Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/362

330   The faith of Wesley to our Western shore, And held no convert genuine till he broke Alike his servants’ and the Devil’s yoke; And priests like him who Newport’s market trod, And o’er its slave-ships shook the bolts of God! So shall your power, with a wise prudence used, Strong but forbearing, firm but not abused, In kindly keeping with the good of all, The nobler maxims of the past recall, Her natural home-born right to Freedom give, And leave her foe his robber-right,—to live. Live, as the snake does in his noisome fen! Live, as the wolf does in his bone-strewn den! Live, clothed with cursing like a robe of flame, The focal point of million-fingered shame! Live, till the Southron, who, with all his faults, Has manly instincts, in his pride revolts, Dashes from off him, midst the glad world’s cheers, The hideous nightmare of his dream of years, And lifts, self-prompted, with his own right hand, The vile encumbrance from his glorious land!


 * “So, wheresoe’er our destiny sends forth

Its widening circles to the South or North, Where’er our banner flaunts beneath the stars Its mimic splendors and its cloudlike bars, There shall Free Labor’s hardy children stand The equal sovereigns of a slaveless land. And when at last the hunted bison tires, And dies o’ertaken by the squatter’s fires; And westward, wave on wave, the living flood Breaks on the snow-line of majestic Hood; And lonely Shasta listening hears the tread Of Europe’s fair-haired children, Hesper-led; And, gazing downward through his hoar-locks, sees The tawny Asian climb his giant knees, The Eastern sea shall hush his waves to hear Pacific’s surf-beat answer Freedom’s cheer, And one long rolling fire of triumph run Between the sunrise and the sunset gun!”

The Showman and his show, Themselves but shadows, into shadows go; And, if no song of idlesse I have sung, Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung; If the harsh numbers grate on tender ears, And the rough picture overwrought appears, With deeper coloring, with a sterner blast, Before my soul a voice and vision passed, Such as might Milton’s jarring trump require, Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid fire. Oh, not of choice, for themes of public wrong I leave the green and pleasant paths of song, The mild, sweet words which soften and adorn, For sharp rebuke and bitter laugh of scorn. More dear to me some song of private worth, Some homely idyl of my native North, Some summer pastoral of her inland vales, Or, grim and weird, her winter fireside tales Haunted by ghosts of unreturning sails, Lost barks at parting hung from stem to helm With prayers of love like dreams on Virgil’s elm. Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen; I owe but kindness to my fellow-men; And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer Their woes and weakness to our Father bear, Wherever fruits of Christian love are found In holy lives, to me is holy ground. But the time passes. It were vain to crave A late indulgence. What I had I gave. Forget the poet, but his warning heed, And shame his poor word with your nobler deed.

It is hardly to be credited, yet is true, that in the anxiety of the Northern merchant to conciliate his Southern customer, a publisher was found ready thus to mutilate Scheffer’s