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So shall the Southern conscience quake,

Before that light poured full and strong,
So shall the Southern heart awake

To all the bondman's wrong.
And from that rich and sunny land

The song of grateful millions rise,
Like that of Israel's ransomed band

Beneath Arabia's skies:

And all who now are bound beneath

Our banner's shade—our eagle's wing,
From Slavery's night of moral death

To light and life shall spring.
Broken the bondman's chain—and gone

The master's guilt, and hate, and fear,
And unto both alike shall dawn,

A New and Happy Year.



[WRITTEN on reading an account of the proceedings of the citi, zens of Norfolk, Va., in reference to George LATIMER, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SOMERSET in England, in 1772.)


THIE blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon

Southern way, Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts

Bay: No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's

peal, Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of

horsemen's steel.

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our high

ways go Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the

Snow; And to the land breeze of our ports, upon their

errands far, A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are

spread for war. We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words

and high, Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt

along our sky; Yet, not one brown, hard hand forgoes its honest

labor hereNo hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe

in fear.

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St.

George's bankCold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white

aud dank; Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout

are the bearis which man The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of

Cape Ann. The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their

icy forms, Bent grimly o’er their straining lines or wrestling

with the storms; Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the

waves they roam, They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their

rocky home. What means the Old Dominion ? Hath ske forgot When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's

the day
steel array ?

How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachus

setts men Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout

Cornwallis, then ?

Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the

call Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from

Faneuil Hall ? When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing

on each breath Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of


What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons

have proved False to their fathers' memory — false to the faith

they loved, If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter

spurn, Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty

turn ?

We hunt your bondmen, Aying from Slavery's hate

ful hellOur voices, at your bidding, take up the blood

hound's yellWe gather, at your summons, above our fathers'

graves, From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your

wretched slaves !

Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts


The spirit of her early time is with her even now; Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow,

and calm, and cool, She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's

slave and tool !

State may,

All that a sister State should do, all that a free Heart, band, and purse we proffer, as in our early

day; But that one dark loathsome burden ye must

stagger with alone, And reap

the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown!

Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and

burden God's free air With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and man

hood's wild despair; Cling closer to the “ cleaving curse that writes

upon your plains The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of


Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of

old, By watching round the shambles where human

flesh is sold Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market

value, when The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the

slaver's den !

will, your

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian

name; Plant, if ye


with rankest weeds of shame; Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universeWe wash our hands forever, of your sin, and

shame, and curse. A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's

shrine hath been, Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's

mountain men:

The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering

still In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. And when the prowling man-thief came hunting

for his prey

Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of

gray, How, through the free lips of the son, the father's

warning spoke; How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim

city broke!

A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on

high, A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud

reply; Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling

summons rang, And up from bench and loom and wheel her young

mechanics sprang! The voice of free, broad Middlesex-of thousands

as of oneThe shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexing.

ton— From Norfolk's ancient villages; from Plymouth's

rocky bound To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close

her round; From rich and rural Worcester, where through the Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle

Nashua flows, To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain

larches stir, Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of “God

save Latimer!”

calm repose

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