"When the striving of surges Is mad on the main, Like the charge of a column Of plumes on the plain, When the thunder is up From his cloud cradled sleep And the tempest is treading The paths of the deep— There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see, Like the sun-brilliant brow of a nation when free?"
GEO. W. CLARK.
LEAVITT & ALDEN, 7 CORNHILL, BOSTON: SAXTON & MILES, 205 BROADWAY, N.Y.: MYRON FINCH, 120 NASSAU ST., N.Y.: JACKSON & CHAPLIN, 38 DEAN ST., ALBANY, N.Y.: JACKSON & CHAPLIN, CORNER GENESSEE AND MAIN ST., UTICA, N.Y.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1844, by
GEORGE W. CLARK,
In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
S.W. BENEDICT & CO. MUSIC STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS, 16 Spruce St. N.Y.
All creation is musical—all nature speaks the language of song.
'There's music in the sighing of a reed, There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if man had ears; The earth is but an echo of the spheres.'
And who is not moved by music? "Who ever despises music," says Martin Luther, "I am displeased with him."
'There is a charm—a power that sways the breast, Bids every passion revel, or be still; Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves; Can soothe destruction, and almost soothes despair.'
That music is capable of accomplishing vast good, and that it is a source of the most elevated and refined enjoyment when rightly cultivated and practiced, no one who understands its power or has observed its effects, will for a moment deny.
'Thou, O music! canst assuage the pain and heal the wound That hath defied the skill of sager comforters; Thou dost restrain each wild emotion, Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill, Or lightest up the flames of holy fire, As through the soul thy strains harmonious thrill.
Who does not desire to see the day when music in this country, cultivated and practised by ALL—music of a chaste, refined and elevated style, shall go forth with its angel voice, like a spirit of love upon the wind, exerting upon all classes of society a rich and healthful moral influence. When its wonderful power shall be made to subserve every righteous cause—to aid every humane effort for the promotion of man's social, civil and religious well-being.
It has been observed by travellers, that after a short residence in almost any of the cities of the eastern world, one would fancy "every second person a musician." During the night, the streets of these cities, particularly Rome, the capitol of Italy, are filled with all sorts of minstrelsy, and the ear is agreeably greeted with a perpetual confluence of sweet sounds. A Scotch traveller, in passing through one of the most delightful villas of Rome, overheard a stonemason chanting something in a strain of peculiar melancholy; and on inquiry, ascertained it to be the "Lament of Tasso." He soon learned that this celebrated piece was familiar to all the common people. Torquato Tasso was an Italian poet of great merit, who was for many years deprived of liberty, and subjected to severe trials and misfortunes by the jealousy and cruelty of his patron, the Duke of Ferrara. That master-piece of music, so justly admired and so much sung by the high and low throughout all Italy, had its origin in the wrongs of Tasso. An ardent love of humanity—a deep consciousness of the injustice of slavery—a heart full of sympathy for the oppressed, and a due appreciation of the blessings of freedom, has given birth to the poetry comprising this volume. I have long desired to see these sentiments of love, of sympathy, of justice and humanity, so beautifully expressed in poetic measure, embalmed in sweet music; so that all the people—the rich, the poor, the young, and the old, who have hearts to feel, and tongues to move, may sing of the wrongs of slavery, and the blessings of liberty, until every human being shall recognise in his fellow an equal;—"a MAN and a BROTHER." Until by familiarity with these sentiments, and their influence upon their hearts, the people, whose duty it is, shall "undo the heavy burdens and let the oppressed go free."
I announced, sometime since, my intention of publishing such a work. Many have been impatiently waiting its appearance. I should have been glad to have issued it and scattered it like leaves of the forest over the land, long ago, but circumstances which I could not control, have prevented. I purpose to enlarge the work from time to time, as circumstances may require.
Let associations of singers, having the love of liberty in their hearts, be immediately formed in every community. Let them study thoroughly, and make themselves perfectly familiar with both the poetry and the music, and enter into the sentiment of the piece they perform, that they may impress it upon their hearers. Above all things, let the enunciation of every word be clear and distinct. Most of the singing of the present day, is entirely too artificial, stiff and mechanical. It should be easy and natural; flowing directly from the soul of the performer, without affectation or display; and then singing will answer its true end, and not only please the ear, but affect and improve the heart.
To the true friends of universal freedom, the LIBERTY MINSTREL is respectfully dedicated.
NEW YORK, Oct. 1844.
GONE, SOLD AND GONE.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W. Clark.
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air, Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, There no mother's eye is near them, There no mother's ear can hear them; Never when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash, Shall a mother's kindness bless them, Or a mother's arms caress them. Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go, Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain, To their cheerless homes again— There no brother's voice shall greet them— There no father's welcome meet them.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play— From the cool spring where they drank— Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank— From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Toiling through the weary day, And at night the Spoiler's prey; Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more!—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, By the holy love He beareth— By the bruised reed He spareth— Oh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love.—Gone, &c.
WHAT MEANS THAT SAD AND DISMAL LOOK?
Words by Geo. Russell. Arranged from "Near the Lake," by G.W.C.
What means that sad and dismal look, And why those falling tears? No voice is heard, no word is spoke, Yet nought but grief appears.
Ah! Mother, hast thou ever known The pain of parting ties? Was ever infant from thee torn And sold before thine eyes?
Say, would not grief thy bosom swell? Thy tears like rivers flow? Should some rude ruffian seize and sell The child thou lovest so?
There's feeling in a Mother's breast, Though colored be her skin! And though at Slavery's foul behest, She must not weep for kin.
I had a lovely, smiling child, It sat upon my knee; And oft a tedious hour beguiled, With merry heart of glee.
That child was from my bosom torn, And sold before my eyes; With outstretched arms, and looks forlorn, It uttered piteous cries.
Mother! dear Mother!—take, O take Thy helpless little one! Ah! then I thought my heart would break; My child—my child was gone.
Long, long ago, my child they stole, But yet my grief remains; These tears flow freely—and my soul In bitterness complains.
Then ask not why "my dismal look," Nor why my "falling tears," Such wrongs, what human heart can brook? No hope for me appears.
The Slave Boy's Wish.
BY ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
I wish I was that little bird, Up in the bright blue sky; That sings and flies just where he will, And no one asks him why.
I wish I was that little brook, That runs so swift along; Through pretty flowers and shining stones, Singing a merry song.
I wish I was that butterfly, Without a thought or care; Sporting my pretty, brilliant wings, Like a flower in the air.
I wish I was that wild, wild deer, I saw the other day; Who swifter than an arrow flew, Through the forest far away.
I wish I was that little cloud, By the gentle south wind driven; Floating along, so free and bright, Far, far up into heaven.
I'd rather be a cunning fox, And hide me in a cave; I'd rather be a savage wolf, Than what I am—a slave.
My mother calls me her good boy, My father calls me brave; What wicked action have I done, That I should be a slave.
I saw my little sister sold, So will they do to me; My Heavenly Father, let me die, For then I shall be free.
THE BEREAVED FATHER.
Words by Miss Chandler. Music by G.W.C.
Ye've gone from me, my gentle ones! With all your shouts of mirth; A silence is within my walls, A darkness round my hearth, A darkness round my hearth.
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved, The mother's anguish'd shriek! And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence, My innocent and good! Not e'en the tigress of the wild, Thus tears her fellow's brood.
I list to hear your soft sweet tones, Upon the morning air; I gaze amidst the twilight's gloom, As if to find you there.
But you no more come bounding forth To meet me in your glee; And when the evening shadows fall, Ye are not at my knee.
Your forms are aye before my eyes, Your voices on my ear, And all things wear a thought of you, But you no more are here.
You were the glory of my life, My blessing and my pride! I half forgot the name of slave, When you were by my side!
Woe for your lot, ye doom'd ones! woe A seal is on your fate! And shame, and toil, and wretchedness, On all your steps await!
SLAVE GIRL MOURNING HER FATHER.
Parodied from Mrs. Sigourney by G.W.C.
They say I was but four years old When father was sold away; Yet I have never seen his face Since that sad parting day. He went where brighter flowrets grow Beneath the Southern skies; Oh who will show me on the map Where that far country lies?
I begged him, "father, do not go! For, since my mother died, I love no one so well as you;" And, clinging to his side, The tears came gushing down my cheeks Until my eyes were dim; Some were in sorrow for the dead, And some in love for him.
He knelt and prayed of God above, "My little daughter spare, And let us both here meet again, O keep her in thy care." He does not come!—I watch for him At evening twilight grey, Till every shadow wears his shape, Along the grassy way.
I muse and listen all alone, When stormy winds are high, And think I hear his tender tone, And call, but no reply; And so I've done these four long years, Without a friend or home, Yet every dream of hope is vain,— Why don't my father come?
Father—dear father, are you sick, Upon a stranger shore?— The people say it must be so— O send to me once more, And let your little daughter come, To soothe your restless bed, And hold the cordial to your lips, And press your aching head.
Alas!—I fear me he is dead!— Who will my trouble share? Or tell me where his form is laid, And let me travel there? By mother's tomb I love to sit, Where the green branches wave; Good people! help a friendless child To find her father's grave.
The Slave and her Babe.
WORDS BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.
"Can a woman forget her sucking child?"
Air—"Slave Girl mourning her Father."
O, massa, let me stay, to catch My baby's sobbing breath; His little glassy eye to watch, And smooth his limbs in death, And cover him with grass and leaf, Beneath the plantain tree! It is not sullenness, but grief— O, massa, pity me!
God gave me babe—a precious boon, To cheer my lonely heart, But massa called to work too soon, And I must needs depart. The morn was chill—I spoke no word, But feared my babe might die, And heard all day, or thought I heard, My little baby cry.
At noon—O, how I ran! and took My baby to my breast! I lingered—and the long lash broke My sleeping infant's rest. I worked till night—till darkest night, In torture and disgrace; Went home, and watched till morning light, To see my baby's face.
The fulness from its cheek was gone, The sparkle from its eye; Now hot, like fire, now cold, like stone, I knew my babe must die. I worked upon plantation ground, Though faint with woe and dread, Then ran, or flew, and here I found— See massa, almost dead.
Then give me but one little hour— O! do not lash me so! One little hour—one little hour— And gratefully I'll go. Ah me! the whip has cut my boy, I heard his feeble scream; No more—farewell my only joy, My life's first gladsome dream!
I lay thee on the lonely sod, The heaven is bright above; These Christians boast they have a God, And say his name is Love: O gentle, loving God, look down! My dying baby see; The mercy that from earth is flown, Perhaps may dwell with THEE!
THE NEGRO'S APPEAL.
Words by Cowper. Tune—"Isle of Beauty."
Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Christian people bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold: But though slave they have enrolled me Minds are never to be sold.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell me, Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell me, Speaking from his throne—the sky? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use.
Hark! he answers—wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrant's habitations, Where his whirlwinds answer—No!
By our blood in Afric' wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main: By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart—
Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find, Worthier of regard and stronger Than the color of our kind. Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers; Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours.
NEGRO BOY SOLD FOR A WATCH.
[Footnote 1: An African prince having arrived in England, and having been asked what he had given for his watch, answered, "What I will never give again—I gave a fine boy for it."]
Words by Cowper. Arranged by G.W.C. from an old theme.
When avarice enslaves the mind, And selfish views alone bear sway Man turns a savage to his kind, And blood and rapine mark his way. Alas! for this poor simple toy, I sold the hapless Negro boy.
His father's hope, his mother's pride, Though black, yet comely to the view I tore him helpless from their side, And gave him to a ruffian crew— To fiends that Afric's coast annoy, I sold the hapless Negro Boy.
From country, friends, and parents torn, His tender limbs in chains confined, I saw him o'er the billows borne, And marked his agony of mind; But still to gain this simple toy, I gave the weeping Negro Boy.
In isles that deck the western wave I doomed the hapless youth to dwell, A poor, forlorn, insulted slave! A BEAST THAT CHRISTIANS BUY AND SELL! And in their cruel tasks employ The much-enduring Negro Boy.
His wretched parents long shall mourn, Shall long explore the distant main In hope to see the youth return; But all their hopes and sighs are vain: They never shall the sight enjoy, Of their lamented Negro Boy.
Beneath a tyrant's harsh command, He wears away his youthful prime; Far distant from his native land, A stranger in a foreign clime. No pleasing thoughts his mind employ, A poor, dejected Negro Boy.
But He who walks upon the wind, Whose voice in thunder's heard on high, Who doth the raging tempest bind, And hurl the lightning through the sky, In his own time will sure destroy The oppressor of the Negro Boy.
I AM MONARCH OF NOUGHT I SURVEY.
A Parody. Air "Old Dr. Fleury."
I am monarch of nought I survey, My wrongs there are none to dispute; My master conveys me away, His whims or caprices to suit. O slavery, where are the charms That "patriarchs" have seen in thy face; I dwell in the midst of alarms, And serve in a horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach, And must finish my life with a groan; Never hear the sweet music of speech That tells me my body's my own. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon some, Are blessings I never can prove, If slavery's my portion to come.
Religion! what treasures untold, Reside in that heavenly word! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But I am excluded the light That leads to this heavenly grace; The Bible is clos'd to my sight, Its beauties I never can trace.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this sorrowful land, Some cordial endearing report, Of freedom from tyranny's hand. My friends, do they not often send, A wish or a thought after me? O, tell me I yet have a friend, A friend I am anxious to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight; The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of Victoria's domain, In a moment I seem to be there, But the fear of being taken again, Soon hurries me back to despair.
The wood-fowl has gone to her nest, The beast has lain down in his lair; To me, there's no season of rest, Though I to my quarter repair. If mercy, O Lord, is in store, For those who in slavery pine; Grant me when life's troubles are o'er, A place in thy kingdom divine.
THE AFRIC'S DREAM.
Words by Miss Chandler. "Emigrant's Lament," arranged by G.W.C.
Why did ye wake me from my sleep? It was a dream of bliss, And ye have torn me from that land, to pine again in this; Methought, beneath yon whispering tree, that I was laid to rest, The turf, with all its with'ring flowers, upon my cold heart pressed.
My chains, these hateful chains, were gone—oh, would that I might die, So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by! And on, away, o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed, Till, 'neath my own banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay, As when I lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day! But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough, Around the well-known threshhold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth, As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth; My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laughed to lave My burning lip, and cheek, and brow, in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours, And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers; Yet lo! without my cottage-door he sported in his glee, With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name, To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came! Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all, With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear, Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year; And on my cheeks fond lips were pressed, with true affection's kiss— And so ye waked me from my sleep—but 'twas a dream of bliss!
SONG OF THE COFFLE GANG.
[Footnote 2: This song is said to be sung by Slaves, as they are chained in gangs, when parting from friends for the far off South—children taken from parents, husbands from wives, and brothers from sisters.]
Words by the Slaves. Music by G.W.C.
See these poor souls from Africa, Transported to America; We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me? We are stolen and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee.
See wives and husbands sold apart, The children's screams!—it breaks my heart; There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
O gracious Lord! when shall it be, That we poor souls shall all be free? Lord, break them Slavery powers—will you go along with me? Lord, break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee.
Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery'll cease, Then we poor souls can have our peace; There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
HARK! I HEAR A SOUND OF ANGUISH.
Hark! I hear a sound of anguish In my own, my native land; Brethren, doomed in chains to languish, Lift to heaven the suppliant hand, And despairing, And despairing, Death the end of woe demand.
Let us raise our supplication For the wretched suffering slave, All whose life is desolation, All whose hope is in the grave; God of mercy! From thy throne, O hear and save.
Those in bonds we would remember As if we with them were bound; For each crushed, each suffering member Let our sympathies abound, Till our labors Spread the smiles of freedom round.
Even now the word is spoken; "Slavery's cruel power must cease, From the bound the chain be broken, Captives hail the kind release," While in splendor Comes to reign the Prince of Peace.
BROTHERS BE BRAVE FOR THE PINING SLAVE.
Air—"Sparkling and Bright."
Heavy and cold in his dungeon hold, Is the yoke of the oppressor; Dark o'er the soul is the fell control Of the stern and dread transgressor.
Oh then come all to bring the thrall Up from his deep despairing, And out of the jaw of the bandit's law, Retake the prey he's tearing: O then come all to bring the thrall Up from his deep despairing, And out of the jaw of the bandit's law, Retake the prey he's tearing.
Brothers be brave for the pining slave, From his wife and children riven; From every vale their bitter wail Goes sounding up to Heaven. Then for the life of that poor wife, And for those children pining; O ne'er give o'er till the chains no more Around their limbs are twining.
Gloomy and damp is the low rice swamp, Where their meagre bands are wasting; All worn and weak, in vain they seek For rest, to the cool shade hasting; For drivers fell, like fiends from hell, Cease not their savage shouting; And the scourge's crack, from quivering back, Sends up the red blood spouting.
Into the grave looks only the slave, For rest to his limbs aweary; His spirit's light comes from that night, To us so dark and dreary. That soul shall nurse its heavy curse Against a day of terror, When the lightning gleam of his wrath shall stream Like fire, on the hosts of error.
Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn In the right hand of Jehovah; To smite the strong red arm of wrong, And dash his temples over; Then on amain to rend the chain, Ere bursts the vallied thunder; Right onward speed till the slave is freed— His manacles torn asunder.
THE QUADROON MAIDEN.
Words by Longfellow. Theme from the Indian Maid.
The Slaver in the broad lagoon, Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.
The Planter under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon."
Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.
And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights, in some cathedral aisle, The features of a saint.
"The soil is barren, the farm is old," The thoughtful Planter said, Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife, With such accursed gains; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak: He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a far and distant land.
BY REV. JAMES GREGG.
Domestic bliss; thou fairest flower That erst in Eden grew, Dear relic of the happy bower, Our first grand parents knew!
We hail thee in the rugged soil Of this waste wilderness, To cheer our way and cheat our toil, With gleams of happiness.
In thy mild light we travel on, And smile at toil and pain; And think no more of Eden gone, For Eden won again.
Such, Emily, the bliss, the joy By Heaven bestowed on you; A husband kind, a lovely boy, A father fond and true.
Religion adds her cheering beams, And sanctifies these ties; And sheds o'er all the brighter gleams, She borrows from the skies.
But ah! reflect; are all thus blest? Hath home such charms for all? Can such delights as these invest Foul slavery's wretched thrall?
Can those be happy in these ties Who wear her galling chain? Or taste the blessed charities That in the household reign?
Can those be blest, whose hope, whose life, Hang on a tyrant's nod; To whom nor husband, child, nor wife Are known—yea, scarcely God?
Whose ties may all be rudely riven, At avarice' fell behest; Whose only hope of home is heaven, The grave their only rest.
Oh! think of those, the poor, th' oppressed, In your full hour of bliss; Nor e'er from prayer and effort rest, While earth bears woe like this.
O PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.
Words from the Liberator. Air, Araby's Daughter.
I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed. O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, As she thinks of her children about to be sold; You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean, But the grief of that mother can never be known.
The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed in her pathway below; It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe: Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression— She must weep as she treads on her desolate way.
O, slave-mother, hope! see—the nation is shaking! The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong! Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, May one day lift up its unmanacled form, While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering, Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm.
How long! O! how long!
How long will the friend of the slave plead in vain? How long e'er the Christian will loosen the chain? If he, by our efforts, more hardened should be, O Father, forgive him! we trust but in thee. That 'we're all free and equal,' how senseless the cry, While millions in bondage are groaning so nigh! O where is our freedom? equality where? To this none can answer, but echo cries, where?
O'er this stain on our country we'd fain draw a veil, But history's page will proclaim the sad tale, That Christians, unblushing, could shout 'we are free,' Whilst they the oppressors of millions could be. They can feel for themselves, for the Pole they can feel, Towards Afric's children their hearts are like steel; They are deaf to their call, to their wrongs they are blind; In error they slumber nor seek truth to find.
Though scorn and oppression on our pathway attend, Despised and reviled, we the slave will befriend; Our Father, thy blessing! we look but to thee, Nor cease from our labors till all shall be free. Should mobs in their fury with missiles assail, The cause it is righteous, the truth will prevail; Then heed not their clamors, though loud they proclaim That freedom shall slumber, and slavery reign.
THE FUGITIVE SLAVE TO THE CHRISTIAN.
Words by Elizur Wright, jr. Music arranged from Cracovienne.
The fetters galled my weary soul,— A soul that seemed but thrown away; I spurned the tyrant's base control, Resolved at last the man to play:—
The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back? The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back?
I felt the stripes, the lash I saw, Red, dripping with a father's gore; And, worst of all their lawless law, The insults that my mother bore! The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back?
Where human law o'errules Divine, Beneath the sheriff's hammer fell My wife and babes,—I call them mine,— And where they suffer, who can tell? The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back?
I seek a home where man is man, If such there be upon this earth, To draw my kindred, if I can, Around its free, though humble hearth. The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back!
The Strength of Tyranny.
The tyrant's chains are only strong While slaves submit to wear them; And, who could bind them on the strong, Determined not to wear them? Then clank your chains, e'en though the links Were light as fashion's feather: The heart which rightly feels and thinks Would cast them altogether.
The lords of earth are only great While others clothe and feed them! But what were all their pride and state Should labor cease to heed them? The swain is higher than a king: Before the laws of nature, The monarch were a useless thing, The swain a useless creature.
We toil, we spin, we delve the mine, Sustaining each his neighbor; And who can hold a right divine To rob us of our labor? We rush to battle—bear our lot In every ill and danger— And who shall make the peaceful cot To homely joy a stranger?
Perish all tyrants far and near, Beneath the chains that bind us; And perish too that servile fear Which makes the slaves they find us: One grand, one universal claim— One peal of moral thunder— One glorious burst in Freedom's name, And rend our bonds asunder!
THE BLIND SLAVE BOY.
Words by Mrs. Dr. Bailey. Music arranged from Sweet Afton.
Come back to me mother! why linger away From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day! I mark every footstep, I list to each tone, And wonder my mother should leave me alone! There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee, But there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me; For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share, And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed; Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek, And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak! O mother! I've no one to love me—no heart Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part, No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind, Oh! none like a mother can cherish the blind!
Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear, No mother can hasten to banish thy fear; For the slave-owner drives her, o'er mountain and wild, And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child! Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal The anguish that none but a mother can feel, When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod On her child, who is stricken and smitten of God!
Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone, She hears in her anguish his piteous moan; As he eagerly listens—but listens in vain, To catch the loved tones of his mother again! The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall, And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy, Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy!
Words by Miss Chandler. Arranged from "Rose of Allandale."
With aching brow and wearied limb, The slave his toil pursued; And oft I saw the cruel scourge Deep in his blood imbrued; He tilled oppression's soil where men For liberty had bled, And the eagle wing of Freedom waved In mockery, o'er his head.
The earth was filled with the triumph shout Of men who had burst their chains; But his, the heaviest of them all, Still lay on his burning veins; In his master's hall there was luxury, And wealth, and mental light; But the very book of the Christian law, Was hidden from his sight.
In his master's halls there was wine and mirth, And songs for the newly free; But his own low cabin was desolate Of all but misery. He felt it all—and to bitterness His heart within him turned; While the panting wish for liberty, Like a fire in his bosom burned.
The haunting thought of his wrongs grew changed To a darker and fiercer hue, Till the horrible shape it sometimes wore At last familiar grew; There was darkness all within his heart, And madness in his soul; And the demon spark, in his bosom nursed, Blazed up beyond control.
Then came a scene! oh! such a scene! I would I might forget The ringing sound of the midnight scream, And the hearth-stone redly wet! The mother slain while she shrieked in vain For her infant's threatened life; And the flying form of the frighted child, Struck down by the bloody knife.
There's many a heart that yet will start From its troubled sleep, at night, As the horrid form of the vengeful slave Comes in dreams before the sight. The slave was crushed, and his fetters' link Drawn tighter than before; And the bloody earth again was drenched With the streams of his flowing gore.
Ah! know they not, that the tightest band Must burst with the wildest power?— That the more the slave is oppressed and wronged, Will be fiercer his rising hour? They may thrust him back with the arm of might, They may drench the earth with his blood— But the best and purest of their own, Will blend with the sanguine flood.
I could tell thee more—but my strength is gone, And my breath is wasting fast; Long ere the darkness to-night has fled, Will my life from the earth have passed: But this, the sum of all I have learned, Ere I go I will tell to thee;— If tyrants would hope for tranquil hearts, They must let the oppressed go free.
MY CHILD IS GONE.
Music by G.W.C.
Hark! from the winds a voice of woe, The wild Atlantic in its flow, Bears on its breast the murmur low, My child is gone!
Like savage tigers o'er their prey, They tore him from my heart away; And now I cry, by night by day— My child is gone!
How many a free-born babe is press'd With fondness to its mother's breast, And rocked upon her arms to rest, While mine is gone!
No longer now, at eve I see, Beneath the sheltering plantain tree, My baby cradled on my knee, For he is gone!
And when I seek my cot at night, There's not a thing that meets my sight, But tells me that my soul's delight, My child, is gone!
I sink to sleep, and then I seem To hear again his parting scream I start and wake—'tis but a dream— My child is gone!
Gone—till my toils and griefs are o'er, And I shall reach that happy shore, Where negro mothers cry no more— My child is gone!
COMFORT IN AFFLICTION.
Words by William Leggett. Music by G.W.C.
If yon bright stars which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits reunite Whom death has torn asunder here, How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar! Mix soul with soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star!
But oh! how dark, how drear, how lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We failed to find the loved of this!
If there no more the ties should twine, Which Death's cold hand alone can sever, Ah! then those stars in mockery shine, More hateful as they shine forever!
It cannot be—each hope and fear, That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now!
There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain, 'Tis heaven that whispers, "dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again."
The Poor Little Slave.
FROM "THE CHARTER OAK."
O pity the poor little slave, Who labors hard through all the day— And has no one, When day is done, To teach his youthful heart to pray.
No words of love—no fond embrace— No smiles from parents kind and dear; No tears are shed Around his bed, When fevers rage, and death is near.
None feel for him when heavy chains Are fastened to his tender limb; No pitying eyes, No sympathies, No prayers are raised to heaven for him.
Yes I will pity the poor slave, And pray that he may soon be free; That he at last, When days are past, In heaven may have his liberty.
THE BEREAVED MOTHER.
Words by Jesse Hutchinson. Air, "Kathleen O'Moore."
Oh deep was the anguish of the slave mother's heart, When called from her darling for ever to part; So grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock, While the child of her bosom is sold on the block; Yet loud shrieked that mother, poor heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
The babe in return, for its fond mother cries, While the sound of their wailings together arise; They shriek for each other, the child and the mother, In sorrow and woe.
The harsh auctioneer to sympathy cold, Tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold; While the infant and mother, loud shriek for each other, In sorrow and woe.
At last came the parting of mother and child, Her brain reeled with madness, that mother was wild; Then the lash could not smother the shrieks of that mother, Of sorrow and woe.
The child was borne off to a far distant clime, While the mother was left in anguish to pine; But reason departed, and she sank broken hearted, In sorrow and woe.
That poor mourning mother, of reason bereft, Soon ended her sorrows and sank cold in death: Thus died that slave mother, poor heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
Oh! list ye kind mothers to the cries of the slave; The parents and children implore you to save; Go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and brothers, From sorrow and woe.
HEARD YE THAT CRY.
From "Wind of the Winter night."
Heard ye that cry! Twas the wail of a slave, As he sank in despair, to the rest of the grave; Behold him where bleeding and prostrate he lies, Unfriended he lived, and unpitied he died.
The white man oppressed him—the white man for gold, Made him toil amidst tortures that cannot be told; He robbed him, and spoiled him, of all that was dear, And made him the prey of affliction and fear.
But his anguish was seen, and his wailings were heard, By the Lord God of Hosts; whose vengeance deferred, Gathers force by delay, and with fury will burst, On his impious oppressor—the tyrant accurst!
Arouse ye, arouse ye! ye generous and brave, Plead the rights of the poor—plead the cause of the slave; Nor cease your exertions till broken shall be The fetters that bind him, and the slave shall be free.
Sleep on my Child.
Sleep on, my child, in peaceful rest, While lovely visions round thee play; No care or grief has touched thy breast, Thy life is yet a cloudless day.
Far distant is my childhood's home— No mother's smiles—no father's care! Oh! how I'd love again to roam, Where once my little playmates were!
Sleep on, thou hast not felt the chain; But though 'tis yet unmingled joy, I may not see those smiles again, Nor clasp thee to my breast, my boy.
And must I see thee toil and bleed! Thy manly soul in fetters tied; 'Twill wring thy mother's heart indeed— Oh! would to God that I had died!
That soul God's own bright image bears— But oh! no tongue thy woes can tell; Thy lot is cast in blood and tears, And soon these lips must say—farewell!
ZAZA—THE FEMALE SLAVE.
Words by Miss Ball. Music by G.W.C.
O my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea. Where the sweet Joliba kisses the shore, Say, shall I wander by thee never more? Where the sweet Joliba kisses the shore, Say, shall I wander by thee never more? O my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
Say, O fond Zurima, Where dost thou stay? Say, doth another List to thy sweet lay? Say, doth the orange still Bloom near our cot? Zurima, Zurima, Am I forgot? O, my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
Under the baobab Oft have I slept, Fanned by sweet breezes That over me swept. Often in dreams Do my weary limbs lay 'Neath the same baobab, Far, far away, O my country, my country, how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
O for the breath Of our own waving palm, Here, as I languish, My spirit to calm— O for a draught From our own cooling lake, Brought by sweet mother, My spirit to wake. O my country, my country, how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
PRAYER FOR THE SLAVE.
Oh let the pris'ner's mournful sighs As incense in thy sight appear! Their humble wailings pierce the skies, If haply they may feel thee near.
The captive exiles make their moans, From sin impatient to be free; Call home, call home, thy banished ones! Lead captive their captivity!
Out of the deep regard their cries, The fallen raise, the mourners cheer, Oh, Son of Righteousness, arise, And scatter all their doubts and fear.
Stand by them in the fiery hour, Their feebleness of mind defend; And in their weakness show thy power, And make them patient to the end.
Relieve the souls whose cross we bear, For whom thy suffering members mourn: Answer our faith's effectual prayer; And break the yoke so meekly borne!
Remembering that God is just.
Oh righteous God! whose awful frown Can crumble nations to the dust, Trembling we stand before thy throne, When we reflect that thou art just.
Dost thou not see the dreadful wrong, Which Afric's injured race sustains? And wilt thou not arise ere long, To plead their cause, and break their chains?
Must not thine anger quickly rise Against the men whom lust controls, Who dare thy righteous laws despise And traffic in the blood of souls?
Words by L.M.C. Air "Bonny Doon."
A noble man of sable brow Came to my humble cottage door, With cautious, weary step and slow, And asked if I could feed the poor; He begged if I had ought to give, To help the panting fugitive.
I told him he had fled away From his kind master, friends, and home; That he was black—a slave astray, And should return as he had come; That I would to his master give The straying villain fugitive.
He fell upon his trembling knee And claimed he was a brother man, That I was bound to set him free, According to the gospel plan; And if I would God's grace receive, That I must help the fugitive.
He showed the stripes his master gave, The festering wound—the sightless eye, The common badges of the slave, And said he would be free, or die; And if I nothing had to give, I should not stop the fugitive.
He owned his was a sable skin, That which his Maker first had given; But mine would be a darker sin, That would exclude my soul from heaven: And if I would God's grace receive, I should relieve the fugitive.
I bowed and took the stranger in, And gave him meat, and drink, and rest, I hope that God forgave my sin, And made me with that brother blest; I am resolved, long as I live, To help the panting fugitive.
AM I NOT A MAN AND BROTHER?
Words by A.C.L. Air—"Bride's Farewell."
Am I not a man and brother? Ought I not, then, to be free? Sell me not one to another, Take not thus my liberty. Christ our Saviour, Christ our Saviour, Died for me as well as thee.
Am I not a man and brother? Have I not a soul to save? Oh, do not my spirit smother, Making me a wretched slave: God of mercy, God of mercy, Let me fill a freeman's grave!
Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though thou long hast groaned a slave, Bound with cruel cords and tether From the cradle to the grave! Yet the Saviour, yet the Saviour, Bled and died all souls to save.
Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though we long have told thee nay: And are bound to aid each other, All along our pilgrim way. Come and welcome, come and welcome, Join with us to praise and pray!
Am I not a Sister?
Am I not a sister, say? Shall I then be bought and sold In the mart and by the way, For the white man's lust and gold? Save me then from his foul snare, Leave me not to perish there!
Am I not a sister say, Though I have a sable hue! Lo! I have been dragged away, From my friends and kindred true, And have toiled in yonder field, There have long been bruised and peeled!
Am I not a sister, say? Have I an immortal soul? Will you, sisters, tell me nay? Shall I live in lust's control, To be chattled like a beast, By the Christian church and priest?
Am I not a sister, say? Though I have been made a slave? Will you not then for me pray, To the God whose power can save, High and low, and bond and free? Toil and pray and vote for me!
YE HERALDS OF FREEDOM.
Music by Kingsley.
Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave, Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave; Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God, And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.
The finger of slander may now at you point, That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint; And those who now plead for the rights of the slave, Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.
Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers, May now all oppose you, the victory is yours; The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled, And he will give freedom and peace to the world.
Go under his standard and fight by his side, O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride. His gracious protection will be to you given, And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.
I would not live alway.
I would not live alway; I ask not to stay, Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day: Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord, And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.
I would not live alway, where life is a load To the flesh and the spirit:—since there's an abode For the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my last And repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!—
I would not live alway to toil as a slave: Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave; For there, from their troubling, the wicked shall And, free from his master, the slave be at peace.
OUR PILGRIM FATHERS.
Words by Pierpont. Music from "Minstrel Boy," by G.W.C.
Our Pilgrim Fathers—where are they? The waves that brought them o'er, Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow.
The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the gale When the heavens looked dark, is gone; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The Pilgrim exile—sainted name! The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced when he came in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night, On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head; But the Pilgrim—where is he?
The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest; When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day, On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last.
The Pilgrim spirit has not fled— It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars, by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.
Words by J.G. Whittier. Music by G.W.C.
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 are borne, The mantles which the dead have won?
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, Round which 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?
Shall 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 the 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.
TO THOSE I LOVE.
Words by Miss E.M. Chandler. Music from an old air by G.W.C.
Oh, turn ye not displeased away, though I should sometimes seem Too much to press upon your ear, an oft repeated theme; The story of the negro's wrongs is heavy at my heart, And can I choose but wish from you a sympathizing part?
I turn to you to share my joy,—to soothe me in my grief— In wayward sadness from your smiles, I seek a sweet relief: And shall I keep this burning wish to see the slave set free, Locked darkly in my secret heart, unshared and silently?
If I had been a friendless thing—if I had never known, How swell the fountains of the heart beneath affection's tone, I might have, careless, seen the leaf torn rudely from its stem, But clinging as I do to you, can I but feel for them?
I could not brook to list the sad sweet music of a bird, Though it were sweeter melody than ever ear hath heard, If cruel hands had quenched its light, that in the plaintive song, It might the breathing memory of other days prolong.
And can I give my lip to taste the life-bought luxuries, wrung From those on whom a darker night of anguish has been flung— Or silently and selfishly enjoy my better lot, While those whom God hath bade me love, are wretched and forgot?
Oh no!—so blame me not, sweet friends, though I should sometimes seem Too much to press upon your ear an oft repeated theme; The story of the negro's wrongs hath won me from my rest,— And I must strive to wake for him an interest in your breast!
WE'RE COMING! WE'RE COMING!
Air, "Kinloch of Kinloch."
We're coming, we're coming, the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea! True sons of brave sires who battled of yore, When England's proud lion ran wild on our shore! We're coming, we're coming, from mountain and glen, With hearts to do battle for freedom again; Oppression is trembling as trembled before, The Slavery which fled from our fathers of yore.
We're coming, we're coming, with banners unfurled, Our motto is FREEDOM, our country the world; Our watchword is LIBERTY—tyrants beware! For the liberty army will bring you despair! We're coming, we're coming, we'll come from afar, Our standard we'll nail to humanity's car; With shoutings we'll raise it, in triumph to wave, A trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave.
Then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on! The man-stealing army we'll surely put down; They are crushing their millions, but soon they must yield, For freemen have risen and taken the field. Then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea; Let the north, west, and east, to the sea-beaten shore, Resound with a liberty triumph once more.
ROUSE UP, NEW ENGLAND.
Words by a Yankee. Music by G.W.C.
Rouse up, New England! Buckle on your mail of proof sublime, Your stern old hate of tyranny, your deep contempt of crime; A traitor plot is hatching now, more full of woe and shame, Than ever from the iron heart of bloodiest despot came.
Six slave States added at a breath! One flourish of a pen, And fetters shall be riveted on millions more of men! One drop of ink to sign a name, and slavery shall find For all her surplus flesh and blood, a market to her mind!
A market where good Democrats their fellow men may sell! O, what a grin of fiendish glee runs round and round thro' hell! How all the damned leap up for joy and half forget their fire, To think men take such pains to claim the notice of God's ire.
Is't not enough that we have borne the sneer of all the world, And bent to those whose haughty lips in scorn of us are curled? Is't not enough that we must hunt their living chattels back, And cheer the hungry bloodhounds on, that howl upon their track?
Is't not enough that we must bow to all that they decree,— These cotton and tobacco lords, these pimps of slavery? That we must yield our conscience up to glut Oppression's maw, And break our faith with God to keep the letter of Man's law?
But must we sit in silence by, and see the chain and whip Made firmer for all time to come in Slavery's bloody grip! Must we not only half the guilt and all the shame endure, But help to make our tyrant's throne of flesh and blood secure?
Is water running in our veins? Do we remember still Old Plymouth rock, and Lexington, and glorious Bunker Hill? The debt we owe our Father's graves? and to the yet unborn, Whose heritage ourselves must make a thing of pride or scorn?
Grey Plymouth rock hath yet a tongue, and Concord is not dumb, And voices from our father's graves, and from the future come; They call on us to stand our ground, they charge us still to be Not only free from chains ourselves, but foremost to make free!
Awake, New England! While you sleep the foes advance their lines; Already on your stronghold's wall their bloody banner shines; Awake! and hurl them back again in terror and despair, The time has come for earnest deeds, we've not a man to spare.
RISE, FREEMEN, RISE.
Music by G.W.C.
Rise, freemen rise! the call goes forth, Attend the high command; Obedience to the word of God, Throughout this guilty land: Throughout this guilty land.
Rise, free the slave; oh, burst his chains, And cast his fetters down; Let virtue be your country's pride, Her diadem and crown.
Then shall the day at length arrive, When all shall equal be, And Freedom's banner, waving high, Proclaim that all are free.
O Thou, from whom all goodness flows! I lift my heart to thee; In all my wrongs, oppressions, woes, Dear Lord! remember me.
Afflictions sore obstruct my way, And ills I cannot flee; Lord! let my strength be as my day, And still remember me.
Oppressed with scourges, bonds, and grief, This feeble body see; Oh! give my burdened soul relief, Hear, and remember me.
A BEACON HAS BEEN LIGHTED.
Parody by G.W.C. Air, "Blue-eyed Mary."
A beacon has been lighted, Bright as the noonday sun; On worlds of mind benighted, Its rays are pouring down; Full many a shrine of error, And many a deed of shame, Dismayed, has shrunk in terror, Before the lighted flame.
Victorious, on, victorious! Proud beacon onward haste; Till floods of light all glorious, Illume the moral waste.
Oppression foul has foundered, The demon gasps for breath; His rapid march is downward, To everlasting death. Old age and youth united, His works shall prostrate hurl, And soon himself, affrighted, Shall hurry from this world. Victorious, on, victorious, &c.
Proud liberty untiring, Strikes at the monster's heart; Beneath her blows expiring, He dreads her well-aimed dart. Her blows—we'll pray "God speed" them, Oppression to despoil; And how we fought for freedom, Let future ages tell. Victorious, on, victorious, &c.
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS.
Words by Whittier. "Beatitude," by T. Hastings.
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 hallow'd 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 barter'd as the brute for gold!
Speak! shall their agony of prayer Come thrilling to our hearts in vain? To us, whose fathers scorn'd 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 plunder'd Right?
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?
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?
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, And leave no traces where it stood; No 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!
BY W.H. BURLEIGH.
Yes—fame is his:—but not the fame For which the conqueror pants and strives, Whose path is tracked through blood and flame, And over countless human lives! His name no armed battalions hail With bugle shriek or thundering gun,— No widows curse him, as they wail For slaughtered husband and for son.
Amid the moral strife alone, He battled fearlessly and long, And poured, with clear, untrembling tone, Rebuke upon the hosts of Wrong— To break Oppression's cruel rod, He dared the perils of the fight, And in the name of FREEDOM'S GOD Struck boldly for the TRUE and RIGHT!
With faith, whose eye was never dim, The triumph, yet afar, he saw, When, bonds smote off from soul and limb, And freed alike by Love and Law, The slave—no more a slave—shall stand Erect—and loud, from sea to sea, Exultant burst o'er all the land The glorious song of jubilee!
Why should we mourn, thy labor done, That thou art called to thy reward; Rest, Freedom's war-worn champion! Rest, faithful soldier of the LORD! For oh, not vainly hast thou striven, Through storm, and gloom, and deepest night— Not vainly hath thy life been given For GOD, for FREEDOM, and for RIGHT.
VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND AGAINST SLAVERY.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W.C.
Up the hill side, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen; Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low, Like a nightstorm rising slow, Like the tread of unseen foe.
It is coming—it is nigh! Stand your homes and altars by; On your own free threshholds die. Clang the bells in all your spires; On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal fires.
Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow. Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race— None for traitors false and base.
Take your land of sun and bloom; Only leave to Freedom room For her plough, and forge, and loom. Take your slavery-blackened vales; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails.
Onward with your fell design; Dig the gulf and draw the line; Fire beneath your feet the mine: Deeply, when the wide abyss Yawns between your land and this, Shall ye feel your helplessness.
By the hearth, and in the bed, Shaken by a look or tread, Ye shall own a guilty dread. And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil, Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, Vines our rocks shall overgrow, Plenty in our valleys flow;— And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes, As the damned on Paradise!
We but ask our rocky strand, Freedom's true and brother band, Freedom's strong and honest hand, Valleys by the slave untrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessed of our fathers' God!
THE CLARION OF FREEDOM.
Words from the Emancipator. Music "The Chariot."
The clarion—the clarion of Freedom now sounds, From the east to the west Independence resounds; From the hills, and the streams, and the far distant skies, Let the shout Independence from Slav'ry arise.
The army—the army have taken the field, And the Liberty hosts never, never will yield; By free principles strengthened, each bosom now glows, And with ardor immortal the struggle they close.
The armor, the armor that girds every breast, Is the hope of deliverance for millions oppressed; O'er the tears, and the sighs, and the wrongs of the slave, See the white flag of freedom triumphantly wave.
The conflict—the conflict will shortly be o'er, And the demon of slavery shall rule us no more; And the laurels of victory shall surely reward The heroes immortal who've conquered for God.
STRIKE FOR LIBERTY.
Words from the Christian Freeman. Air, "Scots wha hae."
Sons of Freedom's honored sires, Light anew your beacon fires, Fight till every foe retires From your hallowed soil. Sons of Pilgrim Fathers blest, Pilgrim Mothers gone to rest, Listen to their high behest, Strike for Liberty.
Ministers of God to men, Heed ye not the nation's sin? Heaven's blessing can ye win If ye falter now? Men of blood now ask your vote, O'er your heads their banners float; Raise, Oh raise the warning note, God and duty call!
Men of justice, bold and brave, To the ballot-box and save Freedom from her opening grave— Onward! brothers, on! Christian patriots, tried and true, Freedom's eyes now turn to you; Foes are many—are ye few? Gideon's God is yours!
On to Victory.
BY REV. MRS. MARTYN.
Children of the glorious dead, Who for freedom fought and bled, With her banner o'er you spread, On to victory. Not for stern ambition's prize, Do our hopes and wishes rise; Lo, our leader from the skies, Bids us do or die.
Ours is not the tented field— We no earthly weapons wield— Light and love, our sword and shield, Truth our panoply. This is proud oppression's hour; Storms are round us; shall we cower? While beneath a despot's power Groans the suffering slave?
While on every southern gale, Comes the helpless captive's tale, And the voice of woman's wail, And of man's despair? While our homes and rights are dear, Guarded still with watchful fear, Shall we coldly turn our ear From the suppliant's prayer?
Never! by our Country's shame— Never! by a Saviour's claim, To the men of every name, Whom he died to save. Onward, then, ye fearless band— Heart to heart, and hand to hand; Yours shall be the patriot's stand— Or the martyr's grave.
THE MAN FOR ME.
Parody by J.N.T. Tucker. Air, "The Rose that all are praising."
Oh, he is not the man for me, Who buys or sells a slave, Nor he who will not set him free, But sends him to his grave; But he whose noble heart beats warm For all men's life and liberty; Who loves alike each human form— Oh that's the man for me, Oh that's the man for me, Oh that's the man for me.
He's not at all the man for me, Who sells a man for gain, Who bends the pliant servile knee, To Slavery's God of shame! But he whose God-like form erect Proclaims that all alike are free To think, and speak, and vote, and act, Oh that's the man for me.
He sure is not the man for me Whose spirit will succumb, When men endowed with Liberty Lie bleeding, bound and dumb; But he whose faithful words of might Ring through the land from shore to sea, For man's eternal equal right, Oh that's the man for me.
No, no, he's not the man for me Whose voice o'er hill and plain, Breaks forth for glorious liberty, But binds himself, the chain! The mightiest of the noble band Who prays and toils the world to free, With head, and heart, and voice, and vote— Oh that's the man for me.
Words by Geo. Lunt. Air "Troubadour."
Over the mountain wave See where they come; Storm-cloud and wintry wind Welcome them home; Yet where the sounding gale Howls to the sea, There their song peals along, Deep toned and free. Pilgrims and wanderers, Hither we come; Where the free dare to be, This is our home.
England hath sunny dales, Dearly they bloom; Scotia hath heather-hills, Sweet their perfume: Yet through the wilderness Cheerful we stray, Native land, native land— Home far away! Pilgrims, &c.
Dim grew the forest path, Onward they trod: Firm beat their noble hearts, Trusting in God! Gray men and blooming maids, High rose their song— Hear it sweep, clear and deep Ever along! Pilgrims, &c.
Not theirs the glory-wreath, Torn by the blast; Heavenward their holy steps, Heavenward they passed! Green be their mossy graves! Ours be their fame, While their song peals along, Ever the same! Pilgrims, &c.
FROM THE LIBERATOR.
Feebly the bondman toiled, Sadly he wept— Then to his wretched cot Mournfully crept: How doth his free-born soul Pine 'neath his chain! Slavery! Slavery! Dark is thy reign.
Long ere the break of day, Roused from repose, Wearily toiling Till after its close— Praying for freedom, He spends his last breath: Liberty! Liberty! Give me, or death.
When, when, oh Lord! will right Triumph o'er wrong? Tyrants oppress the weak, Oh Lord! how long? Hark! hark! a peal resounds From shore to shore— Tyranny! Tyranny! Thy reign is o'er.
E'en now the morning Gleams from the East— Despots are feeling Their triumph is past— Strong hearts are answering To freedom's loud call— Liberty! Liberty! Full and for all.
FOURTH OF JULY.
Words by Mrs. Sigourney. Music by G.W.C.
We have a goodly clime, Broad vales and streams we boast; Our mountain frontiers frown sublime, Old Ocean guards our coast.
Suns bless our harvests fair, With fervid smile serene, But a dark shade is gathering there, What can its blackness mean?
We have a birth-right proud, For our young sons to claim— An eagle soaring o'er the cloud, In freedom and in fame.
We have a scutcheon bright, By our dead fathers bought; A fearful blot distains its white— Who hath such evil wrought?
Our banner o'er the sea Looks forth with starry eye, Emblazoned glorious, bold and free, A letter on the sky—
What hand with shameful stain, Hath marred its heavenly blue? The yoke, the fasces, and the chain, Say, are these emblems true?
This day doth music rare Swell through our nation's bound, But Afric's wailing mingles there, And Heaven doth hear the sound.
O God of power! we turn In penitence to thee, Bid our loved land the lesson learn— To bid the slave be free.
YE SPIRITS OF THE FREE.
Air—"My faith looks up to thee."
Ye spirits of the free, Can ye for ever see Your brother man A yoked and scourged slave, Chains dragging to his grave, And raise no hand to save? Say if you can.
In pride and pomp to roll, Shall tyrants from the soul God's image tear, And call the wreck their own,— While from th' eternal throne, They shut the stifled groan, And bitter prayer?
Shall he a slave be bound, Whom God hath doubly crowned Creation's lord? Shall men of Christian name, Without a blush of shame, Profess their tyrant claim From God's own word?
No! at the battle cry, A host prepared to die, Shall arm for fight— But not with martial steel, Grasped with a murderous zeal; No arms their foes shall feel, But love and light.
Firm on Jehovah's laws, Strong in their righteous cause, They march to save. And vain the tyrant's mail, Against their battle-hail, Till cease the woe and wail Of tortured slave!
Sing Me a Triumph Song.
Sing me a triumph song, Roll the glad notes along, Great God, to thee! Thine be the glory bright, Source of all power and might! For thou hast said, in might, Man shall be free.
Sing me a triumph song, Let all the sound prolong, Air, earth, and sea, Down falls the tyrant's power, See his dread minions cower; Now, from this glorious hour, Man will be free.
Sing me a triumph song, Sing in the mighty throng, Sing Jubilee! Let the broad welkin ring, While to heaven's mighty King, Honor and praise we sing, For man is free.
WAKE, SONS OF THE PILGRIMS.
Wake, sons of the Pilgrims, and look to your right! The despots of Slav'ry are up in their might: Indulge not in sleep, it's like digging the graves Of blood-purchased freedom—'tis yielding like slaves. Then halloo, halloo, halloo to the contest, Awake from your slumbers, no longer delay, But struggle for freedom, while struggle you may— Then rally, rally, rally, rally, rally, rally, While our forests shall wave or while rushes a river, Oh, yield not your birth-right! maintain it for ever!
Wake, Sons of the Pilgrims! why slumber ye on? Your chains are now forging, your fetters are done; Oh! sleep not, like Samson, on Slavery's foul arm, For, Delilah-like, she's now planning your harm. Then halloo, halloo, halloo, to the contest! Awake from your sleeping—nor slumber again, Once bound in your fetters, you'll struggle in vain; While your eye-balls may move, O wake up now, or never— Wake, freemen! awake, or you're ruined forever!
Yes, freemen are waking! we fling to the breeze, The bright flag of freedom, the banner of Peace; The slave long forgotten, forlorn, and alone, We hail as a brother—our own mother's son! Then halloo, halloo, halloo, to the contest! For freedom we rally—for freedom to all— To rescue the slave, and ourselves too from thrall. We rally, rally, rally, rally, rally, rally— While a slave shall remain, bound, the weak by the stronger, We will never disband, but strive harder and longer.
OUR COUNTRYMEN ARE DYING.
Words by C.W. Dennison. Tune—"From Greenland's Icy Mountains."
Our countrymen are dying Beneath their cankering chains, Full many a heart is sighing, Where nought but slav'ry reigns; No note of joy and gladness, No voice with freedom's lay, Fall on them in their sadness, To wipe those tears away.
Where proud Potomac dashes Along its northern strand, Where Rappahannock lashes Virginia's sparkling sand; Where Eutaw, famed in story, Flows swift to Santee's stream, There, there in grief and gory, The pining slave is seen!
And shall New England's daughters, Descendants of the free, Beside whose far-famed waters Is heard sweet minstrelsy— Shall they, when hearts are breaking, And woman weeps in woe, Shall they, all listless waiting, No hearts of pity show.
No! let the shout for freedom Ring out a certain peal, Let sire and youthful maiden, All who have hearts to feel, Awake! and with the blessing Of Him who came to save, A holy, peaceful triumph, Shall greet the kneeling slave!
We ask not Martial Glory.
We ask not "martial glory," Nor "battles bravely won;" We tell no boastful story To laud our "favorite son;" We do not seek to gather From glory's field of blood, The laurels of the warrior, Steeped in the crimson flood—
But we can boast that Birney Holds not the tyrant's rod, Nor binds in chains and fetters, The image of his God; No vassal, at his bidding, Is doomed the lash to feel; No menial crouches near him, No Charley's at his heel.
His heart is free from murder, His hand without its stain; His head and heart united, To loose the bondman's chain: His deeds of noble daring, Shall make the tyrant cower; Oppression flees before him, With all its boasted power.
Soon shall the voice of freedom, O'er earth its echoes roll— And earth's rejoicing millions Be free, from pole to pole. Then rally round your leader, Ye friends of liberty; And let the shout for Birney, Ring out o'er land and sea.
[Footnote 3: Clay's body servant.]
COME, JOIN THE ABOLITIONISTS.
Air—"When I can read my title clear."
Come, join the Abolitionists, Ye young men bold and strong, And with a warm and cheerful zeal, Come, help the cause along: Come help the cause along, Come help the cause along; And with a warm and cheerful zeal, Come, help the cause along. Oh that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, Oh that will be joyful, When Slav'ry is no more, When Slav'ry is no more, When Slav'ry is no more: 'Tis then we'll sing, and off'rings bring, When Slav'ry is no more.
Come, join the Abolitionists, Ye men of riper years, And save your wives and children dear, From grief and bitter tears: From grief and bitter tears, From grief and bitter tears; And save your wives and children dear, From grief and bitter tears. Oh that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, Oh that will be joyful, When Slav'ry is no more, When Slav'ry is no more, When Slav'ry is no more: 'Tis then we'll sing, and off'rings bring, When Slav'ry is no more.
Come join the Abolitionists, Ye dames and maidens fair; And breathe around us in our path, Affection's hallowed air. O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, When woman cheers us on, When woman cheers us on, When woman cheers us on, To conquests not yet won; 'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, When woman cheers us on.
Come, join the Abolitionists, Ye sons and daughters all; Of this our own America, Come at the friendly call. O that will be joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, When all shall proudly say, This, this is Freedom's day, Oppression flee away! 'Tis then we'll sing and offerings bring, When Freedom wins the day.
WE ARE COME, ALL COME.
We are come, all come, with the crowded throng, To join our notes in a plaintive song; For the bond man sighs, and the scalding tear Runs down his cheek while we mingle here.
We are come, all come, with a hallowed vow, At the shrine of slavery never to bow, For the despot's reign o'er hill and plain, Spreads grief and woe in his horrid train.
We are come, all come, a determined band, To rescue the slave from the tyrant's hand; And our prayers shall ascend with our songs to Him Who sits in the midst of the cherubim.
We are come, all come, in the strength of youth, In the light of hope and the power of truth; And we joy to see in our ranks to-day, The honored locks of the good and grey.
We are come, all come, in our holy might, And freedom's foes shall be put to flight; Oh God! with favoring smiles from thee, Our songs shall soon chant the victory.
THE LAW OF LOVE.
Words by a Lady. Music by G.W.C.
Blest is the man whose tender heart Feels all another's pain, To whom the supplicating eye Was never raised in vain, Was never raised in vain.
Whose breast expands with generous warmth, A stranger's woe to feel, And bleeds in pity o'er the wound, He wants the power to heal, He wants the power to heal.
He spreads his kind supporting arms, To every child of grief; His secret bounty largely flows, And brings unasked relief.
To gentle offices of love His feet are never slow; He views, through mercy's melting eye, A brother in his foe.
To him protection shall be shown, And mercy from above Descend on those, who thus fulfil The perfect law of love.
Oh charity! thou heavenly grace, All tender, soft, and kind, A friend to all the human race, To all that's good inclined.
The man of charity extends To all his helping hand; His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends, His pity may command.
The sick, the prisoner, deaf, and blind, And all the sons of grief, In him a benefactor find; He loves to give relief.
'Tis love that makes religion sweet 'Tis love that makes us rise; With willing minds, and ardent feet, To yonder happy skies.
THE MERCY SEAT.
Words by Mrs. Sigourney. Music by G.W.C.
From every stormy wind that blows, From every swelling tide of woes, There is a calm, a sure retreat— Our refuge is the Mercy-seat.
There is a place where Jesus sheds The oil of gladness on our heads, A place than all beside more sweet— We seek the blood-bought Mercy-seat.
There is a spot where spirits blend, Where friend holds fellowship with friend; Though sundered far, by faith we meet, Around one common Mercy-Seat.
Ah! whither could we flee for aid, When hunted, scourged, oppressed, dismayed,— Or how our bloody foes defeat, Had suffering slaves no Mercy-Seat!
Oh! let these hands forget their skill, These tongues be silent, cold, and still, These throbbing hearts forget to beat, If we forget the Mercy-Seat.
Friend of the Friendless.
God of my life! to thee I call, Afflicted at thy feet I fall; When the great water-floods prevail, Leave not my trembling heart to fail.
Friend of the friendless and the faint! Where should I lodge my deep complaint? Where but with thee, whose open door Invites the helpless and the poor?
Did ever mourner plead with thee, And thou refuse that mourner's plea? Does not thy word still fixed remain, That none shall seek thy face in vain?
Poor though I am, despised, forgot, Yet God, my God forgets me not; And he is safe, he must succeed, For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.
WAKE YE NUMBERS!
Words by Lewis. Air, "Strike the Cymbals."
Wake ye numbers! from your slumbers Hear the song of freedom pour! By its shaking, fiercely breaking, Every chain upon our shore. Flags are waving, all tyrants braving, Proudly, freely, o'er our plains; Let no minions check our pinions, While a single grief remains. Proud oblations, thou Queen of nations! Have been poured upon they waters; Afric's bleeding sons and daughters, Now before us, loud implore us, Looking to Jehovah's throne, Chains are wearing, hearts despairing, Will ye hear a nation's moan? Soothe their sorrow, ere the morrow Change their aching hearts to stone: Then the light of nature's smile Freedom's realm shall bless the while; And the pleasure mercy brings Flow from all her latent springs; Delight shall spread, shall spread her shining wings, Rejoicing, Rejoicing, Rejoicing.
Daily, nightly, burning brightly, Glory's pillar fills the air; Hearts are waking, chains are breaking, Freedom bids her sons prepare: O'er the ocean, in proud devotion, Incense rises to the skies; From our mountains, o'er our fountains, See, our Eagle proudly flies! What deploring impedes his soaring? Millions still in bondage sighing! Long in deep oppression lying! Shall their story mar our glory? Must their life in sorrow flow? Tears are falling! fetters galling! Listen to the cry of woe! Still oppressing! never blessing! Shall their grief no ending know? Yes! our nation yet shall feel; Time shall break the chain of steel; Then the slave shall nobly stand; Peace shall smile with lustre bland; Glory shall crown our happy land— Forever.
COMFORT FOR THE BONDMAN.
Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades in this wilderness, Who groan beneath your chains; A while forget your griefs and fears, And look beyond this vale of tears, To yon celestial plains.
Beyond the bounds of time and space, Look forward to that heavenly place, Which mortals never trod; On faith's strong eagle pinions rise, Work out your passage to the skies, And scale the mount of God.
If, like our Lord, we suffer here, We shall before his face appear, And at his side sit down; To patient faith the prize is sure, For all who to the end endure Shall wear a glorious crown.
Thrice blessed, exalted, blissful hope! It lifts our fainting spirits up, It brings to life the dead; Our bondage here will soon be past, Then we shall rise and reign at last, Triumphant with our Head.
Come and see the Works of God.
Lift up to God the shout of joy, Let all the earth its powers employ, To sound his glorious praise; Say, unto God—"How great art thou! Thy foes before thy presence bow! How gracious are thy ways!
"To thee all lands their homage bring, They raise the song, they shout, they sing The honors of thy name." Come! see the wondrous works of God; How dreadful is his vengeful rod! How wide extends his fame!
He made a highway through the sea, His people, long-enslaved, to free, And give them Canaan's land; Through endless years his reign extends, His piercing eye to earth he bends— Ye despots! fear his hand.
O! bless our God, lift up your voice Ye people! sing aloud—rejoice— His mighty praise declare; The Lord hath made our bondage cease, Broke off our chains, brought sure release, And turned to praise our prayer.
HARK! A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.
Words by Oliver Johnson. Music—"Zion."
Hark! a voice from heaven proclaiming, Comfort to the mourning slave; God has heard him long complaining, And extends his arm to save; Proud oppression Soon shall find a shameful grave; Proud oppression, Soon shall find a shameful end.
See, the light of truth is breaking Full and clear on every hand; And the voice of mercy speaking, Now is heard through all the land: Firm and fearless, See the friends of freedom stand.
Lo! the nation is arousing From its slumber long and deep; And the friends of God are waking, Never, never more to sleep, While a bondman, In his chains remains to weep.
Long, too long, have we been dreaming O'er our country's sin and shame: Let us now, the time redeeming, Press the helpless captive's claim— Till exulting, He shall cast aside his chain.
THE PLEASANT LAND WE LOVE.
Words by N.P. Willis. Air, Carrier Dove.
Joy to the pleasant land we love, The land our fathers trod! Joy to the land for which they won "Freedom to worship God." For peace on all its sunny hills, On every mountain broods, And sleeps by all its gushing rills, And all its mighty floods.
The wife sits meekly by the hearth, Her infant child beside; The father on his noble boy Looks with a fearless pride. The grey old man, beneath the tree, Tales of his childhood tells; And sweetly in the hush of morn Peal out the Sabbath bells.
And we ARE free—but is there not One blot upon our name? Is our proud record written fair Upon the scroll of fame? Our banner floateth by the shore, Our flag upon the sea; But when the fettered slave is loosed, We shall be truly free!
The Freed Slave.
Yet once again, once more again, My bark bounds o'er the wave; They know not, who ne'er clanked the chain, What 'tis to be a slave: To sit alone, beside the wood, And gaze upon the sky: This may, indeed, be solitude, But 'tis not slavery.
Fatigued with labor's noontide task, To sigh in vain for sleep; Or faintly smile, our griefs to mask, When 't would be joy to weep; To court the shade of leafy bower, Thirst for the freedom wave, But to obtain denied the power— This is to be a slave!
Son of the sword! on honor's field 'Tis thine to find a grave; Yet, when from life's worst ill 'twould shield, It comes not to the slave. The lightsome to the heavy heart, The laugh changed to the sigh; To live from all we love apart— Oh! this is slavery.
The Liberty Flag.
ALTERED FROM J.H. AIKMAN.
Fling abroad its folds to the cooling breeze, Let it float at the mast-head high; And gather around, all hearts resolved, To sustain it there or die: An emblem of peace and hope to the world, Unstained let it ever be; And say to the world, where'er it waves, Our flag is the flag of the free!
That banner proclaims to the list'ning earth, That the reign of base tyrants is o'er, The galling chain of the cruel lord, Shall enslave mankind no more: An emblem of hope to the poor and crushed, O place it where all may see; And shout with glad voice as you raise it high, Our flag is the flag of the free!
Then on high, on high let that banner wave, And lead us the foe to meet, Let it float in triumph o'er our heads, Or be our winding sheet; And never, oh, never be it furled, 'Till it wave o'er earth and sea; And all mankind shall swell the shout Our flag is the flag of the free.
MARCH TO THE BATTLEFIELD.
Parody by G.W.C. Air "Oft in the stilly night."
March to the battlefield, The foe is now before us; Each heart is freedom's shield, And heaven is smiling o'er us. The woes and pains of slavery's chains, That bind three millions under; In proud disdain we'll burst their chain, And tear each link asunder.
Who for his country brave, Would fly from her invader? Who his base life to save Would traitor like degrade her? Our hallowed cause— Our homes and laws, 'Gainst tyrant hosts sustaining, We'll win a crown of bright renown, Or die, man's rights maintaining, March to the battlefield, &c.
Oft in the Chilly Night.
Oft in the chilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, When all her silvery light The moon is pouring round me, Beneath its ray I kneel and pray That God would give some token That slavery's chains on Southern plains, Shall all ere long be broken: Yes, in the chilly night, Though slavery's chain has bound me, Kneel I, and feel the might Of God's right arm around me.
When at the driver's call, In cold or sultry weather, We slaves, both great and small, Turn out to toil together, I feel like one from whom the sun Of hope has long departed; And morning's light, and weary night, Still find me broken hearted: Thus, when the chilly breath Of night is sighing round me, Kneel I, and wish that death In his cold chain had bound me.
SONG OF THE FREE.
Parodied by G.W.C. Tune, Lutzow's Wild Hunt.
From valley and mountain, from hilltop and glen, What shouts thro' the air are rebounding! And echo is sending the sounds back again, And loud thro' the air they are sounding, And loud through the air they are sounding: And if you ask what those joyous strains? 'Tis the songs of bondmen now bursting their chains.
And who through our nation is waging the fight? What host from the battle is flying? Our true hearted freemen maintain the right, And the monster oppression is dying, And the monster oppression is dying: And if you ask what you there behold? 'Tis the army of freemen, the true and the bold.
Too long have slave-holders triumphantly reigned, Too long in their chains have they bound us; To freedom awaking, no longer enchained, The goddess of freedom has saved us, The goddess of freedom has saved us: And if you ask what has made us free? 'Tis the vote that gave us our liberty.
The bondmen are free in the isles of the main! The chains from their limbs they are flinging! They stand up as men!—never tyrant again, In the pride of his heart, shall God's image profane! It is Liberty's song that is ringing! Hark! loud comes the cry o'er the bounding sea, "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom, our joy is in thee!"
Alas! that to-day, on Columbia's shore, The groans of her slaves are resounding! On plains of the South their life-blood they pour! O, Freemen! blest Freemen! your help they implore! It is Slavery's wail that is sounding! Hark! loud comes the cry on the Southern gale, "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom or death, must prevail!"
O ye who are blest with fair Liberty's light, With courage and hope all abounding, With weapons of love be ye bold for the right! By the preaching of truth put oppression to flight! Then, your altars triumphant surrounding, Loud, loud let the anthem of joy ring out! "Freedom! Freedom!" list all the world to the shout!
YE SONS OF FREEMEN.
Words by Mrs. J.G. Carter. Air, "Marseilles Hymn."
Ye sons of freemen wake to sadness, Hark! hark, what myriads bid you rise; Three millions of our race in madness Break out in wails, in bitter cries, Break out in wails, in bitter cries; Must men whose hearts now bleed with anguish, Yes, trembling slaves, in freedom's land Endure the lash, nor raise a hand? Must nature 'neath the whip-cord languish? Have pity on the slave, Take courage from God's word; Pray on, pray on, all hearts resolved, these captives shall be free.
The fearful storm—it threatens lowering, Which God in mercy long delays; Slaves yet may see their masters cowering, While whole plantations smoke and blaze! While whole plantations smoke and blaze! And we may now prevent the ruin, Ere lawless force with guilty stride Shall scatter vengeance far and wide— With untold crimes their hands embruing. Have pity on the slave; Take courage from God's word; Pray, on, pray on, all hearts resolved—these captives shall be free!
With luxury and wealth surrounded, The southern masters proudly dare, With thirst of gold and power unbounded, To mete and vend God's light and air! To mete and vend God's light and air; Like beasts of burden, slaves are loaded, Till life's poor toilsome day is o'er; While they in vain for right implore; And shall they longer still be goaded? Have pity on the slave; Take courage from God's word; Toil on, toil on, all hearts resolved these captives shall be free.