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Evening at Occoquan. Rain pelts the workhouse roof.

The prison matrons are sewing together for the Red Cross

The women prisoners are going to bed in two long rows.

Some of the suffrage pickets lie reading in the dim light.

Through the dark, above the rain, rings out a cry.

We listen at the windows. (Oh, those cries from punishment cells!)

A voice calls one of us by name.

“Miss Burns! Miss Burns! Will you see that I have a drink of water?”

Lucy Burns arises; slips on the course blue prison gown.

Over it her swinging hair, red-gold, throws a regal mantle.

She begs the night-watch to give the girl water.

One of the matrons leaves her war-bandages; we see her hasten to the cell.

The light in it goes out.

The voice despairing cries:


“She has taken away the cup and she will not bring me water.”

Rain pours on the roof. The suffragists lie awake.

The matrons work busily for the Red Cross. 

’Tis a time for much rejoicing;
      Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
      For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!

Many a time in days now ended,
      Hath our fathers’ courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
      Ne’er they to their, Maker, railed,
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.

As of old the Red Sea parted,
      And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from the North, the bold South, started,
      And a fissure wide she drew;
Drew a cleft of Liberty,
Through it, marched our people free.

And, in memory, ever grateful,
      Of the day they reached the shore,
Meet we now, with hearts e’er faithful,
      Joyous that the storm is o’er.
Storm of Torture! May grim Past,
Hurl thee down his torrents fast.

Bring your harpers, bring your sages,
      Bid each one the story tell;
Waft it on to future ages,
      Bid descendants learn it well.
Kept it bright in minds now tender,
Teach the young their thanks to render.

Come with hearts all firm united,
      In the union of a race;
With your loyalty well plighted,
      Look your brother in the face,
Stand by him, forsake him never,
God is with us now, forever.

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

translated from the Spanish by Agnes Blake Poor

In thee, the spirit of thy native soil
    Draws breath and stirs with potent fruitful life.
Thou, from the field of elemental strife,
    Seizest the guerdon of thy noble toil.

Franklin before, along the slender coil
    Called down the fiery sparks in heaven rife.
Traced the quick ray, like sharp dividing knife;
    And to the earth brought down the lightning’s spoil.

And thou, the living glory of thy race,
    Preservest for all time the spoken word;
Defying ignorance’s numbing trace;
    Despising falsehood’s deadly withering breath.
The immortal tree of life thy hand conferred,
    Even on the edge of the abyss of death.

I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth’s cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia’s tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
   Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
   Singing, back to his mother element.

             (November, 1861.)

In time and measure perfect moves


    All Art whose aim is sure;


Evolving rhyme and stars divine


    Have rules, and they endure.

 

Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,


    And, warring so, prevailed,


In geometric beauty curved,


    And in an orbit sailed.

 

The rebel at Port Royal felt


    The Unity overawe,


And rued the spell. A type was here,


    And victory of Law.

Whether awake or sleeping,
   I cannot rest for long:
By my casement comes creeping
  A distant song.

A song like the chiming of silver
  Bells which the breezes play,
Seeming to float for ever
  Towards an unseen day:

A song that is weary with sorrow,
  Yet knows not any defeat:
Through the past, through to-day, through to-morrow,
  It echoes on life’s long street.

Could I but make words of its power,
  Bring it from the future here,
Men’s souls would be waking, that hour,
  To the victory against fear.

But the vague sweet stanza befools me
  With its calm joy, time after time,
And no failure here ever schools me
  To cease from an idle rhyme.

That music afar, unspoken,
    ’Tis I have done it wrong:
I caught, and I have broken,
    A distant song. 

To Principal Booker T. Washington of Tuskegee Industrial School 

To you who now so nobly do 
     A noble deed; 
Who now instill the virtues true
    To virtuous need; 
Whose mission is so truly good—
So full of kindly brotherhood—
Who live the life you surely should—
     A trusty lead; 

Who early saw that skillful head 
     And skillful hands
Should, surely, be in union wed 
    ‘Gainst life’s quicksands—
For people whose unhappy state 
Was, surely, in the hands of fate, 
Would make a combination great 
    As iron hands. 

Long may your daring presence live 
     And works instill, 
Long may your kingly reasons give 
    A forceful will. 
Long may your glowing, useful days 
Shine forth their bright illuming rays, 
And to gloomy lives always 
    A happy thrill. 

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood

The glory of its native wood,

By storms destroyed, or length of years,

Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,

To dust returns by slow decays:

But, when its destined years are o’er,

We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,

The world laments your exit made;

So long befriended by your art,

Philosopher, ’tis hard to part!—

When monarchs tumble to the ground,

Successors easily are found:

But, matchless Franklin! what a few

Can hope to rival such as you,

Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,

And turned the lightning’s darts aside!

Commander of the Randolph Frigate, Blown up near Barbadoes, 1776

What distant thunders rend the skies,

What clouds of smoke in columns rise,

    What means this dreadful roar?

Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,

Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,

    Or Etna’s self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear;

And lo!—two hostile ships appear,

    Red lightnings round them glow:

The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,

The Randolph thirty-two—no more—

    And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams

Shall coast along the land of dreams,

    The islands of the dead!

But Fate, that parts them on the deep,

May save the Briton yet to weep

    His days of victory fled.

Say, who commands that dismal blaze,

Where yonder starry streamer plays?

    Does Mars with Jove engage!

‘Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,

Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires,

    With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash!—and hark, the ball

Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;

    Her bravest sons expire;

Did Mars himself approach so nigh,

Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly

    The Randolph’s fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew,

“And shall we strike to thirty-two?—

    (Said Hector, stained with gore)

“Shall Britain’s flag to these descend—

“Rise, and the glorious conflict end,

    “Britons, I ask no more!”

He spoke—they charged their cannon round,

Again the vaulted heavens resound,

    The Randolph bore it all,

Then fixed her pointed cannons true—

Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;

    Britain, thy warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,

Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,

    Her boldest heroes dead—

She saw amidst her floating slain

The conquering Randolph stem the main—

    She saw, she turned—and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,

Dear Biddle, had the powers divine

    Been kind as thou wert brave;

But Fate, who doomed thee to expire,

Prepared an arrow, tipt with fire,

    And marked a watery grave.

And in that hour, when conquest came,

Winged at his ship a pointed flame,

    That not even he could shun—

The battle ceased, the Yarmouth fled,

The bursting Randolph ruin spread,

    And left her task undone!