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Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 5 (search)
5. the Watchers. by John G. Whittier. Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass, on wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood. Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain; But all the air was quick with pain, And gusty sighs and tearful rain. Two angels, each with drooping head, And folded wings, and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead. The one, with forehead saintly bland, And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. The other's brows were scarred and knit; His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. “How long!” --I knew the voice of Peace, ”Is there no respite?--no release?-- When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? ”Oh Lord, how long!--One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag the winds unroll. ”What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave? Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? ”Oh brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and wh
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 148 (search)
49. to Englishmen. by John G. Whittier. You flung your taunt across the wave; We bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slave Left friendly lips no option save To pity or to blame us. You scoffed our plea. “Mere lack of will, Not lack of power,” you told us; We showed our free-State records; still You mocked, confounding good and ill, Slave-haters and slaveholders. We struck at slavery; to the verge Of power and means we checked it: Lo!--presto, change! its claims you urge, Send greetings to it o'er the surge, And comfort and protect it. But yesterday you scarce could Shake, In slave-abhorring rigor, Our Northern palms, for conscience‘ sake; To-day you clasp the hands that ache With “wallopping the nigger!” See English caricatures of America — Slaveholder and cowhide, with the motto: “Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger!” O Englishmen!--in hope and creed, In blood and tongue our brothers I We, too, are heirs of Runnymede; And Shakspeare's fame and Crom
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 343 (search)
103. the voice of the North. by John G. Whittier. Up the hill-side, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen: Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low-- Like a night-storm rising slow-- Like the tread of unseen foe-- It is coming — it is nigh! Stand your homes and altars by, On your own free threshold die. Clang the bells in all your spires, On the grey hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal-fires. Oh! for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old graves of the land. Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow. Freedom's soil has only place For a free and fearless race-- None for traitors false and base. Perish party — perish clan; Strike together while you can, Like the strong arm of one man. Like the angels' voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime, Crying for the end of Time. With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North speak to the South; Speak the word befitting bo