XXI. Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre Startles the churches from their slumbers late, Discoursing music, mixed with lofty ire, At wrangling factions in the restless state, Till tingles with thy note each listening ear,-- Then household charities by the friendly fire Of home, soothe all to fellowship and good cheer. No sin escapes thy fervent eloquence, Yet, touching with compassion the true word, Thou leavest the trembling culprit’s dark offence To the mediation of his gracious Lord. To noble thought and deep dost thou dispense Due meed of praise, strict in thy just award. Can other pulpits with this preacher cope? I glory in thy genius, and take hope! “_Many are the friends of the golden tongue._” WELSH TRIAD. XXII. People’s Attorney, servant of the Right! Pleader for all shades of the solar ray, Complexions dusky, yellow, red, or white; Who, in thy country’s and thy time’s despite, Hast only questioned, What will Duty say? And followed swiftly in her narrow way: Tipped is thy tongue with golden eloquence, All honeyed accents fall from off thy lips,-- Each eager listener his full measure sips, Yet runs to waste the sparkling opulence,-- The scorn of bigots, and the worldling’s flout. If Time long held thy merit in suspense, Hastening repentant now, with pen devout, Impartial History dare not leave thee out. “_Who faithful in insane sedition keeps, With silver and with ruddy gold may vie._” TYRTÆUS. XXIII. ’Twas when the land was struggling to break free From Slavery’s fetter and provincial ban, Whilst a great people dreaded liberty,-- That the dire conflict of thine age began. Thy voice rang clear o’er selfish sect and clan; Nor politician’s, priest’s, nor tradesman’s plea Did aught avail to quench, but more to fan The flame that must consume all slavery,-- The serf then franchised and proclaimed a man. Long wast thou heard amid the scoff and scorn Of voices potent in thy city dear; Steadfast didst face the storm, with heart of cheer, And prove thyself the freeman nobly born, Preacher of righteousness, of saints the peer. “_Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise or blame, nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble._” MILTON. XXIV.