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As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back
from Syrian wars The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scime
tars, The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson
span, So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of
God and man !
He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's
grave, Thou for his living presence in the bound and
bleeding slave; He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of
For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er
From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of
slavery wrung, And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God
deserted shrine, Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the
bondman's blood for wine
While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour
knelt, And spurned, the while, the temple where a pres
ent Saviour dwelt; Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison
shadows dim, And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto
In thy lone and long night watches, sky above and
wave below, Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the pabu
bling school-men know;
God's stars and silence taught thee, as his angels
only can, That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope
of heaven, is Man !
That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law
and creed, In the depth of God's great goodness may find
mercy in his need; But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain
and rod, And herds with lower natures the awful form of
Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman
of the wave! Its branded palm shall prophesy, “ SALVATION TO
THE SLAVE!” Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso
reads may feel His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change
Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our
Northern airHo! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God
look there! Take it henceforth for your standard—like the
Bruce's heart of yore, In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand
be seen before !
And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at
When it points its finger Southward along the
Puritan line: Woe to the State-gorged leeches, and the Church's
locust band, When they look from slavery's ramparts on the
coming of that hand !
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND.
Up the hill-side, down the glen,
It is coming—it is nigh!
your homes and altars by;
sires Fling to heaven your signal fires. From Wachuset, lone and bleak, Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, Let the flame-tongued heralds speak O! for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old graves of the land. Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow!
Freedom's soil hath only place
Perish party-perish clan;
Like that angel's voice sublime,
“What though Issachar be strong! Ye may load his back with wrong Overmuch and over long:
Patience with her cup o'errun,
Make our Union-bond a chain,
Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope
Give us bright though broken rays,
Take your land of sun and bloom;
Work the ruin, if ye will ;
And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the lost on Paradise !
We but ask our rocky strand,