I look'd across the waters, but clouds rose thick and black, As o'er that ocean pathway loom'd dark mists upon the track; They stay'd the promis'd dawning of a brighter better day, The morning seem'd outbursting, but your slave land hid the way! I cannot, oh, my brethren, check that one absorbing thought That on your soil of liberty, your fellow's blood is bought! That millions of our human race your chains and bondage hold! That, like the cattle of the field, that human race is sold ! What boots your blazon'd motto, "All men are equal, free," When thus to vilest tyranny ye bend your helot knee? What heed your tyrant merchants in their foul human mart, The pinings of affection, or the mother's bursting heart? Oh, cast for ever from your shores this foul blot on your name, Nor let your spangled banner wave at once your boast and shame! Those stars upon its azure field, they tell of truth and light; Those stripes upon its ample folds, proclaim oppression's might! How puerile is your pleading, "that the shackle of the slave; "The bondage of the negro is the legacy we gave;" How vain your empty boasting "that ye Old World follies shun," If thus ye shrine and bow before the darkest, deadliest one. I see through mists of coming years, fell retribution's wrath, Stand forth amid the future like a demon in your path; There's severance in your councils, there's discord in his train, Ah, never yet a people's wail was urg'd to God in vain! Fulfil your glorious mission, and future ages well Slave! Deliv'rance to the Captive One! aye, Freedom to the W. H. PATCHING. THE BANNER OF BROTHERHOOD. NOT with the flashing steel, But in the bonds of love, 'Tis thus we come. The laws of Christian light, And the broad plains which lie Our battle-field. What is the great intent, Our hosts among? It is that hate may die, That war's red curse may fly, No more be sung. That all the poor may rest, That death and hell may yield, Oh, then! in God's great name, Christ leads us here. So shall earth's distant lands, Together rise and sing, ELNATHAN DAVIS. C THE ARSENAL. THIS is the Arsenal! from floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and cuirass rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; And loud, amid the universal clamour, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin. |