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Is't not enough that this is borne ?

And asks our haughty neighbor more?
Must fetters which his slaves have worn,

Clank round the Yankee farmer's door?
Must he be told, beside his plough,
What he must speak, and when, and how?

Must he be told his freedom stands

On Slavery's dark foundations strong→→→ On breaking hearts and fettered hands,

On robbery, and crime, and wrong? That all his fathers taught is vainThat Freedom's emblem is the chain?

Its life-its soul, from slavery drawn?
False-foul-profane! Go-teach as well
Of holy Truth from Falsehood born!
Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell!
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice!
Of Demons planting Paradise!

Rail on, then, "brethren of the South"-
Ye shall not hear the truth the less-
No seal is on the Yankee's mouth,

No fetter on the Yankee's press!
From our Green Mountains to the Sea,
One voice shall thunder-WE ARE FREE!


WRITTEN on reading the Message of Governor RITNER, of Pennsyl vania, 1836.

THANK God for the token!—one lip is still freeOne spirit untrammelled-unbending one knee! Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm, Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm;

When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God,
Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood;
When the recreant North has forgotten her trust,
And the lip of her honor is low in the dust,-
Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has

Thank God, that one man, as a freeman has spoken !

O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown! Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone! To the land of the South-of the charter and chain

Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain;
Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips
Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips!
Where "chivalric " honor means really no more
Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor!
Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high,
And the words which he utters are- -WORSHIP, OR

Right onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood
Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God;
Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining;
Wherever the lash of the driver is twining;
Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart,
Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart;
Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind,
In silence and darkness, the God-given mind;
There, God speed it onward!-its truth will be


The bonds shall be loosened—the iron shall melt!

And oh, will the land where the free soul of PENN Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glenWill the land where a BENEZET's spirit went forth To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of Earth



Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst-Where first for the wronged and the weak of their kind.

The Christian and statesman their efforts com bined

Will that land of the free and the good wear a chain?

Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ?

No, RITNER!-her "Friends," at thy warning shall stand

Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band; Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime; Turning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite Once again for the poor in defence of the Right; Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along; Unappalled by the danger, the shame and the pain, And counting each trial for Truth as their gain!

And that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and true,
Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due;
Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine,
On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine-
The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave
The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave:--
Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the


One brow for the brand-for the padlock one mouth?

They cater to tyrants?—They rivet the chain, Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again?

No, never!-one voice, like the sound in the cloud, When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more


Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed

From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the West,

On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below! The voice of a PEOPLE―uprisen—awake— Pennsylvania's watchword, with Freedom at stake, Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each height,



So, this is all-the utmost reach
Of priestly power the mind to fetter!
When laymen think—when women preach—
A war of words-a "Pastoral Letter!"
Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes!

Was it thus with those, your predecessors,
Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes
Their loving kindness to transgressors ?

A "Pastoral Letter," grave and dull

Alas! in hoof and horns and features,
How different is your Brookfield bull,

From him who bellows from St. Peter's!
Your pastoral rights and powers from harm,

Think ye, can words alone preserve them?
Your wiser fathers taught the arm

And sword of temporal power to serve them.

Oh, glorious days-when church and state
Were wedded by your spiritual fathers!
And on submissive shoulders sat

Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers.

No vile "itinerant" then could mar
The beauty of your tranquil Zion,
But at his peril of the scar

Of hanginan'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;

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