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; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, DEMOCRACY. "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." BE Matthew vii. 12. EARER of Freedom's holy light, Beautiful yet thy temples rise, Though there profaning gifts are thrown; And fires unkindled of the skies Are glaring round thy altar-stone. Still sacred, though thy name be breathed By those whose hearts thy truth deride; And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed 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, 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, 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; And veiled his perfect brightness there. Not from the shallow babbling fount 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! Thy name and watchword o'er this land Not to these altars of a day, At party's call, my gift I bring; The voiceless utterance of his will, His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, Election Day, 1843. THY WILL BE DONE. see not, know' not; all our way WIs night, with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift, The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, We take with solemn thankfulness Though dim as yet in tint and line, Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done! If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by Thee, our present pain Thy will be done! Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, The anthem of the destinies ! The minor of Thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, "EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT." (LUTHER'S HYMN.) 'E wait beneath the furnace-blast WThe pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast That from the land The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared All else is overtopping. East, West, South, North, It curses the earth; All justice dies, And fraud and lies |