University of Virginia Library

PART II.

To Liberty.

Sweet Liberty! to thee
Let all the nations bend;
Thou art the comfort of the free,
Their true unwavering friend!
Thou sweet ministering angel
Of light, and peace;
Political evangel!
Thy ranks increase.
Where'er thou dost dwell,
I would wont to be;
To thee my tale to tell,
I'll fly, sweet Liberty!
Oh, to thee, and thine,
I bend a suppliant knee;
At thy refulgent shrine,
Sweet Liberty to thee!
Thou crystal fount of life,
That sweetens poverty;
To thee from toil and strife,
I'll fly, sweet Liberty!

The Patriot's Lament.

Oh, weep for Columbia! oh, weep for the time!
When slavery dark, and degrading crime,
First poluted thy shores, oh glorious nation!
In spite of thy great, and thy true declaration,
Which proclaims that all men are both equal and free,
Whether rich and exalted, or humble they be,
And this is endowed by the mighty creator—
The King of the world, and the great legislator.
Bewildered Columbia! I weep for thy fate,
For the years thou hast borne thy inglorious weight;
But the cloud of thy burden is passing away,
'Fore Appollo refulgent, the bright star of day.
Shall Maryland, where the brave Donaldson fell,
Be cursed by this foul scourge of hell?
Shall the land of our Washington, the glorious, and brave,
Be disgraced by the fettered feet of the slave?
Shall Carolina, the birth place of New Orleans' hero,
Stern Jackson the sage, the American Nero,
Be a land for despots, and tyrants to meet,
And be trod by bondmen's inglorious feet?
Shall Georgia, where brave Green our rights did maintain,
Bear the disgrace, the niggardly stain,
Of a cruel, and treacherous barbarous knavery.
Of a base, and a brutal, and degraded slavery?
Shall men, women and children, by freemen be bought,
In Louisiana, where the brave Jackson fought,
In market under auctioneer's hammers be sold
For ungrateful tyrant's ill-gotten gold?
Columbia, awake! from thy lethargic sleep,
No more let thy desolate children weep!
No more let cruel tyrants angry eyes flash!
Whilst human flesh quake under the torturing lash.
No more let female shrieks impart!
Anguishing arrows to the christian heart;
No more tare asunder the husband and wife!
Who have vowed to each other as long as lasts life.
No more from fond parents their children separate!
Entirely ignorant of each others fate;
No more let freemen for slavery's curse moan!
But throw off the yoke, and as christians atone.
Then I'll hail the Columbia, the happy and free!
“The home of the brave,” and pray so let it be;
Wipe out the deep blot of thy foul degradation!
And prove to the world that thou art a free nation.
Then no more wilt thou be the foot-stool of the slave,
But the “land of the free and the home of the brave!”
Thy genius commands thee to wipe out the stain,
And forever the glorious, and happy to reign.

A Prayer for the Slave.

Oh, may the slave, who daily groans
Beneath oppressions iron rod
Who daily feels the lash, and moans,
Have freedom blessed of God.
Angels of the celestial band,
Come visit earth in trains,
And loose the fetters of the hand!
Which bears oppression's chains.
Proclaim that all men shall be free,—
Nor freedom's blessings lack,
No matter of what clime they be,
Nor whether white or black.
Waft the glad tidings o'er the land,
Through the loud trumpet's mouth;
Liberty to the fettered band,
From north to farthest south.

The Fugitive.

Behold great nature's noble man!
The self-emancipated free,
Who for his right, sweet liberty,
Life's risks most freely ran.
From slavery's shackles thou'rt free,
Fond nature doth in thee rejoice;
Hark! hear the sound of freedom's voice
Triumphant hailing thee.
Thou wil'st thy brother man no wrong,
But thankful to the God of might,
Rejoicing in thine own birth-right,
Soundest bold freedom's gong.
Wake up ye mouutains, far and wide,
Ye verdant valleys cheerily ring!
Tremble slavery! thou tyrant King!
Roll onward, freedom's tide!
Where Bunkerhill's proud summit rears
Its lofty monumented head,
Where freedom's martyrs fought and bled,
The hallowed shout who hears?
With slavery's shackles on his feet,
Who shrinks beneath th' accursed lash,
The galling knout, the bleeding gash,
Who bows his fate to meet?
None. Freedom's consecrated land,
Thy founders sought the bold and free,
Oh, may their sons forever be!
True to that pilgrim band.
Thy spirit, like the ocean free!
All boundless in its onward march,
O'er earth, neath heaven's broad blue arch,
Thy empires spread shall be!
Go bid the southern tyrant cease
To exercise unhallowded power!
To let his fellow man in peace
Depart, and from the very hour,
Enjoy the right of self-control,
The aspiration of the soul!
And rise to freedom's lofty tower.
See, on thy glorious banner set
Proud freedom's emblem on the wing!
Where Justice, Freedom, Peace, have met,
Unto the skies their peans sing.
To nature none more firm and true
Than he who rises in his might,
Rejoicing in his birth anew,
Reclaims his native heaven born right.
The shackles from his limbs unbound,
Dispelled the gloom that clouded mind,—
On earth none nobler can be found,
Than this the noblest of mankind.

Progress

Old earth progresses as she rolls
Though nations retrogade,
From burning tropics to the poles,
Through sunshine and through shade.
Though nations rise, expand and fall,
And human hopes near crush;
Yet man sees brighter skies through all—
Moves onward with a rush.
Though Egypt, Carthage, Greece and Rome,
Lie crumbled in the dust,
Deep down in the sepulchral home,
Where others surely must;
Yet commerce, letters, science, arts,
The products of the field,
From year to year perform their parts,
And smiles of comfort yield.
What tho' the panderer of to-day,
To passons low and vile,
Corrupt, and profligate, may sway,
His sceptre, yet awhile;
Yet men with hearts both true and bold,
With minds both strong and clear,
Unawed by power, unbought by gold,
The bark of progress steer.

Worth—not Rank.

Why do the idle, and the gay,
Dressed in fine purple every day,
Possess all title to the soil,
In lieu of those who delve and toil?
Does pomp and pride, and haughteur, give
The bread by which the millions live?
Will titles high, ancestral name,
Add lustre to a nations fame?
Or is it ideas free and bold,
That form a nation's real gold?
The yeoman toiling in the field,
Which year by year its products yield;
The worker with his hammer-hand,
Emblems by which all arts do stand;
The artist with his magic skill,
Which beauty fashions at its will;
Do more to make a nation great,
Than titles brown with musty date.
True worth knows neither rank nor clime,
It leaps around the world sublime.

A Christian Prayer.

Great Father of Celestial sphere!
Grant to thine humble worm this prayer:
A heart to feel another's woes,
A spirit to forgive my foes,
A hand to help another's need,
A tongue to give to worth its meed,
A head to think both calm and clear,
A soul nought but its god to fear,
A foot to serve a brother's end,
A bosom ne'er to betray a friend,
A judgment reach beyond the day,
A hope which cleareth clouds away,
A faith in Him who reigns above,
A charity that worketh love,
A wisdom that the right shall know,
A will in virtue's path to go,
A meekness to God's high behests,
A place where heavenly spirits rests.

Freedom's Champions.

All honor to the illustrious dead,
Who toiled in freedom's sacred cause;
The glorious chieftains brave, who led
Chivalrous hearts in all its wars,
First noble Sharpe the banner rears,
And waves aloft for Afric's rights,
His soul bows to no coward fears,
While in the cause of man he fights.
And thou, great Clarkson, who did rise
In freedom's ranks with might and mind,
Unmasked the scenes to Britton's eyes;
The bruised, the maimed, the halt, the blind,
The sighs, the groans, the sobs, the shrieks,
Of babes and mothers reft apart,
The the tears that rolled down manly cheeks,
Of inward grief which breaks the heart.
And these in England's proud domain,
Beneath her sovereign's sceptre's sway,
She who when dared the haughty Dane
Whom lust of power had lead stray,
To think that on her sea-girt land,
He'd plant his power in steel array;
She who with Alfred's patriot band.
Drove the invader far away.
Could she remain deaf to the note,
Cold unrelenting to the crimes,
Which in each eastward breeze that float,
Grate on her ear from India's climes?
Her Wilberforce in silence bound,
Her Fox, O'Connell, Chatham, Burke,
In Parliament, while all around
The Bondman's groans and sighs did lurk.
Could freedom's champions, thus like stone,
All wrapped in silence coldly stand,
Pour forth no sound that shake the throne,
Reverberating through the land?
For Afric's bleeding sons who toil
Beneath the sun from day to day,
Far o'er the waves on British soil,
With gyves and chains, and stripes for pay.
No—true to freedom they did raise,
Their voices bold, in lofty strains,
Till British hearts warmed with the blaze,
Struck from his limbs the bondman's chains.
Eight hundred thousand freemen stout,
As if by magic of a wand,
From chattled slaves beneath the knout,
Erect in manly stature stand.
And shall old England loud proclaim
To all around that thou art free,
While sons whose fathers, in the name
Of God, fought hard for liberty?
Shall offspring of that pilgrim band,
Who pledged their lives, their fortunes too,
Their sacred honor they would stand
In freedom's cause forever true,
Prove false to every solemn vow,
Their fathers offered on the shrine
Of liberty? Their sacred trow
Be trampled on like pearls by swine?
Shall slaves breathe in the sacred land,
Where Bunkerhill's proud martyrs stood,
To meet oppressions hired band,
And sealed their freedom with their blood?
The memory of the noble men,
Who stood on Flatbush's bloody plains,
Led on by Putnam, Sullivan.
Dishonored be by slavery's chains,
And Trenton, too, where Washington
Led on oppression's deadliest foes,
The gory fields of old Princeton,
Be cursed by slavery's crying woes.
Old Germantown, in the land of Penn,
Augment the mother's parting cry,
Where fell one thousand patriot men,
And where their sacred ashes lie.
In Camden, Cowpens, and Eutaw,
Where southmen, freedom's battles fought,
Shall wrong be sanctioned by the law,
And men and women there be bought?
Shall Yorktown's glorious battle ground,
Where freedom triumphed in the strife,
Be cursed by cries of those who're bound,
Of husband parted from the wife?
The glorious spirit which led on
Our fathers in the fierce contest,
In valley deep, hill top upon,
Is slumbering from east to west.
Freedom shall triumph! God will save
His people from oppression's yoke,
And by his power the bleeding slave,
Shall see his chains and fetters broke.
Then will our noble country be,
Land of the free—home of the brave;
When monarchs far beyond the sea,
Dare not upbraid us with the slave.
Sons of the pilgrims, oh, prove true
To fathers' deeds and memory;
Devote and pledge yourselves anew,
To human rights and liberty!

The Fugitive and the Christian.

The clouds hung dark and heavy
Above the western wave,
When careworn, cold and weary,
A poor and wretched slave
His lone and rugged pathway
With trembling footsteps trod;
Tho' earth caught not a sunray,
His hope was in his God.
Where proud Ohio's wasters
Rush boldly to the west,
Where slavery's sons and daughters
Had oft before found rest,
He reached a stately dwelling,
A family knelt at prayer,
His feet all chafed and swelling,
He sought a refuge there.
“O, pity,” said the stranger,
One whose misfortunes great,
Whom hardship, toil and danger
Have driven to your gate.
Allay my gnawing hunger—
I long to have repose;
Delay, I pray, no longer—
O, feel a brother's woes!”
“My country's laws forbid me
To give thee house or bread,
Or cruely they rid me
Of shelter to my head;
My wife and children tender
Would poor and friendless roam,
If I should succor render,
Without a house or home.”
“Hath not our heavenly brother,
To whom we bend the knee,
Said ‘love thee one another,
E'en as I have loved thee.’
If shelter. bread or raiment
Thy brother find with thee,
My Father'll make thee payment—
Thou give'st it unto me.”
The earnest christian listened;
No longer could withstand—
His eyes with tear drops glistened,
He clasped the wanderers hand:
“Tho' wicked men conspire,
With pains and sword, and lead,
There is a ‘law still higher,’
Which bids me give thee bread.”

Injustice—not Law.

Ye hypocrites! whose fathers scorned
To bear the menace of a chain,
Stand forth unvarnished, unadorned,
Your boasted love of right is vain.
When George the Fourth, by legal right,
O'erran your land with martial band,
Ye dared to meet them in the fight,
And scattered them like ropes of sand.
Your vaunted freedom we despise,
Whilst trampling on our injured race—
A sepulchre of whited lies,
We throw your parchment in your face.
“Our Father's compact;” how dare they
To barter off their brother men;
By what great charter tell us pray;
The manner given, how and when?
Methinks an edict, turning loose
Foul man-hunters, your babes the game,
Claiming obedience, ye would choose,
To trample on in heaven's name.
We hold that life, and liberty,
The right our fortune's to persue;
Ordained of God for you, and me,
No argument can make more true;
No sophistry can contravene,
No constitution take away,
No “father's compact” go between,
They are as plain as light of day.
Then how can we believe your true,
When freedom's champion's ye proclaim,
While millions of your bondmen sue
For freedom to your country's shame?
And ye abuse, proscribe and hate,
Your brother of a darker hue;—
Tho' raised above a slave's estate—
False friends of freedom, he scornes you.

This is A Fatherland to Me.

Oh! tell me not of fatherland
Far, far beyond the deep blue sea;
Of fruitful soil—of golden sand;
Of orange groves, and cocoa tree—
My mother breathed the inspiring air,
That sweeps along our craft-filled sea;
And here my father lisped his prayer;
This is a fatherland to me.
Oh! tell me not that God appoints,
The sable man Afric too free;
Whom he selects—whom he annoints
He'll make the path of duty see:
Oh! tell me not of power, and place,
Of wealth, of pomp, and luxury—
Of the improvement of my race,
When transplanted beyond the sea.
God ne'er but one race made to dwell,
Beneath the broad o'erarching sky;
There's but one heaven—but one hell,
And but one vast eternity;
And whereso'er he warms the soul
Into our mortal bodies,—there
Without intrusion or control,
We may abide if anywhere.

We have Parted.

We have parted dearest brother,
Perchance we ne'er shall meet again;
But we'll cherish with each other,
The bright links in memory's chain.
Dost remember, dearest brother,
When upon the sunny plain,
We so fondly played together—
How we'd scamper thro' the rain?
Dost remember when with father,
Thro' the grand old woods we'd roam;
Where we'd nuts, and berries gather,
And with ample stores come home?
Dost remember when with mother,
To the grey old church we'd go,
Where we'd kneel beside each other,
As good children ought to do?
And then our loved old school-house,
With its shutters bright, and green,
Shading us from glare of sunshine
Which came stealing in between;
And then our dear kind teacher,
Who's bright eyes would light with joy;
As he looked upon with pleasure,
Some bright, ambitious boy.
But those days have gone forever,
And our sterner duties call,
Us to the post of manhood,
Where we must stand or fall.
But we're parted, we are parted,
Perchance we ne'er shall meet again,
But I know you feel light hearted,
When you brighten memory's chain.
Then let's cherish—fondly cherish,
Those bright schoolboy days again,
When we gaily played together,
On the sunny southern plain.

A Wreath of Holly.

I long to spread my tiny wings,
And soar away on fancy bright;
Or stopping at Parnassus' springs,
Drink in his streams of liquid light.
I long—Oh pray forgive the folly—
Tho' sable hue bedeck my brow;
To wear like Burns, a wreath of holly:—
The inspired muse of Mossgiel's plow.
Or wildly at my touch, the Lyre
Its tones in vivid transport yield;
The crashing sound, the lightning fire
Of Afric's favor'd bard Whitfield.
Perchance my muse by perseverance,
Soul crushing bars, and doubts may brave:
And soar on eagle's wings like Terrance,
The chainless hearted Roman slave.
Not that I would be wafted light,
Upon the breath of transient fame;
But strong in cause of God and right,
Would win like them a deathless name.
May sing of wrongs by man inflicted,
On brothers of a common blood;
The crimes by pen ne'er half depicted,
Of children of one brotherhood.
Of war, of pillage, artful knavery,
And last and blackest of the train;
Thou foul man-scourge! soul crushing slavery,
Who feed on hearts, and feasts on brain.
Oh man! thou living marble statue;
What tho' thy brothers cast in bronze?
He's not disowned of loving nature;
God loves whom thou poor earthworm scorns.
Think ye that power, arts or treasure,
Can shield thee from impending wrath,
If ye invoke God's stern displeasure
By walking iniquity's path?
Oh hear ye not the direful warning,
Of freedom's poet, bold Whittier;
Of earthquakes underneath ye yawning?
‘Hear ye no warnings in the air’?
Or feel ye not the burning satire,—
When gazing on your pile of glory—
Which streams from Lowell's pen of fire,
And lives in his poetic story;
The mockery of cloud-capped spires,
To celebrate your sire's graves;
While smothering freedom's altar-fires,
Which burns in hearts of trampled slaves.
But freedom's morn is faintly dawning,
In love and peace; or as of yore,—
Oh list to Monticello's warning—
'Twill come if't must in floods of gore.

The Lower Law Triumph.

The Union is safe, there's glory in store,
For Lawrence, for Hall, and for gallant Fillmore.
Let the cannon loud speak, let the trumpet loud sound,
“The higher law” treason is brought to the ground.
Then huzza! fill your glasses with porter and perry;
A “Nigger's” convicted for rescuing Jerry.
Rest, rest on your laurels, lay off buckler and shield;
And repair to the patriot tomb of Marshfield.
Here's a health to our Marshalls, brave Allen and Fitch,
Who in gloriously running, fell flat in a ditch;
And if we drink deeply there's surely no harm,
For in saving the Union, he lostan odd arm.
Those higher law traitors Smith, Sedgwick & Co.,
Have by Horry Wheaton, this day been brought low.
A jury was found without conscience or reason,
A judge who hates “Nigger's” and higher law treason.
Then huzza for the land of the gallant, and free,
Widestretching o'er landscape, from sea unto sea;
Let the star spangled banner in triumph still wave,
'Till the crisis comes round our Union to save,

What we are, and what we might have Been.

Oh cast ye not that bitter glance,
Upon thy fallen brother,
But lay his sin to some mischance,
Some cruel fate or other,
Ye know not how that haughty mien,
That cold averted eye;
Chills the life-blood in every vein—
Hopes bouyant fountains dry.
If fortune smiles upon thy path,
And fills thy store with plenty;
Hurl not the venomed darts of wrath,
At those whose's fare is scanty.
Perchance had thou been Adam's bride,
Ensnared by her temptations;
Thou woudst like her have stepped aside,
And doomed to toil the nations;
Perchance with wealth and station blessed—
The poor outcast thy debtor—
With fortune, fame and friends caressed,
Had been proud man thy better.
Perchance if poverty, or want,
Of shelter, or of dinner,
Had stared before thee grim, and gaunt,
Thou'd been the greater sinner.
Then spare those words of stern rebuke
Thy brother's shattered feelings;
His faults and frailties o'erlook;
Turn not from his appealings.
And as thou dost his faults forgive,
Thine own shall be forgiven,
When thou art called to love and live,
Around the throne of heaven.

Spring.

Old winter has gone with his snow and his sleet,
With his cold, and his raw north wind;
But his cheerful hearths, leave their memory sweet,
On many a heart, and mind.
Young spring has come—bright rosy spring,
With her hope, and promise of corn;
And the sweet buds ope—while the little birds sing,
And chirp in the beamy morn.
Young hearts are glad—the grass blade peeps,
Amid declining snows;
And the swallow on light wings darts, and sweeps;
And the trees put forth their blows.
The ice-bound waters, gush with new life,
And lave the shore with their tide,
And the white-winged craft, with joy are rife,
As o'er its bosom it they glide.
And smiling May, her flowers lend,
To garnish hill, and vale;
And opening buds their perfume send,
Upon each passing gale.
All o'er the face of nature fair;
All animation smiles;
And all inhale the balmy air,
Wafted o'er sunny Isles.
Sweet spring has come, sweet blushing spring,
With fragrant buds, and flowers,
And the warbler's sing, most sweetly sing,
Amid her sunny bowers.

A Prayer.

'Tis not in temples Lord,
Built of clay, and by hands
Of clay; That I would worship.
No! Let the broad blue vaulted
Sky, pillar'd by the mountain
Peakes, my temple form;
And thine eternal truth,
Mine altar be.
'Tis not by narrow creeds,
Breathing damnation fierce,
And deep, would I be bound;
The expanded soul, scorns
To cramp within such
Ciscumscription—it takes
In the vast brotherhood
Of man, and links the tropics
With the frigid poles,
In love and peace.

The Noble Aim.

He was a youth of promise,
With ambition fired breast;
Marathon, nor Salamis,
Ne'er produced a prouder crest.
Up the rugged steeps of learning,
With a giant's steps he strode:
Keen, earnest, and discerning,
O'er all obstacles he rode.
He had tallents rare and varied,
With a broad and grasping mind
In his researches unwearied—
Loving all of human kind.
He could laugh and shout as loudly,
As his comrades on the plain;
He could set a steed as proudly,
And could hold as firm a rein;
He could hop and bound as agile,
And could bat as good a ball;
He could fashion toys as fragile,
As the first among them all;
He had hopes as high—ambition,
And he had as high an aim,
With a promise as propitious,
To be stamped with future fame.
But ah! his brow was sable,
And his features broad and bold;—
These far mightier to disable
Than the want of potent gold,
Bowed his noble, manly spirit,
To the verge of dark despair;—
He had won a nobler merit,
By his tallents bright and rare.
He was spurned, despised, and hated.
As a leper by his kind;
But their shafts tho' unabated,
Fell beneath his noble mind.
You may close the gates of power,
With a clangor in his face;—
You may throw a poisoned shower,
Of cold hatred on his race;
You may insult—may dishonor,
And deny to him a name;
But posterity will honor,
The youth of noble aim.

To Mrs. Harriet B. Stowe.

Thy magic pen a power wields,
More potent than the steel-clad hosts,
With glittering swords, and myriad shields;
Who guard around Oppression's posts.
Thou sawest thy brother, bruised, and bow'd,
Tho' clothed in Afric's hated hue;
Thou heard'st him groan, and cry aloud,
And to thy woman's heart proved true.
Unto his wrongs thou gav'st an ear;
Unto his wounds thou gav'st a tongue;
A list'ning world, came nigh to hear
Thee sing the burthen of his song.
The Britton heard it on the strand,
The Frank upon the Elysee,
The Arab on his Arid sand,
The Russ upon the Baltic sea,
The Greek upon his Island home,
The German at his classic lore;
'Twas heard along the streets of Rome,
And e'en on Afric's dusky shore,
In Birmah, China, and Japan,
Myriads thy magic power own;
And “'long the streets of Ispahan,”
Thy “Uncle Tom” and Cassy's known.
Truth, mighty is the falchion bright;
Which thou with mystic arm doth wield,
And her attendants love, and light
These are thy buckler and thy shield.

Temperance Songs.

[Hurrah for the temperance cause]

[Sots wha hae your glasses drank]

Sots wha hae your glasses drank,
Wha, ve to degradation sank,
Come and take the foremost rank,
In the temperance cause.
Now's the time, and now's the hour,
Break the bonds of alky's power;
Blessings will upon you shower,
Shun destruction's jaws.
By the love ye your children bear,
For your bosom friends most dear;
By all that's sacred far or near,
Break the bowl—be free!
Strike for friends, for home and all.
See the king's old cohorts fall,
Forward to your country's call,
On for liberty!
Wha's so base as would be a slave?
Wha'd be a rumseller—knave?
Wha would fill a drunkard's grave?
Let him ignobly die.
Wha for God and nature's law,
And to fill his scanty store,
Would shun drunk, dead drunk and clean straw,
Quick, from ruin fly.