Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!

And the sky of thy South may be brighter than

ours,

And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers; But, dearer the blast round our mountains which

raves,

Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves!

Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel;
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!"

TO W. L. G.

CHAMPION of those who groan beneath
Oppression's iron hand:

In view of penury, hate, and death,
I see thee fearless stand.

Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow
And promise of thy youth.

Go on!-for thou hast chosen well;
On in the strength of God!
Long as one human heart shall swell
Beneath the tyrant's rod.

Speak in a slumbering nation's ear,
As thou hast ever spoken,

Until the dead in sin shall hear-
The fetter's link be broken!

I love thee with a brother's love,
I feel my pulses thrill,

To mark thy spirit soar above
The cloud of human ill.

My heart hath leaped to answer thine,
And echo back thy words,

As leaps the warrior's at the shine
And flash of kindred swords!

They tell me thou art rash and vain-
A searcher after fame

That thou art striving but to gain

A long enduring name;

That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand
And steeled the Afric's heart,.
To shake aloft his vengeful brand,
And rend his chain apart.

Have I not known thee well, and read
Thy mighty purpose long!

And watched the trials which have made

Thy human spirit strong?

And shall the slanderer's demon breath
Avail with one like me,

To dim the sunshine of my faith
And earnest trust in thee?

Go on-the dagger's point may glare
Amid thy pathway's gloom-
The fate which sternly threatens there
Is glorious martyrdom!

Then onward with a martyr's zeal;

And wait thy sure reward

When man to man no more shall kneel And God alone be Lord!

1833.

SONG OF THE FREE.

PRIDE of New England!
Soul of our fathers!
Shrink we all craven-like,
When the storm gathers?
What though the tempest be
Over us lowering,

Where's the New Englander
Shamefully cowering?
Graves green and holy
Around us are lying,-
Free were the sleepers all,
Living and dying!

Back with the Southerner's
Padlocks and scourges!
Go-let him fetter down
Ocean's free surges !
Go-let him silence

Winds, clouds, and waters-
Never New England's own
Free sons and daughters!
Free as our rivers are
Ocean-ward going-

Free as the breezes are
Over us blowing.

Up to our altars, then,
Haste we, and summon
Courage and loveliness,
Manhood and woman!
Deep let our pledges be:
Freedom for ever!
Truce with oppression,
Never, oh! never!

By our own birthright-gift,
Granted of Heaven-

1836.

Freedom for heart and lip,
Be the pledge given!

If we have whispered truth,
Whisper no longer;
Speak as the tempest does,
Sterner and stronger;
Still be the tones of truth
Louder and firmer,
Startling the haughty South
With the deep murmur:
God and our charter's right,
Freedom for ever!

Truce with oppression,
Never, oh! never!

THE HUNTERS OF MEN

HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen,

Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of

men?

The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; Hark! the cheer and the hallo!-the crack of the whip,

And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their matchThough hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch.

So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest-the hunting of

men!

Gay luck to our hunters!-how nobly they ride In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride!

The priest with his cassock flung back on the

wind,

Just screening the politic statesman behind-
The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer-
The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there.
And woman-kind woman-wife, widow, and maid,
For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid :
Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein,
How blithely she rides to the hunting of men !

Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see,
In this "land of the brave and this home of the
free."

Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to
Maine,

All mounting the saddle-all grasping the rein
Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin
Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin!
Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay!
Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and
prey?

Will their hearts fail within them ?-their nerves tremble, when

All roughly they ride to the hunting of men?

Ho!-ALMS for our hunters! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint.

The horn is wound faintly-the echoes are still, Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste-alms for our hunters! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore:

What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right?

Ho!-alms for the hunters! or never again

Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of

men!