Poetry

my life do cease:
And then, like good old Simeon,
I hope to die in peace.”

“I Thirst”

First Voice

I thirst, but earth cannot allay
The fever coursing through my veins.
The healing stream is far away⁠—
It flows through Salem’s lovely plains.

The murmurs of its crystal flow
Break ever o’er this world of strife;
My heart is weary, let me go,
To bathe it in the stream of life;

For many worn and weary hearts
Have bathed in this pure healing stream,
And felt their griefs and cares depart,
E’en like some sad forgotten dream.

Second Voice

“The Word is nigh thee, even in thy heart.”

Say not, within thy weary heart,
Who shall ascend above,
To bring unto thy fever’d lips
The fount of joy and love.

Nor do thou seek to vainly delve
Where death’s pale angels tread,
To hear the murmur of its flow
Around the silent dead.

Within, in thee is one living fount,
Fed from the springs above;
There quench thy thirst till thou shalt bathe
In God’s own sea of love.

The Dying Queen

“I would meet death awake.”

The strength that bore her on for years
Was ebbing fast away,
And o’er the pale and life-worn face,
Death’s solemn shadows lay.

With tender love and gentle care,
Friends gathered round her bed,
And for her sake each footfall hushed
The echoes of its tread.

They knew the restlessness of death
Through every nerve did creep,
And carefully they tried to lull
The dying Queen to sleep.

In vain she felt Death’s icy hand
Her failing heart-strings shake;
And, rousing up, she firmly said,
“I’d meet my God awake.”

Awake, I’ve met the battle’s shock,
And born the cares of state;
Nor shall I take your lethean cup,
And slumber at death’s gate.

Did I not watch with eyes alert,
The path where foes did tend;
And shall I veil my eyes with sleep,
To meet my God and friend?

Nay, rather from my weary lids,
This heavy slumber shake,
That I may pass the mystic vale,
And meet my God awake.

The Tennessee Hero

“He had heard his comrades plotting to obtain their liberty, and rather than betray them he received 750 lashes and died.”

He stood before the savage throng,
The base and coward crew;
A tameless light flashed from his eye,
His heart beat firm and true.

He was the hero of his band,
The noblest of them all;
Though fetters galled his weary limbs,
His spirit spurned their thrall.

And towered, in its manly might,
Above the murderous crew.
Oh! liberty had nerved his heart,
And every pulse beat true.

“Now tell us,” said the savage troop,
“And life thy gain shall be!
Who are the men that plotting, say⁠—
‘They must and will be free!’ ”

Oh, could you have seen the hero then,
As his lofty soul arose,
And his dauntless eyes defiance flashed
On his mean and craven foes!

“I know the men who would be free;
They are the heroes of your land;
But death and torture I defy,
Ere I betray that band.

And what! oh, what is life to me,
Beneath your base control?
Nay! do your worst. Ye have no chains
To bind my free-born soul.”

They brought the hateful lash and scourge,
With murder in each eye.
But a solemn vow was on his lips⁠—
He had resolved to die.

Yes, rather than betray his trust,
He’d meet a death of pain;
’Twas sweeter far to meet it thus
Than wear a treason stain!

Like storms of wrath, of hate and pain,
The blows rained thick and fast;
But the monarch soul kept true
Till the gates of life were past.

And the martyr spirit fled
To the throne of God on high,
And showed his gaping wounds
Before the unslumbering eye.

Free Labor

I wear an easy garment,
O’er it no toiling slave
Wept tears of hopeless anguish,
In his passage to the grave.

And from its ample folds
Shall rise no cry to God,
Upon its warp and woof shall be
No stain of tears and blood.

Oh, lightly shall it press my form,
Unladened with a sigh,
I shall not ’mid its rustling hear,
Some sad despairing cry.

This fabric is too light to bear
The weight of bondsmen’s tears,
I shall not in its texture trace
The agony of years.

Too light to bear a smother’d sigh,
From some lorn woman’s heart.
Whose only wreath of household love
Is rudely torn apart.

Then lightly shall it press my form,
Unburden’d by a sigh;
And from its seams and folds shall rise,
No voice to pierce the sky,

And witness at the throne of God,
In language deep and strong,
That I have nerv’d Oppression’s hand,
For deeds of guilt and wrong.

Lines

At the Portals of the Future,
Full of madness, guilt and gloom,
Stood the hateful form of Slavery,
Crying, Give, Oh! give me room⁠—

Room to smite the earth with cursing,
Room to scatter, rend and slay,
From the trembling mother’s bosom
Room to tear her child away;

Room to trample on the manhood
Of the country far and wide;
Room to spread o’er every Eden
Slavery’s scorching lava-tide.

Pale and trembling stood the Future,
Quailing ’neath his frown of hate,
As he grasped with bloody clutches
The great keys of Doom and Fate.

In his hand he held a banner
All festooned with blood and tears:
’Twas a fearful ensign, woven
With the grief and wrong of years.

On his brow he wore a helmet
Decked with strange and cruel art;
Every jewel was a life-drop
Wrung from some poor broken heart.

Though her cheek was pale and anxious,
Yet, with look and brow sublime,
By the pale and trembling Future
Stood the Crisis of our time.

And from many a throbbing bosom
Came the words in fear and gloom,
Tell us, Oh! thou coming Crisis,
What shall be our country’s doom?

Shall the wings of dark destruction
Brood and hover o’er our land,
Till we trace the steps of ruin
By their blight, from strand to strand?

With a look and voice prophetic
Spake the solemn Crisis then:
I have only mapped the future
For the erring sons of men.

If ye strive for Truth and Justice,
If ye battle for the Right,
Ye shall lay your hands all