Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States: Between the Years 1830-1838

Front matter

POEMS

WRITTEN DURING THE PROGRESS

OF THE

The Morning Dream

THE MORNING DREAM. BY COWPER.

'Twas in the glad season of spring, Asleep, at the dawn of the day, I dream'd what I cannot but sing, So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.

I dream'd that on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat, And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the steerage a woman I saw— Such at least was the form that she wore— Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before.

She sat, and a shield at her side Shed light like a sun on the waves, And smiling divinely, she cried, 'I go to make freemen of slaves.'—

Then raising her voice to a strain, The sweetest that ear ever heard, She sung of the slave's broken chain, Wherever her glory appeared.

Some clouds which had over us hung, Fled, chased by her melody clear; And methought, while she liberty sung, 'Twas liberty only to hear.

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stood, Oppression his terrible name.

In his hand, as a sign of his sway, A scourge hung with lashes he bore, And stood looking out for his prey, From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as approaching the land, That angel-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With the blood of his subjects imbru'd.

I saw him both sicken and die, And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking, how could I but muse At what such a dream should betide? But soon my ear caught the glad news, Which served my weak thought for a guide;

That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, For the hatred she ever has shown To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own.

1788.

Introductory Remarks

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.

The Editor has been inducted to collect the fugitive pieces which compose this little volume, by observing the care with which they have been sought for and preserved, long after the events which gave rise to them have passed. This gives him to know that they are not merely occasional poems, but true poetry;—the germs of great deeds, cast forth into 'the seed-field of opinion.'

The wish to bind them together is strengthened in the editor's mind by the knowledge that the author is himself but too careless of preserving their form, as long as their spirit is kindling up in the community.

Those who have read Mogg Megone will see in the same easy strength of versification; the same thrilling correspondence of sound to sense—the same electrifying estro joined to high and powerful conceptions of moral beauty and sublimity, which have become thus strong and exalted, because the writer 'lives as a life what he apprehends as a truth.'

It is to be regretted, as a loss to American Literature, that one so highly gifted as a poet should devote so little time to poetic labors. But he may derive satisfaction from the idea, that his labors for the honor of our nation, in a far nobler sense, will ultimately give freedom and life to her literature—now withering beneath the soul-enslaving censorship of a public, who exact of an author that he shall not unreservedly name the very name of Freedom.

Alas for eloquence, poetry and piety, when the orator, yielding his soul to the management of covetousness and oppressive ambition, is compelled to check the indignant burst of soul with which, in his childhood and youth, he had learned to speak of traffic in slaves:—and when the poet and the preacher alike are dragged at the chariot-wheels of a slaveholding republic.

A kindly and generous spirit, filled like that of Whittier, 'with all gentleness and calmest hope,' makes a sacrifice of its most cherished delights and occupations when it springs to the defence of the difficult pass which commands the battlefield of Christian Freedom, with the determination to defend it unto blood, and yet to shed none.

Except in this difference of opinion as to the mode of effecting deliverance from oppression, Whittier is the Korner of America.

To those hearts and in whose memories these poems are treasured, the editor offers this little book with peculiar pleasure: while he trusts that it will meet many an eye, and touch many a heart, yet unaware of the extent, the power, or the beauty of abolition principles.

To William Lloyd Garrison

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate and death, I see thee fearless stand. Still bearing up thy lofty bow, In the steadfast strength of truth, In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth. Go on!—for thou hast chosen well; On in the strength of God! Long as one human heart shall swell Beneath the tyrant's rod. Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, As thou hast ever spoken, Until the dead in sin shall hear— The fetter's link be broken! I love thee with a brother's love, I feel my pulses thrill, To mark thy spirit sour above The cloud of human ill. My heart hath leaped to answer thine, And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine And flash of kindred swords! They tell me thou art rash and vain— A searcher after fame— That thou art striving but to gain A long enduring name— That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand, And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand, And rend his chain apart. Have I not known thee well, and read Thy mighty purpose long! And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong? And shall the slanderer's demon breath Avail with one like me, To dim the sunshine of my faith, And earnest truth in thee? Go on—the dagger's point may glare Amid thy pathway's gloom— The fate which sternly threatens there, Is glorious martyrdom! Then onward with a martyr's zeal— Press on to thy reward— The hour when man shall only kneel, Before his Father—God.

To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs, Late President of Western Reserve College

TO THE MEMORY OF CHAS. B. STORRS, LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE.

'He fell a martyr to the interests of his colored brethren. For many months did that mighty man of God apply his discriminating and gigantic mind to the subject of Slavery and its remedy: and, when his soul could no longer contain his holy indignation against the upholders and apologists of this unrighteous system, he gave vent to his aching heart, and poured forth his clear thoughts and holy feelings in such deep and soul-entrancing eloquence, that other men, whom he would fain in his humble modesty acknowledge his superiors, sat at his feet and looked up as children to a parent.'—Correspondent of the 'Liberator,' 16th of 11th mo. 1833.

Thou hast fallen in thine armor— Thou martyr of the Lord!— With thy last breath crying—'Onward'! And thy hand upon thy sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles! When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given— And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,— When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming famine— The Pestilence and Sword!— When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken With its idol to the earth,— Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men? Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room— For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time. But, where the South-wind lingers On Carolina's pines— Or, falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines— Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven,— When now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven,— Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And Pride and Lust debases The workmanship of God— There shall thy praise by spoken, Redeemed from falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man! Joy to thy spirit, brother!— A thousand hearts are warm— A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine, The wall of fire is round us— Our present Help was thine! Lo—the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep— The murmur of a universe— Deep calling unto deep!— Joy to thy spirit, brother!— On every wind of Heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's soul is given! Glory to God forever!— Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou has uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart. In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come— In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom— We will think of thee, O Brother! And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free.

The Hunters of Men

THE HUNTERS OF MEN.

Have ye heard of our hunting, our mountain and glen Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn: Hark—the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip, And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match— Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch: So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, Through cane-brake and forest—the hunting of men! Gay luck to our hunters!—how nobly they ride In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride!— The Priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, Just screening the politic Statesman behind— The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer— The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. And woman—kind woman—wife, widow and maid— For the good of the hunted—is lending her aid: Her foot's in the stirrup—her hand on the rein— How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! Oh! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, In this 'land of the brave and this home of the free.' Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, All mounting the saddle—all grasping the rein— Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! Wo, now to the hunted who turns him at bay! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey? Will their hearts fail within them?—their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men? Ho—alms for our hunters! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer for the saing. The horn is wound faintly—the echoes are still Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. Haste—alms for our hunters! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore: What right have they here in the home of the white, Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right? Ho—alms for the hunters! or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men! Alms—alms for our hunters! why will ye delay, When their pride and their glory are melting away? The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own, Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, along? The politic statesman looks back with a sigh— There is doubt in his heart—there is fear in his eye. Oh! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, And the head of his steed take the place of his tail. Oh! haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men!

The Yankee Girl

THE YANKEE GIRL.

She sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-door— Which the long evening shadow is stretching before, With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faint the the ear of our dreams! How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! And lightly and freely her dark tresses play O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they! Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door? The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 'Tis the great southern planter—the master who waves His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. 'Nay Ellen—for shame! Let those yankee fools spin, Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin— Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel! But thou art too lovely and precious a gem, To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them— For shame, Ellen, shame!—cast thy bondage aside, And away to the south, as my blessing and pride. Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, Where the palmetto's shadow is over my home, And the lemon and orange wave white in their bloom! Oh come to my home, where my servants shall all Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call— They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe, And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law.' Oh, could ye have seen her—that pride of our girls, Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel! 'Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold; Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear! And the sky of thy south may be brighter than ours, And greener thy landscapes and fairer thy flowers; But, dearer the blast round our mountains which raves, Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves! Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel; Yet know that the yankee girl sooner would be In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!

The Slave Ships

THE SLAVE SHIPS.

'—— That fatal, that perfidious bark, Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark.'

Milton's Lycidas.

The French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two men, and with one-hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from Bonny in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a terrible malady broke out—an obstinate disease of the eyes—contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves, (only half a wine glass per day being allowed to an individual,) and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed. By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck occasionally, but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves in each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope which so universally prevails among them, of being swiftly transported to their own homes in Africa, To check this, the captain ordered several who were stopped in the attempt, to be shot, or hanged, before their companions. The disease extended to the crew; and one after another were smitten with it, until only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition did not preclude calculation: to save the expense of supporting slaves rendered unsaleable, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, having become blind, were thrown into the sea and drowned!—(Speech of M. Benj. Constant, in the Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820.)

In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary individual, whose sight remained unaffected, should also be seized with the mal , a sail was discovered. It was the Spanish slaver, Leon. The same disease had been there; and horrible to tell, all the crew had become blind! Unable to assist each other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never since been heard of. The Rodeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21st of June; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it in three days after its arrival—(Bibliothe Opthalmologique, for November, 1819.)

'All ready?' cried the captain; 'Ay, Ay!' the seamen said— 'Heave up the worthless lubbers, The dying and the dead.' Up from the slave-ship's prison Fierce, bearded heads were thrust— 'Now let the sharks look to it— Toss up the dead ones first! Corpse after corpse came up,— Death had been busy there. Where every blow is mercy, Why should the spoiler spare? Corpse after corpse they cast Sullenly from the ship, Yet bloody with the traces Of fetter-link and whip. Gloomily stood the captain, With his arms upon his breast, With his cold brow sternly knotted, And his iron lip compress'd. 'Are all the dead dogs over?' Growl'd through that matted lip— 'The blind ones are no better, Let's lighten the good ship!' Hark! from the ship's dark bosom, The very sounds of hell! The ringing clank or iron— The maniac's short, sharp yell! The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled— The starving infant's moan— The horror of a breaking heart Pour'd through a mother's groan! Up from the loathsome prison The stricken blind ones came— Below, had all been darkness— Above, was still the same. Yet the holy breath of Heaven Was sweetly breathing there, And the heated brow of fever Cool'd in the soft sea-air. 'Overboard with them, shipmates!' Cutlass and dirk were plied; Fetter'd and blind, one after one, Plunged down the vessel's side. The sabre smote above— Beneath, the lean shark lay, Waiting with wide and bloody jaw His quick and human prey. God of the earth! what cries Rang upward unto Thee? Voices of agony and blood, From ship-deck and from sea. The last dull plunge was heard— The last wave caught its stain— And the unsated sharks look'd up For human hearts in vain.

Red glowed the western waters— The setting sun was there, Scattering alike on wave and cloud His fiery mesh of hair. Amidst a group in blindness, A solitary eye Gazed, from the burden'd slaver's deck, Into that burning sky. 'A storm,' spoke out the gazer, 'Is gathering and at hand— Curse on 't—I'd give my other eye For one firm rood of land. And then he laugh'd—but only His echoed laugh replied— For the blinded and the suffering Alone were at his side. Night settled on the waters, And on a stromy heaven, While fiercely on that lone ship's track The thunder-gust was driven. 'A sail!—thank God! a sail!' And, as the helmsman spoke, Up through the stormy murmur, A shout of gladness broke. Down came the stranger vessel Unheeding, on her way, So near, that on the slaver's deck Fell off her driven spray. 'Ho! for the love of mercy— We're perishing and blind!' A wail of utter agony Came back upon the wind. 'Help us! for we are stricken With blindness every one— Ten days we've floated fearfully, Unnoting star or sun. Our ship's the slaver Leon— We've but a score on board— Our slaves are all gone over— Help—for the love of God!' On livid brows of agony The broad red lightning shone— But the roar of wind and thunder Stifled the answering groan. Wail'd from the broken waters A last despairing cry, As kindling in the stormy light, The stranger ship went by.

In the sunny Gaudaloupe A dark hull'd vessel lay— With a crew who noted never The night-fall or the day. The blossom of the orange Waved white by every stream, And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird, Were in the warm sun-beam. And the sky was bright as ever, And the moonlight slipt as well, On the palm-trees by the hill-side, And the streamlet of the dell. And the glances of the Creole Were still as archly deep, And her smiles as full as ever Of passion and of sleep. But vain were bird and blossom, The green earth and the sky, And the smile of the human faces, To the ever darken'd eye; For, amidst a word of beauty, The slaver went abroad, With his ghastly visage written By the awful curse of God!

Stanzas

STANZAS.

On the appearance of these Stanzas in the Liberator, it was predicted by Garrison, that 'they would ring from Maine to the Rocky Mountains,' and the prophecy has been fulfilled. They have been circulated in periodicals, quoted in addresses and orations, and scattered broad-cast, over the land, beneath the kneeling slave and motto, 'Am I not a man and a brother?'—the device of Cowper and the English Abolitionists.

In this last form, they have roused the consciences of slaveholders in New-Orleans—have been held up to a Boston audience by the sophist Gurley, after a fruitless endeavor to create a tumult by one of his strong appeals to prejudice and selfishness—and have been displayed by the noble-souled May before a Massachusetts Legislature, as a refutation of the charge of incendiarism cast on the Abolitionists by the Legislatures of the South. In witnessing the effect of poetic talent thus applied, we cease to wonder that the words of Fletcher of Saltoun—'Give me to make the ballads of a nation, and let who will make the laws,' have passed into a proverb.

'The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied it exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States—the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king, cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness, than a kingdom in its age?"—Dr. Follen's Address.

'Genius of America! Spirit of our free institutions—where art thou? How art thou fallen, oh Lucifer! son of the morning—how art thou fallen from Heaven! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming! The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha!—art thou become like unto us?—Speech of Rev. S. J. May.

Our fellow-countrymen in chains! Slaves—in a land of light and law? Slaves—crouching on the very plains 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, By mossy wood and marshy glen, Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, And hurrying shout of Marion's men! The groan of breaking hearts is there— The falling lash—the fetter's clank! Slaves—slaves are breathing in that air, Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank! What, ho!—our countrymen in chains! The whip on woman's shrinking flesh! Our soil yet reddening with the stains, 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 Come thrilling to our hearts in vain? To us, whose fathers scorned to bear The paltry menace of a chain; To us, whose boast is loud and long Of holy liberty and light— Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong, Plead vainly for their plundered Right? What! shall we send, with lavish breath, Our sympathies across the wave, Where manhood, on the field of death, Strikes for his freedom, or a grave? Shall prayers go up—and hymns be sung For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning— And millions hail with pen and tongue Our light on all her altars burning? Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, And Poland, grasping 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 A refuge for the stricken slave; And shall the Russian serf go free By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave; And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane Relax the iron hand of pride, 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 That beetles o'er the Western Sea? And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, When Freedom's fire is dim with us, And round our country's altar clings The damning shade of Slavery's curse? 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 Suliote. Will not the scorching answer come From turban'd 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, From gray-beard eld to fiery youth, And on the nation's naked heart, Scatter the living coals of Truth! Up—while ye slumber, deeper yet 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— The gathered wrath of God and man— Like that which wasted Egypt's earth, When hail and fire above it rain. Hear ye no warnings in the air? Feel ye no earthquake underneath? Up—up—why will ye slumber where The sleeper only wakes in death? Up now for Freedom!—not in strife Like that your sterner fathers saw— The awful waste of human life— The glory and the guilt of war: But break the chain—the yoke remove— And smite to earth Oppression's rod, With those mild arms of Truth and Love, Made mighty through the living God! Prone let the shrine of Moloch sink, And leave no traces where it stood— Nor longer let its idol drink His daily cup of human blood: But rear another altar there, To truth and love and mercy given, And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer, Shall call an answer down from Heaven!

Stanzas for the Times

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.

Is this the land our fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win? Is this the soil whereon they moved? Are these the graves they slumber in? Are we the sons by whom is borne The mantles which the dead have worn? And shall we crouch above these graves, With craven soul and fettered lip? Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, And tremble at the driver's whip? Bend to the earth our pliant knees, And speak—but as our masters please? Shall outraged nature cease to feel? Shall mercy's tears no longer flow? Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel— The dungeon's gloom—th' assassin's blow, Turn back the spirit roused to save The Truth—our Country—and the Slave? Of human skulls that shrine was made, Whereon the priests of Mexico Before their loathsome idol prayed— Is Freedom's altar fashioned so? And must we yield to Freedom's God, As offering meet, the negro's blood? ContendingForcesp240Shall 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? Shall 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 stained and shattered 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! 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. 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? 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 filled 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? Must he be told his freedom stands On Slavery's dark foundations strong— On breaking hearts and fettered hands, On robbery, and crime, and wrong? That all his fathers taught is vain— That Freedom's emblem is the chain? Its life—its soul, from slavery drawn? False—foul—profane! Go—teach as well Of holy Truth and Falsehood born— Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell!, Of Virtue nursed by open 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!