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When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God,
Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood;
When the recreant North has forgotten her trust,
And the lip of her honor is low in the dust,-
Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has

broken ! Thank God, that one man, as a freeman has

spoken!

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

DIE !

Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood
Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God;
Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining;
Wherever the lash of the driver is twining;
Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart,
Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart;
Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind,
In silence and darkness, the God-given mind;
There, God speed it onward !—its truth will be

felt-
The bonds shall be loosened—the iron shall melt!
And oh, will the land where the free soul of PENN
Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen-
Will the land where a BENEZET's spirit went forth
To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of

Earth

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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

RIGHT!”

THE PASTORAL LETTER.

So, this is all—the utmost reach

Of priestly power the mind to fetter!
When laymen think—when women preach-

A war of words—à “ Pastoral Letter!”
Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes !

Was it thus with those, your predecessors,
Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes

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.
Then, wholesome laws relieved the church

Of heretic and mischief-maker,
And priest and bailiff joined in search,

By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker!
The stocks were at each church's door,

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;

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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,

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