Twilight Thoughts
The sun hath set in glory—and a fold
Of burnish'd purple lies upon the sky,
Like the rich thought of some just parted joy,
Yet thrilling vividly around the heart.
The year's first sunset;—'t is most beautiful!
Would it might be an augury of good
To the fair land it shines on. But, alas!
What may we hope of blessing for the head
Of unrepenting guilt;—or, for the hand
—Red with the stain of murder, full of wrong
And foul oppression—shamelessly stretch'd out
To scatter to the winds the solemn oaths
Of broken treaty bands. The red man looks
Across his fathers’ lands, and thinks how once
They fed the white-brow'd stranger, when he came
With his weak hand to their low forest hut,
And they could well have crush'd him. Now he seeks
From the poor wasted remnant of their sons,
To rend their last few acres,—sacred spots
Where the dead lie unsepulchred!—and drive
The newly blest ones from their scarce found joys
Of home and social love, to be again
Sad houseless wanderers!
Years go circling by
With all their rolling suns and changing scenes,
In regular progression, and the slave
Still bends his aching forehead to the toil
That brings him no reward. Another year!—
And still the Christian loads his brother's neck
With the vile weight of fetters—tasks his arm
And goads his sinews to their daily toil,
With the keen lash, or, in the market-place,
Bids him be number'd with the brute and sold!
Another year! and shall that too go by,
And find his wrongs uncared for? Shall he still
Groan ‘neath his lot till life at last goes out,
And win no sympathy? Oh ye who love
Your Maker's image, even in the slave,
Shake from your hearts all thoughts of selfishness,
And with tears, prayers, and every energy,
Stretch'd to its firmest purpose, in his cause,
Cease not to plead, to struggle, to persuade,
'Till ye have won him back his long lost rights,
Or your own hearts are slumbering in death
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Confessions of The Year
The gray old year—the dying year,
His sands were well nigh run;
When there came by one in priestly weed,
To ask of the deeds he'd done.
“Now tell me, ere thou treadst the path
Thy brethren all have trode,
The scenes that life has shown to thee
Upon thine onward road.”
“I've seen the sunbeam rise and set,
As it rose and set before
And the hearts of men bent earthwardly,
As they have been evermore;
The Christian raised his hallow'd fanes,
And bent the knee to God;
But his hand was strong, and guilt and wrong
Defaced the earth he trod.
“The Indian, by his forest streams,
Still chased the good red deer,
Or turn'd away to kneel and pray
With the Christian's faith and fear;
The hunting-knife he flung aside,
He dropp'd the warrior blade,
And delved for bread the soil o'er which
His fathers idly stray'd.
“The white man saw that gold was there,
And sought, with savage hand,
To drive his guiltless brother forth,
A wanderer o'er the land.
I saw—and gave the tale of shame
To swell on history's page,—
A blot upon Columbia's name
For many a future age.
“With aching brow and wearied limb,
The slave his toil pursued;
And oft I saw the cruel scourge
Deep in his blood imbrued;
He till'd oppression's soil, where men
For liberty had bled,
And the eagle wing of Freedom waved
In mockery, o'er his head.
“The earth was fill'd with the triumph shout
Of men who had burst their chains;
But his, the heaviest of them all,
Still lay on his burning veins;
In his master's hall there was luxury,
And wealth, and mental light;
But the very book of the Christian law
Was hidden from him in night.
“In his master's halls there was wine and mirth,
And songs for the newly free;
But his own low cabin was desolate
Of all but misery.
He felt it all—and to bitterness
His heart within him turn'd,
While the panting wish for liberty
Like a fire in his bosom burn'd.
“The haunting thought of his wrongs grew changed
To a darker and fiercer hue,
Till the horrible shape it sometimes wore
At last familiar grew;
There was darkness all within his heart,
And madness in his soul,
And the demon spark, in his bosom nursed,
Blazed up beyond control.
“Then came a scene—oh! such a scene!
I would I might forget
The ringing sound of the midnight scream,
And the hearth-stone redly wet!
The mother slain while she shriek'd in vain
For her infant's threaten'd life,
And the flying form of the frighted child,
Struck down by the bloody knife.
“There's many a heart that yet will start,
From its troubled sleep, at night,
As the horrid form of the vengeful slave
Comes in dreams before the sight.
The slave was crush'd, and his fetters’ link
Drawn tighter than before;
And the bloody earth again was drench'd
With the streams of his flowing gore.
“Ah! know they not, that the tightest band
Must burst with the wildest power?—
That the more the slave is oppress'd and wrong'd,
Will be fiercer his rising hour?
They may thrust him back with the arm of might,
They may drench the earth with his blood,—
But the best and purest of their own,
Will blend with the sanguine flood.
“I could tell thee more,—but my strength is gone,
And my breath is wasting fast;
Long ere the darkness to-night has fled,
Will my life from the earth have pass'd;
But this, the sum of all I have learn'd,
Ere I go I will tell to thee;—
If tyrants would hope for tranquil hearts,
They must let the oppress'd go free.”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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The Christian Slave
A CHRISTIAN! going, gone!
Who bids for God's own image? for his grace,
Which that poor victim of the market-place
Hath in her suffering won?
My God! can such things be?
Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done
Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one
Is even done to Thee?
In that sad victim, then,
Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand;
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!
A Christian up for sale!
Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, Her patience shall not fail!
A heathen hand might deal
Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years:
But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears,
Ye neither heed nor feel.
Con well thy lesson o'er,
Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
The outcast and the poor.
But wisely shut the ray
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart,
And to her darkened mind alone impart
One stern command, Obey!3
So shalt thou deftly raise
The market price of human flesh; and while
On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave, reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom first and best,
Thy poor disciples. sell.
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla feels
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day:
But our poor slave in vain.
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes;
Its rites will only swell his market price,
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh, from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell;
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain;
Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry,
Filling the arches of the hollow sky,
How long, O God, how long?
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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What Is A Slave, Mother
What is a slave, mother?—I heard you say
That word with a sorrowful voice, one day;
And it came again to my thoughts last night,
As I laid awake in the broad moonlight;
Methinks I have heard a story told,
Of some poor men, who are bought and sold,
And driven abroad with stripes to toil,
The live-long day on a stranger's soil;
Is this true mother?
May children as young as I be sold,
And torn away from their mother's hold—
From home—from all they have loved and known,
To dwell in the great wide world alone,
Far, far away in some distant place,
Where they never may see their parents’ face?
Ah! how I should weep to be torn from you!
Tell me, dear mother, can this be true?
Alas, yes, my child.
Does the master love the slave child well,
That he takes away in his house to dwell?
Does he teach him all that he ought to know,
And wipe his tears when they sometimes flow—
And watch beside him in sickness and pain,
Till health comes back to his cheek again—
And kneel each night by his side to pray,
That God will keep him through life's rough way?
Alas, no, my child.
Ah, then must the tales I have heard be true,
Of the cruel things that the masters do;
That the poor slaves often must creep to bed,
On their scatter'd straw, but scantily fed;
Be sometimes loaded with heavy chains;
And flogg'd till their blood the keen lash stains;
While none will care for their bitter cry,
Or soothe their hearts when their grief is high.
It is so, my child.
And is it not, mother, a sinful thing,
The bosoms of others with pain to wring—
To bid them go labour and delve the soil,
And seize the reward of their weary toil—
For men to tear men from their homes away,
And sell them for gold, like a lawful prey!
Oh surely the land where such deeds are done,
Must be a most savage and wicked one!
It is this, my child.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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My Cottage Home
My cottage home! my cottage home!
How beautiful it lies,
Amid its quiet loveliness,
Beneath our bright blue skies.
A stranger's eye might mark it not,
Nor deem that it was fair;—
To me it is a lovely spot,
For those I love are there.
In summer there are wild flowers round,
And the tall forest weaves
A drapery of light and shade,
With its green and pleasant leaves;
And thousand birds are pouring out,
To the gay and singing breeze,
From the wild joys of their leaping hearts,
A thousand melodies.
The shadowing of an oak's green boughs
Is flung the low roof o'er;
And clambering vines their blossoms hang
About the open door.
And round the harvest's ripening wealth
Waves in its yellow light;
And the feathery tassels of the maize
Bend gracefully and slight.
But were it thousand times more fair—
If o'er the fertile soil
Oppression shook her manacles,
And scourged the slave to toil—
To me the rudest desert wild
Were better for my home,
So never on its arid breeze
The voice of wrong might come.
But round my home, my cottage home,
The tyrant never treads,
And o'er the field's luxuriant wealth
No slave his sad tear sheds.
And were it not that I have learn'd
In other scenes to know
Of deeds of cruelty and wrong,
And of the oppress'd ones’ woe—
And were it not that still a tale
Is wafted on the air,
Telling of fearful injuries,
And anguish and despair;
I might, perchance, almost forget
The guilt and wrongs of earth,
And deem that brightness gleam'd, alone,
Around the household hearth.
But woe for man's dark cruelty!
His selfishness and pride!
For him the earth is drench'd with tears,
With human life-blood dyed.
In his own freedom glorying,
He lifts his voice on high,
While on his brother's shrinking form
His crushing fetters lie.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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A True Ballad
A glorious land is this of ours,
A land of liberty!
Through all the wide earth's bounds you ‘ll find
None else so truly free!
Go north or south, or east or west,
Wherever you may roam,
There's not a land like this of ours,
The stranger's refuge home!
And yet methinks it were but well,
The tale might not be told,
That where our banner proudliest floats,
Are human sinews sold.
And when we boast that o'er our soil
No tyrants footstep treads,
'T were well if we could hide the blood,
The red scourge daily sheds.
Yet still is ours a glorious land!
Our shouts rise wild and high—
I would such tales as I have heard,
Might give them not the lie.
It was a mournful mother, sat
Within the prison walls;
And bitterly adown her cheek
The scalding tear-drop falls.
She sat within the prison walls,
Amidst her infants three;
The bars were strong, the bolts well drawn,
She might not hope to flee.
And still the tears fell down her cheek,
And when a footstep came,
A shudder of convulsive fear
Went o'er her quivering frame.
It was not for the dungeon's chill,
Nor for the gloom it wore,
Nor that the pangs of conscious guilt
Her frighted bosom tore.—
For though in prison cell she lay,
In freedom's happy clime,
Her hand was innocent of wrong,
They charged her not with crime;
T was that she wore a dusky brow,
She lay within that hold,
Until her human limbs and heart
Were chaffer'd off for gold.
Sold with her babes—all, one by one,
Forever torn apart—
And not one faint hope left to cling
Around her broken heart.
Yet still is ours a glorious land!
Raise paeans loud and high,
To that which fills all patriot breasts,
Our country's liberty.
Her husband was a freeman good,
He lived in Maryland;
Where now in bootless grief he wept
His broken marriage band.
He loved her when they both were young
And though she was a slave,
He wedded her, and with his hand,
Changeless affection gave.
And when their prattling infants smiled,
Upon his cottage floor,
For them and her, with cheerful heart,
His daily toil he bore.
But woe for him, and woe for her!
Her children all were slaves;
Less grief their parents’ hearts had borne,
To weep above their graves.
For still as one by one they grew
To childhood's franksome years,
They one by one were torn away
To bondage and to tears.—
Torn far away to distant scenes,
Like green leaves from their stem;
And never to their home, bereaved,
Came tidings more of them.
Now all were wrench'd apart—there was
No deeper grief to bear;
And they might calmly sit them down
In agonized despair.
For though our land is proudly free,
All other lands above,
There's none may dare to knit again,
Those sacred cords of love.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Sunset Hour
No! I have not forgotten yet the gentle sunset hour,
That comes with such a soothing touch, to shut the brightleaved flower;
Nor have I yet forgotten those, who shared its light with me,
Amidst a scene I fondly love, though distant far it be.
A gleaming of its parting light is lingering even now,
With dim and faded brilliancy, around my lifted brow;
While memory flings aside the veil that hangs o'er parted things,
And drives the shadow from the past, before her glancing wings.
I seem to see thee, gentle friend, before me even yet!
So meekly in thy wonted place, beside the casement set,
With calm still brow and placid eye across the landscape bent,
Where all of nature's varied charms are beautifully blent.
The gliding stream, the low white mill, the hill upswelling high,
With its few crowning forest-trees so painted on the sky;
The vine-hung crag, the shadowy wood, the fields of tufted maize,
And emerald meadow-slopes, that gleam beneath the sunset rays.
In sooth, it is a lovely scene; alas! that some as fair,
Man's lawless selfishness should make the home of dark despair.
That ‘midst glad nature's purity, the bending slave should tread,
And proud oppression o'er the earth a waste of anguish spread!
Hath God's rich mercy form'd the earth so beautifully bright,
For man to wrap his brother's soul in gloominess and night?
That all its charms must be unseen, its loveliness unfelt,
By eyes and hearts all dimm'd and broke by cruelty and guilt.
No! never hath he meant that those, within whose forms are shrined
The rich and deep capacities of an undying mind,
Should ‘neath a brother's foot be crush'd, be loaded with his chains,
And drain, to feed his riot waste, the life-blood from their veins.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Emancipation
Gladness in Mexico! A pealing shout,
From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills;
And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven,
Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more
The wild bird springing upward from its nest,
Or the free waters in their gushing glee,
Seem taunting man that they are masterless,
While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd
Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide,
The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home,
He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn
Unwillingly to toil:—the heavy spell,
That ‘numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness,
Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound
Across the glorious earth, as though they were
Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice
Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air,
As like the woodland bird “with folded wing
He drops into his nest”—or goes at morn,
With light and eager spirit to the toil
From which no hand withholds the just reward!
Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs
Are stifled by no fetters—and an eye
That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul
Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall
From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined,
Hath yet a higher joy!—and there is one,*
Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach
His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip
Hath learn'd to murmur, father.
But our land!—
The curse is on it still!—the slave-fiend stalks
Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills;
A tyrant to the tyrants he has made;
Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts
Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild
And elfish faces that look forth at eve,
On wilder'd travellers, ‘midst the cheating shades,
And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise.
So men go crouching to the demon power,
Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name,
Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage;
And offering human victims at his shrine,
Instead of nobly standing forth, like men,
To drive him yelling from the glorious earth,
That he pollutes and blackens with his tread.
Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such,
Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate
In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love,
And with much sympathy, lament the fate
Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike
One single link, in all their weight of chains?
Strange! that the high capacities of mind,
Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold—
Till even the soul itself is valued less,
Than “so much trash as may be grasped thus.”
(*Guerrero)
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Gloom
Do you feel sorrowful? I sometimes do,
When busy thought tells me the sufferings
Of some in our south land. Their brows are not
So fair as thine, by much, but yet they are
Our sisters, for the mighty God hath given
To them the boon of an immortal soul.
Yet they are made through life's long years to toil,
Scourge-driven like the brute; and with the fine
And delicate pulses of a human heart,
Stirring to anguish in their bosoms, sold!
Ay, like the meanest household chattel, sold!
Vended from hand to hand, while with each wrench
Their torn hearts bleed at every throbbing pore.
Alas! how can I but feel sorrowful,
To think upon their woes?
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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To A Stranger
I know thee not, young maiden, yet I know that there must be
Around that heart of thine, sweet ties of clinging sympathy;
Dwell'st thou not ‘midst thy childhood's hours, a loved and loving one,
Around whose path affection's light hath ever sunshine thrown?
A sister's arm is round thee twined, perchance, oh deeply blest!
A parent's fond and holy kiss upon thy brow is prest;
A brother's love—is that, too, thine?—a gem of priceless worth,
To guard thee, like a talisman, amid the storms of earth.
Then blame me not, that I should seek, although I know not thee,
To waken in thy heart its chords of holiest sympathy;
It is for woman's bleeding heart, for woman's humbled form,
O'er which the reeking lash is swung, with life's red current warm.
It is for those who wildly mourn o'er many a broken tie,
As sweet as those which swell thy heart with happiness so high;
For those whose hearts are rent and crush'd by foul oppression's hand,
The wrong'd, the wretched, the enslaved, in freedom's chosen land.
Oh, lady! when a sister's cry is ringing on the air,
When woman's pleading eye is raised in agonized despair,
When woman's limbs are scourged and sold ‘midst rude and brutal mirth,
And all affection's holiest ties are trampled to the earth,
May female hearts be still unstirr'd, and ‘midst their wretched lot,
The victims of unmeasured wrongs be carelessly forgot?
Or shall the prayer be pour'd for them, the tear be freely given,
Until the chains, that bind them now, from every limb be riven?
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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New Year's Eve
Night! with its thousand stars, and the deep hush
That makes its darkness solemn! The winds rush
In troubled music, o'er the wooded hill,
And the wide plain where creeps the fetter'd rill,
In wintry silence; but a softer sound
Of melody from man's lit halls swells round
No slumber yet to-night! the hours fleet on,
With converse, song, and laughter's joyous tone;
The young and gay are met in social mirth,
Or the home circle gathers round the hearth,
Or swelling upwards from the house of prayer,
The voice of praise concludes the passing year.
'T is almost midnight now;—hark! hush!—the bell
At once a note of triumph and a knell!
A sudden silence—the quick breath quell'd,
The speaker's voice in mute suspension held;
What thousand thoughts are in that moment press'd—
Past, present, future, crowding on the breast,
As stroke by stroke tolls on!—and then a start—
A sudden lightning of the eye and heart,
A burst of joyous greeting—such as here
We wish you, friends beloved—a happy year!
So speeds time on! scarce seems a moment sped,
Since first we hail'd the year that now has fled.
So speeds time on—but hath it left no trace,
That future hours shall never more efface?
Go, turn to Poland! may her sons forget
Their desolated fields with carnage wet?
Their bright brief hopes,—their struggle, fierce and proud,
With the stern despot ‘neath whose yoke they bow'd,
The lightning thrill that flash'd through every breast,
When wakening freedom waved her eagle crest,
Their hopes upspringing almost from despair,
And burning with a short illusive glare,
Soon to be quench'd in blood? Oh, God of Peace!
Must such wild scenes of carnage never cease?
Is blood “pour'd out like water,” still to be
The price of man's high yearning to be free?
Woe for the tyrant's selfishness and pride,
That hath to man his holiest rights denied!
Is life too poor in ills?—hath death so scant
His fearful quiver stored, that man should pant
To give the earth red graves? Ah! when shall right
Her nobler triumphs seek by moral light,
And learn that e'en the sweets of liberty
Are bought, with slaughter, at a price too high?
And when shall our own banner cease to wave
Its starry folds in mockery o'er the slave?
Oh! blot upon our land, and heavy shame
That e'er Columbia should bear such name!—.
That men, like beasts, should be enslaved and sold
For a base pittance of mere sordid gold;
That women's limbs beneath the scourge should bleed,
The swollen pomp of luxury to feed;
And in the freest nation known on earth,
The licensed thief invade the household hearth;
The purest, best affections of the heart,
And the strong ties of kindred rend apart,
And seizing, fiend-like, on his helpless prey,
Tear them forever from their homes away.
Oh, when shall tyrants learn that human veins
Bear pulses that were never made for chains:
And loose their links before the oppress'd one's band
Becomes a deadly weapon in his hand!
Our brethren found it such;—in southern halls,
The cold damp foot of desolation falls;
Young gladsome eyes that late were sparkling bright,
With the free spirit's joyous gush of light,
Mothers made happy by the bursts of glee
From the gay creatures grouped about their knee,
The brow of hoary eld—all, all are there,
With the pale look of anguish and despair:
Or, smitten rudely to the reeking earth,
Have deluged with their blood their own loved hearth.
Alas, alas, for them! alas, for those
Who still in white-lipp'd terror wait their foes!
And woe for all the oppressors’ haughty guilt,
And the fresh blood his vengeful hand hath spilt!
Oh, Heaven! in mercy yield them yet a space
To speak with tears of penitence thy grace!
Touch their steel'd hearts with thy dissolving love,
And their vile stains of prejudice remove,
That they may learn, upon the negro's face,
A brother's lineaments at last to trace;
And strike away the soul-degrading chains
Which long have hung upon his swollen veins;
That mad relentless hatred may no more
Flood the red earth with streams of mingled gore,
And other new years o'er our country rise,
With brighter aspect and more cloudless skies.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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The Appeal of the Choctaw
We cannot leave our fathers’ land!
We cannot leave our fathers’ graves!
The long-loved hills that round us stand—
Our valleys, with their pleasant waves.
Oh, bid us not to trace afar,
The pathway of the evening star;
We cannot find, where'er we roam,
A spot which bears, like this, the name of home!
What though the western forest rise,
More tall, more darkly close, than these;
And calm the stately wild deer lies,
In slumber ‘neath the stately trees;—
Though hill and vale are passing fair,
And all seems bright and lovely there,
We cannot love the beauteous spot,
To us the great Manitto gave it not!
What care we for those prairies wide?
Our fathers never hunted there;—
Those cavern echoes ne'er, in pride,
Flung back their wild halloo of war.
Those wooded glens, and shaded streams,
Came never to our children's dreams;
Nor have we, in our young hearts’ glee,
Loved, like familiar friends, each rock and tree.
But here, amid the tempest's rush,
Our spirit fathers’ voices thrill!
They come at midnight's moonlit hush,
Or when the eve-star lights the hill.
The thoughts of other times are spread
O'er every gray crag's misty head;—
And how then can we lightly leave
The scenes to which our hearts so fondly cleave?
Then have we not in worship bow'd,
Before your God, the humbled head?
And tamed our spirits, fierce and proud,
To till our hunting grounds for bread?
And now, that in our bosom's cell,
A white man's calmer soul would dwell,
You seek to grasp our planted soil,
And drive us hence, in distant lands to toil!
Oh, white men! ye have fair smooth brows,
And lips whose words we well might trust,
But treachery mingles in your vows,
Your chain of friendship is but dust!
Ye come with falsehood in your hearts,
Ye frame your laws with wily arts,
And bid us ‘neath their shades to dwell
, That we may wither by their blighting spell!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Child's Evening Hymn
Father! while the daylight dies,
Hear our grateful voices rise:
For the blessings that we share,
For thy kindness and thy care,
For the joy that fills our breast;
For the love that makes us blest,
We thank thee, Father.
For an earthly father's arm,
Shielding us from wrong and harm;
For a mother's watchful cares,
Mingled with her many prayers;
For the happy kindred band,
'Midst whose peaceful links we stand,
We bless thee, Father.
Yet while ‘neath the evening skies,
Thus we bid our thanks arise,
Father! still we think of those,
Who are bow'd with many woes,
Whom no earthly parent's arm
Can protect from wrong and harm;
The poor slaves, Father.
Ah! while we are richly blest,
They are wretched and distrest!
Outcasts in their native land,
Crush'd beneath oppression's hand,
Scarcely knowing even thee,
Mighty Lord of earth and sea!
Oh, save them, Father!
Touch the flinty hearts, that long
Have, remorseless, done them wrong;
Ope the eyes that long have been
Blind to every guilty scene;
That the slave—a slave no more—
Grateful thanks to thee may pour,
And bless thee, Father
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Swagman and His Mate
FROM north to south throughout the year
The shearing seasons run,
The Queensland stations start to shear
When Maoriland has done;
But labour’s cheap and runs are wide,
And some the track must tread
From New Year’s Day till Christmastide
And never get a shed!
North, west, and south—south, west and north—
They lead and follow Fate—
The stoutest hearts that venture forth—
The swagman and his mate.
A restless, homeless class they are
Who tramp in Borderland.
They take their rest ’neath moon and star—
Their bed the desert sand,
On sunset tracks they ride and tramp,
Till speech has almost died,
And still they drift from camp to camp
In silence side by side.
They think and dream, as all men do;
Perchance their dreams are great—
Each other’s thoughts are sacred to
The swagman and his mate.
With scrubs beneath the stifling skies
Unstirred by heaven’s breath;
Beyond the Darling Timber lies
The land of living death!
A land that wrong-born poets brave
Till dulled minds cease to grope——
A land where all things perish, save
The memories of Hope.
When daylight’s fingers point out back
(And seem to hesitate)
The far faint dust cloud marks their track—
The swagman and his mate.
And one who followed through the scrub
And out across the plain,
And only in a bitter mood
Would seek those tracks again,
Can only write what he has seen—
Can only give his hand—
And greet those mates in words that mean
“I know”, “I understand.”
I hope they’ll find the squatter “white”,
The cook and shearers “straight”,
When they have reached the shed to-night—
The swagman and his mate.
poem by Henry Lawson
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To the Ladies' Free Produce Society
Your gathering day! and I am not,
As erst, amid you set;
But even from this distant spot,
My thoughts are with you yet,
As freshly as in hours forgot,
When I was with you met.
His blessing on your high career!
Go, press unwearied on,
From month to month, from year to year,
Till when your task is done,
The franchised negro's grateful tear
Oh faint you not, ye gathered band!
Although your way be long,
And they who ranged against you stand,
Are numberless and strong;
While you but bear a feeble hand,
Unused to cope with wrong.
Upon your injured brother look,
And nerve ye with the sight!
Could you the good, the gentle, brook
To wear your days in light,
Regardless that by sorrow struck,
He pines in rayless night?
Oh surely 't is a blessed fate,
A lot like that ye bear—
To bid the crush'd and desolate,
Not yield them to despair,
For even amidst their low estate,
Some hearts their sufferings share.
And never your high task forget,
Till they are chainless—free!
Alas! that ye should be so met,
And I not with you be;
Yet sometimes when you thus are set,
One heart may turn to me.
Proclaims your victory won.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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New Year's Morning
Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all y failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet pace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.
Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old coem true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Year Of The Dragon 2012
May Dragon's year brings
Many good tides and blessing,
Many good lucks and health,
And many good fortunes.
May your life fill with good liveliness,
And spiritual mind.
The year may comes with challenges,
And hope you can face them.
May you have many good times,
Happiness, joys, and
Plenty of fun
And laughter.
May your family enjoys,
Good prosperity,
Goodness of life, and
Sweetness of life.
Be prepare for the raining days,
Prepare our mind and body to face them.
Be happy when face difficult problems,
Ask God’s blessing and say prayers.
I pray that you always,
Are healthy and happy.
Be cheerful and exciting,
About what the year may bring.
Be positive and be glad,
Be thankful and
Give gratitude to God and family
That life is wonderful and beautiful.
May Dragon's year gives you,
The best of prosperous things and joys.
Take a step at a time,
You will take the year in no time.
Happy Dragon's Year,
Happy Wonderful Year,
Happy New You,
Happy New Year.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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To Mrs. M. B. On Her Birthday
Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But, like a Sieve, let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace.
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Dawns a New Year (2010)
The Old Year cruises smoothly off;
The New Year dawns across the globe;
It brings its surprises many –
Some of which we may like, dislike!
But this is how the world goes on;
The old must give in to things new,
As people wish for better days,
And give up bad habits and ways!
But toil is key to success prime;
Our resolutions must be good;
Keep to the ear-marked road, we must,
Till aims are accomplished with ease.
Keep God as guide in endeavors;
Let righteousness rule hearts and minds;
With morality, good ethics
And sense of values, forge ahead.
Let marriage keep its definition;
Let sex become not perverted;
Let life be revered right from womb;
Let sweet and healthy be each home.
Let love of brethren take first place;
Let peace prevail ’midst nations all;
Let charity to poor bring bliss,
Invoking blessings of Heaven.
‘Happy New year,2010! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-30-2009
poem by John Celes
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A Picture
'
The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.
'
She is not gone;—still in our sight
That dearest maid shall live,
In form as true, in tints as bright,
As youth and health could give.
Still, still is ours the modest eye;
The smile unwrought by art;
The glance that shot so piercingly
Affection's keenest dart;
The thrilling voice, I ne'er could hear
But felt a joy and pain;—
A pride that she was ours, a fear
Ours she might not remain;
Whether the page divine call'd forth
Its clear sweet, tranquil tone,
Or cheerful hymn, or seemly mirth
In sprightlier measure shown;
The meek inquiry of that face,
Musing on wonders found,
As 'mid dim paths she sought to trace
The truth on sacred ground;
The thankful sigh that would arise,
When aught her doubts removed,
Full sure the explaining voice to prize,
Admiring while she loved;
The pensive brow, the world might see
When she in crowds was found;
The burst of heart, the o'erflowing glee
When only friends were round;
Hope's warmth of promise, prompt to fill
The thoughts with good in store,
Match'd with content's deep stream, which still
Flow'd on, when hope was o'er;
That peace, which, with its own bright day,
Made cheapest sights shine fair;
That purest grace, which track'd its way
Safe from aught earthly there.
Such was she in the sudden hour
That brought her Maker's call,—
Proving her heart's self-mastering power
Blithely to part with all,—
All her eye loved, all her hand press'd
With keen affection's glow,
The voice of home, all pleasures best,
All dearest thoughts below.
From friend-lit hearth, from social board,
All duteously she rose;
For faith upon the Master's word
Can find a sure repose.
And in her wonder up she sped,
And tried relief in vain;
Then laid her down upon her bed
Of languor and of pain,—
And waited till the solemn spell,
(A ling'ring night and day,)
Should fill its numbers, and compel
Her soul to come away.
Such was she then; and such she is,
Shrined in each mourner's breast;
Such shall she be, and more than this,
In promised glory blest;
When in due lines her Saviour dear
His scatter'd saints shall range,
And knit in love souls parted here,
Where cloud is none, nor change.
poem by John Henry Newman
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The Anniversary
ALL kings, and all their favourites,
All glory of honours, beauties, wits,
The sun it self, which makes time, as they pass,
Is elder by a year now than it was
When thou and I first one another saw.
All other things to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;
This no to-morrow hath, nor yesterday;
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
Two graves must hide thine and my corse;
If one might, death were no divorce.
Alas ! as well as other princes, we
—Who prince enough in one another be—
Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,
Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;
But souls where nothing dwells but love
—All other thoughts being inmates—then shall prove
This or a love increasèd there above,
When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.
And then we shall be throughly blest;
But now no more than all the rest.
Here upon earth we're kings, and none but we
Can be such kings, nor of such subjects be.
Who is so safe as we? where none can do
Treason to us, except one of us two.
True and false fears let us refrain,
Let us love nobly, and live, and add again
Years and years unto years, till we attain
To write threescore; this is the second of our reign.
poem by John Donne
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