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Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!

And the sky of thy South may be brighter than

ours, And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers; But, dearer the blast round our mountains which

raves, Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes

over slaves !

Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel;
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee !"

TO W. L. G.

CHAMPION of those who groan beneath

Oppression's iron hand:
In view of penury, hate, and death,

I see thee fearless stand.
Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow

And promise of thy youth.

Go on !-for thou hast chosen well;

On in the strength of God!
Long as one human heart shall swell

Beneath the tyrant's rod.
Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,

As thou hast ever spoken,
Until the dead in sin shall hear

The fetter's link be broken!

I love thee with a brother's love,

I feel my pulses thrill,
To mark thy spirit soar above

The cloud of human ill.
My heart hath leaped to answer thine,

And echo back thy words,
As leaps the warrior's at the shine

And flash of kindred swords !

They tell me thou art rash and vain

A searcher after fame;
That thou art striving but to gain

A long enduring name;
That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand

And steeled the Afric's heart, .
To shake aloft his vengeful brand,

And rend his chain apart.

Have I not known thee well, and read

Thy mighty purpose long
And watched the trials which have made

Thy human spirit strong?
And shall the slanderer's demon breath

Avail with one like me,
To dim the sunshine of

my

faith And earnest trust in thee?

Go on--the dagger's point may glare

Amid thy pathway's gloom--
The fate which sternly threatens there

Is glorious martyrdom!
Then onward with a martyr's zeal;

And wait thy sure reward
When man to man no more shall kneel

And God alone be Lord !

1833.

SONG OF THE FREE.

PRIDE of New England !

Soul of our fathers ! Shrink we all craven-like,

When the storm gathers ? What though the tempest be

Over us lowering, Where's the New Englander

Shamefully cowering ? Graves green and holy

Around us are lying, Free were the sleepers all,

Living and dying!

Back with the Southerner's

Padlocks and scourges ! Go-let him fetter down

Ocean's free surges ! Go-let him silence

Winds, clouds, and waters Never New England's own

Free sons and daughters! Free as our rivers are

Ocean-ward going— Free as the breezes are

Over us blowing.

Up to our altars, then,

Haste we, and summon Courage and loveliness,

Manhood and woman! Deep let our pledges be:

Freedom for ever! Truce with oppression,

Never, oh! never ! By our own birthright-gift,

Granted of Heaven

Freedom for heart and lip,

Be the pledge given!

If we have whispered truth,

Whisper no longer;
Speak as the tempest does,

Sterner and stronger;
Still be the tones of truth

Louder and firmer,
Startling the haughty South

With the deep murmur:
God and our charter's right,

Freedom for ever!
Truce with oppression,

Never, oh! never!

1836.

THE HUNTERS OF MEN

HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and

glen, Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of

men ? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; Hark !-the cheer and the hallo!-the crack of the

whip, And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to

catch. So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest-the hunting of

men!

Gay luck to our hunters !—how nobly they ride
In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their

pride !

The priest with his cassock fiung back on the

wind, Just screening the politic statesman behindThe saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayerThe drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. And woman-kind woman-wife, widow, and maid, For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein, How blithely she rides to the hunting of men !

Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see,
In this “ land of the brave and this home of the

free." Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to

Maine, All mounting the saddle--all grasping the reinRight merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin ! Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and

prey ?

Will their hearts fail within them ?-their nerves

tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men ?

Ho!-ALMS for our hunters ! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the

saint. The horn is wound faintly—the echoes are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste—alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to

the shore : What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and

Right ? Ho!-alms for the hunters / or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of

men!

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