TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

Champion of those who groan beneath
Oppression's iron hand:

In view of penury, hate, and death,
I see thee fearless stand.
Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow
And promise of thy youth.

Go on, the dagger's point may glare
Amid thy pathway's gloom;
The fate which sternly threatens there
Is glorious martyrdom!

Then onward with a martyr's zeal;
And wait thy sure reward
When man to man no more shall kneel,
And God alone be Lord!

1832.

Read at the convention in Philadelphia which founded the American Anti-Slavery Society in December, 1833. Whittier was a delegate from Massachusetts.

EXPOSTULATION 1

Our fellow-countrymen in chains!
Slaves, in a land of light and law!
Slaves, crouching on the very plains
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's
war!

A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood,
A wail where Camden's martyrs fell,
By every shrine of patriot blood,
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!

By storied hill and hallowed grot,
By mossy wood and marshy glen,
Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,
And hurrying shout of Marion's men!
The groan of breaking hearts is there,
The falling lash, the fetter's clank!
Slaves, slaves are breathing in that air

ΤΟ

Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!

1 Dr. Charles Follen, a German patriot, who had come to America for the freedom which was denied him in his native land, allied himself with the abolitionists, and at a convention of delegates from all the anti-slavery organizations in New England, held at Boston in May, 1834, was chairman of a committee to prepare an address to the people of New England. Toward the close of the address occurred the passage which suggested these lines:

"The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States-the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king-cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?" (Author's Note.)

Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
From graybeard eld to fiery youth,
And on the nation's naked heart

Scatter the living coals of Truth!
Up! while ye slumber, deeper yet

The shadow of our fame is growing! Up! while ye pause, our sun may set

In blood around our altars flowing!

Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth,
The gathered wrath of God and man, 90
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth,
When hail and fire above it ran.
Hear ye no warnings in the air?

Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
Up, up! why will ye slumber where
The sleeper only wakes in death?

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Rise now for Freedom! not in strife
Like that your sterner fathers saw,
The awful waste of human life,
The glory and the guilt of war:
But break the chain, the yoke remove,
And smite to earth Oppression's rod,
With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
Made mighty through the living God!

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
And leave no traces where it stood;
Nor longer let its idol drink

His daily cup of human blood; But rear another altar there,

To Truth and Love and Mercy given, 110 And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,

Shall call an answer down from Heaven !

1The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, and among them Hertel de Rouville." The minister of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled "The Border War of 1708," published in my collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, I have given a prose narrative of the surprise of Haverhill. (Author's Note.)

Even now the villager can tell
Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death-shot broke,
And point the curious stranger where 81
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare;
Whose hideous head, in death still feared,
Bore not a trace of hair nor beard;
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.

1838.

MEMORIES

A beautiful and happy girl,

With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair; A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

Which melted through its graceful bower,

Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,

10

Unfolding like a morning flower: A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute, From eye and lip in music spoke. How thrills once more the lengthening chain

Of memory, at the thought of thee!
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams, come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its glow upon my cheek,

Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I leaned to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own,

And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes,

20

30

With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than
they!

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When, half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour

40

The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 50

More wide, perchance, for blame than praise,

The school boy's humble name has flown;

Thine, in the green and quiet ways

Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see,

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70

Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies,--The Indian Summer of the heart!

In secret sympathies of mind,

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 8 Our early dreams not wholly vain!