Page images

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 SulioteWill not the scorching answer come

From turbaned Turk, and scornful 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 mirth Content 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 gray-beard 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 man--
Like 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 strife

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 ; Nor 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!


She sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door, Which the long evening shadow is stretching

before, With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams'

How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, Like a star glancing out from the blue of the

sky! And lightly and freely her dark tresses play D'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!


Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door-The haughty and rich to the humble and poor r? 'Tis the great Southern planter—the master who His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. 6 Nay, Ellen—for shame! Let those Yankee fools

spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a change of

their skin; Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel! But thou art too lovely and precious a gem To be bound to their burdens and sullied by themFor shame, Ellen, shame !-cast thy bondage aside, And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, And the lemon and orange are white in their

bloom !

Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all
Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call;
They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law.”

and awe,

Oh, could ye have seen her—that pride of our

girlsArise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on

steel !

"Go back, haughty Southron ! thy treasures of gold Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold

Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear
The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!
And the sky of thy South may be brighter than

And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers;
But, dearer the blast round our mountains which

raves, Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes

over slaves !

Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel;
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee !"

TO W. L. G.

CHAMPION of those who groan beneath

Oppression's iron hand:
In view of penury, hate, and death,

I see thee fearless stand.
Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow

And promise of thy youth.

[ocr errors]

Go on !—for thou hast chosen weli;

On in the strength of God!
Long as one human heart shall swell

Beneath the tyrant's rod.
Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,

As thou hast ever spoken,
Until the dead in sin shall hear-

The fetter's link be broken !

I love thee with a brother's love,

I feel my pulses thrill,
To mark thy spirit soar above

The cloud of human ill.
My heart hath leaped to answer thine,

And echo back thy words,
As leaps the warrior's at the shine

And flash of kindred swords !

They tell me thou art rash and vain

A searcher after fame;
That thou art striving but to gain

A long enduring name;
That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand

And steeled the Afric's heart,
To shake aloft his vengeful brand,

And rend his chain apart.
Have I not known thee well, and read

Thy mighty purpose long!
And watched the trials which have made

Thy human spirit strong?
And shall the slanderer's demon breath

Avail with one like me,
To dim the sunshine of my faith

And earnest trust in thee?

Go on

—the dagger's point may glare
Amid thy pathway's gloom-
The fate which sternly threatens there

Is glorious martyrdom!
Then onward with a martyr's zeal;

And wait thy sure reward
When man to man no more shall kneel

And God alone be Lord !


« PreviousContinue »