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NEBRASKA:

A POEM
PERSONAL AND POLITICAL. 1

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN P.  JEWETT AND COMPANY.
CLEVELAND, OHIO:

JEWETT, PROCTOR, AND WORTHINGTON.

1854.

 

 

 

This electronic edition has been prepared for the Antislavery Literature Project, Arizona State University, a public education project working in cooperation with the EServer, Iowa State University.  Acknowledgements to the Library Company of Philadelphia for the original text.  Digitization and annotation by Joe Lockard.  All rights reserved by the Antislavery Literature Project.  Permission for non-commercial educational use is granted.

 

 

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

 

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NEBRASKA.

___________

 

PART I.

The granite giant, whose imperial brow

Shone like the moon amid his night of hair,

And whose magnetic eyes pierced through the veil

Which hides the future from the vulgar gaze,

Sleeps on the borders of the broad, deep sea,             5

Where winds and waves his requiem sing for aye!

O that the deep unto the cheep could call

In tones of startling thunder, and awake

The mighty man who slumbers softly there,

That he might rise, and in the nation's car                 10

Unsav the words in which his heart beat not,  --

Words stereotyped to yokes upon the necks

Of slaves beneath the flag of stripes and stars, --

And then, with his surpassing power of speech,

Rebuke ambitious traitors, who would sell                 15

Their country as they sell their countrymen!

If that herculean arm could rend the shroud,

And shake the temple of our Capitol,

Where base conspirators betray our rights,

 

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Then Freedom would not there be stultified.                20

We need a Daniel to translate the fire 2

Which burns upon the walls at Washington,

Where proud Belshazzar, steeped in wine, reads not

The fearful fate which threatens to destroy

The mad assassins of our liberty.                    25

Could we but roll the stone from Calhoun's grave, 3

And find a shade or spirit sitting there,

No one would dare to drive the rusty nails

Through Freedom's shrinking sinews on the cross.

Nor put upon her head the crown of thorns,                30

Nor shroud her in the mocking robe of scorn,

Nor pierce her broken heart with cruel speech.

He would have cursed the leprous lips that dared

Betray fair Freedom with a Judas' kiss;

His fiery glance would shrivel up the hand                35

Reached forth to break the seal of compromise;

He would have scorned to own a slave so mean

As sneaking senators who strive to sell,

For silver pieces, pottage, place, or power,

The birthright of a nation like our own;                40

His burning logic, winged with words of fire,

Would scathe the demagogues like light from heaven.

We weep between the altar and the porch

To think a man who led so pure a life,

A life so constant and so free from cant,                 45

Made merchandise of men, and owned a troop

Of slaves; but why shed tears upon his grave?

O, let us rather weep because no man

In Carolina South has yet been found

With ample shoulders broad enough to wear                 50

The mighty mantle he has left behind.

The gallant sage of Ashland 4 died too soon

 

[page 5]

 

 

To save the senate from disgrace and shame.

We miss his manly form and magic voice,

And sorely need his thrilling eloquence.                55

Although the parent of a "Compromise"

Which might have made a northern doughface 5 blush,

He would not sacrifice his plighted faith;

Although he oft defended slavery,

He'd tie no curse to territories free.                     60

Unlike the chivalrous Kentuckian,

The "little giants" 6 who come after him

Would smooth the way and open wide the gate

For servitude to curse the soil that's free.

Behold them braiding scourges for the backs             65

Of unborn millions of the human race;

Their bunkum speeches are drowned in the din

Of galling fetters, which they forge for men.

There is Nebraska, fair as Eden was

Before the Arnold of the fiends below                70

Made Eve and Adam break their compromise.

Now let us climb Nebraska's loftiest mount,

And from its summit view the scenes below.

The morn comes like an angel down from heaven;

Its radiant face is the unclouded sun;                75

Its outspread wings the overarching sky;

Its voice the charming minstrels of the air;

Its breath the fragrance of the bright, wild flowers.

O blesséd day! rich gift of God to man;

Brimful of beauty to delight the eye,                80

And thrilling music to enchant the ear;

It lights me to the unreturning past --

A dreary waste, where other days have fled

With the dear souls they pioneered to heaven.

The past is night, in which these souls are stars!            85

 

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   Like flocks of migratory birds awing,

The by-gone days sweep o'er the sea of time.

On, on to the eternal shore they speed:

One is baptized with sad and bitter tears,

And bears an arrow 'neath its bleeding wing;                90

One, crimsoned o'er with battle's bloody stain,

Utters a nation's agonizing shriek;

One, scarred and battered by the winds and waves.

Sobs out the grief of shipwrecked mariners.

Ay, life would fail to name disastrous days,                95

Days red and reeking with the foulest deeds,

Days the bright stars mistook for blackest night.

But lo, amid the flying flock I see,

Like doves with rooks, fair golden days like this,

Filled to the sunset with the song of larks,                 100

And wreathed with roses to the morning's rim,

Blue with bland sky and crowned with glorious light

And starred all over with the noblest deeds.    

'Tis God who lifts the window and sends forth

The raven, night, on its eternal course,            105

And the fair dove of day with leaves of peace

From his celestial Ararat 7 on high.

'Tis but a step on such a morn as this

From hill sod to the condescending sky.

O glorious world, afloat in golden air!                110

Behold the prairie, broad, and wild, and free;

Ocean of emerald grass and golden flowers;

'Tis God's own garden, unprofaned by man;

There the meek grass with its green finger points

To Him who feeds it, with his hand in clouds;            115

'Tis there the rainbow-tinted flowers send up

Their offerings rich of purest, sweetest balm;

The yellow bee hums out his drowsy song

 

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Upon the bosom of the wild white rose;                

There, striped with green and gold, the serpent glides,         120

With deadly venom 'neath his tongue of fire,

Dangerous as malice hid in compliments;

And showers of insects, fluttering in the air

On gauzy wings, so various dyed they seem

The happy offspring of the gorgeous flowers.            125

   Gay birds, like winged blossoms filled with song,

Pour forth their roundelays from morn till eve.

The robin, bard of birds, whose ardent hymn

Swells out upon his radiant breast of flame,

Builds here his neat round nest and rears his brood.             130

That jewel of the air, the oriole,

Bright drops of sky and sunshine turned to song,

Hangs his moss cradle on the lonely tree;

And there God rocks it with his mighty hand,

And watches it with all the stars of heaven.                 135

The prairie lark, perched on some towering stem

That lifts its crimson bells above the grass

As a tall steeple rises in the town,

Is prairie sexton, ringing up the sun.

   Swift o'er this sea of fragrant beauty skims             140

The twittering swallow in pursuit of food,

Plunging no deeper than the critics dip

In th' unappreciated page they cut.

There chants the blackbird in his sable plumes,

A bit of last night tangled in the bush.                 145

The thrush, the jay, the linnet, and the wren

Are prima donnas holding concerts there;

While, like a speck between the earth and sky,

The soaring eagle, royal king of birds,

Poised on his wings, calmly surveys the scene.            150

   Yonder behold the monarchs of the wood;

 

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For ages have they battled with the storm

The envious clouds have pelted them with hail,

The lightning pierced them with its quivering lance,

And the fierce whirlwind wrenched them in its wrath.            155

As mortals, chastened by affliction's rod,

Grow firmer and grow faster in the faith,

So these tall Titans of the forest glade

Are stronger for their struggle with the storm.

When at their feet their predecessors fell                160

Spring covered their remains with mourning moss,

And wrote their epitaph in pale wood flowers,

And gave sweet berries to the gentle birds

To stay and sing their sad, sweet requiem.

These trees are throned upon their fathers' graves,            165

And the same sun that cheered th' ancestral stems

Bathes all the sylvan wood in golden light.

I love to gaze up at the grand old trees,

And hear the rustling talk of whispering leaves,

As mortals softly speak the tenderest vows                 170

With lip to lip and arm encircling arm.

I've seen them clad in Autumn's golden pomp,

When blushing leaves were red as flakes of fire,

And the deserted nest in silence swayed

Like a sad heart beneath a royal scarf.                175

And when their crowns of emerald and gold

Shivered, and, scattered by assaulting winds

Had left them in their leafless poverty,

I've seen their trembling branches, bare and brown,

Lifted like stricken arms in humble prayer.                 180

The trees have taught me unforgotten lore

In winter, when the hills were wrapped in snow

And looked like giants slumbering in their shrouds,

Each tree a crystal chandelier ablaze;

 

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The towering pine, with its tall plume of green,            185

Without a sear leaf, smiled upon the wood

As Hope smiles in the winter of despair.

So have I seen a lofty nature rise,

His feet on earth, his head beyond the clouds,

When a dumb nation, to the vitals froze,                 190

Shining and shivering, stood in clanking chains

He was the mainmast of our country's ship.

To me the branches of the wildwood trees

Are ladder rounds, such as the patriarch saw

In holy dreams, reaching from earth to heaven,             195

And filled with angel messengers of light.

From the green woods uprise spontaneous songs,

Which fill the gaping space with grateful joy;

Blossoms like blazing censers fill the air

With sweetest fragrance, and the balmy sky                200

Seems an inverted flower of blue and gold.

Meanwhile, yon river, like a constant heart,

Pours forth a hymn as copious as its flood,

Unchecked by flowers coquetting on its banks.

That stream reflects the glory of the day,                205

A silver thread, strung with sun, moon, and stars,

And wound about the landscape's verdant waist.

Glide on, sweet river, with enchanting song,

And teach thy lesson to the earth and sea,

Progressive, yet confined within the path                210

Traced by the hand that poured it from the hills,

Save when a shower gift fills its breast with joy,

As blessings falling like the rain from heaven

O'erflow the purest hearts with gratitude,

Harmless when unobstructed in its course,                215

But terrible when hindered on its way,

Foaming and roaring with a host of waves!

 

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Winter may bind him fast with crystal chains;    

In spring he’ll strew the banks with icy gyves, 8

Then rush forth, shouting, to the ocean’s arms,            220

Exchanging snow wreaths for a crown of shells.

I love to stand upon the grassy brink

Of the meandering stream, and in its depths

Behold the fishes flash in green and gold,

As though they were the flood’s imbodied thought.            225

Fair land of silver streams and mountains green,

Of boundless prairies and pellucid lakes,

Of rocks, and hills, and plains, and woodlands wild,

Shall Slavery clank her galling fetters here?

Or Freedom wave her starry flag for aye,                230

And make these forests blossom like the rose,

And build great cities on these fertile plains,

And launch her floating fabrics on these waves,

While streams are serfs to turn the busy mills

Which soon must wall the waters of the west?            235

Yes; here let towering domes and tapering spires

Ascend above the tree tops’ dizzy height;

Here let the hum of honest industry

Be heard in busy hives where freemen toil;

While schools are filled with troops of rosy youth,            240

And peace and plenty smile at every door.

May Temperance, like the watchful angel armed

With sword of flame at Eden’s guarded gate,

Protect this pleasant garden of the West;

May meek Religion, pure and undefiled,                245

Lead the young nations born and cradled here

In Wisdom’s straight and narrow path of peace.

The day is near when towers and towns will rise

Like magic in this new and vast domain,

And iron threads, thick strung with villages,                250

 

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Will stretch from boundary to border line;

While ships, like shuttles, fly from shore to shore,

Weaving the eastern warp with western woof.

Methinks I see the forest bow before

The sharp axe swinging in the settler’s hand;                255

The Indian corn springs up with silken plume,

And fills his ample barn with golden ears;

White wagons trundle through the winding lanes.

Soon horn responds to horn, and farm joins farm;

Rude huts, like birdless nests, are tenantless;                260

While mansions fair are zoned with fruit and bloom,

And filled with good Nebraskians, who are free!

The horse with lungs of fire and ribs of steel,

Ad mane of smoke and nerves of shining wire,

Goes thundering past in haste on burning wheels,            265

Like an express from Erebus 9 to earth.

 

    With heart of fire and joints of steel,

    With sighing valve and groaning wheel,

    With startling scream and sweeping stroke,

    The iron steed the train is bringing;                270

    So look out while the bell is ringing!

 

    A sheet of fire illumes the track

    When Night reigns in her tent of black;

    And so the progress of reform

    Sweeps on through cloud, and sun, and storm.        275

    ‘Tis Freedom’s song the masses are singing;

    So look out while the bell is ringing!

 

    The slave will doff his yoke and chain;

    The drunkard will not drink again;

 

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The soldier flings his sword away;            280

We see the dawn of that glad day!

Good news the harnessed lightning's bringing;

So look out while the bell is ringing!

 

__________________

 

 

PART II.

 

As Satan came to paradise arrayed

In serpent's skin of green and starry gold             285

To mar the beauty of that fair domain,

So Douglas, in false colors robed, appeared,

And pointed to the fruit on Freedom's tree,

Inviting Eve (the south) to taste the fruit,

And Adam, too, (the north,) to eat and live;             290

When lo, the people spake the voice of God,

And said to all the world, in thunder words,

"The day ye eat thereof ye surely die."

The chosen champion of this wicked work,

Without the stature of a full-grown man             295

Or mind of more than common calibre,

Is falsely called the "Giant of the West!"

And yet this Tom Thumb 10 Titan is not seen

Save when he climbs upon a negro's back,

Or struts and spouts upon an auction block --            300

A platform where, in all the gilded pomp

Of pigmy grandeur, little giants stand.

 If Douglas be the western Brobdignag, 11

What little Liliputians are we all!

The torch of genius shines not in his eyes;            305

 

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The gods have set no seal upon his brow;

His speeches have no spirit in their words

Mere mobs of syllables devoid of souls!

Thoughts are to words what souls to bodies are;

But Douglas is ambitious, and aspires                310

To highest honors, though deserving none.

He sacrificed the freedom of his state,

Made it the byword of a mocking world,

The most inhospitable spot on earth,

The black sheep in the bleating flock of states,             315

That he might gain the presidential chair!

He purchased a plantation tilled by slaves, 12

And fattened on the negro's blood and sweat.

Gold was his gospel, and the lash his law,

Office his heaven, and power and pelf his wish,            320

His farm the only empire that he ruled,

And ragged slaves the subjects he oppressed.

He was the emperor of a gang of blacks;

His driver his prime minister of state,

Who left his mark upon the rising race.                325

This great king of a Mississippi swamp

Divorced sad husbands from their weeping wives;

Snatched screaming infants from their mothers' arms;

Scourged white-haired dames and venerable men;

Erased God's image from the face divine;                330

Extinguished hope within the human breast;

Trod on the necks of  most obsequious slaves,

And crushed their hearts beneath a tyrant's heel!

He counterfeited the autograph of God

Upon the charter of our sacred rights.                335

And signs deeds for the priceless soul of man.

Now he, who forges the Almighty’s name,

Would make Nebraska like his own domain –

 

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A vast plantation filled with suffering slaves!

Shall the free winds that sweep her grassy vales            340

Be burdened with the groan of sad despair?

Shall the free waves that wash her fertile shores

Blush with the blood that runs from furrowed backs?

Shall her tall mountains crowned with sparkling snow

Become red altars for the slaughtered slave?                345

Shall her green valleys be the early grave

Of Freedom, or the cradle of the free?

Shall her broad rivers, rolling to the deep,

Shout Liberty's inspiring song for aye,

Or slink to the old Ocean's arms to hide                 350

Their stains behind his ample cloak of waves?

Shall her vast plains and prairies, filled with flowers

As glorious night is filled with gleaming stars,

Be cleared, and ploughed, and hoed, and reaped by

slaves?                            355

Let pulpit, press, platform, and people speak!

Thank Heaven, New England’s pulpit speaks at last!

Her trumpet tones are heard throughout the land,

And sordid tyrants tremble when they hear

The echo of the revolution's voice!                    360

From the Green Mountains and the Granite Hills, 13

From velvet valleys and from seagirt isles,

Where steeples point like fingers out to the sky,

The heralds of the cross speak out men.

 

For others’ weal these good men labor,            365

   And not for fame or paltry pelf; 14

They mind the maxim, “Love thy neighbor

   As much as thou dost love thyself.”

Yes, they would make this dark world better

   Than ‘twas the day it gave them birth,            370

 

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By breaking every yoke and fetter,

   And spreading light and truth on earth.

 

And should their feeble brothers stumble,

   And often fall upon the road,

Though poor, despised, and black, and humble,        375

They'll raise them up and point to God.

They heal the heart that's almost broken;

They light up hope and banish fear;

With gentle accents, kindly spoken,

   They heal the wound and dry the tear.            380

 

Such are our best and bravest, wisest men,

Who in the name of the great God they serve

Sent their remonstrance to our senate room –

Men of vast learning, talent, taste, and skill,

Whose thrilling eloquence has charmed the church;             385

Whose classic works have won immortal fame;

Whose noble deeds are known in earth and heaven;

Whose influence, like the light, inwraps the world.

They stand where Emmons 15 and where Channing 16 stood,

In Boston, Charlestown, Concord, Lexington,             390

Where our brave fathers' loftiest landmarks stand

But their petition was received with scorn!

    Douglas, with bar-room slang and Billingsgate, 17

  Bespattered them in most insulting speech,

  Until the atmosphere of Washington                 395

  Was fetid as the air when nameless beasts

 Befoul it with inodorous defence:

 When lo, a polished, ministerial man, 18

 Once the Apollo of the sacred desk,

 With pleasant face and most polite address,                400

 Arose, and then with gracious smiles and speech

 

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Showered honeyed compliments on all around.

His mouth was sweet as Hybla's ancient hive; 19

His words as musical as golden bees.

He hoped the "giant" would not strike him back --            405

He humbly begged his pardon in advance,

And then apologized with crimson cheeks

For the remonstrants and their reckless course!

Hoped Douglas would forgive both them and him.

But Houston 20 bared his bosom to the storm;             410

The gallant Texan stood before the world

The champion of New England clergymen!

And Douglas staggered 'neath his ponderous blows,

While Everett, 21 shivering, showed his lack of " GRIT ."

 

   Who ever saw such times as these?                415

Stripes on our slaves, stripes on our flags;

   Our blacks wear gyves, our whites wear gags;

And half the nation on its knees

Implores the other half, that scorns

Freedom betrayed and crowned with thorns.                420

 

   Dust of our fathers, rise in deeds!

For these are times that try the soul,

While parties plan and cliques control,

And men bow down like broken reeds,

And demagogues reforge the chains                 425

Our fathers broke on Concord plains!

 

Is Massachusetts so bereft?

The spirit of our sires has tied,

And nothing of the noble dead

   Save their "dumb ashes" here is left:                430

 

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And when we see the Charlestown stone                435

Must we reflect that freedom's gone?

 

No, we have brave and honest men

On whom the Pilgrims' mantles fell;

True heirs of freedom, fit to dwell

Where never clanks the hateful chain;                 440

Unlike the men, with hearts of rock,

Whose platform is an auction block!

 

There is a voice from Bunker's Hill,

A thunder shout from Faneuil Hall, 22

Where patriots' portraits light the wall,                445

And the church steeples are not still;

And words of warning cross the sea,

While Europe struggles to be free!

 

The Press -- the Press -- the free, untrammelled Press

Spoke out the bold reformers' earnest prayer;             450

Thus anti-slavery sentiment was born!

The mob, a monster without head or heart,

Assailed our Wilberforce 23 with sticks and stones

Instead of arguments and stubborn facts;

With Cromwell's courage and with Luther's zeal            455

He wrote, and heart pulsations moved his pen

And starred his paragraphs with gems of thought

His style and sentiment were pure and strong

In prose and verse, at home, abroad, he wrote;

His words fell like a rain of quenchless fire                460

Upon our nation, slumbering in its sins;

And when it woke it pelted him with scorn!

Around him stood a fearless, faithful band,

Who coveted the rude and ruffian blows

 

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Aimed at their gallant leader's heart and head.            465

One, with soft, golden hair, and brow of Jove, 24

And eyes magnetic as the evening star,

With silver voice poured forth the sweetest strains.

One, cradled on the lap of luxury,

Whose honored name shines through our history's             470

page,

Heedless of caste , or fame, or Fortune's smile,

Stood by our hero's side and shared his fate.

"Fair women and brave men" of every rank

Flocked round the waving standard of the free.             475

Then came a tall, pale man, with eyes of flame

A broad brim flung its shadow o'er his face;

A suit of sober hue inwrapped his form

A quiet Quaker he, the prince of song,

Whose harp notes cheered and charmed the bold and            480

brave

Reformers harnessed for the moral war.

Thus, step by step, the holy cause moved on,

Pavilioned with God's sheltering clouds by day

And led by fiery pillars in the night.                    485

The red sea has been crossed, and we have reached

The shore where only little Anaks 25 stand

Between true heroes and the promised land.

In this broad land the giant mountains rise

With base on earth and summit in the skies;                 490

And here the rivers roll their waves along,

And here Niagara shouts her ceaseless song.

Here woodland, prairie, lake, and rock, and isle,

With birds, and brooks, and flowers responsive smile;

And Nature speaks from sky, and earth, and sea,             495

God made these hills, and vales, and waters free!

O glorious land! beneath a golden sky

Where banners wave and Freedom's eagles fly,

 

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Gay be thy flowers and green thy vales and hills,

And fruitful be the soil free labor tills!                500

But, hark! a voice falls on the aching ear --

Cain beats and binds his brother even here!

The blood of bondmen stains both soil and sea,

And men are fettered where the beasts are free.

 

 

__________________

 

 

PART III.

 

 

WHENCE this insatiable thirst for fame?                505

Fame is a sea which will not seek the spray

Lost on the shore that flings its billows back;

Fame is a sun which will not leave its sphere

To seek the gnat that sported in its beam;

Fame will not seek us in our sodded home                 510

When the red sea of life has ceased to dash

Against its trembling shore of flesh and bones,

And when the sun of life, unclouded now,

Sinks out of sight behind the churchyard mound.

But vile ambition, that would sacrifice                515

The rights of unborn nations for a toy,

Deserves from all unmitigated scorn.

  I knew a man whose merits did not raise 26

  Him to the lofty seat he could not fill

  He was a buzzard in an eagle's nest;                520

He wavered like a feather in the wind,

Yet soared so high he showed his nakedness.

Ambitious man! if fickle Fame should press

A golden trumpet to her lips of air,

                

 

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And sound his name throughout the wondering world            525

Until it filled the earth, as yonder moon    

Fills all the space ‘twixt clod and cloud with light,

And mothers called their children by his name,

And sculptors in Carrara 27 carved his bust,

While poets praised him in immortal verse,                530

And nations named their capitols from him,

Until his broad-mouthed appetite was gorged,

Would fell Disease respect his laurelled brow?  

Could scowling Death be bribed to spare his life?

Would bannered angels with their golden harps                535

Echo the brazen-throated fame of earth?

The ocean swallows streams, then puts its lips

Of sand against the river’s mouth for more,

Clasping the green banks in its ardent arms,

Until at last the jealous moon comes forth                540

From her white chamber in the lofty sky,

And with her wand drives back the wanton waves.

Fame is the restless ocean in his breast,

To which all other passions flow like streams,

Which no pale planet in the sky can guide.                545

He was a dizzy, mediocre man,

Whose friends wore custom collars on their necks:

This man betrayed Nebraska with a kiss!

I knew one old, and oleaginous,

A fat wick in a lamp, large and opaque,                550

Whose flame was like the ignius fatuus’ light, 28 --

A flash, a lantern, or a mimic star, --

Which lures the patriot in the path of doom.

Nature had dowered him with her choicest gifts;

The nation crowned him with her fairest wreaths.            555

He was the Democratic oracle,

And canonized in all our calendars,

And when he s poke the country bowed its ear;

 

[page 21]

 

 

But when this mastodon of modern men                560

Stood on the line between the north and south,

Just like a starving ass between the stacks,

The million monster, with its Argus eyes,

Saw through the motives of the famous chief.

It was not that he loved Nebraska less,                 565

But that he loved the presidency more:

He gave his voice and vote for tyranny.

Our sister state, the maiden Michigan,

Blushed like a crimson sunset for his shame. 29

Now, when he dies, his monument must be                 570

A bale of cotton and a broken sword;

A letter which he wrote, his epitaph.

But there are men, without the mark of Cain,

Who'd rather suffer wrong than "wrong pursue" --

The well-born heroes of the human race.                575

Behold that tall and senatorial form,

 A noble soldier harnessed for the war!

 Old age has crowned his venerable head

 With snow, but left his manly heart unchilled.

 As sun and moon stood still while Joshua fought,             580

 So will our northern lights illume the path

 Of this brave chieftain of the broad, free west.

 Among the "foremost men" in all this land

 The great MISSOURIAN stands preëminent 30

 A man whom gold can neither buy nor bribe,                 585

 Nor smoothfaced flattery with soft tongue seduce,

 Nor threats from bullies can intimidate,

 Nor domineering clans and cliques control.

 He stamps upon the platforms of the age,

 And shivers into splinters every plank;                 590

 He snaps asunder party rules and ties

 As Samson did the cords which bound his limbs;

 He scorns the caucus gatherings, and derides

 

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The noisy demagogues who nominate

The few who fatten at the public crib.                595

And he would run the river of reform

Through all the Augean stables of the state.

Where is the man, with brass and brains, to face

This scarred and battered statesman in debate?

Who has the skill to tilt a lance with him?                600</