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SONG OF THE FREE.
PRIDE of New England !
Soul of our fathers ! Shrink we all craven-like,
When the storm gathers ?
Over us lowering,
Around us are lying, Free were the sleepers all,
Living and dying!
Back with the Southerner's
Padlocks and scourges ! Go-let him fetter down
Ocean's free surges! Go_let him silence
Winds, clouds, and waters Never New England's own
Free sons and daughters ! Free as our rivers are
Ocean-ward goingFree as the breezes are
Over us blowing.
Up to our altars, then,
Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness,
Manhood and woman! Deep let our pledges be:
Freedom for ever!
Never, oh! never !
Freedom for heart and lip,
Be the pledge given!
If we have whispered truth,
Whisper no longer;
Sterner and stronger;
Louder and firmer,
With the deep murmur:
Freedom for ever!
Never, oh! never!
THE HUNTERS OF MEN. HAVE
heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and
glen, Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; Hark !—the cheer and the hallo !the crack of the
whip, And the yeli of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their matchThough hundreds are caught, there are millions to
catch. So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting
Gay luck to our hunters !—how nobly they ride
The priest with his cassock flung back on the
wind, Just screening the politic statesman behindThe saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayerThe drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. And woman--kind woman--wife, widow, and maid. For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein, How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, In this “ land of the brave and this home of the
free.” Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to
Maine, All mounting the saddle-all grasping the reinRight merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin ! Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay ! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and Will their hearts fail within them ?-their nerves
tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men ? Ho!-ALMs for our hunters ! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the
saint. The horn is wound faintly—the echoes are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste-alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to
the shore : What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and
Right? Ho!-alms for the hunters ! or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of
ALMs—ALMs for our hunters ! why will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are melting away? The
parson has turned; for, on charge of his own, Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone ? The politic statesman looks back with a sighThere is doubt in his heart—there is fear in his eye Oh! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. Oh! haste, ere he leave us ! for who will ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ?
(In the Report of the celebrated pro-slavery meeting in Charleston, S. C., on the 4th of the 9th month, 1835, published in the Courier of that city, it is stated. “ The CLERGY of all denominations attended in a body, LENDING THEIR SANCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impressive char acter of the scene!”]
Just God !-and these are they Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay
On Israel's Ark of light !
What! preach and kidnap men ?
Bolt hard the captive's door ?
What! servants of thy own
The tasked and plundered slave!
Pilate and Herod, friends!
Strength to the spoiler, thine ?
Paid hypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book Of those high words of truth which search and burn
In warning and rebuke;
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed !
Ye pile your own full board.
How long, O Lord ! how long
At thy own altars pray?
Is not thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? Shall not the living God of all the earth,
And heaven above, do right?
Woe, then, to all who grind
Its bright and glorious crown!
Woe to the priesthood! woe To those whose hire is with the price of blood Perverting, darkening, changing as they go,
The searching truths of God !
Their glory and their might
Of a world's liberty.
Oh! speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease—and Liberty, and Love, And Truth, and Right, throughout the earth be
known As in their home above.