My gall thereat arises: Northward it hath this sense alone That you, your conscience blinding, 110 Shall bow your fool's nose to the stone, When slavery feels like grinding.

''Tis shame to see such painted sticks In Vane's and Winthrop's places, To see your spirit of Seventy-Six Drag humbly in the traces, With slavery's lash upon her back, And herds, of office-holders To shout applause, as, with a crack, 119 It peels her patient shoulders.

'_We_ forefathers to such a rout!-- No, by my faith in G.o.d's word!'

Half rose the ghost, and half drew out The ghost of his old broadsword, Then thrust it slowly back again, And said, with reverent gesture, 'No, Freedom, no! blood should not stain The hem of thy white vesture.

'I feel the soul in me draw near The mount of prophesying; 130 In this bleak wilderness I hear A John the Baptist crying; Far in the east I see upleap The streaks of first forewarning, And they who sowed the light shall reap The golden sheaves of morning.

'Child of our travail and our woe, Light in our day of sorrow, Through my rapt spirit I foreknow The glory of thy morrow; 140 I hear great steps, that through the shade Draw nigher still and nigher, And voices call like that which bade The prophet come up higher.'

I looked, no form mine eyes could find, I heard the red c.o.c.k crowing, And through my window-c.h.i.n.ks the wind A dismal tune was blowing; Thought I, My neighbor Buckingham Hath somewhat in him gritty, 150 Some Pilgrim-stuff that hates all sham, And he will print my ditty.

ON THE CAPTURE OF FUGITIVE SLAVES NEAR WASHINGTON

Look on who will in apathy, and stifle they who can, The sympathies, the hopes, the words, that make man truly man; Let those whose hearts are dungeoned up with interest or with ease Consent to hear with quiet pulse of loathsome deeds like these!

I first drew in New England's air, and from her hardy breast Sucked in the tyrant-hating milk that will not let me rest; And if my words seem treason to the dullard and the tame, 'Tis but my Bay-State dialect,--our fathers spake the same!

Shame on the costly mockery of piling stone on stone To those who won our liberty, the heroes dead and gone, While we look coldly on and see law-shielded ruffians slay The men who fain would win their own, the heroes of to-day!

Are we pledged to craven silence? Oh, fling it to the wind, The parchment wall that bars us from the least of human kind, That makes us cringe and temporize, and dumbly stand at rest, While Pity's burning flood of words is red-hot in the breast!

Though we break our fathers' promise, we have n.o.bler duties first; The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed; Man is more than Const.i.tutions; better rot beneath the sod, Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to G.o.d!

We owe allegiance to the State; but deeper, truer, more, To the sympathies that G.o.d hath set within our spirit's core; Our country claims our fealty; we grant it so, but then Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made us men.

He's true to G.o.d who's true to man; wherever wrong is done, To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath the all-beholding sun, That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base, Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race.

G.o.d works for all. Ye cannot hem the hope of being free With parallels of lat.i.tude, with mountain-range or sea.

Put golden padlocks on Truth's lips, be callous as ye will, From soul to soul, o'er all the world, leaps one electric thrill.

Chain down your slaves with ignorance, ye cannot keep apart, With all your craft of tyranny, the human heart from heart: When first the Pilgrims landed on the Bay State's iron sh.o.r.e, The word went forth that slavery should one day be no more.

Out from the land of bondage 'tis decreed our slaves shall go, And signs to us are offered, as erst to Pharaoh; If we are blind, their exodus, like Israel's of yore, Through a Red Sea is doomed to be, whose surges are of gore.

'Tis ours to save our brethren, with peace and love to win Their darkened hearts from error, ere they harden it to sin; But if before his duty man with listless spirit stands, Erelong the Great Avenger takes the work from out his hands.

TO THE DANDELION

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the gra.s.s have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at G.o.d's value, but pa.s.s by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not s.p.a.ce or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuira.s.sed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the gra.s.s, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pa.s.s, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy ma.s.s, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!

Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of G.o.d's book.

THE GHOST-SEER

Ye who, pa.s.sing graves by night, Glance not to the left or right, Lest a spirit should arise, Cold and white, to freeze your eyes, Some weak phantom, which your doubt Shapes upon the dark without From the dark within, a guess At the spirit's deathlessness, Which ye entertain with fear In your self-built dungeon here, 10 Where ye sell your G.o.d-given lives Just for gold to buy you gyves,-- Ye without a shudder meet In the city's noonday street, Spirits sadder and more dread Than from out the clay have fled, Buried, beyond hope of light, In the body's haunted night!

See ye not that woman pale?

There are bloodhounds on her trail! 20 Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean, (For the soul their scent is keen,) Want and Sin, and Sin is last.

They have followed far and fast; Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, Sin awakened with a growl.

Ah, poor girl! she had a right To a blessing from the light; t.i.tle-deeds to sky and earth G.o.d gave to her at her birth; 30 But, before they were enjoyed, Poverty had made them void, And had drunk the sunshine up From all nature's ample cup, Leaving her a first-born's share In the dregs of darkness there.

Often, on the sidewalk bleak, Hungry, all alone, and weak, She has seen, in night and storm, Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm, 40 Which, outside the window-gla.s.s, Doubled all the cold, alas!

Till each ray that on her fell Stabbed her like an icicle, And she almost loved the wail Of the bloodhounds on her trail.

Till the floor becomes her bier, She shall feel their pantings near, Close upon her very heels, Spite of all the din of wheels; 50 Shivering on her pallet poor, She shall hear them at the door Whine and scratch to be let in, Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!

Hark! that rustle of a dress, Stiff with lavish costliness!

Here comes one whose cheek would flush But to have her garment brush 'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin Wove the weary broidery in, 60 Bending backward from her toil, Lest her tears the silk might soil, And, in midnights chill and murk, St.i.tched her life into the work, Shaping from her bitter thought Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, Satirizing her despair With the emblems woven there.

Little doth the wearer heed Of the heart-break in the brede; 70 A hyena by her side Skulks, down-looking,--it is Pride.

He digs for her in the earth, Where lie all her claims of birth, With his foul paws rooting o'er Some long-buried ancestor, Who perhaps a statue won By the ill deeds he had done, By the innocent blood he shed, By the desolation spread 80 Over happy villages, Blotting out the smile of peace.

There walks Judas, he who sold Yesterday his Lord for gold, Sold G.o.d's presence in his heart For a proud step in the mart; He hath dealt in flesh and blood: At the bank his name is good; At the bank, and only there, 'Tis a marketable ware. 90 In his eyes that stealthy gleam Was not learned of sky or stream, But it has the cold, hard glint Of new dollars from the mint.

Open now your spirit's eyes, Look through that poor clay disguise Which has thickened, day by day, Till it keeps all light at bay, And his soul in pitchy gloom Gropes about its narrow tomb, 100 From whose dank and slimy walls Drop by drop the horror falls.

Look! a serpent lank and cold Hugs his spirit fold on fold; From his heart, all day and night, It doth suck G.o.d's blessed light.

Drink it will, and drink it must, Till the cup holds naught but dust; All day long he hears it hiss, Writhing in its fiendish bliss; 110 All night long he sees its eyes Flicker with foul ecstasies, As the spirit ebbs away Into the absorbing clay.

Who is he that skulks, afraid Of the trust he has betrayed, Shuddering if perchance a gleam Of old n.o.bleness should stream Through the pent, unwholesome room, Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom, 120 Spirit sad beyond the rest By more Instinct for the best?

'Tis a poet who was sent For a bad world's punishment, By compelling it to see Golden glimpses of To Be, By compelling it to hear Songs that prove the angels near; Who was sent to be the tongue Of the weak and spirit-wrung, 130 Whence the fiery-winged Despair In men's shrinking eyes might flare.

'Tis our hope doth fashion us To base use or glorious: He who might have been a lark Of Truth's morning, from the dark Raining down melodious hope Of a freer, broader scope, Aspirations, prophecies, Of the spirit's full sunrise, 140 Chose to be a bird of night, That, with eyes refusing light, Hooted from some hollow tree Of the world's idolatry.

'Tis his punishment to hear Sweep of eager pinions near, And his own vain wings to feel Drooping downward to his heel, All their grace and import lost, Burdening his weary ghost: 150 Ever walking by his side He must see his angel guide, Who at intervals doth turn Looks on him so sadly stern, With such ever-new surprise Of hushed anguish in her eyes, That it seems the light of day From around him shrinks away, Or drops blunted from the wall Built around him by his fall. 160 Then the mountains, whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning east their faces lit, Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim and dull, They the gladsome tidings bring Of the sunlight's hastening: Never can these hills of bliss 169 Be o'erclimbed by feet like his!

But enough! Oh, do not dare From the next the veil to tear, Woven of station, trade, or dress, More obscene than nakedness, Wherewith plausible culture drapes Fallen Nature's myriad shapes!

Let us rather love to mark How the unextingnished spark Still gleams through the thin disguise 179 Of our customs, pomps, and lies, And, not seldom blown to flame, Vindicates its ancient claim.

STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS

I

Some sort of heart I know is hers,-- I chanced to feel her pulse one night; A brain she has that never errs, And yet is never n.o.bly right; It does not leap to great results, But, in some corner out of sight Suspects a spot of latent blight, And, o'er the impatient infinite, She hargains, haggles, and consults.

Her eye,--it seems a chemic test And drops upon you like an acid; 11 It bites you with unconscious zest, So clear and bright, so coldly placid; It holds you quietly aloof, It holds,--and yet it does not win you; It merely puts you to the proof And sorts what qualities are in you: It smiles, but never brings you nearer, It lights,--her nature draws not nigh; 'Tis but that yours is growing clearer 20 To her a.s.says;--yes, try and try, You'll get no deeper than her eye.

There, you are cla.s.sified: she's gone Far, far away into herself; Each with its Latin label on, Your poor components, one by one, Are laid upon their proper shelf In her compact and ordered mind, And what of you is left behind Is no more to her than the wind; In that clear brain, which, day and night, 31 No movement of the heart e'er jostles, Her friends are ranged on left and right,-- Here, silex, hornblende, sienite; There, animal remains and fossils.

And yet, O subtile a.n.a.lyst, That canst each property detect Of mood or grain, that canst untwist Each tangled skein of intellect, And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare 40 Each mental nerve more fine than air,-- O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err, For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art;-- Thou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter Of any simple human heart.