CANTO II.
“Hail, holy light!”—Milton.
“Paulo majora canamus.”—Virgil.
As, when some lone, half-foundered bark,
Pent up in Northern regions dark
’Twixt icebergs and the rocky shore,
Where wintry billows wildly roar;
Where howling winds around her rave
And ocean yawns with many a grave;
The awe-struck crew are dumb with fear,
And shudder at the danger near;
But when, their toils and dangers past,
They reach their long lost homes at last,
Their hearts rejoice in every breast,
And all enjoy the unwonted rest:—
As when some antiquarian sage,
Intent to read dame Nature’s page,
Through gloomy caverns threads his way,
Unmindful of the light of day,
And, only midst vile toads and snakes,
At length to sense of danger wakes;
Then hastens forth to cheer his sight
Once more, with God’s all-beauteous light;
So I, till lately doomed to mourn
Midst scenes of horror, joyful turn
To others of more pleasing hue,
Where worth and valor meet the view,
And in the patriot’s soul combine
To light it with a ray divine.
I bless the man whose soul disdains
To live by others’ toils and pains;
The bread procured by slavery’s groans
From tortured flesh and aching bones,
To him were bitter as the fruit
Whose tree in hell sends deep its root;
The usurer’s ill-got gains he spurns;
No widow through his grasping mourns;
For him no serfs turn up the soil,
No minions delve, no drudges toil;
But his own hands his wants supply,
God’s fount allays his thirst when dry;
His wife and children are arrayed
In garments their own hands have made;
No guilty jewels deck their brow,
Procured by means—no matter how.
His loyalty is pure and strong,
He loves his country, “right or wrong;”[g]
If foes assail, he will not pause
To cavil or discuss the cause;
Or load the noble with abuse,
And skulk with this or that excuse.
No, no, he scorns ignoble rest,
And as a patriot bares his breast,
The first in council, first in fight,
For God, his country, and the right.
For freedom he desires to live,
Which he to all would freely give;
And when at length he comes to die,
No frightful phantoms meet his eye;
Resigned to Heaven he yields his breath,
His kindred dust to dust beneath.
In such, through God’s most gracious plan,
Behold the Christian gentleman;
The true republican behold.
As in our Washington of old.
Yes, yes, in him we recognise
An “Israelite without disguise:”
And, Lincoln, thanks to heaven, we see
A second Washington in thee;
Raised up to save the ship of State,
And pilot it through danger’s gate;
And many a noble spirit born
To usher in a happier morn,
To light and cheer us on our way,
Through this dark night of wild dismay,
Roused by thy patriotic voice,
To serve their country, now rejoice.
A cloud was gathering o’er the sky,
And some perceived the danger nigh;
While others thought ’twould pass away,
Like mists before the approaching day.
But when the mighty storm, at length,
Burst forth in all its fearful strength;
Few were prepared to realize
The truth that seemed to paralyze
All hearts, and fill them with dismay,
At foul rebellion’s dread array,
In this our day, in this our land;
And scarcely could men understand,
That Freedom’s children could combine
Her sacred fane to undermine;
To stigmatize her name and birth,
And blot her record from the earth.
’Twas, as they thought, some frightful dream
Which dawn would scatter with its beam:
But when that wished-for dawn arose,
And shook them from disturbed repose;
When Sumter’s guns boomed on the ear,
Reality took place of fear:
And then a storm of grief and rage
Swept o’er the land, swept o’er the age:
The Nation shuddered to its core,
The shock was felt the wide world o’er;
Men roused themselves throughout the land,
To catch the word—the stern command.
And soon it flashed the wires along,
(Thy voice, Abe Lincoln, clear and strong;)
Which, quick as lightning’s rapid wing,
Was heard throughout the land to ring:
“Rise, children, rise, your country calls
To arms! or Freedom helpless falls;
Your Mother is assailed by foes,
Haste, haste, and ward from her the blows:
The assassin’s hand is on the knife,
And parricides assail her life!”
Thus called the watchman from the tower,
And millions answered in that hour;
“Lo! Father Abraham, we come,
Leave wife and children, house and home,
Leave social joys and friends refined,
Rend all the ties the soul can bind;
Our workshops and our farms we yield,
Our plowshares in the half-plowed field;
Our horses at the fence we tie,
And gird the sword upon the thigh,
And haste to meet the foe in strife,
And battle for the Nation’s life.”
Thus loyal men, on every side,
Sprang forth all o’er our nation wide,
And offered up their lives, their all,
As incense at their country’s call.
The fair sex felt the patriot flame
And to their country’s succor came;
And, careless of their own repose,
The part of the wise virgins chose.
The maiden bids her love, “good by,”
While the big tear drop dims her eye,
Which, yet, with haste she chides away,
Lest she some weakness might betray:
And, like the Spartan dame of yore,
When to her son the shield she bore,
Bade him return upon the same
A corpse, or else come back with fame,
The tender mother bids farewell,
To that sweet boy she loves so well;
And binding round his waist the sword,
Thus cheers his heart by deed and word:
“My only son, my darling boy,
’Twill fill your mother’s heart with joy,
To know this blade you nobly wield
For freedom, in the tented field;
Let honor guide you in the strife,
And yield it only with your life.”
And, as the fearful conflict neared,
Such scenes as follow oft appeared: