This eBook was produced by David Widger  widgercecometnet                           ANTISLAVERY POEMS                       SONGS OF LABOR AND REFORM                                   BY                        JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIERCONTENTSDERNEA SABBATH SCENEIN THE EVIL DAYMOLOCH IN STATE STREETOFFICIAL PIETYTHE RENDITIONARISEN AT LASTTHE HASCHISHFOR RIGHTEOUSNESS SAKETHE KANSAS EMIGRANTSLETTER FROM A MISSIONARY OF THE METHODIST     EPISCOPAL CHURCH SOUTH IN KANSAS TO A     DISTINGUISHED POLITICIANBURIAL OF BARBERTO PENNSYLVANIALE MARAIS DU CYGNETHE PASS OF THE SIERRAA SONG FOR THE TIMEWHAT OF THE DAYA SONG INSCRIBED TO THE FREMONT CLUBSTHE PANORAMAON A PRAYERBOOKTHE SUMMONSTO WILLIAM H SEWARDDERNEThe storming of the city of Derne in 1805 by General Eaton at thehead of nine Americans forty Greeks and a motley array of Turks andArabs was one of those feats of hardihood and daring which have in allages attracted the admiration of the multitude The higher and holierheroism of Christian selfdenial and sacrifice in the humble walks ofprivate duty is seldom so well appreciatedNIGHT on the city of the MoorOn mosque and tomb and whitewalled shoreOn seawaves to whose ceaseless knockThe narrow harborgates unlockOn corsairs galley carack tallAnd plundered Christian caravalThe sounds of Moslem life are stillNo mulebell tinkles down the hillStretched in the broad court of the khanThe dusty Bornou caravanLies heaped in slumber beast and manThe Sheik is dreaming in his tentHis noisy Arab tongue oerspentThe kiosks glimmering lights are goneThe merchant with his wares withdrawnRough pillowed on some pirate breastThe dancinggirl has sunk to restAnd save where measured footsteps fallAlong the Bashaws guarded wallOr where like some bad dream the JewCreeps stealthily his quarter throughOr counts with fear his golden heapsThe City of the Corsair sleepsBut where yon prison long and lowStands black against the pale starglowChafed by the ceaseless wash of wavesThere watch and pine the Christian slavesRoughbearded men whose faroff wivesWear out with grief their lonely livesAnd youth still flashing from his eyesThe clear blue of New England skiesA treasured lock of whose soft hairNow wakes some sorrowing mothers prayerOr worn upon some maiden breastStirs with the loving hearts unrestA bitter cup each life must drainThe groaning earth is cursed with painAnd like the scroll the angel boreThe shuddering Hebrew seer beforeOerwrit alike without withinWith all the woes which follow sinBut bitterest of the ills beneathWhose load man totters down to deathIs that which plucks the regal crownOf Freedom from his forehead downAnd snatches from his powerless handThe sceptred sign of selfcommandEffacing with the chain and rodThe image and the seal of GodTill from his nature day by dayThe manly virtues fall awayAnd leave him naked blind and muteThe godlike merging in the bruteWhy mourn the quiet ones who dieBeneath affections tender eyeUnto their household and their kinLike ripened cornsheaves gathered inO weeper from that tranquil sodThat holy harvesthome of GodTurn to the quick and suffering shedThy tears upon the living deadThank God above thy dear ones gravesThey sleep with Him they are not slavesWhat dark mass down the mountainsidesSwiftpouring like a stream dividesA long loose straggling caravanCamel and horse and armed manThe moons low crescent glimmering oerIts grave of waters to the shoreLights tip that mountain cavalcadeAnd gleams from gun and spear and bladeNear and more near now oer them fallsThe shadow of the city wallsHark to the sentrys challenge drownedIn the fierce trumpets charging soundThe rush of men the muskets pealThe short sharp clang of meeting steelVain Moslem vain thy lifeblood pouredSo freely on thy foemans swordNot to the swift nor to the strongThe battles of the right belongFor he who strikes for Freedom wearsThe armor of the captives prayersAnd Nature proffers to his causeThe strength of her eternal lawsWhile he whose arm essays to bindAnd herd with common brutes his kindStrives evermore at fearful oddsWith Nature and the jealous godsAnd dares the dread recoil which lateOr soon their right shall vindicateT is done the horned crescent fallsThe starflag flouts the broken wallsJoy to the captive husband joyTo thy sick heart O brownlocked boyIn sullen wrath the conquered MoorWide open flings your dungeondoorAnd leaves ye free from cell and chainThe owners of yourselves againDark as his allies desertbornSoiled with the battles stain and wornWith the long marches of his bandThrough hottest wastes of rock and sandScorched by the sun and furnacebreathOf the red deserts wind of deathWith welcome words and grasping handsThe victor and deliverer standsThe tale is one of distant skiesThe dust of half a century liesUpon it yet its heros nameStill lingers on the lips of FameMen speak the praise of him who gaveDeliverance to the Moormans slaveYet dare to brand with shame and crimeThe heroes of our land and timeThe selfforgetful ones who stakeHome name and life for Freedoms sakeGod mend his heart who cannot feelThe impulse of a holy zealAnd sees not with his sordid eyesThe beauty of selfsacrificeThough in the sacred place he standsUplifting consecrated handsUnworthy are his lips to tellOf Jesus martyrmiracleOr name aright that dread embraceOf suffering for a fallen race1850A SABBATH SCENEThis poem finds its justification in the readiness with which even inthe North clergymen urged the prompt execution of the Fugitive SlaveLaw as a Christian duty and defended the system of slavery as a BibleinstitutionSCARCE had the solemn SabbathbellCeased quivering in the steepleScarce had the parson to his deskWalked stately through his peopleWhen down the summershaded streetA wasted female figureWith dusky brow and naked feetCame rushing wild and eagerShe saw the white spire through the treesShe heard the sweet