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 Vendôme'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 ran.
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?"

pp. 36-39.

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.

"The Patriarchal Institution of Slavery.'-Gov. M'Duffie.

King of Carolina ! hail!

Last champion of Oppression's battle!
Lord of rice-tierce and cotton-bale!
Of sugar-box and human cattle!
Around thy temples, green and dark,
Thy own tobacco-wreath reposes
Thyself, a brother Patriarch

Of Isaac, Abraham, and Moses!

Why not? Their household rule is thine-
Like theirs, thy bondmen feel its rigor;
And thine, perchance, as concubine,
Some swarthy prototype of Hagar.
Why not? Like those good men of old,
The priesthood is thy chosen station;
Like them thou payest thy rites to gold-
And Aaron's calf of Nullification.

All fair and softly! - Must we then,
From Ruin's open jaws to save us,
Upon our own free working men

Confer a master's special favors?
Whips for the back - chains for the heels-
Hooks for the nostrils of Democracy,
Before it spurns as well as feels
The riding of the Aristocracy!

Ho!

- fishermen of Marblehead !
Ho-Lynn cordwainers, leave your leather,
And wear the yoke in kindness made,

And clank your needful chains together!
Let Lowell mills their thousands yield,
Down let the rough Vermonter hasten,
Down from the workshop and the field,

And thank us for each chain we fasten.

SLAVES in the rugged Yankee land?
I tell thee, Carolinian, never!

Our rocky hills and iron strand

Are free, and shall be free forever.
The surf shall wear that strand away,
Our granite hills in dust shall moulder,
Ere Slavery's hateful yoke shall lay
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 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.

Gone to thy heavenly Father's rest

The flowers of Eden round thee blowing!
And, on thine ear, the murmurs blest
Of Shiloah's waters softly flowing!
Beneath that Tree of Life, which gives
To all the earth its healing leaves
In the white robe of angels clad,
And wandering by that sacred river,
Whose streams of holiness make glad
The city of our God forever!

Gentlest of spirits! — not for thee
Our tears are shed -

our sighs are given :

Why mourn to know thou art a free
Partaker of the joys of Heaven?
Finished thy work, and kept thy faith
In Christian firmness unto death:
And beautiful, as sky and earth,

When Autumn's sun is downward going,

The blessed memory of thy worth

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!
For not like thine, is crucified

The spirit of our human pride:
And, at the bondman's tale of wo,
And, for the outcast and forsaken,
Not warm like thine, but cold and slow,
Our weaker sympathies awaken;

Darkly upon our struggling way

The storm of human hate is sweeping;
Hunted and branded, and a prey,

Our watch amidst the darkness keeping!
Oh! for that hidden strength which can
Nerve unto death the inner man !
Oh! for thy spirit tried and true,

And constant in the hour of trial

Prepared to suffer, or to do,

In meekness and in self-denial.

Oh, for that spirit meek and mild,

Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining

By man deserted and reviled,

Yet faithful to its trust remaining. Still prompt and resolute to save

From scourge and chain the hunted slave!

Unwavering in the Truth's defence,

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!