And Riot turned his scowling glance, That temple now in ruin lies!——— But from that ruin, as of old, The fire-scorched stones themselves are And from their ashes white and cold A voice which slavery cannot kill And even this relic from thy shrine, And, grasping it, methinks I feel And not unlike that mystic rod, Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave, It yet may point the bondman's way, THE BRANDED HAND. 1846. WELCOME home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful brow and gray, And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve, in vain Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain! Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal cravens aim To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy shame? When, all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was withdrawn, How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn! They change to wrong, the duty which God hath written out On the great heart of humanity too legible for doubt! They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from footsole up to crown, Give to shame what God hath given unto honor and renown! Why, that brand is highest honor!-than its traces never yet Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon set; And thy unborn generations, as they tread our rocky strand, Shall tell with pride the story of their father's BRANDED HAND! As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back from Syrian wars The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scime tars, The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson span, So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and man! He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave, Thou for his living presence in the bound and bleeding slave;. He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of God! For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swung, From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery wrung, And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each Goddeserted shrine, Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the bondman's blood for wine While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour knelt, And spurned, the while, the temple where a present Saviour dwelt; Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison shadows dim, And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto Him! In thy lone and long night watches, sky above and wave below, Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the babbling school-men know; God's stars and silence taught thee, as his angels only can, That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope of heaven, is Man! That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and creed, In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy in his need; But woe to him who crushes the SOUL with chain and rod, And herds with lower natures the awful form of God! Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman of the wave! Its branded palm shall prophesy, "SALVATION TO THE SLAVE!” Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads may feel His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel. Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our Northern air— Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God look there! Take it henceforth for your standard-like the Bruce's heart of yore, In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hard be seen before! And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign, When it points its finger Southward along the Puritan line: Woe to the State-gorged leeches, and the Church's locust band, When they look from slavery's ramparts on the coming of that hand! TEXAS. VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. Up the hill-side, down the glen, Like a lion growling low— It is coming-it is nigh! Stand your homes and altars by; Clang the bells in all your spires; From Wachuset, lone and bleak, O! for God and duty stand, Whoso shrinks or falters now, Freedom's soil hath only place Perish party-perish clan; |