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And let a scornful

Once more thy Sinai-thunders rolled. For lying lips thy blessing seek,

And hands of blood are raised to Thee, And on thy children, crushed and weak,

The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. let then, O God! thy servant dare

Thy truth in all its power to tell, Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear

The Bible from the grasp of hell !

From hollow rite and narrow span

Of law and sect by Thee released, Oh! teach him that the Christian man

Is holier than the Jewish priest.

Of the dead ages,

from his way,

Chase back the shadows, gray and old,
And let his hopeful eyes behold

The dawn of thy millennial day ;
That day when fettered limb and mind

Shall know the truth which maketh free, And he alone who loves his kind

Shall, child-like, claim the love of Thee !

YORKTOWN.36

From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still,
Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill:
Who curbs his steed at head of one?
Who bends his keen, approving glance
Hark !. the low murmur: Washington !

Where down the gorgeous line of France
Shine knightly star and plume of snow ?
Thou too art victor, Rochambeau !
The earth which bears this calm array
Shook with the war-charge yesterday,
Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel,
Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel;
October's clear and noonday sun
Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun,
And down night's double blackness fell,
Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.
Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines
Stand moveless as the neighboring pines;
While through them, sullen, grim, and slow,
The conquered hosts of England go :
O’Hara's brow belies his dress,
Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless :
Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes,
Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes !
Nor thou alone: with one glad voice
Let all thy sister States rejoice;
Let Freedom, in whatever clime
She waits with sleepless eye her time,
Shouting from cave and mountain wood,
Make glad her desert solitude,
While they who hunt her quail with fear:
The New World's chain lies broken here!

But who are they, who, cowering, wait
Within the shattered fortress gate ?
Dark tillers of Virginia's soil,
Classed with the battle's common spoil,
With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine,
With Indian weed and planters' wine,
With stolen beeves, and foraged corn—'
Are they not men, Virginian born ?

Oh! veil your faces, young and brave!
Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave !
Sons of the Northland, ye who set
Stout hearts against the bayonet,
And pressed with steady footfall near
The moated battery’s blazing tier,
Turn your scarred faces from the sight,
Let shame do homage to the right !
Lo! threescore years have passed; and where
The Gallic timbrel stirred the air,
With Northern drum-roll

, and the clear,
Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer,
While Britain grounded on that plain
The arms she might not lift again,
As abject as in that old day
The slave still toils his life away.
Oh! fields still green and fresh in story,
Old days of pride, old names of glory,
Old marvels of the tongue and pen,
Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men,
Ye spared the wrong; and over all
Behold the avenging shadow fall!
Your world-wide honor stained with shame-
Your freedom's self a hollow name !

Where's now the flag of that old war ?
Where flows its stripe? Where burns its star?
Bear witness, Palo Alto's day,
Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey,
Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak,
Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak:
Symbol of terror and despair,
Of chains and slaves, go seek it there!
Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks !
Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks!
Brave sport to see the fledgling born

Of Freedom by its parent torn!
Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell,
Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell:
With Slavery's flag o’er both unrolled,
What of the New World fears the Old ?

LINES,

WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OP A FRIEND.

On page of thine I cannot trace
The cold and heartless common-place-
A statue's fixed and marble grace.

For ever as these lines I penned,
Still with the thought of thee will blend
That of some loved and common friend.

Who in life's desert track has made His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed Beneath the same remembered shade.

And hence my pen unfettered moves
In freedom which the heart approves-
The negligence which friendship loves.
And wilt thou prize my poor gift less
For simple air and rustic dress,
And sign of haste and carelessness ?-
Oh! more than specious counterfeit
Of sentiment or studied wit,
A heart like thine should value it.

Yet half I fear my gift will be
Unto thy book, if not to thee,
Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A lay unheard of Beauty's ear,

A banished name from fashion's sphere,
Forbid, disowned,—what do they here?
Upon my ear not all in vain
Came the sad captive's clanking chain-
The groaning from his bed of pain.

And sadder still, I saw the woe

Deep as I

Which only wounded spirits know
When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go
Spurned not alone in walks abroad,
But from the - temples of the Lord
Thrust out apart, like things abhorred.

as I felt, and stern and strong,
In words which Prudence smothered long,
My soul spoke out against the wrong;
Not mine alone the task to speak
Of comfort to the poor and weak,
And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek;
But
, mingled in the conflict warm,

the fiery breath of storm Through the harsh trumpet of Reform; To brave Opinion's settled frown, From ermined robe and saintly gown, While wrestling reverenced Error dowr. Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray. And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of Fairy land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ;

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