Words for the Hour/Tremont Temple
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 nightDrawn darker in the blazonry of pain,Blotting the gaslight's mimic day, he slingsA dangerous weapon too, a broken chain.
Oh! what a thing it was to sit and hearOur Sumner pour the torrent of his soul;The broken thread and parcel of the crowdKnit to one web—one passion-colored whole.
We chid the tedious clock that told the knellOf 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 longTo 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 debtTo thee and thine, half cancelled, by the rood;The country flashes with the Northern fire,And Sumner blest the banner with his blood.