The Pastoral Letter

So, this is all, the utmost reach     Of priestly power the mind to fetter!     When laymen think, when women preach,     A war of words, a "Pastoral Letter!"     Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes!     Was it thus with those, your predecessors,     Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes     Their loving-kindness to transgressors?     A "Pastoral Letter," grave and dull;     Alas! in hoof and horns and features,     How different is your Brookfield bull     From him who bellows from St. Peter's!     Your pastoral rights and powers from harm,     Think ye, can words alone preserve them?     Your wiser fathers taught the arm     And sword of temporal power to serve them.     Oh, glorious days, when Church and State     Were wedded by your spiritual fathers!     And on submissive shoulders sat     Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers,     No vile "itinerant" then could mar     The beauty of your tranquil Zion,     But at his peril of the scar     Of hangman's whip and branding-iron.     Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church     Of heretic and mischief-maker,     And priest and bailiff joined in search,     By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker!     The stocks were at each church's door,     The gallows stood on Boston Common,     A Papist's ears the pillory bore,     The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman!     Your fathers dealt not as ye deal     With "non-professing" frantic teachers;     They bored the tongue with red-hot steel,     And flayed the backs of "female preachers."     Old Hampton, had her fields a tongue,     And Salem's streets could tell their story,     Of fainting woman dragged along,     Gashed by the whip accursed and gory!     And will ye ask me, why this taunt     Of memories sacred from the scorner?     And why with reckless hand I plant     A nettle on the graves ye honor?     Not to reproach New England's dead     This record from the past I summon,     Of manhood to the scaffold led,     And suffering and heroic woman.     No, for yourselves alone, I turn     The pages of intolerance over,     That, in their spirit, dark and stern,     Ye haply may your own discover!     For, if ye claim the "pastoral right"     To silence Freedom's voice of warning,     And from your precincts shut the light     Of Freedom's day around ye dawning;     If when an earthquake voice of power     And signs in earth and heaven are showing     That forth, in its appointed hour,     The Spirit of the Lord is going!     And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light     On kindred, tongue, and people breaking,     Whose slumbering millions, at the sight,     In glory and in strength are waking!     When for the sighing of the poor,     And for the needy, God hath risen,     And chains are breaking, and a door     Is opening for the souls in prison!     If then ye would, with puny hands,     Arrest the very work of Heaven,     And bind anew the evil bands     Which God's right arm of power hath riven;     What marvel that, in many a mind,     Those darker deeds of bigot madness     Are closely with your own combined,     Yet "less in anger than in sadness "?     What marvel, if the people learn     To claim the right of free opinion?     What marvel, if at times they spurn     The ancient yoke of your dominion?     A glorious remnant linger yet,     Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains,     The coming of whose welcome feet     Is beautiful upon our mountains!     Men, who the gospel tidings bring     Of Liberty and Love forever,     Whose joy is an abiding spring,     Whose peace is as a gentle river!     But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale     Of Carolina's high-souled daughters,     Which echoes here the mournful wail     Of sorrow from Edisto's waters,     Close while ye may the public ear,     With malice vex, with slander wound them,     The pure and good shall throng to hear,     And tried and manly hearts surround them.     Oh, ever may the power which led     Their way to such a fiery trial,     And strengthened womanhood to tread     The wine-press of such self-denial,     Be round them in an evil land,     With wisdom and with strength from Heaven,     With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand,     And Deborah's song, for triumph given!     And what are ye who strive with God     Against the ark of His salvation,     Moved by the breath of prayer abroad,     With blessings for a dying nation?     What, but the stubble and the hay     To perish, even as flax consuming,     With all that bars His glorious way,     Before the brightness of His coming?     And thou, sad Angel, who so long     Hast waited for the glorious token,     That Earth from all her bonds of wrong     To liberty and light has broken,     Angel of Freedom! soon to thee     The sounding trumpet shall be given,     And over Earth's full jubilee     Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven