Classic Poem

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!
Thy work is done—thy grand and glorious work.
Not “Caput Nili” shall thy trophy be.
But broken slave-sticks and a riven chain .
As the man Moses, thy great prototype,
Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions
From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot;
So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons:
Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs
Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.
For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise
Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay,
Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon—
A continent redeemed from slavery.—
To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great.
Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans
Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle,
The work of peevish man; these were the checks
From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way.
He willed thy soul should vex at tyranny;
Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks,
That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog;
That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own.
And Slavery—that villain plausible—
That thief Gehazi!—He stripped before thine eyes
And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.
He touched thy lips, and every word of thine
Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill
Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed.
And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!
Home to His home, where never envious tongue,
Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude,
Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart.
Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven,
When His voice called “Friend, come up higher.”