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, Wha struts and stares, and a' that, 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, Wake the better soul, that slumbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Weary with the march of life! 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 Thank God! that I have lived to see the time When the great truth begins at last to find Restraint upon him must consult his good, 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, 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! HUNGER AND COLD. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Sisters two, all praise to you, With your faces pinched and blue; Ye can speak the keenest word, From the point ye're never stirred, Let the Statesman temporize; When they meet your blood-shot eyes, Policy ye set at naught, In their traps ye'll not be caught, Bolt and bar the palace door; Naked truth grows more and more Ye had nevet yet, I guess, When the Toiler's heart ye clutch, Every thing to you defers, Rude comparisons ye draw, Ye're not clogged with foolish pride, Ye respect no hoary wrong Ye unbury; swords and spears Let them guard both hall and bower; Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, 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, Tears of burning sorrow shed, Earth and be thy Pity led To Love's fold; Ere they block the very door 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! 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? O, no! by every blessing That Heaven to thee may lendRemember 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! |