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By Narragansett's sunny bay,
Beneath his green embowering wood.
To me it seems but yesterday
The slopes lay green with summer rains,
And glimmered down the orchard lanes
With us was one, who, calm and true,
And like his blessed Master knew
Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,
And toiling millions dwelt his name,
Unknown to power or place, yet where
It blended with the freeman's prayer
He told of England's sin and wrong—
The squalor of the city's, throng—
O'er Channing's face the tenderness
Like a still shadow, passionless,
But, when the generous Briton told
And Freedom's rising murmur rolled
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
Which ripen in the soil of love
No bars of sect or clime were felt—
And at one common altar knelt
And not in vain : with strength renewed,
For that brief meeting, each pursued
How echoes yet each Western hill
And vale with Channing's dying word!
How are the hearts of freemen still
The stranger treads his native soil,
The honest right of British toil,
Before him time-wrought barriers fall,
And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall,
The yeoman on the Scottish lines,
The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim,
The delver in the Cornwall mines,
Swart smiters of the glowing steel,
Pale watchers at the loom and wheel,
And thus the influence of that hour
Lives in the calm, resistless power
God blesses still the generous thought,
And Truth, at his requiring taught,
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!
And thy hand upon the sword.
And the sinful lip reviles,
Around thy pill6w smiles 1
When to our cup of trembling
CHABLES B. STOBBS. 66
And the long suspended thundei
Falls terribly from Heaven,—
Is proffered of the Lord
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;
Thy mercy into crime,
As the bay-tree for a time.
But, where the south wind lingew
On Carolina's pines,
Down Georgia's golden mines,—
The toiling sl^ve is driven,—
Is offered unto Heaven,—
Where Mammon hath its altars
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—
Are baring to the storm.
With secret Fraud combine,
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
Are of that soul a part,
Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us,
And the trials yet to come—
Or the cruel martyrdom—
And thy sainted name shall be
And the anthem of the free. 1881