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No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
But wisely shut the ray
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart,
So shalt thou deftly raise
The market price of human flesh; and while
Grave reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest, While in that vile South Sodom, first and best, Thy poor disciples sell!
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels,
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
But our poor slave in vain
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes-
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand,
Oh, from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cellFrom the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell, And coffle's weary chain,—
Hoarse, horrible, and strong
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry,
HOW LONG-OH, GOD, HOW LONG!
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS.
OUR fellow-countrymen in chains!
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 hallowed grot,
The groan of breaking hearts is there-
What, ho!-our countrymen in chains!
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh! What! mothers from their children riven ! What! God's own image bought and sold! AMERICANS to market driven,
And bartered as the brute for gold!
Speak! shall their agony of prayer
Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong,
What! shall we send, with lavish breath,
Strikes for his freedom, or a grave?
Our light on all her altars burning?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall,
And Poland, gasping on her lance,
The impulse of our cheering call? And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye, Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? And toss his fettered arms on high,
And groan for Freedom's gift in vain?
Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave?
And bid his bondmen cast the chain,
From fettered soul and limb, aside?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free,
From "farthest Ind" to each blue crag
Go-let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line To spare the struggling SulioteWill not the scorching answer come From turbaned Turk, and fiery Russ: "Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, Then turn, and ask the like of us!"
Just God! 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?
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
Scatter the living coals of Truth!
The shadow of our fame is growing! Up-while ye pause, our sun may set In blood, around our altars flowing!
Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth-
Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
Up now for Freedom!-not in strife
The awful waste of human life
The glory and the guilt of war: