Part 11 (1/2)

[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!