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 By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave? And bid his bondmen cast the chain, Shall every flap of England's flag Proclaim that all around are free, From "farthest Ind" to each blue crag 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, Scatter the living coals of Truth! 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- Feel ye no earthquake underneath? Up now for Freedom!—not in strife The awful waste of human life The glory and the guilt of war: With those mild arms of Truth and Love, 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, 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, With WOMAN's fragile form, But more than manhood's heart! Faithful to Freedom, when Its name was held accursed Faithful, 'midst ruffian men, 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 scorned and broken laws- On a world of evil cast For the CHILDREN of your love- 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, 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, Of Freedom has gone forth, With joy and life to all The bondmen of the earth! Until IMMORTAL MIND Unshackled walks abroad, 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, It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east, Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast; |