Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 20

MOLOCH IN STATE STREET.

In a foot-note of the Report of the Senate of Ma.s.sachusetts on the case of the arrest and return to bondage of the fugitive slave Thomas Sims it is stated that--"It would have been impossible for the U. S. marshal thus successfully to have resisted the law of the State, without the a.s.sistance of the munic.i.p.al authorities of Boston, and the countenance and support of a numerous, wealthy, and powerful body of citizens. It was in evidence that 1500 of the most wealthy and respectable citizens-merchants, bankers, and others--volunteered their services to aid the marshal on this occasion... . No watch was kept upon the doings of the marshal, and while the State officers slept, after the moon had gone down, in the darkest hour before daybreak, the accused was taken out of our jurisdiction by the armed police of the city of Boston."

THE moon has set: while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn Bear off your prey!

On, swift and still! the conscious street Is panged and stirred; Tread light! that fall of serried feet The dead have heard!

The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins Gushed where ye tread; Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red!

Beneath the slowly waning stars And whitening day, What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way?

What faces frown upon ye, dark With shame and pain?

Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark?

Is that young Vane?

Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on With mocking cheer?

Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage are here!

For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch's fire, Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, pa.s.sed The Tyrian sire.

Ye make that ancient sacrifice Of Mail to Gain, Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, Beneath the chain.

Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn And hate, is near; How think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear?

Thank G.o.d! our mother State can yet Her fame retrieve; To you and to your children let The scandal cleave.

Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, Make G.o.ds of gold; Let honor, truth, and manliness Like wares be sold.

Your h.o.a.rds are great, your walls are strong, But G.o.d is just; The gilded chambers built by wrong Invite the rust.

What! know ye not the gains of Crime Are dust and dross; Its ventures on the waves of time Foredoomed to loss!

And still the Pilgrim State remains What she hath been; Her inland hills, her seaward plains, Still nurture men!

Nor wholly lost the fallen mart; Her olden blood Through many a free and generous heart Still pours its flood.

That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, Shall know no check, Till a free people's foot is set On Slavery's neck.

Even now, the peal of bell and gun, And hills aflame, Tell of the first great triumph won In Freedom's name. (10)

The long night dies: the welcome gray Of dawn we see; Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, G.o.d of the free!

1851.

OFFICIAL PIETY.

Suggested by reading a state paper, wherein the higher law is invoked to sustain the lower one.

A Pious magistrate! sound his praise throughout The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh?

Sin in high places has become devout, t.i.thes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety!

The pirate, watching from his b.l.o.o.d.y deck The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold Of Acapulco, holding death in check While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads are told; The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread loss From his own carbine, glancing still abroad For some new victim, offering thanks to G.o.d!

Rome, listening at her altars to the cry Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of h.e.l.l Scour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high, Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky, "Thanks to the Lord, who giveth victory!"

What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack?

Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural phrase And saintly posture, gives to G.o.d the praise And honor of the monstrous progeny.

What marvel, then, in our own time to see His old devices, smoothly acted o'er,-- Official piety, locking fast the door Of Hope against three million soups of men,-- Brothers, G.o.d's children, Christ's redeemed,--and then, With uprolled eyeb.a.l.l.s and on bended knee, Whining a prayer for help to hide the key!

1853.

THE RENDITION.

On the 2d of June, 1854, Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave from Virginia, after being under arrest for ten days in the Boston Court House, was remanded to slavery under the Fugitive Slave Act, and taken down State Street to a steamer chartered by the United States Government, under guard of United States troops and artillery, Ma.s.sachusetts militia and Boston police. Public excitement ran high, a futile attempt to rescue Burns having been made during his confinement, and the streets were crowded with tens of thousands of people, of whom many came from other towns and cities of the State to witness the humiliating spectacle.

I HEARD the train's shrill whistle call, I saw an earnest look beseech, And rather by that look than speech My neighbor told me all.

And, as I thought of Liberty Marched handcuffed down that sworded street, The solid earth beneath my feet Reeled fluid as the sea.

I felt a sense of bitter loss,-- Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath, And loathing fear, as if my path A serpent stretched across.

All love of home, all pride of place, All generous confidence and trust, Sank smothering in that deep disgust And anguish of disgrace.

Down on my native hills of June, And home's green quiet, hiding all, Fell sudden darkness like the fall Of midnight upon noon.

And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, Hoa.r.s.e-shouting in the ear of G.o.d The blasphemy of wrong.

"O Mother, from thy memories proud, Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, Lend this dead air a breeze of health, And smite with stars this cloud.

"Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, Rise awful in thy strength," I said; Ah me! I spake but to the dead; I stood upon her grave!

6th mo., 1854.

ARISEN AT LAST.

On the pa.s.sage of the bill to protect the rights and liberties of the people of the State against the Fugitive Slave Act.