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A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood —
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!
By storied hill and hallowed grot,
And hurrying shout of Marion's men!
The falling lash-the fetter's clank! Slaves SLAVES are breathing in that air, Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!
—our countrymen in chains! The whip on wOMAN's shrinking flesh! Our soil yet reddening with the stains,
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh! What! mothers from their children riven! What! God's own image bought and sold! AMERICANS to market driven,
And bartered as the brute for gold!
Speak! shall their agony of prayer
What! shall we send, with lavish breath,
Strikes for his freedom, or a grave?
Our light on all her altars burning?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
The impulse of our cheering call?
Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free,
let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat;
From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ: "Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
Then turn, and ask the like of us!"
Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
The Christian's scorn the heathen's mirth Content to live the lingering jest
And by-word of a mocking Earth?
Shall our own glorious land retain
That curse which Europe scorns to bear? Shall our own brethren drag the chain Which not even Russia's menials wear?
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
Scatter the living coals of Truth!
The shadow of our fame is growing!
Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth-
Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
The glory and the guilt of war:
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
Nor longer let its idol drink
His daily cup of human blood:
But rear another altar there,
To Truth and Love and Mercy given, And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer, Shall call an answer down from Heaven!
UST God!- and these are they
Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay
On Israel's Ark of light!
What! preach and kidnap men?
and rob thy own afflicted poor?
Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then
What! servants of thy own
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save
Pilate and Herod, friends!
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!
Paid hypocrites, who turn
Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book
Of those high words of truth which search and burn
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord
How long, O Lord! how long Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, And, in thy name, for robbery and wrong At thy own altars pray?
Is not thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite? Shall not the living God of all the earth, And heaven above, do right?
Woe, then, to all who grind
Their brethren of a common Father down!
Woe to the priesthood! woe
To those whose hire is with the price of blood-
Their glory and their might
Shall perish; and their very names shall be
And Truth, and Right, throughout the earth be known As in their home above.