Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her-the Devil owns his child." But grey heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said; Ye may hold her at higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, A weight seemed lifted from my heart,—a pitying friend was nigh, "Pile my ship with bars of silver-pack with coins of Spanish gold, "Well answered, worthy captain; shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?" I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion-glare of bitter hate and scorn; Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul; Loud was the cheer which full and clear swept round the silent bay, For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, Thanksgiving to the Lord of life!-to Him all praises be, Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly; on evening's twilight calm, And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong! Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Wo to the wolves who seek the flock to raven and devour! A MAN'S A MAN, FOR A' THAT. BY ROBERT BURNS. Is there for honest poverty, Wha hangs his head and a' that? The coward slave we pass him by, And dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp, The man's the gowd, for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine, For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; An honest man. though ne'er sae poor, Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, His ribband, star, and a' that; The king can mak' a belted knight, His dignities and a' that! The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are grander far than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, That sense and worth o'er a' the earth, For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that; Whan man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be, and a' that. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. When the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! That which thou with truckling spirit, Time shall hurl like chaff away- Longings in deep anguish working, WM. W. STORY. LINES, Written on reading several pamphlets published by clergymen against the abolition of the gallows. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. The suns of eighteen centuries have shone Since the Redeemer walked with men, and made The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone, And mountain moss, a pillow for His head; And He, who wander'd with the peasant Jew, And broke with publicans the bread of shame, And drank, with blessings in His Father's name, The water which Samaria's outcast drew, Hath now His temples upon every shore, Altar, and shrine, and priest-and incense dim Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, From lips which press the temple's marble floor, Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! Yet, as of old, when, meekly doing good," At His own altar binds the chain anew; The starving many wait upon the few; Where He hath spoken peace, His name hath been The loudest war-cry of contending men; Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, And crossed its blazon with the holy sign; Yea, in His name who bade the erring live, And daily taught His lesson-to forgive! Twisted the cord, and edged the murderous steel; And, with His words of mercy on their lips, Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips, And the grim horror of the straining wheel; Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, Who saw before his searing eye-balls swim The image of their Christ, in cruel zeal, Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly to him! The blood which mingled with the desert sand, The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew- Of Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake— New England's scaffold, and the priestly sueer Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, When guilt itself a human tear might claim— Bear witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One! That earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy name been done! Thank God! that I have lived to see the time That man is holier than a creed-that all Restraint upon him must consult his good, Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, And Love look in upon his solitude. The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught Through long, dark centuries, its way has wrought Into the common mind and popular thought; And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, Have found an echo in the general heart, And of the public faith become a living part. Who shall arrest this tendency? Bring back Grope in the shadows of man's twilight time, Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, And, consecrators of law's darkest crime, Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand? Beware-lest human nature, roused at last, From its peeled shoulder your incumbrance cast, And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, Rank you with those who led their victims round The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, Abhorred of Earth and Heaven-a pagan brotherhood! |