ower That made thy h

[Gase Colston]

Reap The golden sheaves of morning. 'Child of our travail and our
woe, Light in our day of sorrow, Through my rapt
spirit I foreknow The glory of thy morrow; 140 I hear great steps,
that through the shade Draw nigher still and nigher, And voices call
like that which bade The prophet come up higher.' I looked, no form
mine eyes could find, I heard the red cock crowing, And through my
window-chinks the wind A dismal tune was blowing;

Thought I, My neighbor Buckingham Hath somewhat in him gritty, 150
Some Pilgrim-stuff
that hates all sham, And he will print my ditty. ON THE CAPTURE OF
FUGITIVE SLAVES NEAR WASHINGTON Look on who will in apathy, and
stifle they who can, The sympathies, the hopes, the words, that make
man

truly man; Let those whose hearts are dungeoned up with interest or
with ease Consent to hear with

quiet pulse of loathsome deeds like these! I first drew in New
England's air, and from her hardy breast Sucked in the tyrant-hating
milk that will not let me rest; And if my words seem treason
to the dullard and the
tame, 'Tis but my Bay-State dialect,--our fathers
spake the same! Shame on the costly mockery of piling stone
on stone To those who won our liberty, the heroes dead and

gone, While we look coldly on and see law-shielded ruffians slay The
men who fain would win their own, the heroes of to-day! Are we
pledged to craven silence? Oh, fling it to the wind,
The parchment
wall that bars us from the least of human kind, That makes us cringe
and temporize, and dumbly stand at rest, While Pity's burning
flood of words is red-hot in the breast! Though we break our fathers'
promise,
we have

nobler dut
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