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[“THE despotism which our fathers could not bear in their gative country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States—the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king, cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing ? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be lesa energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?"- Dr. Follen's Address.
“Genius of America !-Spirit of our free institutions--whero art thou?-How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! son of the morning --how art thou fallen from Heaven! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming! The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha!-ART THOU BECOME LIKE UNTO os?"-Speech of Samuel J. May.]
Our fellow-countrymen in chains !
Slaves—in a land of light and law! Slaves-crouching on the very plains
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war! A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood
I wail where Camden's martyrs fellBy every shrine of patriot blood,
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!
By storied hill and hallowed grot,
By mossy wood and marshy glen, Whence
of old the rifle-shot, And hurrying shout of Marion's men! The groan of breaking hearts is there
The falling lash—the fetter's clank ! Slaves—SLAVES are breathing in that air,
Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank !
What, holour countrymen in chains !
The whip on woman's shrinking flesh! Our soil yet reddening with the stains,
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh ! What I mothers from their children riven!
What! God's own image bought and sold ! AMERICANS to market driven,
And bartered as the brute for gold ! Speak ! shall their agony of prayer
Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ?
T'he paltry menace of a chain;
Of holy Liberty and Light-
Plead vainly for their plundered Right?
What! shall we send, with lavish breath,
Our sympathies across the wave, Where Manhood, on the field of death,
Strikes for his freedom, or a grave ? Shall prayers go up, and hymns be
sung For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, And millions hail with pen and tongue
Our light on all her altars burning ?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wali. And Poland, gasping on her lance,
The impulse of our cheering call ? And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye,
Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ? And toss his fettered arms on high,
And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain ? Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
A refuge for the stricken slave? And shall the Russian serf go free
By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave ?
Relax the iron hand of pride,
From fettered soul and limb, aside ?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free, From “farthest Ind” to each blue crag
That beetles o'er the Western Sea ? And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,
When Freedom's fire is dim with us, And round our country's altar clings
The damning shade of Slavery's curse ?
Go-let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line
To spare the struggling SulioteWill not the scorching answer come
From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ: “Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
Then turn, and ask the like of us !”
Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
The Christian's scorn-the heathen's mirth Content to live the lingering jest
And by-word of a mocking Earth ? Shall our own glorious land retain
That curse, which Europe scorns to bear? Shall our own brethren drag the chain
Which not even Russia's menials wear?
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
From gray-beard eld to fiery youth, And on the nation's naked heart
Scatter the living coals of Truth! Up—while ye slumber, deeper yet
The shadow of our fame is growing! Up-while ye pause, our sun may set
In blood, around our altars flowing! Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth
The gathered wrath of God and manLike that which wasted Egypt's earth,
When hail and fire above it ran.
Hear ye no warnings in the air ?
Feel ye no earthquake underneath ?
The sleeper only wakes in death?
Up now for Freedom -not in strife
Like that your sterner fathers saw
The glory and the guilt of war:
And smite to earth Oppression's rod,
Made mighty through the living God!
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
And leave no traces where it stood; Nor longer let its idol drink
His daily cup of human blood: But rear another altar there,
To Truth and Love and Mercy given, And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,
Shall call an answer down from Heaven!
THE YANKEE GIRL.
She sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door, Which the long evening shadow is stretching
before, With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams! How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, Like a star glancing out from the blue of the
sky! And lightly and freely her dark tresses play O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!
Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-doorThe haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 'Tis the great Southern planter--the master who
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.
“ Nay, Ellen--for shame! Let those Yankee fools
spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a change of
their skin; Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel !
But thou art too lovely and precious a gem
Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, And the lemon and orange are white in their
Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law."
Oh, could ye have seen her—that pride of our
Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on
* Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold