Benjamin Cutler Clark

The woodman sits snug at his hearth,
The ground is all cover'd with snow,
The foliage has gone from the earth,
...

And so you will not hear the prayer
Of thousands who, in common, share
Rights that are equal, just, and fair,—
Ye've not discuss'd!
...

Who hath courage? Not the hero
Leading in the strife,
To receive a nation's plaudits,
For his waste of life.
...

Like a transient shining light,
From beneath a cloudless sky,
Like a swift-wing'd seraph bright,
Thou hast gone to realms on high.
...

'He has no enemies!' you say.
I pity his condition;
His manhood he has thrown away,
His candour and position.
...

Consistent friend of right,
Hast thou been called hence?
Armed with power and might,
Receive thy recompense!
...

Just like a rose in early spring,
That blooms and withers in a day;
So thou, poor fragile sickly thing,
Was early call'd away.
...

Sing unto God on high,
And to Emmanuel,
Who reigns in yonder spacious sky,
And yet with men doth dwell.
...

By the wayside lay a poor bleeding stranger,
Lone and forsaken, in anguish and pain,
Sore and oppressed—in imminent danger—
...

When a crisis heaves in view,
Manfully meet it;
Do not shrink or be dismay'd,
Cheerfully greet it.
...

Adieu to the land of my birth—
Proud land of the slave and the free!
What charms have thy bosom on earth
...

No friend to wipe the sweat of death
From off his face,
Or kindred, when he drew his breath
...

There's a reaper who's been reaping
Ever since 'Old Time' began,
And he claims for his theatre,
Earth,—and for his harvest, man!
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Bold champion of a noble race,
Who never fear'd the pale man's face,
Or nation tried'st thou to disgrace,
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Can it be so? Has God intended
Me to be another's slave?
To toil in anguish, undefended,
...

Hark! the cry,
'A slave ran by!'
Quick, pursue the track;
Don't delay—
...

This tree, this fine old tree!
Must needs be trimm'd this year,
Its fruits, deliciously,
Will then again appear,
...

Hard by, within a southern clime,
There liv'd a patriarch sublime,
With slaves to tremble at his nod,
As heathens to a wooden god.
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Mother!—we have seen thee wasting,
Hour by hour, as time has fled,
And we sometimes fear thee hast'ning
To be number'd with the dead.
...

Old Winter's past,
With storm and blast,
Let's be no longer sad!
For Spring has come,
...