O Mother State, how quenched thy Sinai fires! 
  Is there none left of thy stanch Mayflower breed? 
No spark among the ashes of thy sires,
  Of Virtue’s altar-flame the kindling seed? 
Are these thy great men, these that cringe and creep,
  And writhe through slimy ways to place and power?—­
How long, O Lord, before thy wrath shall reap
  Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? 
Oh for one hour of that undaunted stock
That went with Vane and Sidney to the block!

Oh for a whiff of Naseby, that would sweep,
  With its stern Puritan besom, all this chaff
  From the Lord’s threshing-floor!  Yet more than half
The victory is attained, when one or two,
  Through the fool’s laughter and the traitor’s scorn,
  Beside thy sepulchre can bide the morn,
Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise anew.

TO W.L.  GARRISON

’Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.’—­Letter of H.G.  Otis.

In a small chamber, friendless and unseen,
  Toiled o’er his types one poor, unlearned young man;
The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean;
  Yet there the freedom of a race began.

Help came but slowly; surely no man yet
  Put lever to the heavy world with less: 
What need of help?  He knew how types were set,
  He had a dauntless spirit, and a press.

Such earnest natures are the fiery pith,
  The compact nucleus, round which systems grow;
Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith,
  And whirls impregnate with the central glow.

O Truth!  O Freedom! how are ye still born
  In the rude stable, in the manger nurst! 
What humble hands unbar those gates of morn
  Through which the splendors of the New Day burst!

What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell,
  Front Rome’s far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? 
Brave Luther answered YES; that thunder’s swell
  Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple crown.

Whatever can be known of earth we know,
  Sneered Europe’s wise men, in their snail-shells curled;
No! said one man in Genoa, and that No
  Out of the darkness summoned this New World.

Who is it will not dare himself to trust? 
  Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? 
Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST? 
  He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown.

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! 
  See one straightforward conscience put in pawn
To win a world; see the obedient sphere
  By bravery’s simple gravitation drawn!

Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old,
  And by the Present’s lips repeated still,
In our own single manhood to be bold,
  Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will?