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O loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee!
The poor man and the rescued slave

Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee-
And grateful tears, like summer rain,
Quicken'd its dying grass again!
And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
Shall come the outcast and the lowly,
Of gentle deeds and words of thine
Recalling memories sweet and holy!

Oh! for the death the righteous die,

An end, like Autumn's day declining, On human hearts, as on the sky,

With holier, tenderer beauty shining; As to the parting soul were given The radiance of an opening Heaven! As if that pure and blessed light, From off th' Eternal altar flowing, Were bathing, in its upward flight, The spirit to its worship going!

LINES.

Written on the adoption of Pinckney's Resolutions, in the House of Representatives, and the passage of Calhoun's "Bill of Abominations" to a second reading, in the Senate of the United States.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Now, by our fathers' ashes! where's the spirit Of the true-hearted and the unshackled gone? Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit

Their names alone?

Is the old Pilgrim spirit quench'd within us? Stoops the proud manhood of our souls so low, That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us To silence now?

No. When our land to ruin's brink is verging,
In God's name, let us speak while there is time!
Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging,
SILENCE IS CRIME!

What! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter, For treacherous peace, the FREEDOM Nature gave us, God and our charter?

Here shall the statesman seek the free to fetter? Here Lynch law light its horrid fires on high? And, in the church, their proud and skill'd abettor, Make truth a lie?

Torture the pages of the hallow'd Bible,
To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood?
And, in Oppression's hateful service, libel

Both man and God?

Shall our New England stand erect no longer, But stoop in chains upon her downward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger Day after day?

Oh, no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains

From valleys where her slumbering fathers lieFrom her blue rivers and her welling fountains, And clear, cold sky

From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean Gnaws with his surges-from the fisher' skiff, With white sail swaying to the billows' motion Round rock and cliff

From the free fire-side of her unbought farmerFrom her free laborer at his loom and wheelFrom the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer,

Rings the red steel

From each and all, if God hath not forsaken Our land, and left us to an evil choice, Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken

A PEOPLE'S VOICE.

Startling and stern! the Northern winds shall bear it
Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave;

And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it
Within her grave.

Oh, let that voice go forth! The bondman sighing
By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane,
Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying,
Revive again.
Let it go forth! The millions who are gazing
Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile,
And unto God devout thanksgiving raising,
Bless us the while.

Oh, for your ancient freedom, pure and holy,
For the deliverance of a groaning earth,
For the wrong'd captive, bleeding, crush'd and lowly,
Let it go forth!

Sons of the best of fathers! will ye falter
With all they left ye peril'd and at stake?
Ho! once again on Freedom's holy altar

The fire awake!

Prayer-strengthen'd for the trial, come together,
Put on the harness for the moral fight,
And, with the blessing of your heavenly Father,
MAINTAIN THE RIGHT!

THE VOICE OF BLOOD.

BY J. BLANCHARD.

Elijah Parrish Lovejoy was shot down by a mob at Alton Illinois, 11th mo. 7th, 1837, for exercising in his paper his right of free speech with regard to American Slavery.

I'm the voice of blood! and I wail along
As the winds sweep sullenly by ;
All choked and still is its wonted song,
As soft, or solemn, or brisk, or strong,

It sung to the answering sky.

One breath, one shuddering breath—a moan
Like the flap of a pall on a coffin of stone,
Or a dead man's long last sigh!

It comes to thee, ALTON, by day or by night,
Where Freedom's champion stood;

And the child, when he hears it, shall cry for light,
Though the sun is high, and the day is bright;
And the mother, in frantic mood,
Shall shriek as it mutters, the cradle near,
In a whisper so loud that the dead might hear,
"I AM BLOOD!-THE VOICE OF BLOOD!"

In street, lane, and alley, in parlor and hall,
That sepulchre voice is there
Crying-Hear, hear the martyr's imploring call!
O God! see the blood!-how it follows the ball,
As he sinks like the song of despair;
But I come-the precursor of sorrow, I come
In church-aisle and dwelling, in cellar and dome,
To cry with the tongue of the air ;-

"O could ye not hear when the young mother plead For the babe starting wild by her side?Must her husband's cold bosom then pillow her head, And her warm kiss, impressed on the lips of the dead,

Excite no emotion but pride!

I tell thee, Proud City, the vengeance of God,
Shall be felt, if not feared, on thy Golgotha sod,
Where the Martyr of Liberty died.'”

Rouse, rouse thee!-or purchase for Freedom a
shroud,

And bury your hopes in her grave,-
Then, hush'd be the glee of your laborers proud,
As, driven with the mule and the ass, in a crowd
They slink to the task of a slave,

With a curse on their lip and a scowl in their eye,
As they mope by your tomb-stones and tauntingly

cry

"Ho! here go the sons of the brave?"

ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY.

BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

Weep-for a brother fallen!--weep for him
Who first hath found a glorious martyrdom!
Weep for the broken heart!-the desolate home,
Whose light of gladness is for ever dim!
Who of us, next, on Slavery's bloody altar

Shall meet his doom? Thou only knowest, God!
Yet will we tread the path our brother trod,
Trusting in Thee! Our spirits shall not falter
Amid the darkness of the coming strife,

Though drunk with agony the soul should reel!
Here, LOVEJOY! on thy bloody grave we kneel,
And pledge anew our fortune-honor-life-
All-for the slave!

Farewell!-thy rest is won!
One tear for thee-then, strengthened, press we on!

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide
The din of battle and of slaughter rose;

He saw God stand upon the weaker side,
That sank in seeming loss before its foes;

Wake, wake, ILLINOIS! for through prairie and Many there were who made great haste and sold glen

There is blood!-there's the voice of blood!
It bids thee arouse, or the rust on their chain
Shall scar the fair necks of your daughters-a stain
Bleach'd alone by your hearts' hot flood;
Your sons low in manacles crouch at your feet
Where the prairie-fowl starts at the young lamb-
kins' bleat,

In the fields where your free dwellings stood.

Unto the cunning enemy their swords;

He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,
And, underneath their soft and flowery words,
Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went
And humbly joined him to the weaker part,
Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content

So he could be the nearer to God's heart,
And feel its solemn pulses sending blood
Through all the wide spread veins of endless good.

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And what, but more than slaves, are they,
Who're told they ne'er shall be denied
The right of prayer; yet, when they pray,
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside?
Such mockery they will tamely bear,
Who're fit an iron chain to wear.

The ox, that treadeth out the corn, Thou shalt not muzzle.'_Thus saith God. And will ye muzzle the free-born,

The man, the owner of the sod,Who gives the grazing ox his meat,' And you,-his servants here,-your seat?

There's a cloud, blackening up the sky! East, west, and north its curtain spreads; Lift to its muttering folds your eye!

Beware! for, bursting on your heads, It hath a force to bear you down;'Tis an insulted people's frown.

Ye may have heard of the Soultán,
And how his Janissaries fell!
Their barracks, near the Atmeidán,

He barred, and fired;-and their death-yell
Went to the stars, and their blood ran,
In brooks, across the Atmeidán.

The despot spake; and, in one night, The deed was done. He wields, alone, The sceptre of the Ottomite,

And brooks no brother near his throne. Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, Goes round his mightiest subject's neck;

Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop,I've seen him, in his palace-yard,— To take petitions from a troop

Of women, who, behind his guard, Come up, their several suits to press, To state their wrongs, and ask redress.

And these, into his house of prayer,

I've seen him take; and, as he spreads

His own before his Maker there,

These women's prayers he hears or reads ;

For, while he wears the diadem,
He is instead of God to them.

And this he must do. He may grant,
Or may deny; but hear he must.
Were his Seven Towers all adamant,

They'd soon be levelled with the dust, And public feeling' make short work,Should he not hear them,-with the Turk.

Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread
Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell!
These shall not fall upon your head,

As once upon your house they fell.
We have a weapon, firmer set,
And better than the bayonet;-

A weapen that comes down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will

As lightning does the will of God; And from its force, nor doors nor locks Can shield you;-'tis the ballot-box.

Black as your deed shall be the balls

That from that box shall pour like hail! And when the storm upon you falls,

How will your craven cheeks turn pale! For, at its coming though ye laugh, 'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.

Not women, now,-the people pray.

Hear us, or from us ye will hear! Beware!-a desperate game ye play!

The men that thicken in your rear,―

Kings though ye be,-may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake!-YE'RE WARNED.

1837.

THE TOCSIN.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

If the pulpit be silent, whenever or wherever there may be a sinner, bloody with this guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust.'-D. WEBSTER. Wake! children of the men who said,

All are born free!'-Their spirits come
Back to the places where they bled

In Freedom's holy martyrdom,
And find you sleeping on their graves,
And hugging there your chains,-ye slaves!
Ay,—slaves of slaves! What, sleep ye yet,
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep?
Ay,-dream, while Slavery's foot is set
So firmly on your necks,-while deep
The chain, her quivering flesh endures,
Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours?
Hah! say ye that I've falsely spoken,

Calling you slaves?-Then prove ye're not;
Work a free press !-ye'll see it broken ;*
Stand to defend it !-ye'll be shot.-t
O yes! but people should not dare
Print what the brotherhood' won't bear !
Then from your lips let words of grace,
Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages,
Fall, while ye're pleading for a race

Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages;
And pray, Lord, let thy kingdom come!'
And see if ye're not stricken dumb.

Yes, men of God! ye may not speak,

As, by the Word of God, ye're bidden;
By the pressed lip,-the blanching cheek,
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden;
And, if ye're not cast out, ye fear it;-
And why? The brethren' will not hear it.

Since, then, through pulpit, or through press,

To prove your freedom ye're not able,
Go,-like the Sun of Righteousness,
By wise men honored,-to a stable!
Bend there to Liberty your knee!
Say there that God made all men free!

*Bear witness, heights of Alton!

+ Bear witness, bones of Lovejoy!

Bear witness, Grounds of Complaint preferred against the Rev. John Pierpont, by a Committtee of the Parish, called "The Proprietors of Hollis street Meeting house," to be submitted to an Ecclesiastical Council, as Reasons for dissolving his Connexion with said Parish, July 27th, 1840: one of which runs thus: Because of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of prohibiting the sale of ardent spirits;-of his too busy interference with questions of legislation on the subject of imprisonment for debt;-of his too busy interference with the popular controversy on the subject of the abolition of slavery.' And this, in the eighteen hundred and fortieth year of Him whom the Lord sent to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound!'

Even there,-ere Freedom's vows ye've plighted,
Ere of her form ye've caught a glimpse,
Even there are fires infernal lighted,

And ye're driven out by Slavery's imps.*
Ah, well!—so persecuted they
The prophets' of a former day!
Go, then, and build yourselves a hall,
To prove ye are not slaves, but men!
Write FREEDOM,' on its towering wall!
Baptize it in the name of PENN;
And give it to her holy cause,
Beneath the Ægis of her laws;-
Within let Freedom's anthem swell;-
And, while your hearts begin to throb,
And burn within you Hark! the yell,—

The torch,-the torrent of the MOB!--
They're Slavery's troops that round you sweep,
And leave your hall a smouldering heap!t
At Slavery's beck, the prayers ye urge

On your own servants, through the door
Of your own Senate,-that the scourge
May gash your brother's back no more,-
Are trampled underneath their feet,
While ye stand praying in the street!
At Slavery's beck, ye send your sonst
To hunt down Indian wives or maids,
Doomed to the lash!-Yes, and their bones,
Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades,
Where no friend goes to give them graves,
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves!
At Slavery's beck, the very hands

Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye're free,
Will break a truce, to seize the lands
Of Seminole or Cherokee!
Yes,-tear a flag, that Tartar hordes
Respect, and shield it with their swords!§

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* Bear witness, that large upper room,' the hay-loft over the stable of the Marlborough Hotel, standing upon the ground now covered by the Marlborough Chapel; the only temple in Boston, into which the friends of human liberty, that is, of the liberty of man as man, irrespective of color or caste, could gain admittance for the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, January 25th, 1837. Bear witness, too, that smaller room in Summer street, where a meeting was held the same day, by members of the same Society; where their only altar was an iron stove,--their only incense, the fumes of a quantity of cayenne pepper, that some of the 'imps' had sprinkled upon the hot stove-plates, to drive the friends of the freedom of all men out of that little asylum.

Bear witness, ye ruins of Pennsylvania Hall !'-a heap of ruins made by a Philadelphia mob, May 17th, 1838,--and allowed to remain a heap of ruins, as I was lately told in Philadelphia, from the fear, on the part of the city government, that, should the noble structure be reared again, and dedicated again to Liberty, the fiery tragedy of the 17th of May would be encored.

+ Bear witness, Florida war, from first to last. § Bear witness, ghost of the great-hearted, brokenhearted Osceola !

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