THUS saith the mercy of the Lord, 'I'll be a God to thee ; I'll bless thy numerous race, and they Shall be a seed for me.' To an Enfant. WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. Remember, when thou com'st to riper years, And sought his guidance through this vale of tears. Be, in his truth, erect, majestic, free; Nor recreant prove though horrid death appears. On Calvary's cross,-an ignominious fate,If thou would'st reign with the Great Crucified, Thy reputation and thy life to hate : Thus shalt thou save them both, nor be denied A glittering crown and throne of heavenly state! With humble faith, eternal King, O, dearest child of all this populous earth! E'en now, And aid and bless him with a liberal hand! Extension of Slavery in the United States. ΧΟΙ. 8. RIPLEY. WEEP, Sons of Feedom! your honor is low; 'Tis bleeding in liberty's desolate fane : They whom ye trusted have bowed to the foe! Oppression has conquered your country again. Weep, sons of Freedom! your scutcheon is stained; The star-spangled banner' waves proudly no more: 'The land of the free' has been foully profaned; Again hath the tyrant prevailed on her shore! Weep, sons of Freedom, o'er Liberty crushed! Yet strive to deliver the down trodden slave; Though the foes of mankind bid your voices be hushed; Though the poor of the land it is treason to save! Weep, sons of Freedom! for yet there is hope; 164 The Day of Judgment. Haste! sons of Freedom! the burdens undo; Break the yoke of your bondmen, and bid them be free: Then your light shall break forth as the morning anew; 'like a river' that flows to the sea. The Day of Judgment. XCII. FROM every clime beneath the skies, The Solemn Song of a Righteous Heart. [After the Fashion of an Old English Poet.] WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Poor fluttering Soule! why tremble soe, Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, For Evermore. The Day of Judgment. Shall man, of little power possessed, And rudely from his brother wrest Yes! thus it is;-yet, not unpaid, His tyranny prevails; And all his barbarous deeds are weighed Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth; For under shal its shadows flee, And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth Growe strange to thee. Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse, Fond One! Why cling thus unto Life, This World growes madder each newe daie, Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, And crawle upon the suple knee-` Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother: Then seek another. 165 |