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Shall thy line of battle falter,

With its allies just in view?
Oh, by hearth and holy altar,

My Father-land, be true!
Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom!

Speed them onward far and fast!
Over hill and valley speed them,

Like the Sybil's on the blast!

Lo! the Empire State is shaking

The shackles from her hand;' With the rugged North is waking

The level sunset land!
On they come — the free battalions!

East and West and North they come,
And the heart-beat of the millions

Is the beat of Freedom's drum.

"To the tyrant's plot no favor!

No heed to place-fed knaves! Bar and bolt the door forever

Against the land of Slaves!" Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it,

The Heavens above us spread! The land is roused — its spirit

Was sleeping, but not dead!


Wbittew on hearing that the Anti-Slavery Resolves of Stefhen C. Phillips had been rejected by the Whig Convention in Fanenil Hall, in 1846.

Lift again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield, Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree on our banner's tattered field,

Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board,

Answering England's royal missive with a firm, "Thus Saith The Lord!"

Rise again for home and freedom ! — set the battle in array! — What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day.

Tell us not of banks and tariffs — cease your paltry pedlar cries —

Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise?

Would ye barter man for cotton ?— That your gains may be the same,

Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the flame?

Is the dollar only real ?— God and truth and right a dream? Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam?

Oh, my God !— for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town

Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros down !—

For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry: "Up for God and Massachusetts ! — Set your feet on Mammon's lie!

Perish banks and perish traffic — spin your cotton's latest pound — But in Heaven's name keep your honor — keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!"

Where's the Man for Massachusetts ?— Where's the voice to

speak her free ?— Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to

the sea?

Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer ? — Sits she dumb in her despair ? —

Has she none to break the silence? — Has she none to do and dare?

Oh my God! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted shield, And to plant again the Pine Tree in her banner's tattered field! LINES,


With a cold and wintry noon-light,

On its roofs and steeples shed,
Shadows weaving with the sun-light

From the grey sky overhead,
Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread.

Through this broad street, restless ever,

Ebbs and flows a human tide, Wave on wave a living river; Wealth and fashion side by side; Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

Underneath yon dome, whose coping Springs above them, vast and tall, Grave men in the dust are groping For the largess, base and small, Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its table fall.

Base of heart! They vilely barter
Honor's wealth for party's place:
Step by step on Freedom's charter
Leaving footprints of disgrace;
For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their

Yet, where festal lamps are' throwing
Glory round the dancer's hair,

Gold-tressed, like an angel's flowing Backward on the sunset air; And the low quick pulse of music beats its measures sweet and rare:

There to-night shall woman's glances,

Star-like, welcome give to them, Fawning fools with shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn.

From this glittering lie my vision

Takes a broader, sadder range,
Full before me have arisen

Other pictures dark and strange;
From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change.

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging

On its hinges, harsh and slow;
One pale prison lamp is flinging

On a fearful group below
Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show.

Pitying God ! — Is that a Woman
On whose wrist the shackles clash?

Is that shriek she utters human,
Underneath the stinging lash?
Are they Men whose eyes of madness from that sad procession

Still goes gaily onward!

What is it to Wealth and Pride? That without the stars are looking On a scene which earth should hide? That the Slave-shif lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition
Which, upon a rival's fall,

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