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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420575" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Moloch In State Street</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE moon has set: while yet the dawn<br>Breaks cold and gray,<br>Between the midnight and the morn<br>Bear off your prey!<br>On, swift and still! the conscious street<br>Is panged and stirred;<br>Tread light! that fall of serried feet<br>The dead have heard!<br>The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins<br>Gushed where ye tread;<br>Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains<br>Blush darkly red!<br>Beneath the slowly waning stars<br>And whitening day,<br>What stern and awful presence bars<br>That sacred way?<br>What faces frown upon ye, dark<br>With shame and pain?<br>Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark?<br>Is that young Vane?<br>Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on<br>With mocking cheer?<br>Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson,<br>And Gage are here!<br>For ready mart or favoring blast<br>Through Moloch's fire,<br>Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed<br>The Tyrian sire.<br>Ye make that ancient sacrifice<br>Of Man to Gain,<br>Your traffic thrives, where freedom dies,<br>Beneath the chain.<br>Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn<br>And hate, is near;<br>How think ye freemen, mountain-born,<br>The tale will hear?<br>Thank God! our mother State can yet<br>Her fame retrieve;<br>To you and to your children let<br>The scandal cleave.<br>Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press,<br>Make gods of gold;<br>Let honor, truth, and manliness<br>Like wares be sold.<br>Your hoards are great, your walls are strong,<br>But God is just;<br>The gilded chambers built by wrong<br>Invite the rust.<br>What! know ye not the gains of Crime<br>Are dust and dross;<br>Its ventures on the waves of time<br>Foredoomed to loss!<br>And still the Pilgrim State remains<br>What she hath been;<br>Her inland hills, her seaward plains,<br>Still nurture men!<br>Nor wholly lost the fallen mart;<br>Her olden blood<br>Through many a free and generous heart<br>Still pours its flood.<br>That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet,<br>Shall know no check,<br>Till a free people's foot is set<br>On Slavery's neck.<br>Even now, the peal of bell and gun,<br>And hills aflame,<br>Tell of the first great triumph won<br>In Freedom's name.<br>The long night dies: the welcome gray<br>Of dawn we see;<br>Speed up the heavens thy perfect day,<br>God of the free!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420575" data-title="Moloch In State Street de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="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..."></div>
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