Poem by Julia Ward Howe

Tremont Temple

Two figures fill this temple to my sight,
Who e'er shall speak, their forms behind him stand;
One has the beauty of our Northern blood,
And wields Jove's thunder in his lifted hand.

The other wears the solemn hue of night
Drawn darker in the blazonry of pain,
Blotting the gaslight's mimic day, he slings
A dangerous weapon too, a broken chain.

Oh! what a thing it was to sit and hear
Our Sumner pour the torrent of his soul;
The broken thread and parcel of the crowd
Knit to one web—one passion-colored whole.

We chid the tedious clock that told the knell
Of minutes, swollen to hours, that break and die;
"It is not so—Time listening waits for him—
Be still!" we said, and passed its record by.

The evil thing he smote at, waited long
To hurl its vileness at that Master brain.
'T will be a proud day when we gather here,
(Grant it, dear God!) to hear his voice again.

And, Douglass, thou shalt own the white man's debt
To thee and thine, half cancelled, by the rood;
The country flashes with the Northern fire,
And Sumner blest the banner with his blood.

1. My Last Dance
2. Tribute to Oliver Wendell Holmes
3. Mother's Day Proclamation
4. The Flag
5. As It Seems

Print

1729 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version