should not be forced upon any church as matters for debate, at the hazard of alienation and division," and called attention to the dangers now seeming "to threaten the female character with widespread and permanent injury." 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 hangman'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 Hampton, 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; If when an earthquake voice of power And signs in earth and heaven are showing That forth, in its appointed hour, The Spirit of the Lord is going And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, In glory and in strength are waking! When for the sighing of the poor, And for the needy, God bath risen, And chains are breaking, and a door Is opening for the souls in prison! If then ye would, with puny hands, Arrest the very work of Heaven, And bind anew the evil bands Which God's right arm of power hath riven; What marvel that, in many a mind, Those darker deeds of bigot madness Are closely with your own combined, Yet "less in anger than in sadness"?
What marvel, if the people learn To claim the right of free opinion?
What marvel, if at times they spurn The ancient yoke of your dominion?
A glorious remnant linger yet, Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, The coming of whose welcome feet Is beautiful upon our mountains! Men, who the gospel tidings bring Of Liberty and Love forever, Whose joy is an abiding spring, Whose peace is as a gentle river! But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, Which echoes here the mournful wail Of sorrow from Edisto's waters, Close while ye may the public ear, With malice vex, with slander wound them, The pure and good shall throng to hear, And tried and manly hearts surround them.
Oh, ever may the power which led Their way to such a fiery trial, And strengthened womanhood to tread The wine-press of such self-denial, Be round them in an evil land, With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand, And Deborah's song, for triumph given! And what are ye who strive with God Against the ark of His salvation, Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, With blessings for a dying nation?
What, but the stubble and the hay To perish, even as flax consuming, With all that bars His glorious way, Before the brightness of His coming?
And thou, sad Angel, who so long Hast waited for the glorious token, That Earth from all her bonds of wrong To liberty and light has broken,-- Angel of Freedom! soon to thee The sounding trumpet shall be given, And over Earth's full jubilee Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven! 1837.
HYMN As children of Thy gracious care, We veil the eye, we bend the knee, With broken words of praise and prayer, Father and God, we come to Thee.
For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, The sighing of the island slave; And stretched for him the arm of might, Not shortened that it could not save.
The laborer sits beneath his vine, The shackled soul and hand are free; Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine! Praise! for the blessing is of Thee! And oh, we feel Thy presence here, Thy awful arm in judgment bare! Thine eye bath seen the bondman's tear; Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.
Praise! for the pride of man is low, The counsels of the wise are naught, The fountains of repentance flow; What hath our God in mercy wrought?
HYMN Written for the celebration of the third anniversary of British emancipation at the Broadway Tabernacle, New York, first of August, 1837.
O HOLY FATHER! just and true Are all Thy works and words and ways, And unto Thee alone are due Thanksgiving and eternal praise! As children of Thy gracious care, We veil the eye, we bend the knee, With broken words of praise and prayer, Father and God, we come to Thee.
For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, The sighing of the island slave; And stretched for him the arm of might, Not shortened that it could not save.
The laborer sits beneath his vine, The shackled soul and hand are free; Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine! Praise! for the blessing is of Thee! And oh, we feel Thy presence here, Thy awful arm in judgment bare! Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear; Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.
Praise! for the pride of man is low, The counsels of the wise are naught, The fountains of repentance flow; What hath our God in mercy wrought?
Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts And when the bondman's chain is riven, And swells from all our guilty coasts The anthem of the free to Heaven, Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led, As with Thy cloud and fire before, But unto Thee, in fear and dread, Be praise and glory evermore.
THE FAREWELL OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.
GONE, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air; Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them, There no mother's ear can hear them; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash, Shall a mother's kindness bless them, Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go, Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, There no brother's voice shall greet them; There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play; From the cool spring where they drank; Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there; Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone; Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
By the holy love He beareth; By the bruised reed He spareth; Oh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gone,--sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 1838.
PENNSYLVANIA HALL.
Read at the dedication of Pennsylvania Hall, Philadelphia, May 15, 1838.
The building was erected by an association of gentlemen, irrespective of sect or party, "that the citizens of Philadelphia should possess a room wherein the principles of Liberty, and Equality of Civil Rights, could be freely discussed, and the evils of slavery fearlessly portrayed." On the evening of the 17th it was burned by a mob, destroying the office of the Pennsylvania Freeman, of which I was editor, and with it my books and papers.
NOT with the splendors of the days of old, The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold; No weapons wrested from the fields of blood, Where dark and stern the unyielding Roman stood, And the proud eagles of his cohorts saw A world, war-wasted, crouching to his law; Nor blazoned car, nor banners floating gay, Like those which swept along the Appian Way, When, to the welcome of imperial Rome, The victor warrior came in triumph home, And trumpet peal, and shoutings wild and high, Stirred the blue quiet of the Italian sky; But calm and grateful, prayerful and sincere, As Christian freemen only, gathering here, We dedicate our fair and lofty Hall, Pillar and arch, entablature and wall, As Virtue's shrine, as Liberty's abode, Sacred to Freedom, and to Freedom's God Far statelier Halls, 'neath brighter skies than these, Stood darkly mirrored in the AEgean seas, Pillar and shrine, and life-like statues seen, Graceful and pure, the marble shafts between; Where glorious Athens from her rocky hill Saw Art and Beauty subject to her will; And the chaste temple, and the classic grove, The hall of sages, and the bowers of love, Arch, fane, and column, graced the shores, and gave Their shadows to the blue Saronic wave; And statelier rose, on Tiber's winding side, The Pantheon's dome, the Coliseum's pride, The Capitol, whose arches backward flung The deep, clear cadence of the Roman tongue, Whence stern decrees, like words of fate, went forth To the awed nations of a conquered earth, Where the proud Caesars in their glory came, And Brutus lightened from his lips of flame! Yet in the porches of Athena's halls, And in the shadow of her stately walls, Lurked the sad bondman, and his tears of woe Wet the cold marble with unheeded flow; And fetters clanked beneath the silver dome Of the proud Pantheon of imperious Rome.
Oh, not for hint, the chained and stricken slave, By Tiber's shore, or blue AEgina's wave, In the thronged forum, or the sages' seat, The bold lip pleaded, and the warm heart beat; No soul of sorrow melted at his pain, No tear of pity rusted on his chain! But this fair Hall to Truth and Freedom given, Pledged to the Right before all Earth and Heaven, A free arena for the strife of mind, To caste, or sect, or color unconfined, Shall thrill with echoes such as ne'er of old From Roman hall or Grecian temple rolled; Thoughts shall find utterance such as never yet The Propylea or the Forum met.
Beneath its roof no gladiator's strife Shall win applauses with the waste of life; No lordly lictor urge the barbarous game, No wanton Lais glory in her shame.
But here the tear of sympathy shall flow, As the ear listens to the tale of woe; Here in stern judgment of the oppressor's wrong Shall strong rebukings thrill on Freedom's tongue, No partial justice hold th' unequal scale, No pride of caste a brother's rights assail, No tyrant's mandates echo from this wall, Holy to Freedom and the Rights of All! But a fair field, where mind may close with mind, Free as the sunshine and the chainless wind; Where the high trust is fixed on Truth alone, And bonds and fetters from the soul are thrown; Where wealth, and rank, and worldly pomp, and might, Yield to the presence of the True and Right.
And fitting is it that this Hall should stand Where Pennsylvania's Founder led his band, From thy blue waters, Delaware!--to press The virgin verdure of the wilderness.
Here, where all Europe with amazement saw The soul's high freedom trammelled by no law; Here, where the fierce and warlike forest-men Gathered, in peace, around the home of Penn, Awed by the weapons Love alone had given Drawn from the holy armory of Heaven; Where Nature's voice against the bondman's wrong First found an earnest and indignant tongue; Where Lay's bold message to the proud was borne; And Keith's rebuke, and Franklin's manly scorn! Fitting it is that here, where Freedom first From her fair feet shook off the Old World's dust, Spread her white pinions to our Western blast, And her free tresses to our sunshine cast, One Hall should rise redeemed from Slavery's ban, One Temple sacred to the Rights of Man! Oh! if the spirits of the parted come, Visiting angels, to their olden home If the dead fathers of the land look forth From their fair dwellings, to the things of earth, Is it a dream, that with their eyes of love, They gaze now on us from the bowers above?
Lay's ardent soul, and Benezet the mild, Steadfast in faith, yet gentle as a child, Meek-hearted Woolman, and that brother-band, The sorrowing exiles from their "Father land," Leaving their homes in Krieshiem's bowers of vine, And the blue beauty of their glorious Rhine, To seek amidst our solemn depths of wood Freedom from man, and holy peace with God; Who first of all their testimonial gave Against the oppressor, for the outcast slave, Is it a dream that such as these look down, And with their blessing our rejoicings crown?
Let us rejoice, that while the pulpit's door Is barred against the pleaders for the poor; While the Church, wrangling upon points of faith, Forgets her bondmen suffering unto death; While crafty Traffic and the lust of Gain Unite to forge Oppression's triple chain, One door is open, and one Temple free, As a resting-place for hunted Liberty! Where men may speak, unshackled and unawed, High words of Truth, for Freedom and for God.
And when that truth its perfect work hath done, And rich with blessings o'er our land hath gone; When not a slave beneath his yoke shall pine, From broad Potomac to the far Sabine When unto angel lips at last is given The silver trump of Jubilee in Heaven; And from Virginia's plains, Kentucky's shades, And through the dim Floridian everglades, Rises, to meet that angel-trumpet's sound, The voice of millions from their chains unbound; Then, though this Hall be crumbling in decay, Its strong walls blending with the common clay, Yet, round the ruins of its strength shall stand The best and noblest of a ransomed land-- Pilgrims, like these who throng around the shrine Of Mecca, or of holy Palestine! A prouder glory shall that ruin own Than that which lingers round the Parthenon.
Here shall the child of after years be taught The works of Freedom which his fathers wrought; Told of the trials of the present hour, Our weary strife with prejudice and power; How the high errand quickened woman's soul, And touched her lip as with a living coal; How Freedom's martyrs kept their lofty faith True and unwavering, unto bonds and death; The pencil's art shall sketch the ruined Hall, The Muses' garland crown its aged wall, And History's pen for after times record Its consecration unto Freedom's God! THE NEW YEAR.
Addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman.
THE wave is breaking on the shore, The echo fading from the chime Again the shadow moveth o'er The dial-plate of time! O seer-seen Angel! waiting now With weary feet on sea and shore, Impatient for the last dread vow That time shall be no more! Once more across thy sleepless eye The semblance of a smile has passed: The year departing leaves more nigh Time's fearfullest and last.
Oh, in that dying year hath been The sum of all since time began; The birth and death, the joy and pain, Of Nature and of Man.
Spring, with her change of sun and shower, And streams released from Winter's chain, And bursting bud, and opening flower, And greenly growing grain; And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm, And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, And voices in her rising storm; God speaking from His cloud! And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves, And soft, warm days of golden light, The glory of her forest leaves, And harvest-moon at night; And Winter with her leafless grove, And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, The brilliance of her heaven above And of her earth below; And man, in whom an angel's mind With earth's low instincts finds abode, The highest of the links which bind Brute nature to her God; His infant eye bath seen the light, His childhood's merriest laughter rung, And active sports to manlier might The nerves of boyhood strung! And quiet love, and passion's fires, Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast, And lofty aims and low desires By turns disturbed his rest.
The wailing of the newly-born Has mingled with the funeral knell; And o'er the dying's ear has gone The merry marriage-bell.
And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, While Want, in many a humble shed, Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, The live-long night for bread.
And worse than all, the human slave, The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn! Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, His regal manhood gone! Oh, still, my country! o'er thy plains, Blackened with slavery's blight and ban, That human chattel drags his chains, An uncreated man! And still, where'er to sun and breeze, My country, is thy flag unrolled, With scorn, the gazing stranger sees A stain on every fold.
Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down! It gathers scorn from every eye, And despots smile and good men frown Whene'er it passes by.
Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow Above the slaver's loathsome jail; Its folds are ruffling even now His crimson flag of sale.
Still round our country's proudest hall The trade in human flesh is driven, And at each careless hammer-fall A human heart is riven.
And this, too, sanctioned by the men Vested with power to shield the right, And throw each vile and robber den Wide open to the light.
Yet, shame upon them! there they sit, Men of the North, subdued and still; Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit To work a master's will.
Sold, bargained off for Southern votes, A passive herd of Northern mules, Just braying through their purchased throats Whate'er their owner rules.
And he, (2) the basest of the base, The vilest of the vile, whose name, Embalmed in infinite disgrace, Is deathless in its shame! A tool, to bolt the people's door Against the people clamoring there, An ass, to trample on their floor A people's right of prayer! Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, Self-pilloried to the public view, A mark for every passing blast Of scorn to whistle through; There let him hang, and hear the boast Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool,-- A new Stylites on his post, "Sacred to ridicule!" Look we at home! our noble hall, To Freedom's holy purpose given, Now rears its black and ruined wall, Beneath the wintry heaven, Telling the story of its doom, The fiendish mob, the prostrate law, The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, Our gazing thousands saw.
Look to our State! the poor man's right Torn from him: and the sons of those Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight Sprinkled the Jersey snows, Outlawed within the land of Penn, That Slavery's guilty fears might cease, And those whom God created men Toil on as brutes in peace.
Yet o'er the blackness of the storm A bow of promise bends on high, And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm, Break through our clouded sky.
East, West, and North, the shout is heard, Of freemen rising for the right Each valley hath its rallying word, Each hill its signal light.
O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray, The strengthening light of freedom shines, Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay, And Vermont's snow-hung pines! From Hudson's frowning palisades To Alleghany's laurelled crest, O'er lakes and prairies, streams and glades, It shines upon the West.
Speed on the light to those who dwell In Slavery's land of woe and sin, And through the blackness of that bell, Let Heaven's own light break in.
So shall the Southern conscience quake Before that light poured full and strong, So shall the Southern heart awake To all the bondman's wrong.
And from that rich and sunny land The song of grateful millions rise, Like that of Israel's ransomed band Beneath Arabia's skies: And all who now are bound beneath Our banner's shade, our eagle's wing, From Slavery's night of moral death To light and life shall spring.
Broken the bondman's chain, and gone The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, And unto both alike shall dawn A New and Happy Year.
1839.
THE RELIC.
Written on receiving a cane wrought from a fragment of the wood-work of Pennsylvania Hall which the fire had spared.
TOKEN of friendship true and tried, From one whose fiery heart of youth With mine has beaten, side by side, For Liberty and Truth; With honest pride the gift I take, And prize it for the giver's sake.
But not alone because it tells Of generous hand and heart sincere; Around that gift of friendship dwells A memory doubly dear; Earth's noblest aim, man's holiest thought, With that memorial frail in wrought! Pure thoughts and sweet like flowers unfold, And precious memories round it cling, Even as the Prophet's rod of old In beauty blossoming: And buds of feeling, pure and good, Spring from its cold unconscious wood.
Relic of Freedom's shrine! a brand Plucked from its burning! let it be Dear as a jewel from the hand Of a lost friend to me! Flower of a perished garland left, Of life and beauty unbereft! Oh, if the young enthusiast bears, O'er weary waste and sea, the stone Which crumbled from the Forum's stairs, Or round the Parthenon; Or olive-bough from some wild tree Hung over old Thermopylae: If leaflets from some hero's tomb, Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary; Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom On fields renowned in story; Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest, Or the gray rock by Druids blessed; Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, Or Scotia's "rough bur thistle" blowing On Bruce's Bannockburn; Or Runnymede's wild English rose, Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows! If it be true that things like these To heart and eye bright visions bring, Shall not far holier memories To this memorial cling Which needs no mellowing mist of time To hide the crimson stains of crime! Wreck of a temple, unprofaned; Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, Lifting on high, with hands unstained, Thanksgiving unto God; Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading For human hearts in bondage bleeding; Where, midst the sound of rushing feet And curses on the night-air flung, That pleading voice rose calm and sweet From woman's earnest tongue; And Riot turned his scowling glance, Awed, from her tranquil countenance! That temple now in ruin lies! The fire-stain on its shattered wall, And open to the changing skies Its black and roofless hall, It stands before a nation's sight, A gravestone over buried Right! But from that ruin, as of old, The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying, And from their ashes white and cold Its timbers are replying! A voice which slavery cannot kill Speaks from the crumbling arches still! And even this relic from thy shrine, O holy Freedom! Hath to me A potent power, a voice and sign To testify of thee; And, grasping it, methinks I feel A deeper faith, a stronger zeal.
And not unlike that mystic rod, Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave, Which opened, in the strength of God, A pathway for the slave, It yet may point the bondman's way, And turn the spoiler from his prey.
1839.
THE WORLD'S CONVENTION OF THE FRIENDS OF EMANCIPATION, HELD IN LONDON IN 1840.
Joseph Sturge, the founder of the British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society, proposed the calling of a world's anti-slavery convention, and the proposal was promptly seconded by the American Anti-Slavery Society.
The call was addressed to "friends of the slave of every nation and of every clime." YES, let them gather! Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth.
From every land, whose hills have heard The bugle blast of Freedom waking; Or shrieking of her symbol-bird From out his cloudy eyrie breaking Where Justice hath one worshipper, Or truth one altar built to her; Where'er a human eye is weeping O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know; Where'er a single heart is keeping Its prayerful watch with human woe Thence let them come, and greet each other, And know in each a friend and brother! Yes, let them come! from each green vale Where England's old baronial halls Still bear upon their storied walls The grim crusader's rusted mail, Battered by Paynim spear and brand On Malta's rock or Syria's sand! And mouldering pennon-staves once set Within the soil of Palestine, By Jordan and Gennesaret; Or, borne with England's battle line, O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping, Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, A holier summons now is given Than that gray hermit's voice of old, Which unto all the winds of heaven The banners of the Cross unrolled! Not for the long-deserted shrine; Not for the dull unconscious sod, Which tells not by one lingering sign That there the hope of Israel trod; But for that truth, for which alone In pilgrim eyes are sanctified The garden moss, the mountain stone, Whereon His holy sandals pressed,-- The fountain which His lip hath blessed,-- Whate'er hath touched His garment's hem At Bethany or Bethlehem, Or Jordan's river-side.
For Freedom in the name of Him Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor, To break the chain from every limb, The bolt from every prison door! For these, o'er all the earth hath passed An ever-deepening trumpet blast, As if an angel's breath had lent Its vigor to the instrument.
And Wales, from Snowden's mountain wall, Shall startle at that thrilling call, As if she heard her bards again; And Erin's "harp on Tara's wall" Give out its ancient strain, Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal,-- The melody which Erin loves, When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, The hand of her O'Connell moves! Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, And mountain hold, and heathery bill, Shall catch and echo back the note, As if she heard upon the air Once more her Cameronian's prayer And song of Freedom float.
And cheering echoes shall reply From each remote dependency, Where Britain's mighty sway is known, In tropic sea or frozen zone; Where'er her sunset flag is furling, Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling; From Indian Bengal's groves of palm And rosy fields and gales of balm, Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled Through regal Ava's gates of gold; And from the lakes and ancient woods And dim Canadian solitudes, Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, Queen of the North, Quebec looks down; And from those bright and ransomed Isles Where all unwonted Freedom smiles, And the dark laborer still retains The scar of slavery's broken chains! From the hoar Alps, which sentinel The gateways of the land of Tell, Where morning's keen and earliest glance On Jura's rocky wall is thrown, And from the olive bowers of France And vine groves garlanding the Rhone,-- "Friends of the Blacks," as true and tried As those who stood by Oge's side, And heard the Haytien's tale of wrong, Shall gather at that summons strong; Broglie, Passy, and he whose song Breathed over Syria's holy sod, And, in the paths which Jesus trod, And murmured midst the hills which hem Crownless and sad Jerusalem, Hath echoes whereso'er the tone Of Israel's prophet-lyre is known.
Still let them come; from Quito's walls, And from the Orinoco's tide, From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, From Santa Fe and Yucatan,-- Men who by swart Guerrero's side Proclaimed the deathless rights of man, Broke every bond and fetter off, And hailed in every sable serf A free and brother Mexican! Chiefs who across the Andes' chain Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon, And seen on Junin's fearful plain, Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon! And Hayti, from her mountain land, Shall send the sons of those who hurled Defiance from her blazing strand, The war-gage from her Petion's hand, Alone against a hostile world.
Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, Land of the dark and mystic Nile! Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame All tyrants of a Christian name, When in the shade of Gizeh's pile, Or, where, from Abyssinian hills El Gerek's upper fountain fills, Or where from Mountains of the Moon El Abiad bears his watery boon, Where'er thy lotus blossoms swim Within their ancient hallowed waters; Where'er is beard the Coptic hymn, Or song of Nubia's sable daughters; The curse of slavery and the crime, Thy bequest from remotest time, At thy dark Mehemet's decree Forevermore shall pass from thee; And chains forsake each captive's limb Of all those tribes, whose hills around Have echoed back the cymbal sound And victor horn of Ibrahim.
And thou whose glory and whose crime To earth's remotest bound and clime, In mingled tones of awe and scorn, The echoes of a world have borne, My country! glorious at thy birth, A day-star flashing brightly forth, The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn! Oh, who could dream that saw thee then, And watched thy rising from afar, That vapors from oppression's fen Would cloud the upward tending star?
Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard, Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, To mock thee with their welcoming, Like Hades when her thrones were stirred To greet the down-cast Star of Morning! "Aha! and art thou fallen thus?
Art thou become as one of us ?" Land of my fathers! there will stand, Amidst that world-assembled band, Those owning thy maternal claim Unweakened by thy, crime and shame; The sad reprovers of thy wrong; The children thou hast spurned so long.
Still with affection's fondest yearning To their unnatural mother turning.
No traitors they! but tried and leal, Whose own is but thy general weal, Still blending with the patriot's zeal The Christian's love for human kind, To caste and climate unconfined.
A holy gathering! peaceful all No threat of war, no savage call For vengeance on an erring brother! But in their stead the godlike plan To teach the brotherhood of man To love and reverence one another, As sharers of a common blood, The children of a common God Yet, even at its lightest word, Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred: Spain, watching from her Moro's keep Her slave-ships traversing the deep, And Rio, in her strength and pride, Lifting, along her mountain-side, Her snowy battlements and towers, Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers, With bitter hate and sullen fear Its freedom-giving voice shall hear; And where my country's flag is flowing, On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing, Above the Nation's council halls, Where Freedom's praise is loud and long, While close beneath the outward walls The driver plies his reeking thong; The hammer of the man-thief falls, O'er hypocritic cheek and brow The crimson flush of shame shall glow And all who for their native land Are pledging life and heart and hand, Worn watchers o'er her changing weal, Who fog her tarnished honor feel, Through cottage door and council-hall Shall thunder an awakening call.
The pen along its page shall burn With all intolerable scorn; An eloquent rebuke shall go On all the winds that Southward blow; From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb, Warning and dread appeal shall come, Like those which Israel heard from him, The Prophet of the Cherubim; Or those which sad Esaias hurled Against a sin-accursed world! Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling Unceasing from its iron wing, With characters inscribed thereon, As fearful in the despot's ball As to the pomp of Babylon The fire-sign on the palace wall! And, from her dark iniquities, Methinks I see my country rise Not challenging the nations round To note her tardy justice done; Her captives from their chains unbound; Her prisons opening to the sun But tearfully her arms extending Over the poor and unoffending; Her regal emblem now no longer A bird of prey, with talons reeking, Above the dying captive shrieking, But, spreading out her ample wing, A broad, impartial covering, The weaker sheltered by the stronger Oh, then to Faith's anointed eyes The promised token shall be given; And on a nation's sacrifice, Atoning for the sin of years, And wet with penitential tears, The fire shall fall from Heaven! 1839.
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA.
Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, Va., in reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive slave, who was seized in Boston without warrant at the request of James B.Grey, of Norfolk, claiming to be his master.