All that a sister State should do, all that a free

State may,

Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day;

But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone,

And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves

have sown!

Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's free air

With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild despair;

Cling closer to the "cleaving curse " that writes upon your plains

The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains.

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old,

By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold—

Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market value, when

The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den!

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian

name;

Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of shame;

Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe— We wash our hands forever, of your sin, and shame, and curse.

A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been,

Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men:

The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still

In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill.

And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey

Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray,

How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning spoke;

How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke!

A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on

high,

A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud

reply;

Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling

summons rang,

And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics sprang!

The voice of free, broad Middlesex-of thousands as of one

The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexing

ton

From Norfolk's ancient villages; from Plymouth's rocky bound

To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round;

From rich and rural Worcester, where through the calm repose

Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua flows,

To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir,

Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of "God save Latimer!”

And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt

sea spray

And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay!

Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the thrill,

And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from Holyoke Hill.

'The voice of Massachusetts! Of her free sons and daughters

Deep calling unto deep aloud-the sound of many waters!

Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power shall stand?

No fetters in the Bay State! No slave upon her land!

Look to it well, Virginians! In calmness we have

borne,

In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn;

You've spurned our kindest counsels-you've hunted for our lives

And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves!

We wage no war-we lift no arm-we fling no torch within

The fire-damps of the quaking mine beneath your soil of sin;

We leave ye with your bondmer, to wrestle, while

ye can,

With the strong upward tendencies and God-like soul of man!

But for us and for our children, the vow which we have given

For freedom and humanity, is registered in Heaven;

No slave-hunt in our borders-no pirate on our strand!

No fetters in the Bay State-no slave upon our land!

THE RELIC.

[PENNSYLVANIA HALL, dedicated to Free Discussion and the cause of human liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. The following was written on receiving a cane wrought from a frag. ment of the wood-work which the fire had spared.]

TOKEN of friendship true and tried,
From one whose fiery heart of youth
With mine has beaten, side by side,
For Liberty and Truth;

With honest pride the gift I take,
And prize it for the giver's sake.

But not alone because it tells

Of generous hand and heart sincere;
Around that gift of friendship dwells
A memory doubly dear—

Earth's noblest aim-man's holiest thought,
With that memorial frail inwrought!

Pure thoughts and sweet, like flowers unfold,

And precious memories round it cling,
Even as the Prophet's rod of old

In beauty blossoming:

And buds of feeling pure and good
Spring from its cold unconscious wood.

Relic of Freedom's shrine !—a brand
Plucked from its burning!-let it be
Dear as a jewel from the hand

Of a lost friend to me!—

Flower of a perished garland left,
Of life and beauty unbereft!

Oh! if the young enthusiast bears,
O'er weary waste and sea, the stone
Which crumbled from the Forum's stairs,
Or round the Parthenon;

Or olive bough from some wild tree
Hung over old Thermopylæ :

If leaflets from some hero's tomb,

Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary,-
Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom
On fields renowned in story,—
Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest,
Or the gray rock by Druids blessed;

Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing
Where Freedom led her stalwart kern,
Or Scotia's "rough bur thistle" blowing
On Bruce's Bannockburn—

Or Runnymede's wild English rose,
Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows!—

If it be true that things like these

To heart and eye bright visions bring,
Shall not far holier memories

To this memorial cling?

Which needs no mellowing mist of time
To hide the crimson stains of crime !

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned

Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, Lifting on high, with hands unstained, Thanksgiving unto God;

Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading For human hearts in bondage bleeding!—

Where midst the sound of rushing feet
And curses on the night air flung,
That pleading voice rose calm and sweet
From woman's earnest tongue;