Textarchiv - John Pierpont

I would not live always

mrbot — Sat, 30 Jun 2018 21:10:07 +0000

I would not live always; I ask not to stay,
Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day:
Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord,
And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.
I would not live always, where life is a load
To the flesh and the spirit:—since there's an abode
For the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my last breath,
And repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!—
I would not live always to toil as a slave:
O no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave;
For there, from their troubling, the wicked shall cease,
And, free from his master, the slave be at peace.

John Pierpont

1843

Slaveholder's address to the North Star

mrbot — Fri, 15 Jun 2018 21:10:05 +0000

Star of the North, thou art not bigger
Than is the diamond in my ring;
Yet every black, star-gazing nigger
Stares at thee, as at some great thing!
Yes, gazes at thee, till the lazy
And thankless rascal is half crazy.
Some Quaker scoundrel must have told 'em
That, if they take their flight tow'rd thee,
They'd get where 'massa' cannot hold 'em;
And, therefore, to the North they flee.
Fools! to be led off, where they can't earn
Their living, by thy lying lantern.
Thou'rt a cold water star, I reckon,
Although I've never seen thee, yet,
When to the bath thy sisters beckon,
Get even thy golden sandals wet;
Nor in the wave have known thee dip,
In our hot nights, thy finger's tip.
If thou wouldst, nightly, leave the pole,
To enjoy a regular ablution
In the North Sea, or Symmes's hole,
Our 'Patriarchal Institution,'
From which thou findest many a ransom,
Would, doubtless, give thee something handsome.
Although thou'rt a cold water star,
As I have said, I think, already,
Thou'rt hailed, by many a tipsy tar,
Who likes thee just because thou'rt steady,
And hold'st the candle for the rover,
When he is more than 'half seas over.'
But, while Ham's seed, our land to bless,
'Increase and multiply' like rabbits,
We like thee, Yankee Star, the less,
For thy bright eye, and steady habits.
Pray waltz with Venus, star of love,
Or take a bout with reeling Jove.
Thou art an abolition star,
And to my wench wilt be of use, if her
Dark eye should find thee, ere the car
Of our true old slave-catcher, 'Lucifer,
Star of the morning,' upward rolls,
And, with its light, puts out the pole's.
On our field hands thou lookest, too—
A sort of nightly overseer—
Canst find no other work to do?
I tell thee, thou'rt not wanted here;
So, pray, shine only on the oceans,
Thou number one of 'Northern notions.'
Yes, northern notions,—northern lights!
As hates the devil holy water,
So hate I all that Rogers writes,
Or Weld, that married Grimkè's daughter:—
So hate I all these northern curses,
From Birney's prose to Whittier's verses.
'Put out the light!' exclaimed the Moor—
I think they call his name Othello—
When opening his wife's chamber door
To cut her throat—the princely fellow!
Noblest of all the nigger nation!
File leader in amalgamation!
'Put out the light!' and so say I.
Could 'I quench thee, thou flaming minister,'
No longer, in the northern sky,
Should blaze thy beacon-fire so sinister.
North Star, thy light's unwelcome—very—
We'll vote thee 'an incendiary.'
And, to our 'natural allies'—
Our veteran Kinderhook Invincibles,
Who do our bidding, in the guise
Of 'northern men, with southern principles,'—
Men who have faces firm as dough,
And, as we set their noses, go—
To these, we'll get some scribe to write,
And tell them not to let thee shine—
Excepting of a cloudy night—
Any where, south of Dixon's line.
If, beyond that, thou shin'st, an inch,
We'll have thee up before Judge Lynch:—
And when, thou abolition star,
Who preachest freedom, in all weathers,
Thou hast got on a coat of tar,
And, over that, a cloak of feathers,
That thou art 'fixed' shalt none deny,
If there's a fixed star in the sky.

John Pierpont

1843

The Tocsin

mrbot — Fri, 18 May 2018 22:20:21 +0000

Wake! children of the men who said,
'All are born free!'—Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled
In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves,
And hugging there your chains,—ye slaves!
Ay,—slaves of slaves! What, sleep ye yet,
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,—dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,—while deep
The chain, her quivering flesh endures,
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
Hah! say ye that I've falsely spoken,
Calling you slaves?—Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press!—ye'll see it broken;
Stand to defend it!—ye'll be shot. —
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what 'the brotherhood' won't bear!
Then from your lips let words of grace,
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race
Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;
And pray,—'Lord, let thy kingdom come!'
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.
Yes, men of God! ye may not speak,
As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,—the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;—
And why?—'The brethren' will not hear it.
Since, then, through pulpit, or through press,
To prove your freedom ye're not able,
Go,—like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,—to a stable!
Bend there to Liberty your knee!
Say there that God made all men free!
Even there,—ere Freedom's vows ye've plighted,
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there are fires infernal lighted,
And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.
Ah, well!—'so persecuted they
The prophets' of a former day!
Go, then, and build yourselves a hall,
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write 'FREEDOM,' on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of PENN;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;—
Within let Freedom's anthem swell;—
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you——Hark! the yell,—
The torch,—the torrent of the Mob!—
They're Slavery's troops that round you sweep,
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!
At Slavery's beck, the prayers ye urge
On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,—that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,—
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
At Slavery's beck, ye send your sons
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!—Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
At Slavery's beck, the very hands
Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,—tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!
Vengeance is thine, Almighty God!
To pay it hath thy justice bound thee;
Even now, I see thee take thy rod,—
Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee;
Slip them not yet, in mercy!—Deign
Thy wrath yet longer to restrain!—
Or,—let thy kingdom, Slavery, come!
Let Church, let State, receive thy chain!
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb,
If so 'the brotherhood' ordain!
The MUSE her own indignant spirit
Will yet speak out;—and men shall hear it.
Yes;—while, at Concord, there's a stone
That she can strike her fire from still;
While there's a shaft at Lexington,
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,
There shall she stand and strike her lyre,
And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her.
But, should she thence by mobs be driven,
For purer heights she'll plume her wing;—
Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven
She'll soar, where she can safely sing.
God of our fathers, speed her thither!
God of the free, let me go with her!

John Pierpont

1843

Prayer for the Slave

mrbot — Fri, 04 May 2018 21:08:27 +0000

Almighty God! thou Giver
Of all our sunny plains,
That stretch from sea to river,
Hear'st thou thy children's chains?
Seest thou the snappered lashes,
That daily sting, afresh?
Seest thou the cow-skin's gashes,
Cut through the quivering flesh?
Seest thou the sores, that rankle,
Licked by no pitying dog,
Where, round the bondman's ancle,
They've rivetted a clog?
Hear'st thou the curse he mutters?
Seest thou his flashing eye?
Hear'st thou the prayer he utters,
That thou would'st let him die?
God of the poor and friendless,
Shall this unequalled wrong,
This agony, be endless?
How long, O Lord, how long
Shall man set, on his brother,
The iron heel of sin,
The Holy Ghost to smother—
To crush the God within!
Call out, O God, thy legions—
The hosts of love and light!
Ev'n in the blasted regions
That Slavery wraps in night,
Some of thine own anointed
Shall catch the welcome call,
And, at the hour appointed,
Do battle for the thrall.
Let press, let pulpit thunder,
In all slaveholders' ears,
Till they disgorge the plunder,
They're garnered up, for years;
Till Mississippi's Valley,
Till Carolina's coast,
Round Freedom's standard rally,
A vast, a ransomed host!

John Pierpont

1843

To Abolitionists

mrbot — Sat, 06 Jan 2018 21:10:03 +0000

Servants of God most high,
Who on his word rely,
By ancient seers and holy prophets spoken—
That all the chains that gall
The Ethiopian thrall,
And every yoke, shall from his neck be broken—
Whether, with holy zeal,
Ye in your closets kneel,
Or plead the cause of Freedom in a throng,
Or through a dauntless press,
The voice of righteousness
Ye pour out, like a torrent, deep and strong—
Give not your labors o'er,
Because ye're few and poor,
Because a lion couches in your path,
Because a lawless horde
Upon your heads have poured,—
Your heads unhelmeted,—their vialed wrath.
The ancient seers, like you,
To God and duty true,
Were, in their day, reviled and put to shame:
Scorned, hated, hunted, they
From earth have passed away:
Their forms have passed away, but not their fame.
Death dares not touch their Word!
The soul of man is stirred
By it, wherever on the darkling earth,
God's Truth and human Right
Come down to dwell in light,
And holy Freedom struggles into birth.
So shall your words be breathed,
Where'er man's brow is wreathed
With the sharp chaplet that for Him was twined,
Who lived mid taunts and sneers,
Who died mid scoffs and jeers,
From sin and slavery to redeem mankind.
Servants of God most holy,
Who stoop to man most lowly,
To lift him up and give him liberty,
What though to-day's unpleasant!
Ye live not in the present;
Your life is in the infinite TO BE.
Your words of love sincere,
Now spoken in the ear,
Where Mammon's priests bend at his altar brazen,
And lift the suppliant eye,
In foul idolatry—
All tongues shall trumpet, and on house-tops blazon.
Yea, and your 'name and praise,'
That, in these slavish days,
So many vainly dream are soon to perish,
As in the coming age
They shine on History's page,
The proud shall envy, and the good shall cherish.

John Pierpont

1843

Oft, in the Chilly Night

mrbot — Sun, 17 Dec 2017 21:10:01 +0000

Oft, in the chilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
When all her silvery light
The moon is pouring round me,
Beneath her ray,
I kneel and pray,
That God would give some token,
That Slavery's chains,
On southern plains,
Shall all, ere long, be broken.
Yes, in the chilly night,
Though Slavery's chain has bound me,
Kneel I, and feel the might
Of God's right arm around me.
When, at the driver's call,
In cold or sultry weather,
We slaves, both great and small,
Turn out to toil together,
I feel like one,
From whom the sun
Of hope has long departed,
And morning's light,
And weary night
Still find me broken-hearted.
Thus when the chilly breath
Of night is sighing round me,
Kneel I, and wish that Death,
In his cold chain, had bound me.

John Pierpont

1843

Death of Charles Follen

mrbot — Fri, 01 Dec 2017 21:10:02 +0000

O, not for thee weep;—we weep
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.
'T is for ourselves we mourn;—we mourn
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.
'T is for the slave we sigh:—we sigh
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.
'T is for our land we grieve:—we grieve
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou should'st leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.
A soul like thine—so true a soul,
Wife, friends, our land, the world must miss:
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.

John Pierpont

1843

Prayer of the Abolitionist

mrbot — Wed, 29 Nov 2017 21:10:01 +0000

We ask not that the slave should lie,
As lies his master, at his ease,
Beneath a silken canopy,
Or in the shade of blooming trees.
We mourn not that the man should toil;
'T is nature's need—'t is God's decree;
But, let the hand that tills the soil,
Be, like the wind that fans it, free.
We ask not 'eye for eye'—that all,
Who forge the chain and ply the whip,
Should feel their torture—that the thrall
Should wield the scourge of mastership—
We only ask, O God, that they,
Who bind a brother, may relent:
But, GREAT AVENGER, we do pray
That the wrong-doer may repent.

John Pierpont

1843

Plymouth Rock

mrbot — Tue, 21 Nov 2017 21:10:06 +0000

Escaped from all the perils of the sea,—
Storms, shoals,—the angry and engulphing waves,—
Here stand we, on a savage shore,—all free,
Thy freemen, Lord! and not of man the slaves.
Here will we toil and serve thee, till our graves
On these bleak hills shall open.— When the blood
Thou pourest now so warm along our veins
Shall westward flow, till Mississippi's flood
Gives to our children's children his broad plains,
Ne'er let them wear, O God, or forge a bondman's chains!

John Pierpont

1843

Economy of Slavery

mrbot — Tue, 14 Nov 2017 21:10:04 +0000

'One mouth and one back to two hands,' is the law,
That the hand of his Maker has stamped upon man;
But Slavery lays on God's image her paw,
And fixes him out on a different plan;—
Two mouths and two backs to two hands she creates;
And the consequence is, as she might have expected;
Let the hands do their best, upon all her estates,
The mouths go half fed, and the backs half protected.

John Pierpont

1843