I.
WHAT song is this which on the water rings,
Rousing the lonely post? — its flag ascends:
Forth from the sharp stockade the movement brings
Its guardian blithe, with motley train of friends.
II.
See that light skiff of bark whose paddles red
Flash with each wave they break, beneath the sun;
Six are on either side; one at the head
Wields the stout guide; the practised steersman one.
III.
Laborious crew! long ere that sun arose,
Lingering in heaven through June’s extended day,
Their toils began; nor will they find their close,
Signal of nature, with his setting ray.
IV.
Up at twilight call, they strike the tent
Of those they serve, the long canoe they load;
To urge it now each vigorous arm is bent
With strokes accordant, on its destined road.
V.
But who, not witness, can the toils divine
That wait them here? the straining nerve to force,
By pole, by paddle, lifting hand, or line,
Full up reluctant streams, their conquering course?
VI.
Chill streams from winter’s chain but newly loose,
When issues through the wilds the foremost band,
Yet plunging there, (so men grow hard by use,)
Patient they tug, or wait the word and stand.
VII.
First ranged in one, the force will yet divide;
Once of that lake the passage they achieve
In vastness spread, of western world the pride,
Two lesser skiffs the parted load receive.
VIII.
And now, where narrow’d banks their way embrace,
Swept through when floods of Spring impetuous broke,
Pines press on pines, till, in some tangling place,
Huge carcasses and bare the passage choke:
IX.
Not so their ready energy will fail.
They grapple with the foe: now out, now in,
With lever heave, with sounding axe assail,
Or shove by strength, and soon fair egress win.
X.
The scene is changed — on broad expanse they steer,
Wing’d with white sail, or down swift current glide:
Soon will the rumbling fall salute their ear —
Lo! its white crest or spiral smoke descried!
XI.
Proud barriers of the stream! — all else is free.
The thicket-men may pierce, may climb the rock,
Wade through the swamp,— of lowlier falls, we see,
Stout hearts and skilful hands will risk the shock:
XII.
Stand here — sweep round — for thoroughfare is none:
Little it needs that, as in lordly grounds
Or crowded mart, the traced refusal run —
From Him who made the wilds this warning sounds.
XIII.
‘Tis here, or when continuous stream they lack,
Fresh toils are for the busy crew prepared:
Prompt they unload, and quick by every back
Burthen on burthen, heap on heap is shared.
XIV.
Borne on their shoulders that which bore them all,
Poles, paddles, tent-staves: round their naked heads,
Broad thongs embrace, behind them, tapering small,
Equipments, clothes, utensils, food, and beds.
XV.
Barefoot through mire, o’er rocks, their way they trace
O’er trunks from angry winds which prostrate lie:
Oft under burning sun; yet, as in race,
Back for repeated load their footsteps fly.
XVI.
Scarce are they launch’d, the self-same toils return,
Falls following falls — but now the day is past;
Some chosen spot the leaders sage discern,
Where wearied bones may respite have at last.
XVII.
Yet stay — for work remains — part now uplift
The traveller’s lodge who shelter’d couch requires;
Part drag, from distance, firewood, fall’n, or drift,
Or standing hew; part light the separate fires;
XVIII.
Part dress the separate meals; a skilful few
The wounds survey of their inverted boat,
Each resinous seam with burning brand renew,
So all may on the morrow safely float.
XIX.
At length, in single blanket roll’d, they lie,
Mother of all! upon thy bosom bare:
What if in torrents burst this ominous sky?—
Creep, rogues, beneath your boat, and shiver there.
XX.
Ah! speak not thus, ye who, by Heaven’s high will,
In arms of affluence and refinement nursed,
Are of one mould with them, one nature still,—
One blood, one stock, one sinful stock at first:
XXI.
Ye to whose weight these men, if shallow spot
Forbid close access to the full canoe,
Lend their free backs unask’d, and grudge it not,
Forsooth, to save from wet your daintier shoe.
XXII.
Yes — they are free, those backs — foul slavery’s yoke,
Praise be to God! those shoulders have not known;
Their task is season’d still with song or joke,
And careless — ah! too careless — hearts they own.
XXIII.
Whate’er they are, some kindness is their due;
Some courtesy the claim of all mankind;
Some thankfulness a debt for service true:
God holds abhorr’d the high disdainful mind.
XXIV.
“‘Twas not that men should minister to me;
I came to minister,” the Saviour cries:
The Son of Man to set the prisoners free —
To ransom souls a willing victim dies.
XXV.
Poor for our sakes, that we might rich be made,
In guise of service, fashion’d as a man,
Humbled in heart, He to the death obey’d —
O what a death! — to work the wondrous plan.
XXVI.
Learn, then, at least, like Him to condescend
To men of lowly place: in season meet,
To do kind office for an humbler friend,
As school’d by One who wash’d His followers’ feet.
XXVII.
‘Tis not all dignities to render cheap
I seek,— all grades to place on equal ground;
All fences of the social scheme to sweep
From earth; all ranks and orders to confound:
XXVIII.
Oh! no — I seek not this — for happier land
Far, in my thoughts, is that where high and low
In mutual love yet measured distance stand,
Than where, all mix’d, the shapeless masses grow.
XXIX.
Fear to whom fear, to whom is honour due
Still honour yield — the fabric nicely ranged
In parts proportional, of seemly view,
Were ill for looser edifice exchanged.
XXX.
From steps subordinate, from fix’d respects
More care of courtesy and order springs:
Men slide unconscious down to coarse neglects
Who scoff at form or state, and jeer at kings.
XXXI.
Watch it, my friends,— (for I with you have friends
By worthier claim than earth’s distinctions form,
Bound to my heart, and men whose contact mends
Each mind on which they stamp their impress warm,)
XXXII.
Columbia’s children, prize, if so you will,
Your social plan, as ours to us is dear:
Yet think at least that incidental ill
May cleave to good, and guard your country here.
XXXIII.
I speak not, chosen friends, for such as you —
But licence may of freedom choke the breath;
Man needs restraint; that each should rashly do
In his own eyes what seemeth good, is death.
XXXIV.
More closely to thy mark, my song, return:
The summer toils are sharp, but ended soon
Of those I sung but now, and haply earn
For them, for wives, for children, many a boon:
XXXV.
And freemen they — but think of those who bow
Beneath their burthens forced; beneath the lash
Toil worse than beasts (oh! blush, Columbia, now,
And haste the stigma from thy stars to dash).
XXXVI.
Or think of those — they teem in many a soil
In want who shiver, in affliction pine;
Who at th’ unhealthy loom incessant toil,
Or delve, with darker souls, in darksome mine.
XXXVII.
Ill was it done, and long reproach shall lie,
England! against thy legislative halls,
Thou shouldst those children to thy Church deny,
That she might nurse them in her sacred walls!
XXXVIII.
O family of man! how large the mass
Of suffering bodies, minds with misery drunk;
Creatures whose squalid forms we loath to pass;
Beings crush’d flat by power, in baseness sunk!
XXXIX.
Think, ye who daily feed on sumptuous fare,
Array’d in garments choice and finely spun,
With all your polish’d arts, your dainties rare,
Your labour’d comforts,— you and they are one.
XL.
“From thine own flesh,” beware thou, “hide thee not:”
Tremble to spurn, or pass them, like the Priest,
Unheeded in their ills — they may not rot,
Laid at your gate, nor need your travelling beast,
XLI.
They are not far — men thirst and hunger still;
Strangers are houseless, sick on pallets grieve;
Prisoners are sad, and nakedness is chill —
The world will find you subjects to relieve.
XLII.
One price was paid for all — and if, below,
In penury some, and some in plenty live,
Swell none with pride, but this just lesson know,
GOD GIVES TO YOU THAT YOU FOR HIM MAY GIVE.
XLIII.
Wait but the doom — that day will level all:
Quickly He comes whose eye impartial looks
On every heart; the dead, both great and small,
Abide their sentence from the written books.
XLIV.
Like to my subject have I made my song,
Careless its windings following where they led;
What tones might to th’ incipient strain belong,
Not nicely kept — but on its close we tread.
XLV.
E’en so life’s pilgrimage itself is pass’d,
Now smooth, now rough, now languishing, now brisk,
Now barr’d, now opening fair; it ends at last
History of hope and dread, of change and risk.
XLVI.
O Ruler of this rolling world! in all
Its devious wilderness our way protect;
Still let our errors for thy mercy call,
Still every move we make thy grace direct!
(George Jehoshaphat Mountain)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, God Poems, World Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, Nature Poems, Heaven Poems, Fairness Poems, Friendship PoemsBased on Keywords: lowlier, burthens, xliii, accordant, xxxviii, unload, xxxvi, stigma, daintier, xxxv, distinctions