Classic Poem

Scarcely the hush of horror gives way thro' the country,
Ere from the Westland breaks the wild war-cry that grieves us.
Here the oppressor has come, he has reaped his rude harvest,
And the black ridges are left in the desolate cornfield.
Low lies the village; the people stand, dull and disheartened,
Wondering what miscreant shall march with the banner of Freedom.
Oh! thou blue banner of God, with the stars of thy promise,
Wave in thy fury, avenge this usurping and insult!
Crack! thou crystal! let flame from the high empyrean,
Sweep from the outraged earth the vile chief and his legions.

Lawrence is fallen! Our friends and our brothers are murdered!
And your smug President soothly subscribes their death warrant.
Man! walk not forth, lest the beasts of the meadow upbraid thee—
True to their office, fulfilling the task God appointed.
Even the mastiff shall greet thee with howls of derision—
He who, left with the treasure, forsakes not its keeping—
Mocking the thief, giving battle till one of them perish.
Yea! let the meanest thing that is faithful deride him;
Let stocks and stones thank God that they cannot do treason.
Set him aside, my country! be great and impeach him!
Write out his dark account, tell his deeds as he did them.
Chosen to serve the people, his servants shall bind them.
Sworn to uphold the law, he will cheat and degrade it.
Blood has he counselled—not once but again and often.
Blood shall he have, poured to God with a holy intention—
True blood of Seventy-Six, that brave men have bequeathed us—
Left to be spent as they spent it, freely for Freedom.

Hark! E'en the pulpit rebukes the slow drowse of the anthem,
Praising of god, amid actions that praise him in nowise.
Here some brave priest lifts his voice; the far rapine and bloodshed,
And murderous manners at home, move his eloquent finger.
“Shame on you Christians,” he cries, “if with such you have friendship,
And, if you be not ashamed, let your Pastor disown you.”

Thanks! good pastor, our tribute of thanks for thy fervor—
'Tis but a spark—let it kindle the wide congregation
With that clear redness of shame which hath grace before Heaven.
With that good tingling that rouses men's slumbering virtue;
Each confessing to each, we were careless and brutish;
Sat unawakened by, while they hewed down our brethren.
Thus, by the sorrowing face shall the heart be made better.
This is as things should be—let the priest lead the people.

Stamp them, as melted wax, with high feeling and purpose.
Who hath anointed the man who shall stand looking Godward,
That he should pipe to the tune of their wanton wishes?
Oh! what a heathen Church shall we have if men's passions,
Traffic and greed, are to measure the text for the preacher.