The bugle-march of Liberty to wind,
And call her hosts beneath the breaking light,
The keen reveille of her morn of fight,
Is but the hoarse note of the blood-hound’s
baying,
The wolf’s long howl behind the bondman’s
flight!
Oh for the tongue of him who lies at rest
In Quincy’s shade of patrimonial trees,
Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best,
To lend a voice to Freedom’s sympathies,
And hail the coming of the noblest guest
The Old World’s wrong has given the New World
of the West!
1851.
AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE
These lines were addressed to my worthy
friend Joshua Coffin, teacher, historian, and
antiquarian. He was one of the twelve persons
who with William Lloyd Garrison formed the first anti-slavery
society in New England.
Old friend, kind friend! lightly down
Drop time’s snow-flakes on thy crown!
Never be thy shadow less,
Never fail thy cheerfulness;
Care, that kills the cat, may, plough
Wrinkles in the miser’s brow,
Deepen envy’s spiteful frown,
Draw the mouths of bigots down,
Plague ambition’s dream, and sit
Heavy on the hypocrite,
Haunt the rich man’s door, and ride
In the gilded coach of pride;—
Let the fiend pass!—what can he
Find to do with such as thee?
Seldom comes that evil guest
Where the conscience lies at rest,
And brown health and quiet wit
Smiling on the threshold sit.
I, the urchin unto whom,
In that smoked and dingy room,
Where the district gave thee rule
O’er its ragged winter school,
Thou didst teach the mysteries
Of those weary A B C’s,—
Where, to fill the every pause
Of thy wise and learned saws,
Through the cracked and crazy wall
Came the cradle-rock and squall,
And the goodman’s voice, at strife
With his shrill and tipsy wife,
Luring us by stories old,
With a comic unction told,
More than by the eloquence
Of terse birchen arguments
(Doubtful gain, I fear), to look
With complacence on a book!—
Where the genial pedagogue
Half forgot his rogues to flog,
Citing tale or apologue,
Wise and merry in its drift
As was Phaedrus’ twofold gift,
Had the little rebels known it,
Risum et prudentiam monet!
I,—the man of middle years,
In whose sable locks appears
Many a warning fleck of gray,—
Looking back to that far day,
And thy primal lessons, feel
Grateful smiles my lips unseal,
As, remembering thee, I blend
Olden teacher, present friend,
Wise with antiquarian search,
In the scrolls of State and Church
Named on history’s title-page,
Parish-clerk and justice sage;
For the ferule’s wholesome awe
Wielding now the sword of law.
