 | Voices of freedom |  |
34
TO GOV. M'DUFFIE.
“The patriarchal institution of slavery,”—“the corner-stone of our republican edifice.”—
Gov. M'Duffie.
King of Carolina—hail!
Last champion of Oppression's battle!
Lord of rice-tierce and cotton-bale!
Of sugar-box and human cattle!
Around thy temples, green and dark,
Thy own tobacco-wreath reposes;
Thyself, a brother Patriarch
Of Isaac, Abraham, and Moses!
Last champion of Oppression's battle!
Lord of rice-tierce and cotton-bale!
Of sugar-box and human cattle!
Around thy temples, green and dark,
Thy own tobacco-wreath reposes;
Thyself, a brother Patriarch
Of Isaac, Abraham, and Moses!
Why not?—Their household rule is thine;
Like theirs, thy bondmen feel its rigor;
And thine, perchance, as concubine,
Some swarthy counterpart of Hagar.
Why not?—Like patriarchs of old,
The priesthood is thy chosen station;
Like them thou payest thy rites to gold—
An Aaron's calf of Nullification.
Like theirs, thy bondmen feel its rigor;
And thine, perchance, as concubine,
Some swarthy counterpart of Hagar.
Why not?—Like patriarchs of old,
The priesthood is thy chosen station;
Like them thou payest thy rites to gold—
An Aaron's calf of Nullification.
All fair and softly!—Must we, then,
From Ruin's open jaws to save us,
Upon our own free working men
Confer a master's special favors?
Whips for the back—chains for the heels—
Hooks for the nostrils of Democracy,
Before it spurns as well as feels
The riding of the Aristocracy!
From Ruin's open jaws to save us,
Upon our own free working men
Confer a master's special favors?
Whips for the back—chains for the heels—
Hooks for the nostrils of Democracy,
35
The riding of the Aristocracy!
Ho!—fishermen of Marblehead!
Ho!—Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather
And wear the yoke in kindness made,
And clank your needful chains together!
Let Lowell mills their thousands yield,
Down let the rough Vermonter hasten,
Down from the workshop and the field,
And thank us for each chain we fasten.
Ho!—Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather
And wear the yoke in kindness made,
And clank your needful chains together!
Let Lowell mills their thousands yield,
Down let the rough Vermonter hasten,
Down from the workshop and the field,
And thank us for each chain we fasten.
Slaves in the rugged Yankee land!
I tell thee, Carolinian, never!
Our rocky hills and iron strand
Are free, and shall be free for ever.
The surf shall wear that strand away,
Our granite hills in dust shall moulder,
Ere Slavery's hateful yoke shall lay,
Unbroken, on a Yankee's shoulder!
I tell thee, Carolinian, never!
Our rocky hills and iron strand
Are free, and shall be free for ever.
The surf shall wear that strand away,
Our granite hills in dust shall moulder,
Ere Slavery's hateful yoke shall lay,
Unbroken, on a Yankee's shoulder!
No, George M'Duffie!—keep thy words
For the mail plunderers of thy city,
Whose robber-right is in their swords;
For recreant Priest and Lynch-Committee!
Go, point thee to thy cannon's mouth,
And swear its brazen lips are better,
To guard “the interests of the South,”
Than parchment scroll, or Charter's letter.
For the mail plunderers of thy city,
Whose robber-right is in their swords;
For recreant Priest and Lynch-Committee!
Go, point thee to thy cannon's mouth,
And swear its brazen lips are better,
To guard “the interests of the South,”
Than parchment scroll, or Charter's letter.
36
We fear not. Streams which brawl most loud
Along their course, are oftenest shallow;
And loudest to a doubting crowd
The coward publishes his valor.
Thy courage has at least been shown
In many a bloodless Southern quarrel,
Facing, with hartshorn and cologne,
The Georgian's harmless pistol-barrel.
Along their course, are oftenest shallow;
And loudest to a doubting crowd
The coward publishes his valor.
Thy courage has at least been shown
In many a bloodless Southern quarrel,
Facing, with hartshorn and cologne,
The Georgian's harmless pistol-barrel.
No, Southron! not in Yankee land
Will threats, like thine, a fear awaken:
The men, who on their charter stand
For truth and right, may not be shaken.
Still shall that truth assail thine ear;
Each breeze, from Northern mountains blowing.
The tones of Liberty shall bear—
God's “free incendiaries” going!
Will threats, like thine, a fear awaken:
The men, who on their charter stand
For truth and right, may not be shaken.
Still shall that truth assail thine ear;
Each breeze, from Northern mountains blowing.
The tones of Liberty shall bear—
God's “free incendiaries” going!
We give thee joy!—thy name is heard
With reverence on the Neva's borders;
And “turban'd Turk,” and Poland's lord,
And Metternich, are thy applauders.
Go—if thou lov'st such fame, and share
The mad Ephesian's base example—
The holy bonds of Union tear,
And clap the torch to Freedom's temple!
With reverence on the Neva's borders;
And “turban'd Turk,” and Poland's lord,
And Metternich, are thy applauders.
Go—if thou lov'st such fame, and share
The mad Ephesian's base example—
The holy bonds of Union tear,
And clap the torch to Freedom's temple!
37
Do this—Heaven's frown, thy country's curse,
Guilt's fiery torture ever burning—
The quenchless thirst of Tantalus,
And Ixion's wheel for ever turning—
A name, for which “the pain'dest fiend
Below,” his own would barter never,—
These shall be thine unto the end—
Thy damning heritage for ever!
Guilt's fiery torture ever burning—
The quenchless thirst of Tantalus,
And Ixion's wheel for ever turning—
A name, for which “the pain'dest fiend
Below,” his own would barter never,—
These shall be thine unto the end—
Thy damning heritage for ever!
Most of our readers will recollect the “chivalrous” affair between M'Duffie and Col. Cummings, of Georgia, some years ago, in which the parties fortified themselves with spirits of hartshorn and eau de Cologne.
53
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.
“To agitate the question (Slavery) anew, is not only impolitic, but it is a virtual breach of good faith to our brethren of the South; an unwarrantable interference with their domestic relations and institutions.” “I can never, in the official station which I occupy, consent to countenance a course which may jeopard the peace and harmony of the Union.”—
Gov. Porter's Inaugural Message.
No “countenance” of his, forsooth!
Who asked it at his vassal hands?
Who looked for homage done to truth,
By Party's vile and hateful bands?
Who dreamed that one by them caressed,
Would lay for her his spear in rest?
Who asked it at his vassal hands?
Who looked for homage done to truth,
By Party's vile and hateful bands?
Who dreamed that one by them caressed,
Would lay for her his spear in rest?
His “countenance!” Well, let it light
The human robber to his spoil!—
Let those who track the bondman's flight,
Like bloodhounds, o'er our once free soil,
Bask in its sunshine while they may,
And howl its praises on their way;
The human robber to his spoil!—
Let those who track the bondman's flight,
Like bloodhounds, o'er our once free soil,
Bask in its sunshine while they may,
And howl its praises on their way;
We ask no boon: our RIGHTS we claim—
Free press and thought—free tongue and pen,—
The right to speak in Freedom's name,
As Pennsylvanians and as men;
To do, by Lynch law unforbid,
What our own Rush and Franklin did.
Free press and thought—free tongue and pen,—
The right to speak in Freedom's name,
As Pennsylvanians and as men;
To do, by Lynch law unforbid,
What our own Rush and Franklin did.
54
Of human skulls that shrine was made,
Round which the priests of Mexico
Before their loathsome idol pray'd—
Is Freedom's altar fashion'd so?
And must we yield to Freedom's God,
As offering meet, the negro's blood?
Round which the priests of Mexico
Before their loathsome idol pray'd—
Is Freedom's altar fashion'd so?
And must we yield to Freedom's God,
As offering meet, the negro's blood?
Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought
Which well might shame extremest Hell?
Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?
Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?
Small Honor bleed?—Shall Truth succumb?
Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?
Which well might shame extremest Hell?
Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?
Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?
Small Honor bleed?—Shall Truth succumb?
Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?
No—by each spot of haunted ground,
Where Freedom weeps her children's fall—
By Plymouth's rock—and Bunker's mound—
By Griswold's stain'd and shatter'd wall—
By Warren's ghost—by Langdon's shade—
By all the memories of our dead!
Where Freedom weeps her children's fall—
By Plymouth's rock—and Bunker's mound—
By Griswold's stain'd and shatter'd wall—
By Warren's ghost—by Langdon's shade—
By all the memories of our dead!
By their enlarging souls, which burst
The bands and fetters round them set—
By the FREE Pilgrim SPIRIT nursed
Within our inmost bosoms, yet,—
By all above—around—below—
Be ours th' indignant answer—NO!
The bands and fetters round them set—
By the FREE Pilgrim SPIRIT nursed
Within our inmost bosoms, yet,—
By all above—around—below—
Be ours th' indignant answer—NO!
No—guided by our country's laws,
For truth, and right, and suffering man,
Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause,
As Christians may—as freemen can!
Still pouring on unwilling ears
That truth oppression only fears.
For truth, and right, and suffering man,
55
As Christians may—as freemen can!
Still pouring on unwilling ears
That truth oppression only fears.
What! shall we guard our neighbor still,
While woman shrieks beneath his rod,
And while he tramples down at will
The image of a common God!
Shall watch and ward be round him set,
Of Northern nerve and bayonet?
While woman shrieks beneath his rod,
And while he tramples down at will
The image of a common God!
Shall watch and ward be round him set,
Of Northern nerve and bayonet?
And shall we know and share with him
The danger and the open shame?
And see our Freedom's light grow dim,
Which should have fill'd the world with flame?
And, writhing, feel where'er we turn,
A world's reproach around us burn?
The danger and the open shame?
And see our Freedom's light grow dim,
Which should have fill'd the world with flame?
And, writhing, feel where'er we turn,
A world's reproach around us burn?
Is't not enough that this is borne?
And asks our haughty neighbor more?
Must fetters which his slaves have worn,
Clank round the Yankee farmer's door?
Must he be told, beside his plough,
What he must speak, and when, and how?
And asks our haughty neighbor more?
Must fetters which his slaves have worn,
Clank round the Yankee farmer's door?
Must he be told, beside his plough,
What he must speak, and when, and how?
Must he be told his freedom stands
On Slavery's dark foundations strong—
On breaking hearts and fetter'd hands,
On robbery, and crime, and wrong?
That all his fathers taught is vain—
That Freedom's emblem is the chain?
On Slavery's dark foundations strong—
On breaking hearts and fetter'd hands,
On robbery, and crime, and wrong?
That all his fathers taught is vain—
That Freedom's emblem is the chain?
56
Its life—its soul, from slavery drawn?
False—foul—profane! Go—teach as well
Of holy Truth from Falsehood born!
Of Heaven refresh'd by airs from Hell!
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice!
Of Demons planting Paradise!
False—foul—profane! Go—teach as well
Of holy Truth from Falsehood born!
Of Heaven refresh'd by airs from Hell!
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice!
Of Demons planting Paradise!
Rail on, then, “brethren of the South”—
Ye shall not hear the truth the less—
No seal is on the Yankee's mouth,
No fetter on the Yankee's press!
From our Green Mountains to the Sea,
One voice shall thunder—WE ARE FREE!
Ye shall not hear the truth the less—
No seal is on the Yankee's mouth,
No fetter on the Yankee's press!
From our Green Mountains to the Sea,
One voice shall thunder—WE ARE FREE!
119
TO JAMES G. BIRNEY,
ON HIS VISIT TO NEW ENGLAND IN 1845.
Friend of the Slave, whose trust in thee
Is told in many a midnight prayer—
To whom with tears of joy the free
The blessing of the ransomed bear!
Our free winds blow, our free waves foam
On Plymouth rock, round Faneuil Hall;
Thy welcome to our hearts and home,
Oh! Freedom's friend, is heard from all.
Is told in many a midnight prayer—
To whom with tears of joy the free
The blessing of the ransomed bear!
Our free winds blow, our free waves foam
On Plymouth rock, round Faneuil Hall;
Thy welcome to our hearts and home,
Oh! Freedom's friend, is heard from all.
For well should honest Nature own,
With all her tongues, the worshipper,
Who bends at Freedom's shrine, alone
With poverty and truth and her—
Reviving in a venal time
Once more the old heroic thought,
And startling faithless Cant and Crime
With miracles of goodness wrought.
With all her tongues, the worshipper,
Who bends at Freedom's shrine, alone
With poverty and truth and her—
Reviving in a venal time
Once more the old heroic thought,
And startling faithless Cant and Crime
With miracles of goodness wrought.
We hail thee on our Eastern strand,
Brave tiller of the Western soil!
And clasp with pride the generous hand
Grown hard and brown with honest toil.
'Tis something in our selfish day,
To feel that man once more can break
From Mammon's lure and Party's sway,
And dare be poor for conscience sake!
Brave tiller of the Western soil!
And clasp with pride the generous hand
Grown hard and brown with honest toil.
120
To feel that man once more can break
From Mammon's lure and Party's sway,
And dare be poor for conscience sake!
Then, in thy stainless honor, come,
Mild pleader for the trampled slave!
We call thee from thy woodland home,
By Huron's dim and distant wave,
In Freedom's holy strife to share—
For, never yet since Time began,
Could coward Wrong and Falsehood bear
The presence of an upright man!
Mild pleader for the trampled slave!
We call thee from thy woodland home,
By Huron's dim and distant wave,
In Freedom's holy strife to share—
For, never yet since Time began,
Could coward Wrong and Falsehood bear
The presence of an upright man!
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