Derne

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,     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     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tent,     His noisy Arab tongue o'erspent;     The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone,     The merchant with his wares withdrawn;     Rough pillowed on some pirate breast,     The dancing-girl has sunk to rest;     And, save where measured footsteps fall     Along the Bashaw's guarded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     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,     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     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!     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,     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,     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,     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,     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     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?     A long, loose, straggling caravan,     Camel and horse and armd man.     The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er     Its grave of waters to the shore,     Lights up that mountain cavalcade,     And gleams 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!     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     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;     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     Or soon their right shall vindicate.     'T is done, the hornd crescent falls!     The star-flag flouts the broken walls!     Joy to the captive husband! joy     To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy!     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,     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,     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     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,     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,     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,     Or name aright that dread embrace     Of suffering for a fallen race