Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.

Anti-Slavery Poems

Moloch in State Street

In a foot-note of the Report of the Senate of Massachusetts on the case of the arrest and return to bondage of the fugitive slave Thomas Sims it is stated that—

“It would have been impossible for the U.S. marshal thus successfully to have resisted the law of the State, without the assistance of the municipal authorities of Boston, and the countenance and support of a numerous, wealthy, and powerful body of citizens. It was in evidence that 1500 of the most wealthy and respectable citizens—merchants, bankers, and others—volunteered their services to aid the marshal on this occasion…. No watch was kept upon the doings of the marshal, and while the State officers slept, after the moon had gone down, in the darkest hour before daybreak, the accused was taken out of our jurisdiction by the armed police of the city of Boston.”

THE MOON has set: while yet the dawn

Breaks cold and gray,

Between the midnight and the morn

Bear off your prey!

On, swift and still! the conscious street

Is panged and stirred;

Tread light! that fall of serried feet

The dead have heard!

The first drawn blood of Freedom’s veins

Gushed where ye tread;

Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains

Blush darkly red!

Beneath the slowly waning stars

And whitening day,

What stern and awful presence bars

That sacred way?

What faces frown upon ye, dark

With shame and pain?

Come these from Plymouth’s Pilgrim bark?

Is that young Vane?

Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on

With mocking cheer?

Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson,

And Gage are here!

For ready mart or favoring blast

Through Moloch’s fire,

Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed

The Tyrian sire.

Ye make that ancient sacrifice

Of Man to Gain,

Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies,

Beneath the chain.

Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn

And hate, is near;

How think ye freemen, mountain-born,

The tale will hear?

Thank God! our mother State can yet

Her fame retrieve;

To you and to your children let

The scandal cleave.

Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press,

Make gods of gold;

Let honor, truth, and manliness

Like wares be sold.

Your hoards are great, your walls are strong,

But God is just;

The gilded chambers built by wrong

Invite the rust.

What! know ye not the gains of Crime

Are dust and dross;

Its ventures on the waves of time

Foredoomed to loss!

And still the Pilgrim State remains

What she hath been;

Her inland hills, her seaward plains,

Still nurture men!

Nor wholly lost the fallen mart;

Her olden blood

Through many a free and generous heart

Still pours its flood.

That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet,

Shall know no check,

Till a free people’s foot is set

On Slavery’s neck.

Even now, the peal of bell and gun,

And hills aflame,

Tell of the first great triumph won

In Freedom’s name.

The long night dies: the welcome gray

Of dawn we see;

Speed up the heavens thy perfect day,

God of the free!

1851.