VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. No. 10. THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. Some of the leading sectarian papers have lately published the letter of a clergyman, giving an account of his attendance upon a criminal, (who had committed murder during a fit of intoxication) at the time of his execution, in Western New York The writer describes the agony of the wretched being his abortive attempts at prayer-his appeal for life-his horror of a violent death; and after declaring his belief that the poor victim died without hope of salvation, concludes with a warm eulogy upon the Gallows, being more than ever convinced of its utility, by the awful dread and horror which it inspired. Far from his close and noisome cell, Of summer's misty morn he shook : His light line in the rippling brook. Its scent of flowers and crisping hay; Like some foul devil-altar there While still that baleful spectre stood, Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, And smote his breast; and on his chain, His hot tears fell like rain: He saw the victim's tortured brow- In the dim eye's imploring stare, Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp! The unfelt rite at length was done The prayer unheard at length was saidAn hour had passed :-the noon day sun Smote on the features of the dead! And he who stood the doomed beside, Calm guager of the swelling tide Of mortal agony and fear, Heeding with curious eye and ear Whate'er revealed the keen excess Of man's extremest wretchedness: And who, in that dark anguish, saw An earnest of the victim's fate, The vengeful terrors of God's law, The kindlings of Eternal HateThe first drops of that fiery rain Which beats the dark red realm of Pain,Did he uplift his earnest cries Against the crime of Law, which gave His brother to that fearful grave, Whereon Hope's moon-light never lies, And Faith's white blossoms never wave To the soft breath of Memory's sighs ;Which sent a spirit marred and stained, By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, In madness and in blindness stark, Into the silent unknown dark? No-from the wild and shrinking dread With which he saw the victim led Beneath the dark veil which divides And Nature's solemn secret hides, When Power found license for its crime, Choked the young breath of Freedom out, Oh Thou! at whose rebuke the grave Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, The fiends of his revenge, were sent Thy name is Love! What then is he On the blind eyes which know Thee not, And let the light of thy pure day Melt in upon his darkened thought. Soften his hard, cold heart, and show The power which in forbearance lies, And let him feel that Mercy now is better than old sacrifice. As on the White Sea's charmed shore, The low pale fire is quivering still; The heart of man retaineth yet Gleams of its holy origin: And half quenched stars that never set Dim colors of its faded bow, And early beauty, linger there, Hath Heaven inscribed " Despair!" My brother man, Beware! With that deep voice which, from the skies Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, God's angel cries, FORBEAR! Poetry has been to me its own "exceeding great reward;" it has soothed my affliction; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.-Coleridge. You cannot live for men, without living with them. Lord! the earth is thine, And the fulness of the sea- Where the great sea-monsters roam, Thou hast builded temples fairer- All the gems that flash and shine Lord! the earth is thine, And the fulness of the earth! In their orbits sped. Tree, and plant, and opening flower, All by Thee were called to birth, From the sluggish worm that crawls Gifts of song that seem divine-- Hills arrayed in living green, Where the sunshine loves to linger, And the wind with wizard finger, Trifles with the springing grassWaters singing as they pass, (Pauses none to intervene,) With a low and pleasant tune, All the leafy time of JuneValleys with the sunshine dancing On their verdant slopes, and glancing Downward to their deepest beds Forests, regally uplifting To the clouds their crowned heads- Swaying with the swaying grain- And its shadows ever shifting. Then to Thee, of life the Giver, Thanks and songs for ever given— Every voice in concert sounding, Every heart with rapture bounding, All harmonious anthems blending, Louder swelling as ascendingTribute of the earth to Heaven! H. A. B. Deem not, Beloved! that the glow Of love with youth will know decay— The fervid passion of our youth--- Something of beauty from thy brow, An emblem of the love which lives Through every change, as time departs; Which binds our souls in one, and gives New gladness to our hearts! Flinging a halo over life Like that which gilds the life beyond! Ah! well I know thy thoughts, dear wife! To thoughts like these respond. The mother, with her dewy eye, Is dearer than the blushing bride OUR FATHER, throned in light above, Rich in the heart's best treasure, still With a calm trust we'll journey on, But love dies not-the child of God- She leads us with her radiant hand Earth's pleasant streams and pasture by, Still pointing to a better land Of bliss beyond the sky! MARY HOWITT. Priestess of Nature! in the solemn woods And by the sullen sea, whose ceaseless roar And where the cataracts dash their shattered floods Eternally beneath, thy hand hath reared Altars whereon no blood-stain hath appearedBut there, at dewy eve, or kindling dawn, Meek-hearted children, with their offerings Of buds or bursting flowers, together kneel In gladdest worship, till their spirits feel A new and holier baptism; while the springs Of joy are opened, and their waters flow Forth to the laughing light, exulting as they go! TO MY QUAKER COUSIN. "Don't tell me of the feelings, the fine sensibilities, the hope and joy, and the true poetry of man's life being blunted by the increase of years! Why, I'll hate old age, if it is true! Make this, if thee pleases, no longer an apology for the laziness thee is guilty of when thee ceases to give us and every body the scintillations of thy poetical genius.' It is not that thy days are in the yellow leaf,' but that they are days of downright-laziness!" Extract from her letter. Yes, thou art right, sweet coz! I own I am a lazy rhymer-very,- Of willing music, sad or merry; I never wet my thirsty lip At Helicon's inspiring fountain, Nor even in fancy took a trip To meet the Muses on their mountain. The voice of Fame is sweet enough, Doubtless, for devotees who love her, But then her hill is quite too rough And steep for me to clamber over. Lazy and uninspired, can I Write for thee canzonet or sonnet? To perpetrate a song upon it? Would madden, like a heavenly vision, From that bright realm where seraphs are For beauty is at discount now With the dull muse that weaves my numbers, Nor laughing eye, nor polished brow, But, for the brightness of thy youth, And for the chastened love I bear thee, And for thy gentleness and truth, Which even thievish Time must spare thee, And for thy heart which overflows With kindness for the wronged and lowly, And for thy guileless soul which glows With tenderest feelings, pure and holyAnd for that fervent zeal for Right Which burneth in thy bosom ever, And for that steadfast faith whose might In perils's hour shall fail thee never For human sympathies, which bring True hearts around thee to adore thee For these, dear coz! I kneel and fling Others may sonnetize the spell That lives within thy radiant glances, And lying bardlings boldly tell That loveliness around thee dances; Vows may be offered thee in rhyme, And worship paid in common metre But these will pass with passing time, For beauty than the wind is fleeter. Be mine the better task to find For thee a tribute undegrading: Flowers from the garden of the mind, Fragrant and pure, and never fadingGems from the mines of knowledge won, Brighter than fancy ever paintedAn offering to lay upon The altar of a heart untainted. So, when the hand of Time hath reft A tenderer beauty shall be left To sanctify their fading traces; A chastened radiance, born of Thought, Around thy path shall then be shining, With more than earthly brightness fraught, To gild and bless thy life's declining! STANZAS, TO THE ABOLITIONISTS OF AMERICA. Toil and pray! Groweth flesh and spirit faint? Think of her who pours her plaint All the day Her-the wretched negro wife, Robbed of all that sweetens lifeHer-who weeps in anguish wild For the husband and the child Torn away! Nature's ties, Binding heart with kindred heart, Tears and sighs, Wo and blight, Broken heart and palsied mind, Reason crushed and conscience blind, Darkest night He worthy is of freedom-only he And blasts the earth with pestilential breath, Where duty points. Not his the craven heart That shrinks when tyrants bluster in their wrath; But well in Freedom's strife he bears his part. SOLITUDE. The ceaseless hum of men-the dusty streets, Indulge, while over me their radiant showers Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down,And thanks to HIM my meditations crown! |