 | Voices of freedom |  |
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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.
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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,
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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?
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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!
| Voices of freedom | |