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, TO W. L. G. CHAMPION of those who groan beneath In view of penury, hate, and death, Still bearing up thy lofty brow, In the steadfast strength of truth, Go on!-for thou hast chosen well; Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, Until the dead in sin shall hear- I love thee with a brother's love, To mark thy spirit soar above My heart hath leaped to answer thine, As leaps the warrior's at the shine They tell me thou art rash and vain- That thou art striving but to gain A long enduring name; That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand Have I not known thee well, and read And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong? And shall the slanderer's demon breath To dim the sunshine of my faith Go on-the dagger's point may glare 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! Where's the New Englander Back with the Southerner's Winds, clouds, and waters- Free as the breezes are Up to our altars, then, By our own birthright-gift, 1836. Freedom for heart and lip, If we have whispered truth, Truce with oppression, 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 matchThough 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 flung back on the wind, Just screening the politic statesman behind- Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to All mounting the saddle-all grasping the rein 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! |