Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly; on evening's twilight calm, And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong! FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. A MAN'S A MAN, FOR A' THAT. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 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, Wear hodden grey, and a' that? Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that. Their tinsel show, an' a' that; Is chief o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts and stares, and a' that, Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, His ribband, star, and a' that ; A man of independent mind, Can look, and laugh at a' that. When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night To a holy, calm delight; And, like phantoms grim and tall, Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strise, By the roadside fell and perished, 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, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! The king can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that, An honest man's aboon his might, Gude faith he manna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, 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, As come it shall for a' that; That sense and worth o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, and a' that; 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. That which thou with truckling spirit, Bending to the crowd shall say, Time shall hurl like chaff away- Longings in deep anguish working, Powers like sudden flames that start, Are the seed fields unto art : WM. W. STORY. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. LÍNES, Or Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lakeWritten on reading several pamphlets published by New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer clergymen against the abolition of the gallows. 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! The suns of eighteen centuries have shone That earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy name been done! Thank God! that I have lived to see the time When the great truth begins at last to find An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, And drank, with blessings in His Father's name, Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE IS crime! The water which Samaria's outcast drew, That man is holier than a creed-that all Hath now His temples upon every shore, Restraint upon him must consult his good, Altar, and shrine, and priest—and incense dim Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, And Love look in upon his solitude. From lips which press the temple's marble floor, The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! Through long, dark centuries, its way has wrought Into the common mind and popular thought; Yet, as of old, when, meekly “doing good," 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 The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack ? Where He hath bidden to life's equal feast, Harden the softening human heart again, The starving many wait upon the few; To cold indifference to a brother's pain? Where He hath spoken peace, His name hath been Ye most unhappy men !-who, turn'd away The loudest war-cry of contending men; From the mild sunshine of the gospel day, Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed Grope in the shadows of man's twilight time, The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, And crossed its blazon with the holy sign; Permitted in another age and clime? Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew Twisted the cord, and edged the murderous steel; No evil in the Just One?—Wherefore turn And, with His words of mercy on their lips, To the dark, cruel past?--Can ye not learn Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips, From the pure Teacher's life, how mildly free And the grim horror of the straining wheel; Is the great Gospel of Humanity ? Mexitli's altars soak with human gore; And ye of milder faith, with your high claim Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, The blood which mingled with the desert sand, Will ye become the Druids of our time? And beaded with its red and ghastly dew, Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, The vines and olives of the Holy Land And, consecrators of law's darkest crime, The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand ? The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er Beware-lest human nature, roused at last, They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear From its peeled shoulder your incumbrance cast, Goa's dark dungeons-Malta's sea-washed cell, And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung, Rank you with those who led their victims round Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of Hell! Abhorred of Earth and Heaven-a pagan brotherThe midnight of Bartholomew—the stake hood! HUNGER AND COLD. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, Guiltless blood may chance be shed, But ye must and will be fed, Hunger and Cold! Sisters two, all praise to you, From of old : Hunger and Cold! Grim and bold; Hunger and Cold! God has plans man must not spoil, Some were made to starve and toil, Some to share the wine and oil, We are told : Devils' theories are these, Stifling hope and love and peace, Framed your hideous lusts to please, Hunger and Cold! Scatter ashes on thy head, To Love's fold; Hunger and Cold! Bolt and bar the palace door; Uncontrolled; Hunger and Cold! On his gold: Hunger and Cold! THINK OF OUR COUNTRY'S GLORY. BY ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER, Think of our country's glory, All dimmed with Afric's tearsHer broad flag stained and gory, With the hoarded guilt of years! Think of the frantic mother, Lamenting for her child, Till falling lashes smother Her cries of anguish wild! Rude comparisons ye draw, Cannot hold; Hunger and Cold! Think of the prayers ascending, Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending, Ne'er to be joined again! Shall we behold unheeding, Life's holiest feelings crushed ? When woman's heart is bleeding, Shall woman's voice be hushed ? Ye respect no hoary wrong From the mould Hunger and Cold! Shall be tolled; 0, no! by every blessing That Heaven to thee may lend Remember their oppression, Forget not, sister, friend. Think of the prayers ascending, Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending, Ne’er to be joined again! |