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As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back

from Syrian wars The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scime

tars, The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson

span, So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of

God and man !

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's

grave, Thou for his living presence in the bound and

bleeding slave; He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of


For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er

him swung,

From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of

slavery wrung, And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God

deserted shrine, Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the

bondman's blood for wine

While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour

knelt, And spurned, the while, the temple where a pres

ent Saviour dwelt; Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison

shadows dim, And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto

Him !

In thy lone and long night watches, sky above and

wave below, Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the pabu

bling school-men know;

God's stars and silence taught thee, as his angels

only can, That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope

of heaven, is Man !

That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law

and creed, In the depth of God's great goodness may find

mercy in his need; But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain

and rod, And herds with lower natures the awful form of


Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman

of the wave! Its branded palm shall prophesy, “ SALVATION TO

THE SLAVE!” Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso

reads may feel His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change

to steel.

Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our

Northern airHo! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God

look there! Take it henceforth for your standard—like the

Bruce's heart of yore, In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand

be seen before !

And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at

that sign,

When it points its finger Southward along the

Puritan line: Woe to the State-gorged leeches, and the Church's

locust band, When they look from slavery's ramparts on the

coming of that hand !



Up the hill-side, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen ;
Summon out the might of men

Like a lion growling low-
Like a night-storm rising slow-
Like the tread of unseen foe-

It is coming—it is nigh!

your homes and altars by;
On your own free thresholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires ;
On the

hills of


sires Fling to heaven your signal fires. From Wachuset, lone and bleak, Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, Let the flame-tongued heralds speak O! for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old graves of the land. Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow!

Freedom's soil hath only place
For a free and fearless race-
None for traitors false and base.

Perish party-perish clan;
Strike together while ye can,
Like the arm of one strong man.

Like that angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime.
Crying of the end of time-
With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North unto the South
Speak the word befitting both:

“What though Issachar be strong! Ye may load his back with wrong Overmuch and over long:

Patience with her cup o'errun,
With her weary thread outspun,
Murmurs that her work is done.

Make our Union-bond a chain,
Weak as tow in Freedom's strain
Link by link shall snap in twain.

Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope
Bind the starry cluster up,
Shattered over heaven's blue cope !

Give us bright though broken rays,
Rather than eternal haze,
Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.

Take your land of sun and bloom;
Only leave to Freedom room
For her plough, and forge, and loom;
Take your slavery-blackened vales ;
Leave us but our own free gales,
Blowing on our thousand sails.
Boldly, or with treacherous art,
Strike the blood-wrought chain apart •
Break the Union's mighty heart;

Work the ruin, if ye will ;
Pluck upon your heads an ill
Which shall grow and deepen still.
With your bondman's right arm bare,
With his heart of black despair,
Stand alone, if stand ye

dare !
Onward with your fell design ;
Dig the gulf and draw the line:
Fire beneath your feet the mine:
Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.
By the hearth, and in the bed,
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.

And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil.

Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Vines our rocks shall overgrow,
Plenty in our valleys flow;
And when vengeance


skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the lost on Paradise !

We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Freedom's strong and honest hand, -
Valleys by the slave untrod,
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,
Blessed of our fathers' God !”

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