Julia Ward Howe (1819–1910)

GIVE,—you need not see the face,

But the garment hangeth bare;

And the hand is gaunt and spare

That enforces Christian grace.

Many ages will not bring

Such a point as this to sight,

That the world should so requite

Master heart and matchless string.

Wonder at the well-born feet

Fretting in the flinty road.

Hath this virtue no abode?

Hath this sorrow no retreat?

See, beneath the hood of grief,

Muffled bays engird the brow.

Fame shall yield her topmost bough

Ere that laurel moult a leaf.

Give: it is no idle hand

That extends an asking palm,

Tracing yet the loftiest psalm

By the heart of Nature spanned.

In the antechamber long

Did he patient hearing crave:

Smiles and splendors crown the slave,

While the patriot suffers wrong.

Could the mighty audience deign,

Meeting once the inspired gaze,

They should ransom all their days

With the beauty of his strain.

With a spasm in his breast,

With a consummate love alone,

All his human blessings gone,

Doth he wander, void of rest.

Not a coin within his purse,

Not a crust to help his way,

Making yet a Judgment Day

With his power to bless and curse.

Give; but ask what he has given:

That Posterity shall tell,—

All the majesty of Hell;

Half the ecstasy of Heaven.