Page images




EN! — if manhood still ye claim,

If the Northern pulse can thrill,
Roused by wrong or stung by shame,

Freely, strongly still :
Let the sounds of traffic die :

Shut the mill-gate — leave the stall
Fling the axe and hammer by -

Throng to Faneuil Hall !

Wrongs which freemen never brooked

Dangers grim and fierce as they,
Which, like couching lions, looked

On your father's way;
These your instant zeal demand,

Shaking with their earthquake-call
Every rood of Pilgrim land –

Ho, to Faneuil Hall !

From your capes and sandy bars

From your mountain-ridges cold,
Through whose pines the westering stars

Stoop their crowns of gold —
Come, and with your footsteps wake

Echoes from that holy wall :
Once again, for Freedom's sake,

Rock your fathers' hall !

[ocr errors][merged small]

Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade,

Let them rise or let them fall :
Freedom asks your common aid

Up, to Faneuil Hall !

Up, and let each voice that speaks

Ring from thence to Southern plains,
Sharply as the blow which breaks

Prison-bolts and chains !
Speak as well becomes the free

Dreaded more than steel or ball,
Shall your calmest utterance be,

Heard from Faneuil Hall !

Have they wronged us? Let us then

Render back nor threats nor prayers ;
Have they chained our free-born men ?

Up! your banner leads the van,

Blazoned “Liberty for all !”.
Finish what your sires began

Up, to Faneuil Hall !




IFT 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 ?

O 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 de

spair ? Has she none to break the silence ? Has she none to do and

dare? O 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 !



12TH MONTH OF 1845.


ITH a cold and wintry noon-light,

On its roofs and
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 reedom'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' hem,
With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth


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


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 ?

« PreviousContinue »