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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420827" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The World’s Convention Of The Friends Of Emancipation, Held In London In 1840</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">YES, let them gather! Summon forth<br>The pledged philanthropy of Earth.<br>From every land, whose hills have heard<br>The bugle blast of Freedom waking;<br>Or shrieking of her symbol-bird<br>From out his cloudy eyrie breaking:<br>Where Justice hath one worshipper,<br>Or truth one altar built to her;<br>Where'er a human eye is weeping<br>O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know;<br>Where'er a single heart is keeping<br>Its prayerful watch with human woe:<br>Thence let them come, and greet each other,<br>And know in each a friend and brother!<br>Yes, let them come! from each green vale<br>Where England's old baronial halls<br>Still bear upon their storied walls<br>The grim crusader's rusted mail,<br>Battered by Paynim spear and brand<br>On Malta's rock or Syria's sand.!<br>And mouldering pennon-staves once set<br>Within the soil of Palestine,<br>By Jordan and Gennesaret;<br>Or, borne with England's battle line,<br>O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping,<br>Or, midst the camp their banners drooping,<br>With dews from hallowed Hermon wet,<br>A holier summons now is given<br>Than that gray herinit's voice of old,<br>Which unto all the winds of heaven<br>The banners of the Cross unrolled!<br>Not for the long-deserted shrine;<br>Not for the dull unconscious sod,<br>Which tells not by one lingering sign<br>That there the hope of Israel trod;<br>But for that truth, for which alone<br>In pilgrim eyes are sanctified<br>The garden moss, the mountain stone,<br>Whereon His holy sandals pressed, —<br>The fountain which His lip hath blessed, —<br>Whate'er hath touched His garment's hem<br>At Bethany or Bethlehem,<br>Or Jordan's river-side.<br>For Freedom in the name of Him<br>Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor,<br>To break the chain from every limb,<br>The bolt from every prison door!<br>For these, o'er all the earth hath passed<br>An ever-deepening trumpet blast,<br>As if an angel's breath had lent<br>Its vigor to the instrument.<br>And Wales, from Snowrich's mountain wall,<br>Shall startle at that thrilling call,<br>As if she heard her bards again;<br>And Erin's 'harp on Tara's wall'<br>Give out its ancient strain,<br>Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal, —<br>The melody which Erin loves,<br>When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness<br>And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness,<br>The hand of her O'Connell moves!<br>Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill,<br>And mountain hold, and heathery hill,<br>Shall catch and echo back the note,<br>As if she heard upon the air<br>Once more her Cameronian's prayer.<br>And song of Freedom float.<br>And cheering echoes shall reply<br>From each remote dependency,<br>Where Britain's mighty sway is known,<br>In tropic sea or frozen zone;<br>Where'er her sunset flag is furling,<br>Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling;<br>From Indian Bengal's groves of palm<br>And rosy fields and gales of balm,<br>Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled<br>Through regal Ava's gates of gold;<br>And from the lakes and ancient woods<br>And dim Canadian solitudes,<br>Whence, sternly from her rocky throne,<br>Queen of the North, Quebec looks down;<br>And from those bright and ransomed Isles<br>Where all unwonted Freedom smiles,<br>And the dark laborer still retains<br>The scar of slavery's broken chains!<br>From the hoar Alps, which sentinel<br>The gateways of the land of Tell,<br>Where morning's keen and earliest glance<br>On Jura's rocky wall is thrown,<br>And from the olive bowers of France<br>And vine groves garlanding the Rhone, —<br>'Friends of the Blacks,' as true and tried<br>As those who stood by Oge's side,<br>And heard the Haytien's tale of wrong,<br>Shall gather at that summons strong;<br>Broglie, Passy, and he whose song<br>Breathed over Syria's holy sod,<br>And in the paths which Jesus trod,<br>And murmured midst the hills which hem<br>Crownless and sad Jerusalem,<br>Hath echoes whereso'er the tone<br>Of Israel's prophey-lyre is known.<br>Still let them come; from Quito's walls,<br>And from the Orinoco's tide,<br>From Lima's Inca-haunted halls,<br>From Santa Fe and Yucatan, —<br>Men who by swart Guerrero's side<br>Proclaimed the deathless rights of man,<br>Broke every bond and fetter off,<br>And hailed in every sable serf<br>A free and brother Mexican!<br>Chiefs who across the Andes' chain<br>Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon,<br>And seen on Junin's fearful plain,<br>Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain<br>The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon!<br>And Hayti, from her mountain land,<br>Shall send the sons of those who hurled<br>Defiance from her blazing strand,<br>The war-gage from her Petition's hand,<br>Alone against a hostile world.<br>Nor all unmindful, thou, the while,<br>Land of the dark and mystic Nile!<br>Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame<br>All tyrants of a Christian name,<br>When in the shade of Gizeh's pile,<br>Or, where, from Abyssinian hills<br>El Gerek's upper fountain fills,<br>Or where from Mountains of the Moon<br>El Abiad bears his watery boon,<br>Where'er thy lotus blossoms swim<br>Within their ancient hallowed waters;<br>Where'er is heard the Coptic hymn,<br>Or song of Nubia's sable daughters;<br>The curse of slavery and the crime,<br>Thy bequest from remotest time,<br>At thy dark Mehemet's decree<br>Forevermore shall pass from thee;<br>And chains forsake each captive's limb<br>Of all those tribes, whose hills around<br>Have echoed back the cymbal sound<br>And victor horn of Ibrahim.<br>And thou whose glory and whose crime<br>To earth's remotest bound and clime,<br>In mingled tones of awe and scorn,<br>The echoes of a world have borne,<br>My country! glorious at thy birth,<br>A day-star flashing brightly forth,<br>The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn!<br>Oh, who could dream that saw thee then,<br>And watched thy rising from afar,<br>That vapors from oppression's fen<br>Would cloud the upward tending star?<br>Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard,<br>Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning,<br>Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king,<br>To mock thee with their welcoming,<br>Like Hades when her thrones were stirred<br>To greet the down-east Star of Morning!<br>'Aha! and art thou fallen thus?<br>Art thou become as one of us?'<br>Land of my fathers! there will stand,<br>Amidst that world-assembled band,<br>Those owning thy maternal claim<br>Unweakened by thy crime and shame;<br>The sad reprovers of thy wrong;<br>The children thou hast spurned so long.<br>Still with affection's fondest yearning<br>To their unnatural mother turning.<br>No traitors they! but tried and leal,<br>Whose own is but thy general weal,<br>Still blending with the patriot's zeal<br>The Christian's love for human kind,<br>To caste and climate unconfined.<br>A holy gathering! peaceful all:<br>No threat of war, no savage call<br>For vengeance on an erring brother!<br>But in their stead the godlike plan<br>To teach the brotherhood of man<br>To love and reverence one another,<br>As sharers of a common blood,<br>The children of a common God!<br>Yet, even at its lightest word,<br>Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred:<br>Spain, watching from her Moro's keep<br>Her slave-ships traversing the deep,<br>And Rio, in her strength and pride,<br>Lifting, along her mountain-side,<br>Her snowy battlements and towers,<br>Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers,<br>With bitter hate and sullen fear<br>Its freedom-giving voice shall hear;<br>And where my country's flag is flowing,<br>On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing,<br>Above the Nation's council halls,<br>Where Freedom's praise is loud and long,<br>While close beneath the outward walls<br>The driver plies his reeking thong;<br>The hammer of the man-thief falls,<br>O'er hypocritic cheek and brow<br>The crimson flush of shame shall glow<br>And all who for their native land<br>Are pledging life and heart and hand,<br>Worn watchers o'er her changing weal,<br>Who for her tarnished honor feel,<br>Through cottage door and council-hall<br>Shall thunder an awakening call.<br>The pen along its page shall burn<br>With all intolerable scorn;<br>An eloquent rebuke shall go<br>On all the winds that Southward blow;<br>From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb,<br>Warning and dread appeal shall come,<br>Like those which Israel heard from him,<br>The Prophet of the Cherubim;<br>Or those which sad Esaias hurled<br>Against a sin-accursed world!<br>Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling<br>Unceasing from its iron wing,<br>With characters inscribed thereon,<br>As fearful in the despot's hall<br>As to the pomp of Babylon<br>The fire-sign on the palace wall!<br>And, from her dark iniquities,<br>Methinks I see my country rise:<br>Not challenging the nations round<br>To note her tardy justice done;<br>Her captives from their chains unbound,<br>Her prisons opening to the sun:<br>But tearfully her arms extending<br>Over the poor and unoffending;<br>Her regal emblem now no longer<br>A bird of prey with talons reeking,<br>Above the dying captive shrieking,<br>But, spreading out her ample wing,<br>A broad, impartial covering,<br>The weaker sheltered by the stronger!<br>Oh, then to Faith's anointed eyes<br>The promised token shall be given;<br>And on a nation's sacrifice,<br>Atoning for the sin of years,<br>And wet with penitential tears,<br>The fire shall fall from Heaven!</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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The pledged philanthropy of Earth.
From every land, whose hills have heard
The bugle blast of Freedom waking;
Or shrieking of her symbol-bird
From out his cloudy eyrie breaking:
Where Justice hath one worshipper,..."></div>
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