The one, with forehead saintly bland And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. The other's brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. "How long!"--I knew the voice of Peace,-- "Is there no respite? no release? When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? "O Lord, how long!! One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll. "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? "O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me." Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun No strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won. "I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block. "The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped. "But now, through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fight For leave to strike one blow aright. "On either side my foe they own One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown. "Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid? "Why watch to see who win or fall? I shake the dust against them all, I leave them to their senseless brawl." "Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great God knoweth if it be too late. "Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare." "Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied, "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed, In low lament the answer died. A rustling as of wings in flight, An upward gleam of lessening white, So passed the vision, sound and sight. But round me, like a silver bell Rung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. "Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!" 1862. TO ENGLISHMEN. Written when, in the stress of our terrible war, the English ruling class, with few exceptions, were either coldly indifferent or hostile to the party of freedom. Their attitude was illustrated by caricatures of America, among which was one of a slaveholder and cowhide, with the motto, "Haven't I a right to wallop my nigger?" You flung your taunt across the wave We bore it as became us, Well knowing that the fettered slave Left friendly lips no option save To pity or to blame us. You scoffed our plea. "Mere lack of will, Not lack of power," you told us We showed our free-state records; still You mocked, confounding good and ill, Slave-haters and slaveholders. We struck at Slavery; to the verge Of power and means we checked it; Lo!--presto, change! its claims you urge, Send greetings to it o'er the surge, And comfort and protect it.