The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1850-09-26
FOR the National Era
DERNE.

DLhNLs
Night on the city Of the Moor.
On mosque and tomb, and white walled shore,
On seawayes TO whose cesseless knock
The narrow harbor gates unlock,
On eorsair, galley, carack tall,
And plundered Christian carayal!
The sounds Of Moslem life are STILL
The mule bell tinkles down the hill;
Stretched in the broad court Of the Khan,
The dusty Bornou caravan
lies heaped in slunlber, beast and man;
The Sheik Is dreaming in his tent,
His noisy Arab tongue o'er-spent;
The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone,
The merchant with his wares withdrawn,
RsteAI-i2Jo~ed on some pirate breast
The dancing girl has sunk 10 rest:
AMI. save where measured footsteps fall
AbDg the Bsshaw's guarded wall,
M ,,hare. like some bad dream, the Jew
Green's steaithily his quarter through,
Or counts with fear his golden heaps,
The City Of the Corsair sleeps!
But where yen prison long aud low
Stands back against the pale ttarglow,
Cbafed by tba cesseIess wash OF waves,
There watch and pine the Christian slaves
Rough-bearded men, whose fsr'oh wives
Wear out with grief their lonely lives,
And youth. still flashing from his eyes
The clear blue Of New England skies,
A treasured lock Of whose soft hair
Now wakes some sorrowing mothers prayer,
Or, worn upon some maiden breast,
Stirs with the loving hearts unrest!
bitter cup each life must drain,
The groaning Earth is cursed with pain
And, like the scroll the angel bore
The shuddering Hebrew seer before,
O,er.writ alike without, within,
With all the woes which follow sin;
But, bitterest Of the ills beneath
Whose LOAF man totters down TO death,
Is that which plucks the regal crown
OF freedom from his forehead down,
And suatches from his powetfess hand
The seeptrei sign Of self-commsnd,
EnAcing with the chain and rod
.i.s iusAgt and the sestef<ss':. .,..
Tin from his nature, day by day,
The manly virtues fall away,
And leave him naked, blind and mute
The godlike merging in the brute!
Why mourn the quiet ones who die
Beneath affection's tender eye,
Unto their household and their kin
Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in
Oh weeper, from that tranquil sod,
That holy harvest home of God,
Turn TO the quick and suffering, shed
Thy tears upon the living dead
Thank God above thy dear ones graves
They sleep with Him: they are not slaves
What dark mass, down the mountain sides
Swift-pouring, like stream divides =
A long, loose, struggling caravan,
Camel and horse and armed man.
The moons low crescent, glimmering DER
It's grave of waters to the shore,
Lights up that mountain cavalcade,
And glints from gun and spear and blade,
Near and more near,--now DER them falls
The shadow Of the city walls.
Hark, to the sentry's challenge, drowned
In the fierce trumpet's charging sound
The rush Of men, the muskets peal,
The short, sharp clsng Of meeting STEEL
Vain, Moslem, vain, thy life-blocd poured
SO freely on thy foemsn's sword.
Not to the swift nor to the strong
The battles Of the right belong
For he who strikes for freedom wears
The armor of the captiye's prayers,
And Nature proiiers TO his cause
The strength Of her eternal laws,
While be whose arm essays to bind
And herd with common brutes his kind,
Strives evermore at fearful odds
With Nature and the jealous gods,
And dares the dread recoil which late
Or soon their right shall vindicate.
lis done-that struggle sharp and stern
The star-fag flOuts the walls Of Derne
Joy to the captive husband! joy
10 thy sick heart, oh, brown-locked boy
In sullen wrath the conquered Moor
Wide open filings your dungeon door,
And leaves ye free from cell and chain,
The owners of yourselves again.
Dark AS his allies desert-born,
Soiled with the battles stain, and worn
With the long marches Of his band
Through hottest wastes Of rock and sand,
Scorchsd by the sun and furnace breath
OF the red deserts wind Of death,
With welcome words and grasping hands
The victor and dsliverer stands!
The tale is one of distant skies;
The dust Of half a century lies
Upon it, yet its heros name
Still fingers on the lips of Fame;
And lives there one who loves TO turn
To Eaton by the walls Of Derne,
And speak the praise Of him who gave
Deliyerance TO the Moorman's slave,
Yet dares TO brand with shame and crime
The heroes Of our land and time
The seli-forgetfu ONES who stake
Home, name, and life, for freedoms sake!
God mend his heart, who cannot feel
The impulse Of that holy zeal,
Aud sees not with his sordid eyes
The beauty Of selfsacrifce!
Though in the sacred place he stands,
Uplifting consecrated hands,
Unworthy are his lips to tell
of Jesus martyr-inracle,
Or name Alright that dread embrace
or suffering for a fallen race.
J. @.
LETTER FROM GRACE GREENWOOD.
FROM THE SEA SHORE.
LYNN, SeptemJer is, Is
he Editor Of The National Era:
1t hos struck me that you might be inter
hearing something Of my life and adven
zee that dark and doleful night when yo