By Narragansett's sunny bay,

Beneath his green embowering wood.

To me it seems but yesterday
Since at his side I stood.

The slopes lay green with summer rains,
The western wind blew fresh and free,

And glimmered down the orchard lanes
The white surf of the sea.

With us was one, who, calm and true,
Life's highest purpose understood,

And like his blessed Master knew
The joy of doing good.

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,
Yet on the lips of England's poor

And toiling millions dwelt his name,
With blessings evermore.

Unknown to power or place, yet where
The sun looks o'er the Carib sea,

It blended with the freeman's prayer
And song of jubilee.

He told of England's sin and wrong—
The ills her suffering children know—

The squalor of the city's, throng—
The green field's want and woe.

O'er Channing's face the tenderness
Of sympathetic sorrow stole

Like a still shadow, passionless,
The sorrow of the soul.

But, when the generous Briton told
How hearts were answering to his own,

And Freedom's rising murmur rolled
Up to the dull-eared throne,

CHAFING. 63

I saw, methought, a glad surprise

Thrill through that frail and pain-worn frame, And kindling in those deep, calm eyes

A still and earnest flame.

His few, brief words were such as move
The human heart—the Faith-sown seeds

Which ripen in the soil of love
To high heroic deeds.

No bars of sect or clime were felt—
The Babel strife of tongues had ceased,—-

And at one common altar knelt
The Quaker and the priest.

And not in vain : with strength renewed,
And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim,

For that brief meeting, each pursued
The path allotted him.

How echoes yet each Western hill

And vale with Channing's dying word!

How are the hearts of freemen still
By that great warning stirred 1

The stranger treads his native soil,
And pleads with zeal unfelt before

The honest right of British toil,
The claim of England's poor.

Before him time-wrought barriers fall,
Old fears subside, old hatreds melt,

And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall,
The Saxon greets the Celt.

The yeoman on the Scottish lines,

The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim,

The delver in the Cornwall mines,
Look up with hope to him.

Swart smiters of the glowing steel,
Dark feeders of the forge's flame,

Pale watchers at the loom and wheel,
Repeat his honored name.

And thus the influence of that hour
Of converse on Rhode Island's strand,

Lives in the calm, resistless power
Which moves our father-land.

God blesses still the generous thought,
And still the fitting word He speeds,

And Truth, at his requiring taught,
He quickens into deeds.

Where is the victory of the grave?

What dust upon the spirit lies? God keeps the sacred life he gave—

The prophet never dies 1

TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,

IATB PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLVGB.

Thou hast fallen in thine armor,

Thou martyr of the Lord!
With thy last breath crying—" Onward *

And thy hand upon the sword.
The haughty heart derideth,

And the sinful lip reviles,
But the blessing of the perishing

Around thy pill6w smiles 1

When to our cup of trembling
The added drop is given,

CHABLES B. STOBBS. 66

And the long suspended thundei

Falls terribly from Heaven,—
When a new and fearful freedom

Is proffered of the Lord
To the slow consuming Famine—

The Pestilence and Sword !—

When the refuges of Falsehood

Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken,

With its idol, to the earth,— Shall not thy words of warning

Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message

Burn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatter

Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms

Deny thy memory room;
For lying lips shall torture

Thy mercy into crime,
And the slanderer shall flourish

As the bay-tree for a time.

But, where the south wind lingew

On Carolina's pines,
Or, falls the careless sunbeam

Down Georgia's golden mines,—
Where now beneath his burthen

The toiling sl^ve is driven,—
Where now a tyrant's mockery

Is offered unto Heaven,—

Where Mammon hath its altars
Wet o'er with human blood,
And pride and lust debases

The workmanship of God— There shall thy praise be spoke©, Vol. n. 5

Redeemed from Falsehood's ban. When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man t

Joy to thy spirit, brother!

A thousand hearts are warm—
A thousand kindred bosoms

Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence

With secret Fraud combine,
The wall of fire is round us—

Our Present Help was thine

Lo—the waking up of nations,

From Slavery's fatal sleep— The murmur of a Universe—

Deep calling unto Deep 1 Joy to thy spirit, brother!

On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons

Of Freedom's Voice is given

Glory to God forever!

Beyond the despot's will
The soul of Freedom liveth

Imperishable still.
The words which thou hast uttered

Are of that soul a part,
And the good seed thou hast scattered

Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us,

And the trials yet to come—
In the shadow of the prison,

Or the cruel martyrdom—
We will think of thee, O brother!

And thy sainted name shall be
In the blessing of the captive,

And the anthem of the free. 1881