
good, for that which is morally wrong can never be politically right.
Fine moral sense will pour indignation on oppression, as well as
applause on worth. It will give sympathy to the afflicted, and
treasures to relieve the needy. Such a spirit will exalt a nation, and
command the respect of other nations. But general freedom can only
flourish beneath the undisturbed dominion of equitable laws.
Governments should aim at the welfare of the people, and that
government which secures the person, the property, the liberty, the
lives of dutiful subjects, and thus makes the common good the rule and
measure of its government, will receive a blessing from God.
Let America act on her own avowed principles, that every man is born
free, and she will be exalted, when tyrannical, persecuting,
slaveholding nations will come to nought.
[Illustration: (signature) Wm. Marsh, D. D.]
H. CANON OF WORCESTER.
The Swiftness of Time in God.
FROM THE KNABEN WUNDERHORN. (B.I. p. 73, _et seq._)
The general at Grosswardein
Had once a little daughter fine:--
Her name was called Theresia,--
God-loving, modest, chaste and fair:
And from her childhood up was she
Most deeply given to piety,
With prayers and music's solemn tone
She ever praised the Three-in-One.
Whene'er she heard of Jesus' name,
Her love and joy flamed brighter flame;
Jesus to serve she makes her cross,
Devotes herself to be his Spouse.
A noble lord came her to woo,
Her father gave consent thereto;
The mother to her daughter said,--
"Dear child, this man thou'lt surely wed."
The daughter said, "Mother of me
That can and must not ever be.
My heart is fixed on higher worth,
A Bridegroom he not of this earth."
The mother then, "My daughter dear,
Ah, do not contradict us here,
Thy sire and I we both are old,
And God has blessed our toil with gold."
Thereat the maid began to weep,
"I have a lover beloved so deep,
To him I've made my promise down;
I'll wear for him a virgin crown."
Thereat the sire, "This must not be,
My child away this phantasy,
Where wilt thou dwell when past thy prime?
We both are old, far gone in time!"
The noble lord again draws near,
And even the bridal feast prepare,
For all things soon were ready made,--
But sorrow veils the maiden's head.
Quick to the garden, goeth she,
There falls she down upon her knee,
Out from her heart her prayer she poured
To Jesus her espoused Lord.
She lay before him on her face,
And sighed with sighs to win his grace.
The dearest Christ the clouds unrolled,
"Look up," said he, "my maid behold!
"Thou yet shalt be, in briefest time,
In heaven with me in joy's full prime,
And mid the lovely angels there,
In full delight and joy appear."
He greets the maiden wondrous fair:
She stands before him without fear,
Down cast her eyes with modest grace,--
She felt the beauty of his face.
Then speaks the youth, the heavenly King,
And weds her with a golden ring;--
"Look there, my bride! Love's pledge for thee,
Oh, wear it on thy hand for me."
The maiden then sweet vows took,
"My Bridegroom dear!" to Christ she spoke,
"Herewith art thou firm wed to me,
Henceforth my heart loves none but thee."
Then walked abroad the married pair,
And gathered many a blossom fair;--
Jesus thus spake to her anew:--
"Come, and my lovely garden view!"
He took the maiden by the hand,
And led her from her fatherland,
Unto his Father's garden fair
Where many beauteous blossoms are.
The maiden now with joy may win
The precious fruits which grow therein;
But mortal fancy cannot know
The noble fruits therein which grow.
She hears such music and such song,
That length of time seems nothing long,
And silver-white the brooklets there
Flow ever on so pure and fair.
The youth again addressed the maid,
"My garden here thou hast surveyed.
I will again conduct thee home.
To thine own land, the time is come."
The maiden turns with grief away,
Comes to the town without delay,
The watchman calls, "Stand, who goes there?"
She says, "I to my father must repair!"
"Who is your father, then," quoth he,
"The general," she answers free.
The watchman then replied and smiled,
"The general;--he has no child."
But by her garments all men see,
The maiden is of high degree.
The watchman then conducts her straight
Before the guardians of the State.
The maid declares and stands thereto,
The general is her father true.
And but two hours have scarcely flown,
Since she went out to walk alone.
The guardians saw a wonder great,
And asked where she had been of late;
Her father's name, his power and race,
That she must tell them face to face.
They searched the ancient records through,
And this they found was written true,
That once was lost a bride so fine
From this same city Grosswardein.
The length of time they came to try,
And sixteen years they find passed by;
And yet the maid was fresh and fair,
As when first in her fifteenth year.
Thereby the guardians understand
This is the work of God's own hand.
They bring the maiden food to eat,
She turns white as a winding-sheet.
"Of earthly things I wish for nought,"
Cries she; "but let a priest be brought,
That I may take ere death is sent,
The body true in sacrament.
As soon as this last act was done--
And many a Christian looked thereon--
Free from all pain and mortal smart,
Then ceased to beat that holy heart.
[Illustration: (signature) Theo. Parker]
Visit of a Fugitive Slave to the Grave of Wilberforce.
On a beautiful morning in the month of June, while strolling about
Trafalgar Square, I was attracted to the base of the Nelson column,
where a crowd was standing gazing at the bas-relief representations of
some of the great naval exploits of the man whose statue stands on the
top of the pillar. The death-wound which the hero received on board
the Victory, and his being carried from the ship's deck by his
companions, is executed with great skill. Being no admirer of warlike
heroes, I was on the point of turning away, when I perceived among the
figures (which were as large as life) a full-blooded African, with as
white a set of teeth as ever I had seen, and all the other
peculiarities of feature that distinguish that race from the rest of
the human family, with musket in hand and a dejected countenance,
which told that he had been in the heat of the battle, and shared with
the other soldiers the pain in the loss of their commander. However,
as soon as I saw my sable brother, I felt more at home, and remained
longer than I had intended. Here was the Negro, as black a man as was
ever imported from the coast of Africa, represented in his proper
place by the side of Lord Nelson, on one of England's proudest
monuments. How different, thought I, was the position assigned to the
colored man on similar monuments in the United States. Some years
since, while standing under the shade of the monument erected to the
memory of the brave Americans who fell at the storming of Fort
Griswold, Connecticut, I felt a degree of pride as I beheld the names
of two Africans who had fallen in the fight, yet I was grieved but not
surprised to find their names colonized off, and a line drawn between
them and the whites. This was in keeping with American historical
injustice to its colored heroes.
[Illustration: Wm. W. Brown. (Engraved by J. C. Buttre)]
The conspicuous place assigned to this representative of an injured
race, by the side of one of England's greatest heroes, brought vividly
before my eye the wrongs of Africa and the philanthropic man of Great
Britain, who had labored so long and so successfully for the abolition
of the slave trade, and the emancipation of the slaves of the West
Indies; and I at once resolved to pay a visit to the grave of
Wilberforce.
A half an hour after, I entered Westminster Abbey, at Poets' Corner,
and proceeded in search of the patriot's tomb; I had, however, gone
but a few steps, when I found myself in front of the tablet erected to
the memory of Granville Sharpe, by the African Institution of London,
in 1816; upon the marble was a long inscription, recapitulating many
of the deeds of this benevolent man, and from which I copied the
following:--"He aimed to rescue his native country from the guilt and
inconsistency of employing the arm of freedom to rivet the fetters of
bondage, and establish for the negro race, in the person of Somerset,
the long-disputed rights of human nature. Having in this glorious
cause triumphed over the combined resistance of interest, prejudice,
and pride, he took his post among the foremost of the honorable band
associated to deliver Africa from the rapacity of Europe, by the
abolition of the slave-trade; nor was death permitted to interrupt
his career of usefulness, till he had witnessed that act of the
British Parliament by which the abolition was decreed." After viewing
minutely the profile of this able defender of the negro's rights,
which was finely chiselled on the tablet, I took a hasty glance at
Shakspeare, on the one side, and Dryden on the other, and then passed
on, and was soon in the north aisle, looking upon the mementoes placed
in honor of genius. There stood a grand and expressive monument to Sir
Isaac Newton, which was in every way worthy of the great man to whose
memory it was erected. A short distance from that was a statue to
Addison, representing the great writer clad in his morning gown,
looking as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen
article for the _Spectator_. The stately monument to the Earl of
Chatham is the most attractive in this part of the Abbey. Fox, Pitt,
Grattan, and many others, are here represented by monuments. I had to
stop at the splendid marble erected to the memory of Sir Fowell
Buxton, Bart. A long inscription enumerates his many good qualities,
and concludes by saying:--"This monument is erected by his friends and
fellow-laborers, at home and abroad, assisted by the grateful
contributions of many thousands of the African race." A few steps
further and I was standing over the ashes of Wilberforce. In no other
place so small do so many great men lie together. The following is the
inscription on the monument erected to the memory of this devoted
friend of the oppressed and degraded negro race:--
"To the memory of WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, born in Hull, August 24, 1759,
died in London, July 29, 1833. For nearly half a century a member of
the House of Commons, and for six parliaments during that period, one
of the two representatives for Yorkshire. In an age and country
fertile in great and good men, he was among the foremost of those who
fixed the character of their times; because to high and various
talents, to warm benevolence, and to universal candor, he added the
abiding eloquence of a Christian life. Eminent as he was in every
department of public labor, and a leader in every work of charity,
whether to relieve the temporal or the spiritual wants of his fellow
men, his name will ever be specially identified with those exertions
which, by the blessings of God, removed from England the guilt of the
African slave-trade, and prepared the way for the abolition of
slavery in every colony of the empire. In the prosecution of these
objects, he relied not in vain on God; but, in the progress, he was
called to endure great obloquy and great opposition. He outlived,
however, all enmity, and, in the evening of his days, withdrew from
public life and public observation, to the bosom of his family. Yet he
died not unnoticed or forgotten by his country; the Peers and Commons
of England, with the Lord Chancellor and the Speaker at their head, in
solemn procession from their respective houses, carried him to his
fitting place among the mighty dead around, here to repose, till,
through the merits of Jesus Christ his only Redeemer and Saviour, whom
in his life and in his writings he had desired to glorify, he shall
rise in the resurrection of the just."
The monument is a fine one; his figure is seated on a pedestal, very
ingeniously done, and truly expressive of his age, and the pleasure he
seemed to derive from his own thoughts. Either the orator or the poet
have said or sung the praises of most of the great men who lie buried
in Westminster Abbey, in enchanting strains. The statues of heroes,
princes, and statesmen are there to proclaim their power, worth, or
brilliant genius, to posterity. But as time shall step between them
and the future, none will be sought after with more enthusiasm or
greater pleasure than that of Wilberforce. No man's philosophy was
ever moulded in a nobler cast than his; it was founded in the school
of Christianity, which was, that all men are by nature equal; that
they are wisely and justly endowed by their Creator with certain
rights which are irrefragable, and no matter how human pride and
avarice may depress and debase, still God is the author of good to
man; and of evil, man is the artificer to himself and to his species.
Unlike Plato and Socrates, his mind was free from the gloom that
surrounded theirs. Let the name, the worth, the zeal, and other
excellent qualifications of this noble man, ever live in our hearts,
let his deeds ever be the theme of our praise, and let us teach our
children to honor and love the name of William Wilberforce.
[Illustration: (signature) W. Wells Brown.]
LONDON.
Narrative of Albert and Mary.
It was a beautiful morning as ever glittered over the broad Atlantic.
The sun had the brightness and the sky the soft cerulean with which
the month of June adorns the latitude of Carolina. The sea was not
heavy nor rolling, but its motion was just enough to make its waves
sparkle under the slanting rays of the morning sun.
Mary stood with her betrothed in the bow of the boat, as it gracefully
ploughed its way towards New York. She was only eighteen, and Albert
was just twenty.
Mary was on her way to Troy, to complete her studies in the excellent
institution for young ladies, which has sent out some of the brightest
ornaments of their sex, to refine and bless the world. She had been
entrusted to Albert's care, who was to spend his summer in New York,
in the pursuit of the legal profession. They were both Carolinians,
and had no little of that ardent spirit which distinguishes the youth
of the South; while their well-developed forms, their intellectual
countenances, and their sensible speech, placed them in association
beyond their years.
As Mary leaned upon the arm of her gallant protector, their
conversation sparkled as the ocean spray that dashed against steamer's
bow. But suddenly, as the jet black eye of Albert Gillon caught the
soft blue of Mary's, he started at the discovery of a tear trembling
upon her eye-lash.
"Sweet Mary, what saddens you?"
"Ah! Albert, the greatest trial of my feelings is the thought that you
have never yet consecrated yourself to Christ."
"I have," replied Albert, "no natural repugnance to religion. On the
contrary, I see and acknowledge God in all his works and in all his
providence, as the author and supreme ruler of all things. But, Mary,
I do not understand the God of the Bible. I do not understand how they
who claim to be God's own people, and have the distinguishing title of
Christians, are, many of them, far worse in moral character, than
those who make no such profession. I do not mean hypocrites; but those
who are actually respected as orthodox Christians. There is Mr. Verse,
of Philadelphia, for instance, who has a high place as a religious
editor, and discusses the doctrines of Christianity with a zeal which
shows he takes deep interest in his work, and yet young as I am, and
gay as I am, I can see that in his practical application of
Christianity, he teaches sentiments at variance with the plainest
principles of moral truth; and he sets himself against those whose
moral character is above reproach; and rebukes them as infidels in
their very efforts to elevate the moral tone of society. How is it
that Mr. Verse is recognized as a Christian, and these excellent men
are avoided as infidels? Why is he fit for heaven, and they must be
cast down to hell? I don't understand it."