to
Hon. Thaddeus Stevens
Have the bright and glowing visions
Faded from thy longing sight,
Like the gorgeous tints of ev’n
Mingling with the shades of night?
Didst thou hope to see thy country
Wearing Justice as a crown,
Standing foremost ’mid the nations
Worthy of the world’s renown?
Didst thou think the grand fruition
Reached the fullness of its time,
When the crater of God’s judgment
Overflowed the nation’s crime?
That thy people, purged by fire,
Would have trod another path,
Careful, lest their feet should stumble
On the cinders of God’s wrath?
And again the injured negro
Grind the dreadful mills of fate,
Pressing out the fearful vintage
Of the nation’s scorn and hate?
Sadder than the crimson shadows
Hung for years around our skies,
Are the hopes so fondly cherished
Fading now before thine eyes.
Not in vain has been thy hoping,
Though thy fair ideals fade,
If, like one of God’s tall aloes,
Thou art rip’ning in the shade.
There is light beyond the darkness,
Joy beyond the present pain;
There is hope in God’s great justice,
And the negro’s rising brain.
Though before the timid counsels
Truth and Right may seem to fail,
God hath bathed his sword in judgment,
And his arm shall yet prevail.
An Appeal to the American People
When a dark and fearful strife
Raged around the nation’s life,
And the traitor plunged his steel
Where your quivering hearts could feel,
When your cause did need a friend,
We were faithful to the end.
When we stood with bated breath,
Facing fiery storms of death,
And the war-cloud, red with wrath,
Fiercely swept around our path,
Did our hearts with terror quail?
Or our courage ever fail?
When the captive, wanting bread,
Sought our poor and lowly shed,
And the bloodhounds missed his way,
Did we e’er his path betray?
Filled we not his heart with trust
As we shared with him our crust?
With your soldiers, side by side,
Helped we turn the battle’s tide,
Till o’er ocean, stream and shore,
Waved the rebel flag no more,
And above the rescued sod
Praises rose to freedom’s God.
But to-day the traitor stands
With the crimson on his hands,
Scowling ’neath his brow of hate,
On our weak and desolate,
With the blood-rust on the knife
Aimèd at the nation’s life.
Asking you to weakly yield
All we won upon the field,
To ignore, on land and flood,
All the offerings of our blood,
And to write above our slain
“They have fought and died in vain.”
To your manhood we appeal,
Lest the traitor’s iron heel
Grind and trample in the dust
All our new-born hope and trust,
And the name of freedom be
Linked with bitter mockery.
Truth
A rock, for ages, stern and high,
Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky,
And never bowed his haughty crest
When angry storms around him prest.
Morn springing from the arms of night
Had often bathed his brow with light,
And kissed the shadows from his face
With tender love and gentle grace.
Day, pausing at the gates of rest,
Smiled on him from the distant West,
And from her throne the dark-browed Night
Threw round his path her softest light.
And yet he stood unmoved and proud,
Nor love, nor wrath, his spirit bowed;
He bared his brow to every blast
And scorned the tempest as it passed.
One day a tiny, humble seed—
The keenest eye would hardly heed—
Fell trembling at that stern rock’s base,
And found a lowly hiding place.
A ray of light, and drop of dew,
Came with a message, kind and true;
They told her of the world so bright,
Its love, its joy, and rosy light,
And lured her from her hiding place,
To gaze upon earth’s glorious face.
So, peeping timid from the ground,
She clasped the ancient rock around,
And climbing up with childish grace,
She held him with a close embrace;
Her clinging was a thing of dread;
Where’er she touched a fissure spread,
And he who’d breasted many a storm
Stood frowning there, a mangled form;
So Truth dropped in the silent earth,
May seem a thing of little worth,
Till, spreading round some mighty wrong,
It saps its pillars proud and strong.
Death of the Old Sea King
’Twas a fearful night—the tempest raved
With loud and wrathful pride,
The storm-king harnessed his lightning steeds,
And rode on the raging tide.
The sea-king lay on his bed of death.
Pale mourners around him bent,
They knew the wild and fitful life
Of their chief was almost spent.
His ear was growing dull in death
When the angry storm he heard,
The sluggish blood in the old man’s veins
With sudden vigor stirred.
“I hear them call,” cried the dying man,
His eyes grew full of light,
“Now bring me here my warrior robes,
My sword and armor bright.
“In the tempest’s lull I heard a voice,
I knew ’twas Odin’s call.
The Valkyrs are gathering round my bed
To lead me unto his hall.
“Bear me unto my noblest ship,
Light up a funeral pyre;
I’ll walk to the palace of the braves
Through a path of flame and fire.”
O! wild and bright was the stormy light
That flashed from the old man’s eye,
As they bore him from the couch of death
To his battle-ship to die.
And lit with many a mournful torch
The sea-king’s dying bed,
And like a banner fair and bright
The flames around him spread.
But they heard no cry of anguish
Break through that fiery wall,
With rigid brow and silent lips
He was seeking Odin’s hall.
Through a path of fearful splendor,
While strong men held their breath,
The brave old man went boldly forth
And calmly talked with death.
“Let the Light Enter!”
Dying Words of Goethe
Light! more light! the shadows deepen,
And my life is ebbing low,
Throw the windows widely open!
Light! more light! before I go.
Softly let the balmy sunshine
Play around my dying bed,
E’er the dimly lighted valley
I with lonely feet shall tread.
Light! more light! for death is weaving
Shadows round my waning sight,
And I fain would gaze upon him
Through a stream of earthly light.
Not for greater gifts of genius,
Nor for thoughts more grandly bright,
All the dying poet whispers
Is a prayer for light, more light.
Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
Fading slowly from his sight;
All the poet’s aspirations
Centre in that prayer for light.
Blessed Jesus, when our day dreams
Melt and vanish from the sight,
May our dim and longing vision
Then be blessed
