Of America: A Voice from the Crowd.
No, I’ve no taste at all that way;
These words are not sweet in my mouth,
Though dear they are to some, you say;
A trick of speech I’ve somehow caught
I can’t hate freedom as I ought,
Or love your barterers of slaves;
In fact, if I the truth must tell,
Accurst of God
, are fit for hell,
Though they may fight, and conquer too.
And grandly told Earth
of man’s rights;
Slavery and wrong, her ancient foes,
In these you say she now delights.
Her voice that once so sternly spoke,
And, speaking, smote slaves’ fetters off,
That antique utterance is your joke,
A grand-dame’s tale, at which you scoff.
Your Times has taught us what to say,
That years must change and so must thought;
Ah, ours, for rights, not fetters fought.
Clasp you the hands that wield the whip!
Press you the palms that rivet chains!
My curse will through my teeth slip,
I’ll brand your heroes as all Cains.
For cotton, and through envy, sell
Your nobler notions if you can;
I will not, and I hold it well
I loathe these men who deal in man.
Scoff, sneer or jest; let him who likes
Prate of their courage and their worth,
Right and not Might my fancy strikes,
Though Might not Right may rule the earth.
At times, God
, for his own good will,
Gives hell, o’er men and nations, rule;
But Right, though crushed, I hold Right still,
Though worldly-wide ones call me fool.
Brute force has Cossacked nations down,
Yet Cossacks I do not adore;
Bashkirs —nay, don’t frown,—
No, Cavaliers that women sell,
To their great nobleness I’m blind;
Heroes who cash their children—well,
They’re not exactly to my mind.
One’s flesh and blood, you know, are here,
Dear to one, not as current gold;
I would not be a Cavalier,
By whom his son or daughter’s sold;
Curse those who sell their blood to lust,
Their very flesh to stripes and toil;
I spit at such—the thought, I trust,
Of such should make my blood to boil.
The very meanest thing I see,
A cringing beggar whining here,
Rather a thousand times I’d be,
Than a girl-selling Cavalier.
wills and darkly works his will,
His wisdom’s hidden from our eyes,
Yet my faith rests upon Him still,
To judge and scourge He will arise.
Wrong seems to conquer often;--Right
Seems to be conquered;--watch and wait;
The years bring seeing to our sight,
Truth’s triumph cometh, soon or late.
Therefore success I seem to see
Makes me not in the evil trust,
Nor seems its triumph sure to me,
Rather its failure. God