No vile "itinerant" then could mar The beauty of your tranquil Zion, But at his peril of the scar
Of hangman's whip and branding-iron.
Then, wholesome laws relieved the church Of heretic and mischief-maker,
And priest and bailiff joined in search, By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker! The stocks were at each church's door, The gallows stood on Boston Common, A Papist's ears the pillory bore,- The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman!
Your fathers dealt not as ye deal
With "non-professing" frantic teachers; They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, And flayed the backs of "female preachers," Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue,
And Salem's streets could tell their story, Of fainting woman dragged along,
Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory!
And will ye ask me, why this taunt
Of memories sacred from the scorner? And why with reckless hand I plant A nettle on the graves ye honor? Not to reproach New England's dead This record from the past I summon, Of manhood to the scaffold led,
And suffering and heroic woman.
No-for yourselves alone, I turn The pages of intolerance over, That, in their spirit, dark and stern, Ye haply may your own discover! For, if ye claim the "pastoral right'
To silence Freedom's voice of warning, And from your precincts shut the light
Of Freedom's day around ye dawning;
If when an earthquake voice of power, And signs in earth and heaven are showing That, forth, in its appointed hour,
The Spirit of the Lord is going! And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, In glory and in strength are waking!
When for the sighing of the poor,
And for the needy, God hath risen, And chains are breaking, and a door Is opening for the souls in prison ! If then ye would, with puny hands, Arrest the very work of Heaven, And bind anew the evil bands
Which God's right arm of power hath riven
What marvel that, in many a mind, Those darker deeds of bigot madness Are closely with your own combined, Yet "less in anger than in sadness? What marvel, if the people learn
To claim the right of free opinion? What marvel, if at times they spurn The ancient yoke of your dominion?
A glorious remnant linger yet,
Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, The coming of whose welcome feet
Is beautiful upon our mountains! Men, who the gospel tidings bring Of Liberty and Love for ever, Whose joy is an abiding spring, Whose peace is as a gentle river!
But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, Which echoes here the mournful wail Of sorrow from Edisto's waters,
Close while ye may the public ear
With malice vex, with slander wound them- The pure and good shall throng to hear, And tried and manly hearts surround them.
Oh, ever may the power which led Their way to such a fiery trial, And strengthened womanhood to tread The wine-press of such self-denial, Be round them in an evil land,
With wisdom and with strength from IIeaven With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand, And Deborah's song for triumph given!
And what are ye who strive with God, Against the ark of his salvation, Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, With blessings for a dying nation? What, but the stubble and the hay To perish, even as flax consuming, With all that bars his glorious way, Before the brightness of his coming?
And thou sad Angel, who so long
Hast waited for the glorious token, That Earth from all her bonds of wrong To liberty and light has brokenAngel of Freedom! soon to thee
The sounding trumpet shall be given, And over Earth's full jubilee
Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven!
WRITTEN for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chatham Street Chapel, N. Y., held on the 4th of the 7th month, 1834.
O THOU, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, As with thy chosen moved of yore The fire by night-the cloud by day!
When from each temple of the free, A nation's song ascends to Heaven, Most Holy Father! unto thee
May not our humble prayer be given ?
Thy children all-though hue and form Åre varied in thine own good will— With thy own holy breathings warm, And fashioned in thine image still.
We thank thee, Father!-hill and plain Around us wave their fruits once more, And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, Are bending round each cottage door.
And peace is here; and hope and love Are round us as a mantle thrown, And unto Thee, supreme above,
The knee of prayer is bowed alone.
But oh, for those this day can bring, As unto us, no joyful thrill— For those who, under Freedom's wing, Are bound in Slavery's fetters still:
For those to whom thy living word Of light and love is never given- For those whose ears have never heard The promise and the hope of Heaven!
For broken heart, and clouded mind, Whereon no human mercies fall- Oh, be thy gracious love inclined, Who, as a Father, pitiest all!
And grant, O Father! that the time Of Earth's deliverance may be near, When every land, and tongue, and clime, The message of thy love shall hear—
When, smitten as with fire from heaven, The captive's chain shall sink in dust, And to his fettered soul be given The glorious freedom of the just!
WRITTEN for the celebration of the Third Anniversary of British Emancipation, at the Broadway Tabernacle, N. Y., "First of August," 1837.
O HOLY FATHER!—just and true
Are all thy works and words and ways, And unto Thee alone are due
Thanksgiving and eternal praise! As children of thy gracious care, We veil the eye-we bend the knee, With broken words of praise and prayer, Father and God, we come to thee.
For thou hast heard, O God of Right, The sighing of the island slave; And stretched for him the arm of might, Not shortened that it could not save. The laborer sits beneath his vine,
The shackled soul and hand are free- Thanksgiving!—for the work is thine! Praise for the blessing is of Thee!
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