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Shall freemen lock the indignant thought ?

Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell?
Shall Honor bleed ?-Shall Truth succumb ?
Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ?

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
By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed

Within our inmost bosoms, yet,
By all above-around-below-
Be ours the indignant answer-NO!

No-guided by our country's laws,

For truth, and right, and suffering man,
Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause,

As Christians may-as freemen can!
Still pouring on unwilling ears
That truth oppression only fears.

What! shall we guard our neighbor still,

While woman shrieks beneath his rod,
And while he tramples down at will

The image of a common God !
Shall watch and ward be round him set,
Of Northern nerve and bayonet ?

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 ?
Must fetters which his slaves have worn,

Clank round the Yankee farmer's door ?
Must he be told, beside his plough,
What he must speak, and when, and how?

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 holy Truth from Falsehood born!

Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell !
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice !
Of Demons planting Paradise !

Rail on, then, “ brethren of the South”

Ye shall not hear the truth the less
No seal is on the Yankee's mouth,

No fetter on the Yankee's press !
From our Green Mountains to the Sea,
One voice shall thunder-WE ARE FREE!

LINES,

WRITTEN on reading the Message of Governor RITNER, of Pennsy!

vania, 1836.

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,
Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blooil ;
When the recreant North has forgotten her trust,
And the lip of her honor is low in the dust, —
Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has

broken'! Thank God, that one man, as a freeman has

spoken!

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

DIE!

Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood
Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God;
Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining;
Wherever the lash of the driver is twining;
Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart,
Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart;
Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind,
In silence and darkness, the God-given mind;
There, God speed it onward !—its truth will be

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

Earth

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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,
Who, haters of fraud, give o labor its due ;
Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine,
On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine-
The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave
The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave:
Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the

South
One brow for the brand-for the padlock one

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

West,

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

RIGHT!”

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

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