Seven times the bells have tolled, For the centuries gray and old, Since that stoled and mitred band Cursed the tyrants of their land. Since the priesthood, like a tower, Stood between the poor and power; And the wronged and trodden down Blessed the abbot's shaven crown. Gone, thank God, their wizard spell, Lost, their keys of heaven and hell; Yet I sigh for men as bold As those bearded priests of old. Now, too oft the priesthood wait At the threshold of the state; Waiting for the beck and nod Of its power as law and God. Fraud exults, while solemn words Sanctify his stolen hoards; Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips Bless his manacles and whips. Not on them the poor rely, Not to them looks liberty, Who with fawning falsehood cower To the wrong, when clothed with power. Oh, to see them meanly cling, Round the master, round the king, Sported with, and sold and bought,-- Pitifuller sight is not! Tell me not that this must be God's true priest is always free; Free, the needed truth to speak, Right the wronged, and raise the weak. Not to fawn on wealth and state, Leaving Lazarus at the gate; Not to peddle creeds like wares; Not to mutter hireling prayers; Nor to paint the new life's bliss On the sable ground of this; Golden streets for idle knave, Sabbath rest for weary slave! Not for words and works like these, Priest of God, thy mission is; But to make earth's desert glad, In its Eden greenness clad; And to level manhood bring Lord and peasant, serf and king; And the Christ of God to find In the humblest of thy kind! Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away; Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in; Watching on the hills of Faith; Listening what the spirit saith, Of the dim-seen light afar, Growing like a nearing star. God's interpreter art thou, To the waiting ones below; 'Twixt them and its light midway Heralding the better day; Catching gleams of temple spires, Hearing notes of angel choirs, Where, as yet unseen of them, Comes the New Jerusalem! Like the seer of Patmos gazing, On the glory downward blazing; Till upon Earth's grateful sod Rests the City of our God! 1848. PAEAN. This poem indicates the exultation of the anti-slavery party in view of the revolt of the friends of Martin Van Buren in New York, from the Democratic Presidential nomination in 1848. Now, joy and thanks forevermore! The dreary night has wellnigh passed, The slumbers of the North are o'er, The Giant stands erect at last! More than we hoped in that dark time When, faint with watching, few and worn, We saw no welcome day-star climb The cold gray pathway of the morn! O weary hours! O night of years! What storms our darkling pathway swept, Where, beating back our thronging fears, By Faith alone our march we kept. How jeered the scoffing crowd behind, How mocked before the tyrant train, As, one by one, the true and kind Fell fainting in our path of pain!