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To John C. Fremont Post by :26chris Category :Poems Author :John Greenleaf Whittier Date :November 2010 Read :1031

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To John C. Fremont

On the 31st of August, 1861, General Fremont, then in charge of the Western Department, issued a proclamation which contained a clause, famous as the first announcement of emancipation: "The property," it declared, "real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri, who shall take up arms against the United States, or who shall be directly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in the field, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and their slaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men." Mr. Lincoln regarded the proclamation as premature and countermanded it, after vainly endeavoring to persuade Fremont of his own motion to revoke it.

THY error, Fremont, simply was to act
A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,
And, taking counsel but of common sense,
To strike at cause as well as consequence.
Oh, never yet since Roland wound his horn
At Roncesvalles, has a blast been blown
Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,
Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn
It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,
To flatter treason, and avoid offence
To that Dark Power whose underlying crime
Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence.
But if thine be the fate of all who break
The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years
Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make
A lane for freedom through the level spears,
Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,
Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!
The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear
Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.
Who would recall them now must first arrest
The winds that blow down from the free Northwest,
Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back
The Mississippi to its upper springs.
Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack
But the full time to harden into things.

(The end)
John Greenleaf Whittier's poem: To John C. Fremont

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The Watchers The Watchers

The Watchers
BESIDE a stricken field I stood;On the torn turf, on grass and wood,Hung heavily the dew of blood.Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,But all the air was quick with painAnd gusty sighs and tearful rain.Two angels, each with drooping headAnd folded wings and noiseless tread,Watched by that valley of the dead.The one, with forehead saintly blandAnd lips of blessing, not command,Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.The other's brows were scarred and knit,His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,His hands for battle-gauntlets fit."How long!"--I knew the voice of Peace,--"Is there no respite? no release?When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?"O Lord, how

'ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott' "ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott"

'ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott'
LUTHER'S HYMN.WE wait beneath the furnace-blastThe pangs of transformation;Not painlessly doth God recastAnd mould anew the nation.Hot burns the fireWhere wrongs expire;Nor spares the handThat from the landUproots the ancient evil.The hand-breadth cloud the sages fearedIts bloody rain is dropping;The poison plant the fathers sparedAll else is overtopping.East, West, South, North,It curses the earth;All justice dies,And fraud and liesLive only in its shadow.What gives the wheat-field blades of steel?What points the rebel cannon?What sets the roaring rabble's heelOn the old star-spangled pennon?What breaks the oathOf the men o' the South?What whets the knifeFor the Union's life?--Hark to the answer: Slavery!Then waste