NIGHT on the city of the Moor! | |
| On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore, | |
| On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock | |
| The narrow harbor-gates unlock, | |
| On corsair’s galley, carack tall, | 5 |
| And plundered Christian caraval! | |
| The sounds of Moslem life are still; | |
| No mule-bell tinkles down the hill; | |
| Stretched in the broad court of the khan, | |
| The dusty Bornou caravan | 10 |
| Lies heaped in slumber, beast and man. | |
| The Sheik is dreaming in his tent, | |
| His noisy Arab tongue o’erspent; | |
| The kiosk’s glimmering lights are gone, | |
| The merchant with his wares withdrawn: | 15 |
| Rough pillowed on some pirate breast, | |
| The dancing-girl has sunk to rest; | |
| And, save where measured footsteps fall | |
| Along the Bashaw’s guarded wall, | |
| Or where, like some bad dream, the Jew | 20 |
| Creeps stealthily, his quarter through, | |
| Or counts with fear his golden heaps, | |
| The City of the Corsair sleeps! | |
| |
| But where yon prison long and low | |
| Stands black against the pale star-glow, | 25 |
| Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves, | |
| There watch and pine the Christian slaves; | |
| Rough-bearded men, whose far-off wives | |
| Wear out with grief their lonely lives; | |
| And youth, still flashing from his eyes | 30 |
| The clear blue of New England skies, | |
| A treasured lock of whose soft hair | |
| Now wakes some sorrowing mother’s prayer; | |
| Or, worn upon some maiden breast, | |
| Stirs with the loving heart’s unrest! | 35 |
| |
| A bitter cup each life must drain, | |
| The groaning earth is cursed with pain, | |
| And, like the scroll the angel bore, | |
| The shuddering Hebrew seer before, | |
| O’erwrit alike, without, within, | 40 |
| With all the woes which follow sin; | |
| But, bitterest of the ills beneath, | |
| Whose load man totters down to death, | |
| Is that which plucks the regal crown | |
| Of Freedom from his forehead down, | 45 |
| And snatches from his powerless hand | |
| The sceptred sign of self-command, | |
| Effacing with the chain and rod | |
| The image and the seal of God; | |
| Till from his nature, day by day, | 50 |
| The manly virtues fall away, | |
| And leave him naked, blind and mute, | |
| The godlike merging in the brute! | |
| |
| Why mourn the quiet ones who die | |
| Beneath affection’s tender eye, | 55 |
| Unto their household and their kin | |
| Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in? | |
| O weeper, from that tranquil sod, | |
| That holy harvest-home of God, | |
| Turn to the quick and suffering,—shed | 60 |
| Thy tears upon the living dead! | |
| Thank God above thy dear ones’ graves, | |
| They sleep with Him,—they are not slaves. | |
| |
| What dark mass, down the mountain-sides | |
| Swift-pouring, like a stream divides? | 65 |
| A long, loose, straggling caravan, | |
| Camel and horse and arméd man. | |
| The moon’s low crescent, glimmering o’er | |
| Its grave of waters to the shore, | |
| Lights up that mountain cavalcade, | 70 |
| And glints from gun and spear and blade | |
| Near and more near!—now o’er them falls | |
| The shadow of the city walls. | |
| Hark to the sentry’s challenge, drowned | |
| In the fierce trumpet’s charging sound!— | 75 |
| The rush of men, the musket’s peal, | |
| The short, sharp clang of meeting steel! | |
| |
| Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured | |
| So freely on thy foeman’s sword! | |
| Not to the swift nor to the strong | 80 |
| The battles of the right belong; | |
| For he who strikes for Freedom wears | |
| The armor of the captive’s prayers, | |
| And Nature proffers to his cause | |
| The strength of her eternal laws; | 85 |
| While he whose arm essays to bind, | |
| And herd with common brutes his kind, | |
| Strives evermore at fearful odds | |
| With Nature and the jealous gods, | |
| And dares the dread recoil which late | 90 |
| Or soon their right shall vindicate. | |
| |
| ’T is done,—the hornéd crescent falls! | |
| The star-flag flouts the broken walls! | |
| Joy to the captive husband! joy | |
| To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy! | 95 |
| In sullen wrath the conquered Moor | |
| Wide open flings your dungeon-door, | |
| And leaves ye free from cell and chain, | |
| The owners of yourselves again. | |
| Dark as his allies desert-born, | 100 |
| Soiled with the battle’s stain, and worn | |
| With the long marches of his band | |
| Through hottest wastes of rock and sand,— | |
| Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath | |
| Of the red desert’s wind of death, | 105 |
| With welcome words and grasping hands, | |
| The victor and deliverer stands! | |
| |
| The tale is one of distant skies; | |
| The dust of half a century lies | |
| Upon it; yet its hero’s name | 110 |
| Still lingers on the lips of Fame. | |
| Men speak the praise of him who gave | |
| Deliverance to the Moorman’s slave, | |
| Yet dare to brand with shame and crime | |
| The heroes of our land and time,— | 115 |
| The self-forgetful ones, who stake | |
| Home, name, and life for Freedom’s sake. | |
| God mend his heart who cannot feel | |
| The impulse of a holy zeal, | |
| And sees not, with his sordid eyes, | 120 |
| The beauty of self-sacrifice! | |
| Though in the sacred place he stands, | |
| Uplifting consecrated hands, | |
| Unworthy are his lips to tell | |
| Of Jesus’ martyr-miracle, | 125 |
| Or name aright that dread embrace | |
| Of suffering for a fallen race! | |
| |
