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BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE.
WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE ? John Brown OF OSSAWATOMIE spake on his What constitutes a State ? dying day:
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, “I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Thick wall or moated gate ; Slavery's pay ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; But let some poor slave-mother whom I have Not bays and broad-armed ports, striven to free,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; With her children, from the gallows-stair put up Not starred and spangled courts, a prayer for me!”
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to
pride. John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out No:— men, high-minded men, to die;
With powers as far above dull brutes endued And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child In forest, brake, or den, pressed nigh:
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old Men who their duties know, harsh face grew mild,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main. As he stooped between the jeering ranks and tain, kissed the negro's child !
Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell These constitute a State ; apart,
And sovereign law, that State's collected will, And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave! O'er thrones and globes elate the loving heart;
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the Smit by her sacred frown, good intent,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's i And r'en the all-dazzling crown aureole bent!
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-loved isle,
No more shall freedom smile?
Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave
'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds
THE REFORMER. All grim and soiled and brown with tan,
I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man
Along his path.
FROM "THE WINTER MORNING WALK:"
"THE TASK," BOOK VI.
The Church beneath her trembling dome
Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : Wealth shook within his gilded home
With strange alarm.
Fraud from his secret chambers fled
Before the sunlight bursting in : Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head
To drown the din.
“Spare,” Art implored, “yon holy pile ;
That grand old time-worn turret spare :' Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle,
Cried out, “ Forbear!”
Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind,
Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find
His seat o'erthrown.
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes confederate for his harm Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature ; and though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valley his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say, “My Father made them all !" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eyes they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That planned and built, and still upholds, a
world So clothed with beauty for rebellious man? Yes, ye may, fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot ; but ye will not find In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeached Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in every state ; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evil with it, inakes it less. For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury can cripple or confine ; No nook so narrow but he spreads them there i
Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,
O’erhung with paly locks of gold, — “Why smite,” he asked in sad surprise,
“The fair, the old ?”
Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,
Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
As from a dream.
I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled,
The Waster seemed the Builder too; Upspringing from the ruined Old
I saw the New.
"T was but the ruin of the bad,
The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had
Was living still.
Calm grew the brows of him I feared ;
The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered
Like breaking day.