CANTO VI.
“To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.”—Shakspeare.
As Lucifer, the angel, fell
From bliss of Heaven to pain of hell;
And there, as devil, would put on
The mask in which he once had shone:
So copperheads, with fiendish guile,
The name of freedom would defile,
While they her mask and robe display,
The better to deceive—betray
The wandering, friendless, emigrant,
Confiding, poor and ignorant,
Who deems “Democracy” a name
Of something real, not a sham!
In reference to these, our course
Has been unwise—from bad to worse;
All too indulgent and remiss,
Till now we hear their hydra-hiss!
Some emigrants our shores who seek
Digest our laws as they do Greek!
And when probation time is gone,
They find their work already done;
The years, we know, have quickly sped
Without impressing heart or head,
With sense of duties to be done,—
What course to steer, what rocks to shun;
Yet without question, we admit
Th’ untutored Vandal as a cit;
And thus the prudence of our sires
Is melted in base party fires;
And Freedom drops her vital claims
In legal forms and empty names.[z]
How can we Freedom’s reign restore;
And make her glorious as before?
By clearing her, as best we may,
Of snarls contracted on the way:
And Slavery’s terrific coil
Will claim our whole united toil;
With one gigantic effort first,
Let’s hurl to hell the thing accurst!
Till slavery in the land shall cease,
Where is the hope for rest or peace?
Thereafter we shall be too wise
To make with hell a compromise:
Let us dissolve this bond with Death
And freedom to our sons bequeath;
Then shall rebellion in our land
Forever hide its bloody hand;
Then shall our righteous rule be laid
Upon a rock both sure and staid;
And then our stainless flag unfurled
Shall float, the glory of the world![1]
Another grievance, I opine,
Is this, Jack’s vote’s as good as mine,
Or yours, or any noble steed,
Though Jack is dull and slow of speed,
Degraded, brutal, ignorant,
Depraved in every wish and want,
A wretch, a thief, an arrant knave,
A copperhead—a willing slave!
To those who from the Fathers quote
And say that such were meant to vote,
I put these queries now, at once:
Which of the fathers was a dunce?
Pray name the man,—say, who was he
Who thus could poison freedom’s tree,
By introducing, at its birth,
The borer that should work its death?
Since all were missionaries known
Of these great truths, that Right alone,
Worth and intelligence can save
A free Republic from its grave!
But grant the fathers dolts and fools,
Should we be guided by their rules;
Be chained by trammels of the past
And let our reason run to waste?
These queries then, I put, per force,
How many donkeys make one horse?
How much of ignorance condense
To make one mind of common sense?
How much of tyranny and wrong
Will make it right, in justice strong?
How many years of power and lust
Can crush man’s God-given rights in dust?[2]
What length of lawless usurpation
Gives right to rule in any nation?
How many criminals co-blent
Suffice to make a single saint?
How many Arnolds joined in one,
Suffice to form a Washington?
How many spouters of our day
Would make one Webster, Burke, or Clay?
I might go on ad infinitum,
Propounding item after item.
But still the copperhead is near,
And thunders fiercely in mine ear;
“Dare you our liberties assail,
Must not majorities prevail?”
I answer: “as a general rule,[3]
The “major” is the greater fool;”
The horse that bears me on with ease,
May be of any hue you please;
Nor to the binding do we look,
To find the worth of any book;
Nor judge we wisdom by its size,
Its weight, not bulk, we justly prize.
“But wisdom lies,” the book avers,
“In multitude of counsellors!”
I grant the maxim sound and true,
And just the thing we want most, too;
We’ve multitudes of quacks, I grant,
And lawyers more than Heaven can want,
But as for counsellors, alack,
Scarce one that’s fit to counsel Jack!
What brought this state of things about?
These same majorities, no doubt,
Composed of moral lepers, apes,
Who of true men assume the shapes;
The sole reliance of the base,
To whom we all our woes can trace;
To please this lowest rabble rout,
We trot our meanest hobblers out,
Trimmed up to suit their grov’ling taste,
Their characters smeared o’er with paste;
Their record from some distant State
Comes back upon us when too late;
But now their face with whisky blooms,
Whose odor all the air perfumes;
Tobacco juice streams all around;
The halls with revelry resound,
Where rum and brandy freely flow,
And all is joy and bliss below.
What better bait could mortal proffer
To some who have got votes to offer?
They take immensely, oh, how good!
“Par fratrum,” noble brotherhood!
And thus the ball incessant flies
Down, down the steep, no more to rise,
And thus ’twill be, so long as we
Indulge this game of infamy!
What would you have? set forth your plan,
Provided ’tis republican.
Republican! What else should please,
Or bring stability and ease?
Yet what are names? what do we care
For empty sound or tinsel glare?
Give us the substance, fly vain shade,
For empty heads and stomachs made!
As said Erasmus to the Pope,
“I’m orthodox in heart and hope,
But, in my stomach, Protestant,
At least against all present want!”
So say I now;—I Freedom love
All other earthly things above;
In name I love it, but, much better,
In spirit, substance, and in letter.
What mean you, then, by “Freedom,” sir?
Explain yourself, without demur;
Have we not got it here already?
Where else can man enjoy it steady?
Your queries, as an honest man
I’ll fairly answer, if I can,
And first this question I propound;
What is true freedom, and where found?
Where strength and violence prevail?
Where widows weep and orphans wail?
Where christian men enslave the weak,
Because the sun has tinged their cheek?
Or, where the humblest son of toil,
Who works the mine, or tills the soil,
Can raise to Heaven his grateful eyes,
And thank the Ruler of the skies,
That, though all other goods are flown,
His limbs, his soul, are still his own;
And that no despot’s hand can blight
His home or rob him of his right;
That no majorities can wrest
His babe from its dear mother’s breast,
That by no fathers, bribed with gold,
Can their own blood for slaves be sold,
That by no wretch for murder born
Can husband from his wife be torn!
This is the freedom guaranteed
To men of every color, creed,
When first our Nation saw the light,
By this great charter of the right:
“All men are brothers, equal, free.
For happiness, life, liberty!”
This gem was won through toils and throes,
Through tribulations, pains and woes,
By our great sires, and handed down,
The noblest gift,—most precious boon!
Shall we, through fear or impotence,
Renounce this bright inheritance?
Or can we from our hearts unfix
The memories of “Seventy six”?
Forbid it Heaven! while we retain
One note of Freedom’s glorious strain.