Henry Ward Beecher

Charles Henry Phelps (1853–1933)

HIS tongue was touched with sacred fire,

He could not rest, he must speak out,

When Liberty lay stabbed, and doubt

Stalked through the night in vestments dire,—

When slaves uplifted manacled hands,

Praying in agony and despair,

And answer came not anywhere,

But gloom through all the stricken lands,—

His voice for freedom instant rang,

“For shame!” he cried; “spare thou the rod;

All men are free before their God!”

The dragon answered with its fang.

’T is brave to face embrasured death

Hot belching from the cannon’s mouth,

Yet brave it is, for North or South,

And Truth, to face the mob’s mad breath.

So spake he then,—he and the few

Who prized their manhood more than praise;

Their faith failed not of better days

After the nights of bloody dew.

England’s great heart misunderstood:

She looked upon her child askance;

But heard his words and lowered her lance,

Remembering her motherhood.

Majestic Liberty, serene

Thou frontest on the chaste white sea!

Quench thou awhile thy torch, for he

Lies dead on whom thou once did lean.

Thy cause was ever his,—the slave

In any fetters was his friend;

His warfare never knew an end;

Wherever men lay bound he clave.