in his father, his friend, or himself,
By head or by hand must have toiled,
And the brow that is canopied over with pelf,
By Labor's own sweat has been soiled!
AN OFF-HAND ANSWER TO THE QUESTION.
No jingler of rhymes, and no mingler of phrases,
No tuner of times, and no pruner of daisies,
No lullaby lyrist with nothing to say,
No small sentimentalist fainting away,
No Ardert of albums, no trifling Tyrtæus,
No bilious misanthrope loathing to see us,
No gradus-and-prosody maker of verses,
No Hector of tragedy vaporing curses,
In a word - not a bad one no mere "poetaster,"
The monkey that follows some troubadour master,
And filching from Tennyson, Shelley, or Keats,
With cunning mosaic his coterie cheats
Into voting the poor petty-larceny fool,
A charming disciple of Wordsworth's sweet school!
Not a bit of it! - Pilferers, duncy and dreary;
Human society's utterly weary
Of gilt insincerities hopping in verse,
And stately hexameters plumed like a hearse,
And second-hand sentiment sugared with ice,
And a third course of passions, warmed up very nice, And peaches of wax, and your sham wooden pine,
The fitting dessert of a feast so divine!
With musical lies, and mechanical stuff,
The verse-ridden world has been pestered enough;
And yet in its heart, if unsmothered by words,
It still can respond, from its innermost chords,
To generous, truthful, melodious Sense,
To beautiful language and feelings intense,
To human affection sincerely poured out,
To Eloquence, — tagged with a rhyme, or without,
To anything tasteful, and hearty, and true,
Delicate, graceful, and noble, and new.
Aye, find me the man, or the woman,
or child,
Though modest yet bold, and though spirited, mild,
With a mind that can think, and a heart that can feel,
And the tongue and the pen that are skilled to reveal,
And the eye that hath wept, and the hand that will aid,
And the brow that in peril was never afraid,
With courage to dare, and with keenness to plan,
And tact to declare what is pleasant to Man,
While guiding, and teaching, and training his mind,
While spurring the lazy, and leading the blind,
With pureness in youth, and religion in age,
And cordial affections at every stage,
The harp of this woman, this man, or this youth,
By genius well-strung, and made tuneful by truth,
Shall charm and shall ravish the world at its will,
And make its old heart yet tremble and thrill,
While all men shall own it, and feel it, and know it,
Gladly and gratefully, - Here is the Poet!
I have a glorious mission,
And must obey the call-
A claim! and a petition!
To set before you all.
Away with party blindness,
Away with petty spite!
My Claim is one of Kindness,
My Prayer is one of Right:
And while in grace ye listen -
For tenderness, I know
Your eyes shall dim and glisten,
Your hearts shall thrill and glow!
For, on those hearts is written
The spirit of my song,
I claim your love for Britain,
In spite of every wrong!
I claim it for your mother,
Your sister, and your spouse, Your father, friend, and brother, The "Hector of your vows!"
In spite of all the evils
That statesmen ever brewed,
Or busy printer's devils,
Or Celtic gratitude,
In spite of politicians,
And diplomatic fuss,
Your feelings and traditions
Are cordially with us!
O yes! your recollections
Look back, with streaming eye,
To pour those old affections
On scenes and days gone by;
Your Eagle well remembers
His dear old island-nest,
And sorrow stirs the embers
Of love within his breast.
Ah! need I tell of places
You dream and dwell on still? Those old familiar faces
Of English vale and hill,
The sites you think of, sobbing,
And seek as pilgrims seek,
With brows and bosoms throbbing,
And tears upon your cheek.
Or should I touch on glories
That date in ages gone,
Those dear historic stories,
When England's name was won,
The tales your children thronging
So gladly hear you tell,
And note their father's longing,
And love that longing well.
For language, follies, fashions,
Religion, honor, shame,
And human loves, and passions,
Oh! we are just the same;
You, you are England growing
To Continental state,
And we Columbia, glowing
With all that makes you great.
Yes, Anglo-Saxon brother,
I see your heart is right,
And we will warm each other,
With all our loves alight;
In feeling and in reason
My Claim is stowed away,-
And kissing is in season
For ever and a day!-
And now in frank contrition,
Oh brother mine, give heed,
And hear the just Petition
My feeble tongue would plead,
I plead across the waters,
So deeply crimson-stained,
For Afric's sons and daughters
Whom freemen hold enchained!
I taunt you not unkindly
With ills you didn't make,
I would not wish you blindly
In haste the bond to break;
But tenderly and truly
To file away the chain,
And render justice duly
To Man's Estate again!
O judge ye how degrading-
A Christian bought and sold!
And human monsters trading
In human flesh for gold!
When ruthlessly they plunder
Poor Afric's homes defiled,
And all to sell - asunder!
The mother, and her child.
O free and fearless nation,
Wipe out this damning spot,
Earth's worst abomination,
And nature's blackest blot
Begin and speed thee rather
To help with hand and eye
The children of your Father
Beneath his tropic sky.
He He who formed and frees us,
And makes us white within,
Who knows how Holy Jesus
May love that tinted skin!
For none can tell how darkly
The sun of Jewry shed
Its burning shadows starkly
On Jesus' homeless head!
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