John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Anti-Slavery PoemsA Sabbath Scene
S
Ceased quivering in the steeple,
Scarce had the parson to his desk
Walked stately through his people,
A wasted female figure,
With dusky brow and naked feet,
Came rushing wild and eager.
She heard the sweet hymn swelling:
O pitying Christ! a refuge give
That poor one in Thy dwelling!
Right up the aisle she glided,
While close behind her, whip in hand,
A lank-haired hunter strided.
To Heaven and Earth appealing;
Were manhood’s generous pulses dead?
Had woman’s heart no feeling?
The hunter and the flying:
Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes
Flashed tearful, yet defying.
Cried out the angry pastor.
“Why, bless your soul, the wench ’s a slave
And I ’m her lord and master.
And who shall dare refuse me?”
Down came the parson, bowing low,
“My good sir, pray excuse me!
To own and work and whip her;
Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott
Before the wench, and trip her!”
Its sacred pages stumbling,
Bound hand and foot, a slave once more,
The hapless wretch lay trembling.
The while his flock addressing,
The Scriptural claims of slavery
With text on text impressing.
All secular occupations
Are deadly sins, we must fulfil
Our moral obligations:
To every conscience tender;
As Paul sent back Onesimus,
My Christian friends, we send her!”
Her wild cries tore asunder;
I listened, with hushed breath, to hear
God answering with his thunder!
Had smothered down her shrieking,
And, dumb, she turned from face to face,
For human pity seeking!
Her shackles harshly clanking;
I heard the parson, over all,
The Lord devoutly thanking!
“The end of prayer and preaching?
Then down with pulpit, down with priest,
And give us Nature’s teaching!
Who turn the good to evil,
And steal the Bible from the Lord,
To give it to the Devil!
I own a statute higher;
And God is true, though every book
And every man ’s a liar!”
In wrath my coat-tail seize on;
I heard the priest cry, “Infidel!”
The lawyer mutter, “Treason!”
Slave, master, priest, and people?
I only heard the supper-bell,
Instead of clanging steeple.
O’er which the white blooms drifted,
The pages of a good old Book
The wind of summer lifted,
Around the Holy Mother,
Waved softly there, as if God’s truth
And Mercy kissed each other.
Above the casement swinging,
With golden bosom to the sun,
The oriole was singing.
The lesson of the Teacher,
So now I heard the written Word
Interpreted by Nature!
Bore Freedom’s blessed word on;
Thus saith the Lord: Break every yoke,
Undo the heavy burden!