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Close while ye may the public ear
With malice vex, with slander wound themThe pure and good shall throng to hear,
And tried and manly hearts surround them. Oh, ever may the power which led
Their way to such a fiery trial,
The wine-press of such self-denial,
With wisdom and with strength from Heaven With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand,
And Deborah's song for triumph given ! And what are ye who strive with God,
Against the ark of his salvation, Moved by the breath of prayer abroad,
With blessings for a dying nation ? What, but the stubble and the hay
To perish, even as flax consuming, With all that bars his glorious way,
Before the brightness of his coming? And thou sad Angel, who so long
Hast waited for the glorious token, That Earth from all her bonds of wrong
To liberty and light has brokenAngel of Freedom! soon to thee
The sounding trumpet shall be given, and over Earth's full jubilee
Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven !
WRITTEN for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chatham
O Thou, whose presence went before
Our fathers in their weary way,
The fire by night—the cloud by day!
A nation's song ascends to Heaven,
May not our humble prayer be given ?
Are varied in thine own good will-
And fashioned in thine image still.
Around us wave their fruits once more,
Are bending round each cottage door.
peace is here; and hope and love
The knee of prayer is bowed alone.
As unto us, no joyful thrill-
Are bound in Slavery's fetters still:
Of light and love is never given-
Sromise and the hope of Heaven !
For broken heart, and clouded mind,
Whereon no human mercies fall-
Who, as a Father, pitiest all !
Of Earth’s deliverance may be near,
The message of thy love shall hear-
The captive's chain shall sink in dust,
The glorious freedom of the just!
WRITTEN for the celebration of the Third Anniversary of British
Emancipation, at the Broadway Tabernacle, N. Y., “First of August," 1837.
O HOLY FATHER !—just and true
Are all thy works and words and ways,
Thanksgiving and eternal praise !
We veil the eye-we bend the knee,
Father and God, we come to thee.
The sighing of the island slave;
Not shortened that it could not save.
The shackled soul and hand are free--
And oh, we feel thy presence here-,
Thy awful arm in judgment bare !
hath seen the bondman's tearThine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer! Praise !—for the pride of man is low,
The counsels of the wise are nought,
What hath our God in mercy wrought ?
And when the bondman's chain is riven,
The anthem of the free to Heaven,
As with thy cloud and fire before,
Be praise and glory ever more.
WRITTEN for the Anniversary celebration of the First of August
at Milton, 1846.
A few brief years have passed away
Since Britain drove her million slaves
Life blooms above those island graves !
He spoke! across the Carib sea,
We heard the clash of breaking chains,
Which thrilled along the bondman’s veins.
Wears slavery here a prouder brow
Scowled darkly from her island bowers? Mighty alike for good or ill
With mother-land, we fully share The Saxon strength—the nerve of steel--The tireless energy of will,
The power to do, the pride to dare. What she has done can we not do?
Our hour and men are both at hand; The blast which Freedom's angel blew O’er her green islands, echoes through
Each valley of our forest land.
Hear it, old Europe ! we have sworn
The death of slavery.- When it falls Look to your vassals in their turn, Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn,
Your prisons and your palace walls! Oh kingly mockers !—scoffing show
What deeds in Freedom's name we do; Yet know that every taunt ye throw Across the waters, goads our slow
Progression towards the right and true.
Not always shall your outraged poor,
Appalled by democratic crime, Grind as their fathers ground before,-The hour which sees our prison door
Swing wide shall be their triumph time. On then, my brothers ! every
Blesses the Old World through the New.