« PreviousContinue »
Shall freemen lock the indignant thought ?
Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell?
No-by each spot of haunted ground,
Where Freedom weeps her children's fallBy Plymouth's rock, and Bunker's mound
By, Griswold's stained and shattered wall By Warren's ghost—by Langdon's shade By all the memories of our dead !
By their enlarging souls, which burst
The bands and fetters round them set
Within our inmost bosoms, yet,
No-guided by our country's laws,
For truth, and right, and suffering man,
As Christians may-as freemen can!
What! shall we guard our neighbor still,
While woman shrieks beneath his rod,
The image of a common God !
And shall we know and share with him
The danger and the growing shame ? And see our Freedom's light grow dim,
Which should have filled the world with flame ? And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn, A world's reproach around us burn ?
Is't not enough that this is borne ?
And asks our haughty neighbor more ?
Clank round the Yankee farmer's door ?
Must he be told his freedom stands
On Slavery's dark foundations strongOn breaking hearts and fettered hands,
On robbery, and crime, and wrong? That all his fathers taught is vainThat Freedom's emblem is the chain ?
Its life-its soul, from slavery drawn ?
False—foul-profane! Go-teach as well
Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell !
Rail on, then, “ brethren of the South”
Ye shall not hear the truth the less
No fetter on the Yankee's press !
WRITTEN on reading the Message of Governor RITNER, of Pennsy!
THANK God for the token !-one lip is still freeOne spirit untrammelled-unbending one knee ! Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm, Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm;
When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God,
broken'! Thank God, that one man, as a freeman has
O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown! Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone! To the land of the South-of the charter and
chain Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain; Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips ! Where “ chivalric” honor means really no more Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor ! Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high, And the words which he utters arem-WORSHIP, OR
Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood
feltThe bonds shall be loosened-the iron shall melt!
And oh, will the land where the free soul of PENN Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen Will the land where a BENEZET's spirit went forth To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of
Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first From the soul of the sage and the patriot burstWhere first for the wronged and the weak of their
kind, The Christian an 1 statesman their efforts com
bined Will that land of the free and the good wear a
chain ? Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ?
No, RITNER !—her “ Friends,” at thy warning shall
stand Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band; Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime; Turning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite Once again for the poor in defence of the Right; Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along; Unappalled by the danger, t'e shame and the pain, And counting each trial for Truth as their gain!
And that bold-hearted yeon anry, honest and true,
mouth ? They cater to tyrants ?- They rivet the chain, Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again ?
No, never !-one voice, like the sound in the cloud, When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more
loud, Wherever the foot of the freeman bath pressed
From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the
On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! The voice of a PEOPLE-uprisen—awakePennsylvania's watch word, with Freedom at stake, Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from
each height, * VUR COUNTRY AND LIBERTY !-GOD FOR TIIR
THE PASTORAL LETTER.
So, this is all-the utmost reach
Of priestly power the mind to fetter! When laymen think—when women preach-
A war of words-a“ Pastoral Letter!” Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes !
Was it thus with those, your predecessors, Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes
Their loving kindness to transgressors ? A " Pastoral Letter,” grave and dull
Alas! in hoof and horns and features, How different is your Brookfield bull,
From him who bellows from St. Peter's ! Your pastoral rights and powers from harm,
Think ye, can words alone preserve them ? Your wiser fathers taught the arm
And sword of temporal power to serve them
Oh, glorious days—when church and state
Were wedded by your spiritual fathers ! And on submissive shoulders sat
Your Wilsong and your Cotton Mathers