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And Poland, gasping on her lance,
The impulse of our cheering call ? And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye,
Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? And toss his fettered arms on high,
And groan for Freedom's gift in vain?
Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
A refuge for the stricken slave ? And shall the Russian serf go free
By Baikal's lake and Neva’s wave?
Relax the iron hand of pride,
From fettered soul and limb, aside ?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free, From “farthest Ind” to each blue crag
That beetles o'er the Western Sea ? And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,
When Freedom's fire is dim with us, And round our country's altar clings
The damning shade of Slavery's curse?
Go—let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line
To spare the struggling Suliote Will not the scorching answer come
From turbaned Turk, and fiery Russ: ,“ Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
Then turn, and ask the like of us !"
Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
The Christian's scorn--the Heathen's mirthContent to live the lingering jest
And by-word of a mocking Earth? Shall our own glorious land retain
That curse which Europe scorns to bear? Shall our own brethren drag the chain
Which not even Russia's menials wear?
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
From graybeard eld to fiery youth, And on the nation's naked heart
Scatter the living coals of Truth! Up—while ye slumber, deeper yet
The shadow of our fame is growing! Up—while ye pause, our sun may set
In blood, around our altars flowing !
Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth
The gathered wrath of God and manLike that which wasted Egypt's earth,
When hail and fire above it ran. Hear ye no warnings in the air ?
Feel ye no earthquake underneath? Up-up—why will ye slumber where
The sleeper only wakes in death?
Up now for Freedom !_not in strifo
Like that your sterner fathers saw-
The glory and the guilt of war:
And smite to earth Oppression's rod,
With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
Made mighty through the living God !
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
And leave no traces where it stood;
His daily cup of human blood :
To Truth, and Love, and Mercy given,
Written on reading an account of the meeting of the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society, and the mos which followed, on the 21st October 1835.
UNSHRINKING from the storm,
Well have ye born your part,
But more than manhood's heart !
Its name was held accursed
Unto your holy trust.
Oh! steadfast in the Truth!
Not for yourselves alone,
Your lofty zeal was shown:
For the bondman of all climes
For Freedom's last abode For the hope of future times
For the birthright gift of God
For scorned and broken laws
For honour and the right-
Of liberty and light-
On a world of evil cast-
For the MOTHERS of the past !
Worthy of them are ye
The Pilgrim wives who dared The waste and unknown sea,
And the hunter's perils shared. Worthy of her whose mind,
Triumphant over all, Ruler nor priest could bind,
Nor banishment appal.
Worthy of her who died,
Martyr of Freedom, where Your Common’s verdant pride
Opens to sun and air: Upheld at that dread hour
By strength which could not fail ; Before whose holy power
Bigot and priest turned pale.
God give ye strength to run,
Unawed by Earth or Hell,
The race ye have begun
So gloriously and well,
Of Freedom has gone forth,
The bondmen of the earth!
Until IMMORTAL MIND
Unshackled walks abroad,
The image of our God.
Murmurs on land or wave;
Looks down upon no SLAVE!
THE COVENANTER'S DREAM.
In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east, Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;