THE LYNCHERS.
A thousand yelling savages proclaim
Their swift advance. What voice or hand can tame
The maddened multitude? With curses loud,
With guns and halters armed, the frenzied crowd
Has rushed the guard. A lurid bonfire shows
The prison walls they storm, while passion glows
In many an eye, alike, of grizzled Age,
And ruddy Youth, aroused to brutal rage.
Their sentries overcome, a quick retreat,
The soldiers make to cover. Sledges beat
And crash through iron doors before the eyes
Of city officers. And flames that rise
From heaps of furniture and fagots, blended,
Upon the stair the soldiers have ascended,
A roaring furnace make the prison hall;
While wild alarms the fire department call.
The screams of prisoners, in terror, swell
The clamorous noise to sounds as harsh as hell,
As firemen, driven by shots and brandished knives
And dynamite—to save their precious lives—
Desert their posts; and Manhood weakened falls
In darker ruin than wrecks of battered walls;
For men, once held courageous, quail and cower,
While Anarchy, unchallenged, seizes power.
At last the desperate prisoner released,
But chased and caught again, like savage beast,
Is dragged before the self-appointed court
Whose blear-eyed judge enjoys the awful sport.
In reckless impudence, like beggars ride,
He sits—with oaths where Justice should preside
Condemns. About the wretch his followers close,
With threats of death, if aught their will oppose.
In protest Wisdom lifts her voice in vain;
With jeers and ribald shouts and high disdain,
The Mob uprears his front; but Justice stands,
And, arm uplifted, solemnly demands:
Think you, because I’m slow as God is slow,
That any can escape me? Nay, the low
And high alike I reach. Though lame, I smite
At last all who defy my sovereign might.
With hunger wild, ferocious beasts obey
Their lust for blood—pursue and rend the prey;
But baser far than beast or fiend or ghoul,
Unfit to dwell in caves where tigers prowl,
Or live where lions lick their bloody paws,
And rule the jungle-world with ravenous jaws;
Incarnate Savagery, athirst for gore,
Begone! and show your hideous face no more.
Lest brooding Terror bring the she-wolf days
Again, and men afraid, for safety raise
Above their lawless heads a sceptered hand
To rule with iron Freedom’s bleeding land.
The rule of ruffians, who would bear, instead
Of low-bred Tyranny, with hydra head,
The nations choose them kings to give the measure
That men will use, of Freedom’s priceless treasure.
The seed of crime from every halter flies,
When multitudes of murderers arise
To execute the laws; by every stake
Where lawless lynchers direful vengeance take,
Abundant harvests grow. Beware! The strains
Of high Arabian blood, upon the plains,
By Spanish conquerors left, to mustangs fell—
Surprises of the future, who can tell?
O, men! with Southern hearts, unselfish, brave,
Go hunt this monster down—the negro save:
And save your land, your homes: it is your place
To save from hurt the fair Caucasian race;
As men of Anglo-Saxon blood you claim
A primacy. But hear: Except you aim
To hold such leadership by lofty deed
And high ideal, you will not always lead.
If Justice, grieved, shall tear her temples down
And cast aside from country, city, town,
Her pillars, church and school—as courts and jails.
Dismantled, fall, our great Republic fails.
With insults, Wrong exults o’er Right exiled;
The smiling field reverts to tangled wild;
To violence and blood, unhappy men,
Abandoned, turn the home to beastly den.
—J. THOMAS COOPER.