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Songs of Labor and Reform From Volume III., the Works of Whittier: Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform



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THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME.

THE Quaker of the olden time!How calm and firm and true,Unspotted by its wrong and crime,He walked the dark earth through.The lust of power, the love of gain,The thousand lures of sinAround him, had no power to stainThe purity within.

With that deep insight which detectsAll great things in the small,And knows how each man's life affectsThe spiritual life of all,He walked by faith and not by sight,By love and not by law;The presence of the wrong or rightHe rather felt than saw.

He felt that wrong with wrong partakes,That nothing stands alone,That whoso gives the motive, makesHis brother's sin his own.And, pausing not for doubtful choiceOf evils great or small,He listened to that inward voiceWhich called away from all.

O Spirit of that early day,So pure and strong and true,Be with us in the narrow wayOur faithful fathers knew.Give strength the evil to forsake,The cross of Truth to bear,And love and reverent fear to makeOur daily lives a prayer!1838.

DEMOCRACY.

All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.—MATTHEW vii. 12.

BEARER of Freedom's holy light,Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod,The foe of all which pains the sight,Or wounds the generous ear of God!

Beautiful yet thy temples rise,Though there profaning gifts are thrown;And fires unkindled of the skiesAre glaring round thy altar-stone.

Still sacred, though thy name be breathedBy those whose hearts thy truth deride;And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathedAround the haughty brows of Pride.

Oh, ideal of my boyhood's time!The faith in which my father stood,Even when the sons of Lust and CrimeHad stained thy peaceful courts with blood!

Still to those courts my footsteps turn,For through the mists which darken there,I see the flame of Freedom burn,—The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!

The generous feeling, pure and warm,Which owns the right of all divine;The pitying heart, the helping arm,The prompt self-sacrifice, are thine.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,How fade the lines of caste and birth!How equal in their suffering lieThe groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,Whatever clime hath nurtured him;As stooped to heal the wounded JewThe worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepelled, unawedBy pomp or power, thou seest a ManIn prince or peasant, slave or lord,Pale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through all disguise, form, place, or name,Beneath the flaunting robes of sin,Through poverty and squalid shame,Thou lookest on the man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet,Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim,The crown upon his forehead set,The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look;For that frail form which mortals wearThe Spirit of the Holiest took,And veiled His perfect brightness there.

Not from the shallow babbling fountOf vain philosophy thou art;He who of old on Syria's MountThrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,In thoughts which angels leaned to know,Proclaimed thy message from on high,Thy mission to a world of woe....