Shall every flap of England's flag 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 scornful Russ: "Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, Then turn, and ask the like of us!" Just God! and shall we calmly rest, And by-word of a mocking Earth? Up, then, in Freedom's manly part, Scatter the living coals of Truth! Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forthThe 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? Up now for Freedom !—not in strife Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, 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! THE YANKEE GIRL. 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 Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door-The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 'Tis the great Southern planter-the master who waves His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. "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, But thou art too lovely and precious a gem Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." Oh, could ye have seen her-that pride of our girls Arise 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 And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours, 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, TO W. L. G. CHAMPION of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate, and death, Still bearing up thy lofty brow, In the steadfast strength of truth,. Go on!-for thou hast chosen weli; Until the dead in sin shall hear The fetter's link be broken! I love thee with a brother's love, To mark thy spirit soar above My heart hath leaped to answer thine, They tell me thou art rash and vain- That thou art striving but to gain Have I not known thee well, and read And watched the trials which have made And shall the slanderer's demon breath To dim the sunshine of my faith Go on -the dagger's point may glare The fate which sternly threatens there 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! 1883. |