Closed around the waiting crowd, Dark and still, like winter's cloud; King and council, lord and knight, Squire and yeoman, stood in sight; Stood to hear the priest rehea.r.s.e, In G.o.d's name, the Church's curse, By the tapers round them lit, Slowly, sternly uttering it.

"Right of voice in framing laws, Right of peers to try each cause; Peasant homestead, mean and small, Sacred as the monarch's hall,--

"Whoso lays his hand on these, England's ancient liberties; Whoso breaks, by word or deed, England's vow at Runnymede;

"Be he Prince or belted knight, Whatsoe'er his rank or might, If the highest, then the worst, Let him live and die accursed.

"Thou, who to Thy Church hast given Keys alike, of h.e.l.l and heaven, Make our word and witness sure, Let the curse we speak endure!"

Silent, while that curse was said, Every bare and listening head Bowed in reverent awe, and then All the people said, Amen!

Seven times the bells have tolled, For the centuries gray and old, Since that stoled and mitred band Cursed the tyrants of their land.

Since the priesthood, like a tower, Stood between the poor and power; And the wronged and trodden down Blessed the abbot's shaven crown.

Gone, thank G.o.d, their wizard spell, Lost, their keys of heaven and h.e.l.l; Yet I sigh for men as bold As those bearded priests of old.

Now, too oft the priesthood wait At the threshold of the state; Waiting for the beck and nod Of its power as law and G.o.d.

Fraud exults, while solemn words Sanctify his stolen h.o.a.rds; Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips Bless his manacles and whips.

Not on them the poor rely, Not to them looks liberty, Who with fawning falsehood cower To the wrong, when clothed with power.

Oh, to see them meanly cling, Round the master, round the king, Sported with, and sold and bought,-- Pitifuller sight is not!

Tell me not that this must be G.o.d's true priest is always free; Free, the needed truth to speak, Right the wronged, and raise the weak.

Not to fawn on wealth and state, Leaving Lazarus at the gate; Not to peddle creeds like wares; Not to mutter hireling prayers;

Nor to paint the new life's bliss On the sable ground of this; Golden streets for idle knave, Sabbath rest for weary slave!

Not for words and works like these, Priest of G.o.d, thy mission is; But to make earth's desert glad, In its Eden greenness clad;

And to level manhood bring Lord and peasant, serf and king; And the Christ of G.o.d to find In the humblest of thy kind!

Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing th.o.r.n.y wrongs away; Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in;

Watching on the hills of Faith; Listening what the spirit saith, Of the dim-seen light afar, Growing like a nearing star.

G.o.d's interpreter art thou, To the waiting ones below; 'Twixt them and its light midway Heralding the better day;

Catching gleams of temple spires, Hearing notes of angel choirs, Where, as yet unseen of them, Comes the New Jerusalem!

Like the seer of Patmos gazing, On the glory downward blazing; Till upon Earth's grateful sod Rests the City of our G.o.d!

1848.

PAEAN.

This poem indicates the exultation of the anti-slavery party in view of the revolt of the friends of Martin Van Buren in New York, from the Democratic Presidential nomination in 1848.

Now, joy and thanks forevermore!

The dreary night has wellnigh pa.s.sed, The slumbers of the North are o'er, The Giant stands erect at last!

More than we hoped in that dark time When, faint with watching, few and worn, We saw no welcome day-star climb The cold gray pathway of the morn!

O weary hours! O night of years!

What storms our darkling pathway swept, Where, beating back our thronging fears, By Faith alone our march we kept.

How jeered the scoffing crowd behind, How mocked before the tyrant train, As, one by one, the true and kind Fell fainting in our path of pain!

They died, their brave hearts breaking slow, But, self-forgetful to the last, In words of cheer and bugle blow Their breath upon the darkness pa.s.sed.

A mighty host, on either hand, Stood waiting for the dawn of day To crush like reeds our feeble band; The morn has come, and where are they?

Troop after troop their line forsakes; With peace-white banners waving free, And from our own the glad shout breaks, Of Freedom and Fraternity!

Like mist before the growing light, The hostile cohorts melt away; Our frowning foemen of the night Are brothers at the dawn of day.

As unto these repentant ones We open wide our toil-worn ranks, Along our line a murmur runs Of song, and praise, and grateful thanks.

Sound for the onset! Blast on blast!

Till Slavery's minions cower and quail; One charge of fire shall drive them fast Like chaff before our Northern gale!

O prisoners in your house of pain, Dumb, toiling millions, bound and sold, Look! stretched o'er Southern vale and plain, The Lord's delivering hand behold!

Above the tyrant's pride of power, His iron gates and guarded wall, The bolts which shattered Shinar's tower Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall.

Awake! awake! my Fatherland!

It is thy Northern light that shines; This stirring march of Freedom's band The storm-song of thy mountain pines.

Wake, dwellers where the day expires!

And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes And fan your prairies' roaring fires, The signal-call that Freedom makes!

1848.

THE CRISIS.

Written on learning the terms of the treaty with Mexico.

ACROSS the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free, Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea; And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's sh.o.r.e, The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.