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And Poland, gasping on her lance,

The impulse of our cheering call? And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye, Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? And toss his fettered arms on high,

And groan for Freedom's gift in vain?

Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
A refuge for the stricken slave?
And shall the Russian serf go free

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave?
And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane
Relax the iron hand of pride,

And bid his bondmen cast the chain,

From fettered soul and limb, aside?

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 damning shade of Slavery's curse?

Go-let us ask of Constantine

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line To spare the struggling SulioteWill not the scorching answer come From turbaned Turk, and fiery 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,
From graybeard eld to fiery youth,
And on the nation's naked heart

Scatter the living coals of Truth!
Up-while ye slumber, deeper yet

The shadow of our fame is growing! Up-while ye pause, our sun may set In blood, around our altars flowing!

Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth-
The gathered wrath of God and man-
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth,
When hail and fire above it ran.
Hear ye no warnings in the air?

Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
Up-up-why will ye slumber where
The sleeper only wakes in death?

Up now for Freedom!-not in strife
Like that your sterner fathers saw-

The awful waste of human life

The glory and the guilt of war:
But break the chain-the yoke remove,
And smite to earth Oppression's rod,

With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
Made mighty through the living God!

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!

WHITTIER.

LINES

Written on reading an account of the meeting of the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society, and the MOв which followed, on the 21st October

1835.

UNSHRINKING from the storm,
Well have ye born your part,

With WOMAN's fragile form,

But more than manhood's heart!

Faithful to Freedom, when

Its name was held accursed

Faithful, 'midst ruffian men,
Unto your holy trust.

Oh! steadfast in the Truth!

Not for yourselves alone,
Matron and gentle youth,

Your lofty zeal was shown:

For the bondman of all climes

For Freedom's last abode-
For the hope of future times→
For the birthright gift of God-

For scorned and broken laws-
For honour and the right-
For the staked and periled cause
Of liberty and light-
For the holy eyes above

On a world of evil cast

For the CHILDREN of your love-
For the MOTHERS of the past!

Worthy of THEM are ye—

The Pilgrim wives who dared

The waste and unknown sea,

And the hunter's perils shared.

Worthy of her whose mind,

Triumphant over all,

Ruler nor priest could bind,
Nor banishment appal.

Worthy of her who died,

Martyr of Freedom, where

Your Common's verdant pride

Opens to sun and air:

Upheld at that dread hour

By strength which could not fail;

Before whose holy power

Bigot and priest turned pale.

God give ye strength to run,

Unawed by Earth or Hell,

The race ye have begun
So gloriously and well,
Until the trumpet-call

Of Freedom has gone forth,
With joy and life to all

The bondmen of the earth!

Until IMMORTAL MIND

Unshackled walks abroad,
And chains no longer bind
The image of our God.
Until no captive one

Murmurs on land or wave;

And, in his course, the sun

Looks down upon no SLAVE!

WHITTIER.

THE COVENANTER'S DREAM.

IN a dream of the night I was wafted away,

To the moorlands of mist, where the bless'd martyrs lay, Where Cameron's sword and Bible are seen,

Engraved on the stone, where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountains and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion;
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying;

It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east, Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;

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