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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?
And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane

Relax the iron hand of pride,
And bid his bondmen cast the chain,

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 awful waste of human life-

The glory and the guilt of war:
But break the chain—the yoke remove,

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;
No longer let its idol drink

His daily cup of human blood :
But rear another altar there,

To Truth, and Love, and Mercy given,
And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,
Shall call an answer down from Heaven!

WHITTIER.

LINES

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,
With woman's fragile form,

But more than manhood's heart !
Faithful to Freedom, when

Its name was held accursed
Faithful, ʼmidst ruffian men,

Unto your holy trust.

Oh! steadfast in the Truth!

Not for yourselves alone,
Matron and gentle youth,

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-
For the staked and periled cause

Of liberty and light-
For the holy eyes above

On a world of evil cast-
For the CHILDREN of your love

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,
Until the trumpet-call

Of Freedom has gone forth,
With joy and life to all

The bondmen of the earth!

Until IMMORTAL MIND

Unshackled walks abroad,
And chains no longer bind

The image of our God.
Until no captive one

Murmurs on land or wave;
And, in his course, the sun

Looks down upon no SLAVE!

WHITTIER.

THE COVENANTER'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the moorlands of mist, where the bless'd martyrs lay,
Where Cameron's sword and Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone, where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountains and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion;
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying;

It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east, Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;

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