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When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God,
broken ! Thank God, that one man, as a freeman has
O’er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown ! Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone ! To the land of the South—of the charter and
chainOf Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain ; Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips ! Where " chivalric” honor means really no more Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor ! Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high, And the words which he utters are- -WORSHIP, OR
Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood
Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst-Where first for the wronged and the weak of their
kind, The Christian and statesman their efforts com.
bined Will that land of the free and the good wear a
chain ? Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ?
No, Ritner!—her“ Friends,” at thy warning shall
stand Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band ; Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime; Turning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite Once again for the poor in defence of the Right; Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along; Unappalled by the danger, the shame and the pain, And counting each trial for Truth as their gain! And that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and true, Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due ; Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine, On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the RhineThe German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave:-Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the
South One brow for the brand—for the padlock ong
mouth ? They cater to tyrants ?—They rivet the chain, Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again? No, never !—one voice, like the sound in the cloud, When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more
loud, Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed
From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the
West, On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! The voice of a PEOPLE-uprisen—awakePennsylvania's watchword, with Freedom at stake, Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from
each height, * Our Country AND LIBERTY!—GOD FOR THE
THE PASTORAL LETTER.
So, this is all—the utmost reach
Of priestly power the mind to fetter!
A war of words—à “ Pastoral Letter!”
Was it thus with those, your predecessors,
Their loving kindness to transgressors ? A “Pastoral Letter,” grave and dull
Alas! in hoof and horns and features, Ilow different is your Brookfield bull,
From him who bellows from St. Peter's! Your pastoral rights and powers from harm,
Think ye, can words alone preserve them ? Your wiser fathers taught the arm
And sword of temporal power to serve them,
Oh, glorious days—when church and state
Were wedded by your spiritual fathers ! And on submissive shoulders sat
Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers.
No vile “itinerant” then could mar
The beauty of your tranquil Zion, But at his peril of the scar
Of hangman's whip and branding-iron.
Of heretic and mischief-maker,
By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker!
The gallows stood on Boston Common, A Papist's ears the pillory bore,
The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman! Your fathers dealt not as ye deal
With “non-professing” frantic teachers ; They bored the tongue with red-hot steel,
And flayed the backs of “ female preachers," Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue,
And Salem's streets could tell their story, Of fainting woman dragged along,
Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory!
And will ye ask me, why this taunt
Of memories sacred from the scorner ? And why with reckless hand I plant
A nettle on the graves ye honor ? Not to reproach New England's dead
This record from the past I summon, Of manhood to the scaffold led,
And suffering and heroic woman.
No—for yourselves alone, I turn
The pages of intolerance over, That, in their spirit, dark and stern,
Ye haply may your own discover! For, if ye claim the “pastoral right
To silence Freedom's voice of warning, And from your precincts shut the light
Of Freedom's day around ye dawning;
If when an earthquake voice of power,
And signs in earth and heaven are showing That, forth, in its appointed hour,
The Spirit of the Lord is going! And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light
On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, Whose slumbering millions, at the sight,
In glory and in strength are waking ! When for the sighing of the poor,
And for the needy, God hath risen, And chains are breaking, and a door
Is opening for the souls in prison ! If then ye would, with puny hands,
Arrest the very work of Heaven, And bind anew the evil bands
Which God's right arm of power hath riven What marvel that, in many a mind,
Those darker deeds of bigot madness Are closely with your own combined,
Yet“ less in anger than in sadness ? " What marvel, if the people learn
To claim the right of free opinion ? What marvel, if at times they spurn
The ancient yoke of your dominion ?
A glorious remnant linger yet,
Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, The coming of whose welcome feet
Is beautiful upon our mountains ! Men, who the gospel tidings bring
Of Liberty and Love for ever, Whose joy is an abiding spring,
Whose peace is as a gentle river !
But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale
of Carolina's high-souled daughters, Which echoes here the mournful wail
Of sorrow from Edisto's waters,