Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it,
The Heavens above us spread!
The land is roused-its spirit
Was sleeping, but not dead!

THE PINE-TREE.

1846.

LIFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield,

Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field,

Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board,

Answering England's royal missive with a firm, "THUS SAITH THE LORD!"

Rise again for home and freedom!-set the battle in array !

What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day.

Tell us not of banks and tariffs cease your paltry peddler cries

Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise?

Would ye barter man for cotton ?-That your gains may sum up higher,

Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the fire?

Is the dollar only real?-God and truth and right a dream ?

Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam?

Oh, my God!—for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town

Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros down !

For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry:

"Up for God and Massachusetts !-Set your feet on Mammon's lie!

Perish banks and perish traffic-spin your cotton's latest pound

But in Heaven's name keep your honor-keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!'

Where's the MAN for Massachusetts ?-Where's the voice to speak her free ?—

Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to the sea?

Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer?-Sits she dumb in her despair?

Has she none to break the silence ?-Has she none to do and dare?

Oh my God! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted shield,

And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field!

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON IN THE 12TH MONTH OF 1845.

WITH a cold and wintry noon-light,
On its roofs and steeples shed,
Shadows weaving with the sunlight
From the gray sky overhead,

Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread.

Through this broad street, restless ever,
Ebbs and flows a human tide,
Wave on wave a living river;

Wealth and fashion side by side;

Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

Underneath yon dome, whose coping Springs above them, vast and tall, Grave men in the dust are groping For the largess, base and small, Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its table fall.

Base of heart! They vilely barter
Honor's wealth for party's place:
Step by step on Freedom's charter
Leaving footprints of disgrace;

For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their race.

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing
Glory round the dancer's hair,
Gold-tressed, like an angel's flowing

Backward on the sunset air;

And the low quick pulse of music beats its measures sweet and rare:

There to-night shall woman's glances,
Star-like, welcome give to them,
Fawning fools with shy advances

Seek to touch their garments' tem,

With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn.

From this glittering lie my vision
Takes a broader, sadder range,

Full before me have arisen

Other pictures dark and strange;

From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change.

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging
On its hinges, harsh and slow;
One pale prison lamp is flinging
On a fearful group below

Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show.

Pitying God Is that a WOMAN

On whose wrist the shackles clash?
Is that shriek she utters human,
Underneath the stinging lash?

Are they MEN whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash?

Still the dance goes gayly onward!
What is it to Wealth and Pride?
That without the stars are looking
On a scene which earth should hide?

That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on
Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition
Which, upon a rival's fall,
Winds above its old condition,

With a reptile's slimy crawl,

Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call.

Vainly to the child of Fashion,
Giving to ideal woe

Graceful luxury of compassion,

Shall the stricken mourner go;

Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the

hollow show!

Nay, my words are all too sweeping:
In this crowded human mart

Feeling is not dead, but sleeping;

Man's strong will and woman's heart, In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous part.

And from yonder sunny valleys,
Southward in the distance lost,
Freedom yet shall summon allies
Worthier than the North can boast,

With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at

severer cost.

Now, the soul alone is willing:

Faint the heart and weak the knee;

And as yet no lip is thrilling

With the mighty words "BE FREE!"

Tarrieth long the land's Good Augel, but his advent is to be!

Meanwhile, turning from the revel

To the prison-cell my sight,

For intenser hate of evil,

For a keener sense of right,

Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night!

"To thy duty now and ever!
Dream no more of rest or stay;
Give to Freedom's great endeavor
All thou art and hast to-day:'

Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or seems to say.

Ye with heart and vision gifted

To discern and love the right,
Whose worn faces have been lifted
To the slowly-growing light,

Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night !—