For the peace which shall wash out the leprous stain
Of our slavery, foul and grim,
And shall sunder the fetters which creak and clank
On the down-trodden dark man's limb.
I will curse him as traitor and false of heart
Who will shrink from the conflict now,
And will stamp it with blistering, burning brand
On his hideous, Cain-like brow.
Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes,
You trembling and trading pack!
Crouch away in the dark like a sneaking hound,
That its master has beaten back.
You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood,
And sell out the Stripes and Stars,
To purchase a place with rebellion's votes,
Or escape from rebellion's scars.
By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears,
By the orphans who cry for bread,
By our sons who fell, we will never yield
Till rebellion's soul is dead.
[Written for his youngest grandchild, on the first anniversary of
FLOW'RET of spring, dew-drop of May,
Bright germ of gladness from above,
Thou cam`st, like golden sunshine's ray,
To warm our hearts with life and love.
Oh, may that happy, heavenly face
Speak smiles, as now, through youth and years,
And in its age betray no trace
Of blasting sin or bitter tears.
[At Mrs. Owner's, Washington, at the close of Congress, 1848.]
OLD chamber, adieu, thou hast been to me all
That a monarch could boast of his sumptuous hall;
The place where repose and reflection I've sought,
Thou hast been to me surely a chamber of thought;
Thou hast witnessed my studies, my cares, and my toil,
And the vigil I've kept by the lamp's midnight oil;
Thou hast watched o'er the slumbers that came to relief,
Seen the tears that have flowed when I dreamed of my grief.
How I cherish and love thee the tongue cannot tell;
My old friend, my protector, I bid thee FAREWELL.
[On the celebration of her tin wedding.]
MAY your life be as happy and joyous and bright,
As this ten of your being has been,
And your sunset at evening be cloudless and bright
As a service of shining new tin.
May your ways be as smooth as tin vessels are wrought,
And be free from contention and din,
For a life of vexation and folly is fraught
With more bruises than battered up tin.
And forty years hence! when its years have been told,
And the curtains of age gather in,
May that welding be purely a wedding of gold,
And as happy as this is in tin.
MAY that fair face, like this bright page,
Remain without one line of sadness-
From girlhood's morn to evening's age
Be lighted up with smiles and gladness;
And may the currents of thy life
Flow gently as Chenango's river,
Reaching, beyond all storm and strife,
The bosom of their bounteous Giver.
I'M GROWING GRAY.
I'm growing gray. Ah, me! what writes
These fearful wrinkles on my brow?
What withering hand is it that smites
Its blighting influence on me now?
I'm growing gray. And am I he,
Who oft in boyhood's frolic ran
To climb upon my grandsire's knee,
And gaze upon the gray old man?
And little recked that-ah, so soon-
Corroding time with silvery hair
Would shade my forehead ere life's noon,
And set his seal of wrinkles there.
I'm growing gray. Alas, 'tis true,
My auburn locks are fading fast,
Like flow'rs, once nurtured by the dew,
Then frozen by the wintry blast.
I'm growing gray. My childhood's glee,
My joyous laugh, my sportive mood,
My chasing of the humming bee,
Are all exchanged for solitude.
I'm growing gray. Death's pioneer
Is dreary age and hoary hair,
Displacing beauty's roses here,
And leaving deadly blisters there.
FROM THE ADDRESS OF THE CARRIER OF THE BROOME COUNTY
COURIER, JANUARY 1, 1836.
ANOTHER year has fled to realms unknown,
And we survive this wreck of time. How many,
Ere yet another year has sudden flown,
Of us shall then remain, or which, if any,
Is wisely veiled by heaven from human ken.
'Twould blight and sear the heart to read its fate, Which man cannot avert-must bear; but then Procrastination notes the hour so late,
That the full heart leaps forth with joy and gladness, When truth would tune its chords to grief and sadness.
In one short year, the fell career of death
Has in his march laid many a loved one low.
The dimpled, rosy cheek, and balmy breath,
And beauty's brow, and breast of generous glow,
Are sad and pale, and noiseless as the tomb;
The bridal wreath is changed, the funeral pall
Is spread, and joy exchanged for blight and gloom;
The festive sounds which rang in yonder hall
Are silent now: the pride, the hope, the stay
Of kind and loving friends is borne away.
Time! thou canst soothe the wounds thou canst not heal; The throbbing brow can find relief in tears;
But the full heart can never cease to feel
Through the long vista of succeeding years,
Till it is cold and passionless and dead—
Slumbering in dust, and pulseless as a stone.
O grave! thou dreary, dreamless, endless bed,
How irksome, fearful, desolate, and lone!
Thou last great enemy of man; thou foe
Of all his race; thou pregnant source of woe.
Ruthless, remorseless conqueror! whose sway
Is limitless, whose mighty power's untold;
When shall the dawn of everlasting day
Thy adamantine prison-house unfold,
And rouse thy victims from their dreamless slumber,
Unclose thy ponderous and gloomy portals,
And loose from thraldom all that countless number
Of long-forgotten, unmourned, hapless mortals?
When shall the night of death dispel her gloom,
And burst in morning on the silent tomb?
SONG OF THE PERISHED ELM,
AT THE CHENANGO BRIDGE.
OH, sing of the moments when I was young,
When my praises were lavished from every tongue,
When the village maidens plucked leaflets fair
From my branches, to garland their shining hair;
When my roots shot deep from Chenango's mould,
And I little dreamed I should e'er be old.
But I revelled along in my pride of birth,
And drank up the strength of the genial earth,
And my waving branches spread far and wide,
As gaily attired as a blushing bride.
My foliage was first of the vernal year,
And the last in autumn to wither and sere;
The waves of Chenango danced merrily nigh,
And whispered their sweet, soothing lullaby,
And the passing stranger, as he gazed upon me,
Said I flourished, in truth, like a green bay tree.
Then around me the lark ushered in the day,
And wild robin warbled her twilight lay,
And the village swain with his chosen maid
Stole gently beneath my refreshing shade;
And I furnished for all a secure retreat
From the winter's blight and the summer's heat,
And thought I was rooted so firm and fast
That I almost defied the red lightning's blast.
But trees are an emblem of human kind,
And my roots were stealthily undermined,
Which left me to perish with heat and cold
For no crime, but for growing old.
And those who had rested the most in my shade
Were the last to aid me when thus betrayed,
When a little effort with kind good will,
And I should have flourished in beauty still.
When a party were taking a pleasure-ride,
They passed, like the priest, on the other side;
And the hoary gate-keeper called for his toll
For the corporation that had no soul,
And exclaimed o'er his dimes, with a corporate grin,
"I gather them in! I gather them in!"
I stretched out my perishing branches bare,
And beckoned my earliest friends back there,
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