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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
and tongue Our light on all her altars burning?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
By Vendôme's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, And Poland, grasping on her lance,
The impulse of our cheering call ?
Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ?
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;
Relax the iron hand of pride
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 -
And by-word of a mocking earth?
That curse, which Europe scorns to bear?
Which not even Russia's menials wear?
From gray-beard eld to fiery youth,
Scatter the living coals of Truth !
The shadow of our fame is growing !
In blood, around our altars flowing !
ere the storm comes forth
When hail and fire above it ran.
Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
The sleeper only wakes in death? The “Stanzas for the Times,” that is, for the times of a certain meeting in Faneuil Hall, and of a certain gentlemanly mob, in this city, are bold, spirited, and such as the occasion demanded; but as the principal actors in that meeting, and in that mob, probably do not now care to remember the part they took, we pass them by. “ The Song of the Free,” is worthy of a New Englander, and such as a descendant of the Pilgrims should ever have a voice to sing. “Clerical Oppressors,” is too bad. Mr. Whittier ought to have some mercy on the clergy. They have not, it is true, gone in a body for Abolition ; but they can hardly be blamed. The people have not hired them, as ministers of religion, to free the slaves, but to make sermons and say their prayers. The poem addressed to Governor M’Duffie of South Carolina is a compliment, which his Excellency richly merited for his defence of slavery. We give the first five stanzas.
- pp. 36 - 39.
· The Patriarchal Institution of Slavery.'-Gov. M'DUFFIE.
King of Carolina ! hail !
Last champion of Oppression's battle!
Of sugar-box and human cattle !
Thy own tobacco-wreath reposes -
Of Isaac, Abraham, and Moses !
Like theirs, thy bondmen feel its rigor;
Some swarthy prototype of Hagar.
The priesthood is thy chosen station;
And Aaron's calf of Nullification.
From Ruin's open jaws to save us,
Confer a master's special favors ?
Hooks for the nostrils of Democracy,
The riding of the Aristocracy!
Ho — Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather,
And clank your needful chains together!
Down let the rough Vermonter hasten,
And thank us for each chain we fasten.
I tell thee, Carolinian, never !
Are free, and shall be free forever.
Our granite hills in dust shall moulder,
Unbroken, on a Yankee's shoulder!” – pp. 54, 55. The spirited piece addressed to George Bancroft proves, that Mr. Whittier's notions of liberty are not restricted to liberty for the black man only. The piece is a noble tribute, paid by one noble soul to another. Mr. Bancroft is able to appreciate it; and in his History of the United States he is proving that he both comprehends and loves true liberty. “Lines written on the Passage of Mr. Pinckney's Resolution in the House of Representatives, and of Mr. Calhoun's Bill of Abominations, in the Senate of the United States," are equal to any thing in the language. They are so well known to all our readers, that we must pass them by. They will not be
They will not be unknown, till the love of Freedom dies out of the Yankee heart.
But it is time that we bring this notice to a close, and we do so by copying entire the following tribute,
“ TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY, President of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society, who died on the 17th of
the 9th mo. 1836, a devoted Christian and Philanthropist.
The flowers of Eden round thee blowing !
of Shiloah's waters softly flowing !
And wandering by that sacred river,
The city of our God forever !
Gentlest of spirits ! — not for thee
Our tears are shed - our sighs are given :
Partaker of the joys of Heaven ?
When Autumn's sun is downward going,
Around thy place of slumber glowing !
But, wo for us! who linger still
With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, And minds less steadfast to the will
Of Him, whose every work is holy!
And, for the outcast and forsaken,
Our weaker sympathies awaken;
Darkly upon our struggling way
The storm of human hate is sweeping;
Our watch amidst the darkness keeping !
And constant in the hour of trial
In meekness and in self-denial.
Oh, for that spirit meek and mild,
Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining -
Yet faithful to its trust remaining.
Even where the fires of Hate are burning, The unquailing eye of innocence
Alone upon the oppressor turning! Oh loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee! The poor man and the rescued slave
Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee And grateful tears, like summer rain, Quickened its dying grass again! And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
Shall come the outcast and the lowly, Of gentle deeds and words of thine,
Recalling memories sweet and holy !