But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air ! DEMOCRACY. “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even 80 to them.” — Matthew vii. 12. DEARER of Freedom's holy light, D Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, Or wounds the generous ear of God! Beautiful yet thy temples rise, Though there profaning gifts are thrown; Are glaring round thy altar-stone. Still sacred, — though thy name be breathed By those whose hearts thy truth deride; Around the haughty brows of Pride. O, ideal of my boyhood's time! The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood ! Still to those courts my footsteps turn, For, through the mists which darken there, I see the flame of Freedom burn, The Kebla of the patriot's prayer ! The generous feeling, pure and warm, Which owns the rights of all divine The pitying heart — the helping arm The prompt self-sacrifice — are thine. Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the lines of caste and birth! How equal in their suffering lie The groaning multitudes of earth! Still to a stricken brother true, Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; As stooped to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper of Gerizim. By misery unrepelled, unawed By pomp or power, thou see'st a MAN In prince or peasant — slave or lord Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. Through all disguise, form, place, or name, Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, Through poverty and squalid shame, Thou lookest on the man within. On man, as man, retaining yet, Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, The crown upon his forehead set, The immortal gift of God to him. And there is reverence in thy look; For that frail form which mortals wear And veiled his perfect brightness there. Not from the shallow babbling fount Of vain philosophy thou art; Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart, In holy words which cannot die, In thoughts which angels leaned to know, Thy mission to a world of woe. That voice's echo hath not died ! From the blue lake of Galilee, It calls a struggling world to thee. Thy name and watchword o'er this land I hear in every breeze that stirs, Thy banded party worshippers. Not to these altars of a day, At party's call, my gift I bring; A freeman's dearest offering : The voiceless utterance of his will, His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, The homage of his generous youth. Election Day, 1843. THY WILL BE DONE. W E see not, know not; all our way VV Is' night, — with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift, Thy will be done! The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, Thy will be done ! We take with solemn thankfulness Whose will be done ! Though dim as yet in tint and line, Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Thy will be done! If, for the age to come, this hour And, blest by Thee, our present pain Thy will be done ! Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, Thy will be done ! “EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT.” (LUTHER'S HYMN.) W E wait beneath the furnace-blast V The pangs of transformation ; Hot burns the fire That from the land The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared Its bloody rain is dropping; - East, West, South, North, And fraud and lies |