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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 de

spair ? 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,


MONTH OF 1845.

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


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 I — 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

flash ?

Still the dance 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-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition

Which, upon a rival's fall,

Winds above its old condition,

With a reptile's slimy crawl, Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish


Vainly to the child of Fashion,

Giving to ideal woe
Graceful luxury of compassion,

Shall the stricken mourner go;
Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the hollow show !

Nay, my words are all too sweeping :

In this crowded human mart,
Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ;

Man's strong will and woman's heart,
In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous


And from yonder sunny vallies,

Southward in the distance lost,
Freedom yet shall summon allies

Worthier than the North can boast,
With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost.

Now, the soul alone is willing :

Faint the heart and weak the knee ;
And as yet no lip is thrilling

With the mighty words “ BE FREE !”
Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be!

Meanwhile, turning from the revel

To the prison-cell my sight,
For intenser hate of evil,

For a keener sense of right,
Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night!

“To thy duty now and ever!

Dream no more of rest or stay ;
Give to Freedom's great endeavor

All thou art and bast to-day :” —
Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice or seems to say.

Ye with heart and vision gifted

To discern and love the right,
Whose worn faces have been lifted

To the slowly-growing light,
Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of


Ye who through long years of trial

Still have held your purpose fast,
While a lengthening shade the dial

From the westering sunshine cast,
And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last !-

Oh, my brothers ! oh, my sisters !

Would to God that ye were near,
Gazing with me down the vistas

Of a sorrow strange and drear ;
Would to God that ye were listening to the Voice I seem to

hear !

With the storm above us driving,

With the false earth mined below —
Who shall marvel if thus striving

We have counted friend as foe ;
Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for blow.

Well it may be that our natures

Have grown sterner and more hard,
And the freshness of their features

Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred,
And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely jarred.

Be it so. It should not swerve us

From a purpose true and brave ;
Dearer Freedom's rugged service

Than the pastime of the slave ;
Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the grave.

Let us then, uniting, bury

All our idle feuds in dust,

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