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[Music]
Our fellow countrymen in chains, Slaves in a land of light and law!
Slaves crouching on the very plains Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war!
A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood-- A wail where Camden's martyrs fell-- By every shrine of patriot blood, From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well.
By storied hill and hallow'd grot, By mossy wood and marshy glen, Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, And hurrying shout of Marion's men!
The groan of breaking hearts is there-- The falling lash--the fetter's clank!
Slaves--SLAVES are breathing in that air, Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!
What, ho!--our countrymen in chains!
The whip on WOMAN'S shrinking fles.h.!.+
Our soil yet reddening with the stains, Caught from her scourging, warm and fres.h.!.+
What! mothers from their children riven!
What! G.o.d's own image bought and sold!
AMERICANS to market driven, And barter'd as the brute for gold!
Speak! shall their agony of prayer Come thrilling to our hearts in vain?
To us, whose fathers scorn'd to bear The paltry menace of a chain; To us, whose boast is loud and long Of holy Liberty and Light-- Say, shall these writhing slaves of wrong, Plead vainly for their plunder'd Right?
Shall every flap of England's flag Proclaim that all around are free, From "farthest Ind" to each blue crag That beetles o'er the Western Sea?
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, When Freedom's fire is dim with us, And round our country's altar clings The d.a.m.ning shade of Slavery's curse?
Just G.o.d! 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?
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, And leave no traces where it stood; No 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!
Myron Holley.
BY W.H. BURLEIGH.
Yes--fame is his:--but not the fame For which the conqueror pants and strives, Whose path is tracked through blood and flame, And over countless human lives!
His name no armed battalions hail With bugle shriek or thundering gun,-- No widows curse him, as they wail For slaughtered husband and for son.
Amid the moral strife alone, He battled fearlessly and long, And poured, with clear, untrembling tone, Rebuke upon the hosts of Wrong-- To break Oppression's cruel rod, He dared the perils of the fight, And in the name of FREEDOM'S G.o.d Struck boldly for the TRUE and RIGHT!
With faith, whose eye was never dim, The triumph, yet afar, he saw, When, bonds smote off from soul and limb, And freed alike by Love and Law, The slave--no more a slave--shall stand Erect--and loud, from sea to sea, Exultant burst o'er all the land The glorious song of jubilee!
Why should we mourn, thy labor done, That thou art called to thy reward; Rest, Freedom's war-worn champion!
Rest, faithful soldier of the LORD!
For oh, not vainly hast thou striven, Through storm, and gloom, and deepest night-- Not vainly hath thy life been given For G.o.d, for FREEDOM, and for RIGHT.
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND AGAINST SLAVERY.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
Up the hill side, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low, Like a nightstorm rising slow, Like the tread of unseen foe.
It is coming--it is nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by; On your own free threshholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires; On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal fires.
Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow.
Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race-- None for traitors false and base.
Take your land of sun and bloom; Only leave to Freedom room For her plough, and forge, and loom.
Take your slavery-blackened vales; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails.
Onward with your fell design; Dig the gulf and draw the line; Fire beneath your feet the mine: Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your land and this, Shall ye feel your helplessness.
By the hearth, and in the bed, Shaken by a look or tread, Ye shall own a guilty dread.
And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil, Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, Vines our rocks shall overgrow, Plenty in our valleys flow;-- And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the d.a.m.ned on Paradise!
We but ask our rocky strand, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand, Valleys by the slave untrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessed of our fathers' G.o.d!
THE CLARION OF FREEDOM.
Words from the Emanc.i.p.ator. Music "The Chariot."
[Music]
The clarion--the clarion of Freedom now sounds, From the east to the west Independence resounds; From the hills, and the streams, and the far distant skies, Let the shout Independence from Slav'ry arise.
The army--the army have taken the field, And the Liberty hosts never, never will yield; By free principles strengthened, each bosom now glows, And with ardor immortal the struggle they close.
The armor, the armor that girds every breast, Is the hope of deliverance for millions oppressed; O'er the tears, and the sighs, and the wrongs of the slave, See the white flag of freedom triumphantly wave.
The conflict--the conflict will shortly be o'er, And the demon of slavery shall rule us no more; And the laurels of victory shall surely reward The heroes immortal who've conquered for G.o.d.
