Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 38

1845.

THE FISHERMEN.

HURRAH! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor!

Run up the sail again Leave to the lubber landsmen The rail-car and the steed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed.

From the hill-top looks the steeple, And the lighthouse from the sand; And the scattered pines are waving Their farewell from the land.

One glance, my lads, behind us, For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky.

Now, brothers, for the icebergs Of frozen Labrador, Floating spectral in the moonshine, Along the low, black sh.o.r.e!

Where like snow the gannet's feathers On Brador's rocks are shed, And the noisy murr are flying, Like black scuds, overhead;

Where in mist tie rock is hiding, And the sharp reef lurks below, And the white squall smites in summer, And the autumn tempests blow; Where, through gray and rolling vapor, From evening unto morn, A thousand boats are hailing, Horn answering unto horn.

Hurrah! for the Red Island, With the white cross on its crown Hurrah! for Meccatina, And its mountains bare and brown!

Where the Caribou's tall antlers O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, And the footstep of the Mickmack Has no sound upon the moss.

There we'll drop our lines, and gather Old Ocean's treasures in, Where'er the mottled mackerel Turns up a steel-dark fin.

The sea's our field of harvest, Its scaly tribes our grain; We'll reap the teeming waters As at home they reap the plain.

Our wet hands spread the carpet, And light the hearth of home; From our fish, as in the old time, The silver coin shall come.

As the demon fled the chamber Where the fish of Tobit lay, So ours from all our dwellings Shall frighten Want away.

Though the mist upon our jackets In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly From off the frozen reels; Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud, We will whistle down the wild wind, And laugh beneath the cloud!

In the darkness as in daylight, On the water as on land, G.o.d's eye is looking on us, And beneath us is His hand!

Death will find us soon or later, On the deck or in the cot; And we cannot meet him better Than in working out our lot.

Hurrah! hurrah! the west-wind Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling; Give way, my lads, give way!

Leave the coward landsman clinging To the dull earth, like a weed; The stars of heaven shall guide us, The breath of heaven shall speed!

1845.

THE LUMBERMEN.

WILDLY round our woodland quarters Sad-voiced Autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters Float his fallen leaves.

Through the tall and naked timber, Column-like and old, Gleam the sunsets of November, From their skies of gold.

O'er us, to the southland heading, Screams the gray wild-goose; On the night-frost sounds the treading Of the brindled moose.

Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, Frost his task-work plies; Soon, his icy bridges heaping, Shall our log-piles rise.

When, with sounds of smothered thunder, On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder Winter's weakened chain, Down the wild March flood shall bear them To the saw-mill's wheel, Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel.

Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below, When the earliest beams of sunlight Streak the mountain's snow, Crisps the boar-frost, keen and early, To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat.

Where the crystal Ambijejis Stretches broad and clear, And Millnoket's pine-black ridges Hide the browsing deer Where, through lakes and wide mora.s.ses, Or through rocky walls, Swift and strong, Pen.o.bscot pa.s.ses White with foamy falls;

Where, through clouds, are glimpses given Of Katahdin's sides,-- Rock and forest piled to heaven, Torn and ploughed by slides!

Far below, the Indian trapping, In the sunshine warm; Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping Half the peak in storm!

Where are mossy carpets better Than the Persian weaves, And than Eastern perfumes sweeter Seem the fading leaves; And a music wild and solemn, From the pine-tree's height, Rolls its vast and sea-like volume On the wind of night;

Make we here our camp of winter; And, through sleet and snow, Pitchy knot and beechen splinter On our hearth shall glow.

Here, with mirth to lighten duty, We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning For our toil to-day; And the welcome of returning Shall our loss repay, When, like seamen from the waters, From the woods we come, Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, Angels of our home!

Not for us the measured ringing From the village spire, Not for us the Sabbath singing Of the sweet-voiced choir, Ours the old, majestic temple, Where G.o.d's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample, Propped by lofty pines!

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, Speaks He in the breeze, As of old beneath the twilight Of lost Eden's trees!

For His ear, the inward feeling Needs no outward tongue; He can see the spirit kneeling While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim, Lamp of toil or altar burning Are alike to Him.

Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting On our rugged toil; Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil.

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, Bleak and cold, of ours, With the citron-planted islands Of a clime of flowers; To our frosts the tribute bringing Of eternal heats; In our lap of winter flinging Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor, Let the sunbeams dance, Better than the flash of sabre Or the gleam of lance!

Strike! With every blow is given Freer sun and sky, And the long-hid earth to heaven Looks, with wondering eye!

Loud behind us grow the murmurs Of the age to come; Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, Bearing harvest home!

Here her virgin lap with treasures Shall the green earth fill; Waving wheat and golden maize-ears Crown each beechen hill.

Keep who will the city's alleys Take the smooth-shorn plain'; Give to us the cedarn valleys, Rocks and hills of Maine!

In our North-land, wild and woody, Let us still have part Rugged nurse and mother st.u.r.dy, Hold us to thy heart!

Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer For thy breath of snow; And our tread is all the firmer For thy rocks below.

Freedom, hand in hand with labor, Walketh strong and brave; On the forehead of his neighbor No man writeth Slave!

Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's Pine-trees show its fires, While from these dim forest gardens Rise their blackened spires.

Up, my comrades! up and doing!

Manhood's rugged play Still renewing, bravely hewing Through the world our way!

1845.

THE SHIP-BUILDERS

THE sky is ruddy in the east, The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship's white timbers show.

Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin; The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, The mallet to the pin!