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                         HEBREW STUDY

                          VOL. II – NO. I


                        BY MOSES STUART

                             Also by
[title page]

                          HEBREW STUDY


                           MOSES STUART
                        SEMINARY, ANDOVER

                              VOL. II

                              Also by
[new page]

George Russells
Scrap Books of Poetry
[End handwritten]

from Mass. Abolition[ist]
[new page]

                               District Clerk’s Office
Be it remembered, that on the thirteenth day of May, A.D. 1830, in the fifty-fourth year
of the Independence of the United States of America, Moses Stuart, of the said district
had deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as Author, in
the words following, to wit: ―Course of Hebrew Study, adapted to the use of beginners.
By Moses Stuart, Associate Professor of Sacred Literature in the Theological Seminary,
Andover. Vol. II.‖ In conformity with the Act of the Congress of the United States,
entitled, ―An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of maps,
charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein
mentioned:‖and also to an Act entitled, ―An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, An
Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and
books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;
and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching
historical and other prints.‖
                                                JOHN W. DAVIS, Clerk of the District
                                                                       of Massachusetts
[half-title page]

                       COURSE OF HEBREW STUDY

                              VOL. II-NO. I

[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No. 1
February 7th, 1839.
[End handwritten]

       We venture to prefix the name of JOHN PIERPONT to the following thrilling
stanzas. None but him could write them. We hope brothers Rogers of the Herald, will
put them into prose and circulate both editions, in a handbill, through the Granite State,
previous to the election. – [Ed. Abo.]

From the Atlas

Ho! children of the granite hills,
       That bristle with the hackmatack,
And sparkle with the crystal rills
       That hurry toward the Merrimack,
Dam up those rills!-for, while they run,
They all rebuke your ATHERTON.

Dam up those rills!-they flow so free
       O‘er icy slope and beetling crag,
That soon, they‘ll all be off at sea,
       Beyond the reach of Charlie‘s gag;
And, when those waters are the sea‘s,
They‘ll speak and thunder as they please.

Then freeze them stiff!-But let there come
        No winds to chain them;-should they blow,
They‘ll speak of freedom! Let the dumb
        And breathless frost forbid their flow;-
Then, all will be so hush‘d and mum,
Ye‘ll think your ATHERTON has come.

Not he!-―Of all the airts that blow‖
        He dearly loves the soft south west,
That tells where rice and cotton grow,
        And man is, like ―the Patriarchs,‖ blest
(So say some eloquent divines!)
With God-given* slaves and concubines.

Let not the winds go thus, at large,
        That now o‘er all your hills career-
Your Sunapee and Kearsarge-
        Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer,
That, like the winds, sweep o‘er each hill,
Should all be gagged, to keep them still.

And all your big and little brooks,
       That rush down, laughing, toward the sea,
Your Lampreys, Squams and Contoocooks,
       That show a spirit to be free,
Should learn, they‘re not to take such airs:
Your mouths are stopped;-then why not theirs?

Ping every spring that dares to play
         At bubble in its gravel cup,
Or babble, as it runs away.-
         Nay, catch and coop your eagles up!
It is not fit that they should fly,

Ye‘ve not done yet!-Your very trees-
       Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag
In concert with the mountain breeze-
       Unless they’re silenced by a gag,
Will whisper-―WE will stand our ground!
OUR heads are up! OUR HEARTS ARE SOUND!‖

Sons of the granite hills, your birds,
       Your winds, your waters and your trees,
Of power and freedom speak, in words
       That should be felt in times like these.
Their voice comes to you from the sky!
In them, GOD speaks of Liberty.

Sons of the granite hills, awake!
       Ye‘re on a mighty steam afloat,
With all your liberties at stake-
       A faithless pilot‘s on your boat,
And while ye‘ve lain asleep, ye‘re snagged!
Nor can ye cry for help-ye‘re gagged!!!


*‖Here we see God dealing in slaves.‖- Rev. T.
Clapp‘s sermon at New Orleans.

The following spirited lines bear internal evidence of
being from the elastic pen of ELIZUR WRIGHT, JR.
None of our readers need to be told who the ―grey old mouse‖ is.

       From the Evening Post

Once on a time, as saith our story,
       Within a single edifice,
A nation flourished in its glory,
       Whose citizens were rats and mice.
The politics they prospered under
Passed far and widely for a wonder,
So based were they on reason‘s laws,
       And equal rights of vermin; -
So planned, the general good to cause,
       And cleanly keep Justitia‘s ermine.

The mice were populous by legions,
But mostly in the upper regions,
Where cracks and crevices so small were,
That none but mice could go at all there.

But there they got a name and grew,
       Established trade and ports of entry,
And made improvements not a few,
In cupboard, case and pantry.

The rats rejoiced in cellar spacious,
       Where finding ample fare,
       With little thought or care,
They grew remarkably audacious,-
       Great statesman they, and rhetoricians.
And eke by nature by politicians.

       On every great occasion,
       The council of the nation
[new page]

       Yclept Ratopolis,
       Where cat and dog police
       And foul monopolies,
       And all affairs of state,
       Gave rise to much debate.

Long lived this great mouse-ratic union,
       While enemies were hurt to see
       The wondrous peace and courtesy
With which the parties held communion.

       At length some busy story-teller
              Began to noise it through the house,
       That every thing down cellar
              Worked badly for the mouse.

Instead of persons fat and sleek,
They seemed but shadows, thin and weak.
Those cellar mice, - poor starving wretches,
Like what we‘re told are seen in churches!
For food,- while rates were proud to waste it,-
These famished mice dared hardly taste it.
       And worse,-‘t was rumored that
       Full many a tyrant rat
Had sold his neighbors to the cat!

       Resolved to have investigation
       In general council of the nation,
Some garret-mice there brought the charge
Against the race of rats at large.

      Up jumped a hundred rats or more,
      In furious haste to get the floor;
The one that did, in speech er-rat-ic,
      Cried, ―Mr. Speaker, I should like to know
What, with our cellar-mice, they have to do
Who live up in the attic!

       ―Our institutions are our own,
       We swear they must be let alone;
Our mice (for they indeed belong to us,)
Are better off than those that make the fuss;
A subject this we deign not to discuss,
       But let the canting saints,
        Who make these complaints,
        Their whiskers show the cellar side,
        And we the question will decide,
By means far briefer than haranguing,
That is to say, by HANGING.

A grey old mouse, that caught the Speaker‘s eye,
In nick of time, thus made reply: -
        ―I hold that mice of sense
        Will vote to save the expense
                Of further inquisition,-
And take, with full reliance,
This chivalrous defiance,
        As equal to confession.
None but the guilty deprecate
The lightning flash of free debate.‖
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist.
No 2
February 28. 1839.
[End handwritten]


For the Abolitionist.

Ho! granite pile on Bunker‘s sod,
       Why standst thou unfinished thus,-
A mockery where our fathers trod,
       A Babel, crumbling ‗neath the curse?

Ho! thou that men began to build,
       Not counting first the painful cost;
In whom the proverb is fulfilled
       Of care and cash by folly lost:-

I mind me when this soil for thee
       Was broken by the eager spade,
That day the son of liberty
       Thy corner-stone with shoutings laid.

He said that on the martyrs‘ bones
 Thy soaring shaft should proudly stand
And tell forever on its stones
 The fame and story of our land.

Then Eloquence was here – the throng
 Stood breathless on this sacred hill,
As rose to God the noble song
 Expressive of a people‘s will.

A change has come-no man may bind
 Thy massy blocks on hallowed ground,
Who thinks with shame, how lofty mind,
 In firmer grasp, hath SLAVERY bound!

This scorpion thought keeps back the gold
 Which should to plant thy top stone pay,
That human blood and bones are sold,
 And shoulds‘t thou prate of freedom? NAY!

A hissing only wouldst thou be,
 A bye-word of our country‘s shame;
And every syllable on thee
  Engraved, would falsehood still proclaim.

Not thus defy the men of might
 Who on this hill-top glory won;
Not thus affront the pilgrim‘s sight
 Upon this more than Marathon.

Yet-stand thou thus! a tell-tale, not
 Of heroes slumb‘ring at thy base-
But of the fact that one dear spot
 Hypocrisy shall not disgrace.

                            OLD ESSEX.
[Handwritten]Wm. B. Tappan[End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 3
March 7. 1839.
[End handwritten]


From the Penn. Freeman.

―To agitate for question (slavery) anew, is not only impolitic, but it is a virtual breach of
good faith to our brethren of the South; an unwarrantable interference with their domestic
relations and institutions.‖ ―I can never in the official station which I occupy, consent to
countenance a course which may jeopard [sic] the peace and harmony of the Union.‖ —
Gov. Porter’s Inaugural Message

No ―countenance‖ of his, forsooth!
 Who asked it at his vassal hands?
Who looked for homage done to truth,
 By Party‘s vile and hateful bands?
Who dreamed that one by them caressed,
Would lay for her his spear in rest?

His ―countenance!‖ Well, let it light
 The human-robber to his spoil!—
Let those who track the bondman‘s flight,
 Like bloodhounds, o‘er our once free soil,
Bask in its sunshine while they may
And howl its praises on their way;

We ask no boon: our RIGHTS we claim—
 Free press and thought-free tongue and pen,
The right to speak in Freedom‘s name,
 As Pennsylvanians and as men:
To do, by Lynch Law unforbid,
What our own Rush and Franklin did.

Ay, there we stand, with planted feet,
 Steadfast, where these old worthies stood:—
Upon us let the tempest beat,
 Around us swell and surge the flood:
We fail or triumph on that spot:
God helping us, we falter not.

―A breach of plagued faith!‖ for shame!—
  Who voted for that ―breach‖? who gave
In state councils, vote and name
  For freedom for the District slave?—
Consistent Patriot! go, forswear,
Blot out, ―expunge‖ the record there!*

Go, eat thy words. Shall Henry Clay
  Turn round-a moral Harlequin
And arch Van Buren wipe away
  The stains of his Missouri sin?
And shall that one unlucky vote
Stick burr-like in thy honest throat?

No-do thy part in ―putting down‖†
  The friends of Freedom:-summon out
The parson in his saintly gown,
  To curse the outlawed roundabout,
In concert with the Belial brood-
The Balaam of ―the brotherhood!‖

Quench every free-discussion light-
 Clap on the legislative snuffers,-
And caulk, with ―resolutions‖ tight,
 The ghastly rents the Union suffers!
Let Church and State brand Abolition
As Heresy and rank Sedition.

Choke down, at once, each breathing thing
 That whispers of the Rights of Man:—
Gag the free girl who dares to sing
 Of Freedom o‘er her dairy pan;
Dog the old farmer‘s steps about,
And hunt his cherished treason out.

Go hunt sedition.—Search for that
  In every pedlar‘s cart of rags;
Pry into every Quaker‘s hat
  And Dr. Fussell‘s saddle bags,
Lest treason wrap, with all its ills,
Around his powders and his pills.

Where Chester‘s oak and walnut shades
 With slavery-laden breezes stir,
And on the hills and in the glades
  Of Bucks and honest Lancaster,
And heads which think and hearts which feel—
Flints to the Abolition steel!

Ho!-send ye down a corporal‘s guard
  With flow of flag, and beat of drum—
Storm Lindley Coate‘s poultry yard,
  Beleaguer Thomas Whitson‘s home!
Beat up the Quaker quarters-show
Your valor to an unarmed foe!

Do more. Fill up your loathsome jails
 With faithful men and women-set
The scaffold up in these green vales,
 And let their verdant turf be wet
With the blood of unresisting men-
Ay, do all this, and more,-WHAT THEN?

Think ye, one heart of man or child
 Will falter from its lofty faith,
At the mob‘s tumult, fierce and wild-
 The prison cell-the shameful death?
No-nursed in storm and trial long,
The weakest of our band is strong.

O! while before us visions come
 Of slave-ships on Virginia‘s coast-
Of mothers in their childless home,
 Like Rachel, sorrowing over the lost-
The slave-gang scourged upon its way-
The blood-hound and his human prey.

We cannot falter! Did we so,
 The stones beneath would murmur out,
And all the winds that round us blow,
 Would whisper of our shame about.
No-let the tempest rock the land,
Our faith shall live-our truth shall stand.

True as Vaudois, hemmed around,
  With Papal fire and Roman steel-
Firm as the Christian heroine, bound
   Upon Domitian‘s torturing wheel,
We ‗bate no breath-we curb no thought:-
Come what may, WE FALTER NOT!
*It ought to be borne in mind, that David R. Porter voted in the legislature, to instruct the
Congressional delegation of Pennsylvania, to use their influence for the abolition of
slavery in the District of Columbia.
† ―He {Martin Van Buren) thinks the Abolitionists
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 4
March 14 1839.
[End handwritten]

―A man’s a man for a’ that.‖

Is there, for honest poverty,
  That hangs his head, and a‘ that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
  We dare to be poor, for a‘ that;
For a‘ that, and a‘ that;
  Our toils obscure, and a‘ that,
The rank is but the guinea‘s stamp,
   The man‘s the gowd, for a‘ that.

What though on homely fare we dine,
  Wear hodden gray and a‘ that,
Gie their fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
 A man‘s a man for a‘ that;
The honest man tho‘ e‘er so poor,
 Is a king o‘men for a‘ that.

Then let us pray that come what may,
  As come it will, for a‘that,
That sense and worth, o‘er a‘ the earth,
  May bear the gree, and a‘ that;
For a‘ that, and a‘ that,
 It‘s coming yet, for a‘ that,
That man to man, the world all o’er
 Shall brothers be, for a’ that.

Terms explained.—Gowd—gold.
                 Hodden—homespun or mean.
                 Gree—honor or victory.


FREEDOM‘S consecrated dower,
  Casket of a priceless gem!
Nobler heritage of power
  Than imperial diadem!
Corner-stone on which was reared
Liberty‘s triumphal dome,
When her glorious form appeared
‘Midst our own green mountain home!

Guard it, freemen!—guard it well!
 Spotless as your maidens‘ fame!
Never let your children tell
 Of your weakness—of your shame;
That their fathers basely sold
 What was bought with blood and toil—
That you bartered right for gold,
 Here on Freedom‘s sacred soil!

Let your eagle‘s quenchless eye,
 Fixed, unerring, sleepless, bright,
Watch, when danger hovers nigh,
 From his lofty mountain height;
While the stripes and stars shall wave
 O‘er this treasure, pure and free,
This land‘s Palladium, it shall save
 The home and shrine of liberty.‖
[new page]

No. 4, 5 & 6 contain W. Morris‘s speech.
[End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 5
March 21. 1839

From the New England Review.
         ATHERTON‘S GAG.

While old Scotia‘s glens and highlands
 Ring with anthems of the free,
And Britannia‘s sea-girt islands
 Swell the note of Jubilee,—
Shall the lips of Yankee freemen
 Wear the padlock of the slave?
Falter when oppression‘s demon
 Claims the birth-right of the brave?

Shall the light of Freedom‘s planet,
 Faintly glimmer and go out?
Hampshire! shall thy hills of granite
 Echo aught but Freedom‘s shout?
Never! while thy sons inherit
 The stern nature of their sires!
Never! while the pilgrim spirit
 Kindles from their altar fires!

Talk of Russia‘s bleak dominions-
  O‘er the doom of Poland sigh,-
Where the eagle‘s fettered pinions
  Strive in vain to cleave the sky!
In our fair and free republic,
  Meaner, viler despots frown;
‗Tis the heart that makes the tyrant,
  Not the mitre or the crown.

Let McDuffie speak in thunders
 From his Carolinian throne:
The Democracy of numbers:—
 Shall they e‘er his edicts own?
Let the lordling seek for subjects—
 Will he find the boon he craves?
O, New England!-nurse of freemen!
 Blush to own thy children slaves!
Blush-that while Oppression‘s legion
  Laugh to see the chains ye wear
A pilgrim from the ―Yankee region,‖
  Forged these chains, and placed them there!
Recreant! lo, the sunlight blazes
  Round thy damning triumphs won;
Fiends and furies chant thy praises,
  Perjured, perjured Atherton!
                              HARP OF THE VALE.
New Haven, Ct.


A man poured poison in his pump,
  And sold the water by the gill.
I seized in haste my speaking trump,
  And told the folks, ‘t was sure to kill.
  ―The pump is mine,‖ the fellow said,
  And all the folks are free, Sir;
Go feed the children of the dead,
  And please to let me be, Sir.‖

Another neighbor thought it wise
  To cheat his laborers of their hire.
―These men,‖ said I, ―will soon arise,
  And set our houses all on fire.‖
―These men are mine,‖ the rogue replied,
  What right have you to set them free, Sir?
‘Tis yours to check the rebel tide,
And fight, when needed, at my side,—
  Till then, you‘ll please to let me be, Sir.‖
                                    [Handwritten]E. Wright, Jr. [End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 6
March 28. 1839
[End handwritten]

In all things that have beauty, there is nothing to man more comely than liberty.—Milton.

When the dance of the shadows
At daybreak is done,
And the cheeks of the morning
Are red with the sun;
When he sinks in his glory,
At eve from his view,
And calls up the planet
To blaze in the blue—
There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see
More proud than the sight of a nation when free?

When the beautiful bend
Of the bow is above,
Like a collar of light,
On the bosom of love;
When the moon in her mildness
Is floating on high
Like a banner of silver
Hung out in the sky
There is beauty. But each has no beauty to see
More proud than the front of the nation when free.

In depth of darkness,
Unvaried in hue,
When shadows are veiling
The breast of the blue;
When the voice of the tempest
At midnight is still,
And the spirit of solitude
Sleeps on the hill—
There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see
Like the broad beaming brow of a nation when free.

In the breath of the morning,
When nature‘s awake,
And calls up the chorus
To chant in the brake,
In the voice of the echo,
Unbound in the woods,
In the murm‘ring of streams,
And the foaming of floods,
There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see
Like the thrice hallowed sight if a nation when free.

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?
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 7
April 4, 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Madisonian.

The prairie new my home shall be,
 My canopy, the skies;
My songster bright, the humble bee,
 When morning bids me rise:
My mirror, yonder turbid stream;
My jewel, yonder fire-fly gleam.

My shade shall be the bugle weed,
 My couch, the lowland fern;
Yet on my wild and matchless steed,
 The sombre plain I‘ll spurn;
And oft at eve my eye shall view
The woody hills and waters blue.

Oh, fairer beams the ray of morn
 Upon my native woods,
Where rang my father‘s hunting horn,
 Amid the solitudes:
When onward sped the fallow deer,
With eyes suffused with many a tear.

The forest spring—the ocean cave—
 The eagle on the cliff—
The bird that rested on the wave,
 And Oh, my bounding skiff;
That sylvan dell where cookoos [sic] sung,
And wind-woke harps in music rung.

The purple mount with summit bare;
  The grove that gemmed its breast;
The robin that sang sweetly there,
 When sunset bathed the West;
The cheerful wigwam in the nook,
When leaped in joy the mountain brook.

The sparkling beach, with spotted shells
 Fresh strewn by ocean‘s girls,
Whose sighs the coming storm foretells,
  Tho‘ zephyrs kiss their curls;
The beaver dam upon the stream,
The lake‘s lone isle, where spirits dream.

Oh, they are hidden from my sight,
  And stranger feet are there;
My mother‘s grave is leveled quite,
 And gone the bower so fair;
And drowsy mills disturb the flood
Oft crimsoned with my father‘s blood.

The white man‘s stronger cabins stand
 In clusters on the plain;
The groves have fled at their command,
 And round them wave the grain;
The plough has grated o‘er my sire,
And swept away his council fire.

All, all are lost to me and mine,
  Amid the prairie wild,
And now my heart at eve doth pine
  For where I roamed as a child.
My eyes are pained with sorrow‘s tears,
   My ears with rustling grass,—
I hate the long and joyless years,
  And bid them swiftly pass.

Oh, for the hills my fathers trod,
 The birth-place of the brace,
Where white men praise the white man‘s God
 And fades the Indian grace—
Where spirits roam by silver streams,
 And weep at evening‘s hour,
To cheer the dying in their dreams,
 And tint the drooping flower.

Washington, Feb. 22, 1839.                           J.E.D.

        I‘ve beat, said Jack, all fair and square;
As in the dirt he bung‘d his comrade‘s eyes.
Then get you off, and let the fellow rise,
Said one. Said Jack, I do not dare!
                                             [Handwritten] E. Wright[End
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 8
April 11. 1839.
[End handwritten]


The 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 roll‘d that day,
  When the May Flower moor‘d below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
  And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapp‘d 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 he gave to the gale,
 When the heavens look‘d 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 bow
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 in verdure dress‘d,
 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 May Flower
   Shall foam and freeze no more

ESSEX REGISTER.—We have always liked the taste, candor, and high moral tone of
this paper. The following is its motto:
        Here shall the Press, the People‘s Rights maintain,
        Unawed by Influence, and unbrib‘d by Gain;
        Here Patriot Truth her glorious Precepts draw,
        Pledged to Religion, Liberty, and Law.

In this crisis, would it not be well that its numerous readers should have a little more
about ―THE PEOPLE‖ and ―LIBERTY?‖
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 9
April 18. 1839.
[End handwritten]

A highly gifted friend, whose contributions will always be thrice welcome to our
columns, will accept our thanks for the following beautiful and touching stanzas.

For the Abolitionist.

Is it his daily toil that wrings,
  From the Slave‘s bosom, that deep sigh?
Is it his niggard fare that brings
  That tear to his down-cast eye?

O, no: —by toil and humble fare
   Earth‘s sons their strength—their glory gain.
It is because the slave must wear
         His CHAIN.

Is it the sweat, from every pore
  That starts, and glistens in the sun,
As—the young cotton bending o‘er—
  His naked back it falls upon?
Is it those drops that fall from his breast,
  Into the thirsty furrows fall,
That scald his soul—deny him rest,
  And turn his cup of life to gall?

No: for, that man with the sweating brow
 Shall eat his bread doth God ordain.
That the slave‘s spirit does not bow;—
       It is his CHAIN.

Is it that scorching sands and skies
  Upon his velvet skin have set
A hue, admired in Beauty‘s eyes,
  Or Genoa‘s silks, or polished jet?

No:—for this color was his pride,
 When roaming o‘er his native plain:—
That hue, even here, can he abide,
       But not his CHAIN.

Nor is it that his back and limbs
 Are scored with many a gory gash,
That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,
 And the MAN dies beneath the lash.

For Baal‘s priests, on Carmel‘s slope,
  Themselves with knives and lancets scored,
Till the blood spirited—in the hope
  That He would hear whom they adored.

And Christian Flagellants their backs,
 All naked, to the scourge have given;
And Martyrs to their stakes and racks
 Have gone, of choice, in hope of Heaven.

For here there was an inward WILL!
 Here spake the SPIRIT, upward tending;
And, on the cloud-girt bosom, still,
 Hope threw her rainbow, heavenward bending.

But Will and Hope hath not the slave,
His bleeding spirit to sustain:—
No: —he must drag on, to the grave,

From the Connecticut Observer.

Vermont, in presenting these noble resolutions to an American Congress in the face of so
much leagued malice and cruelty, appeared like an angel of mercy walking up on the high
places of the earth. Who might not on that date have coveted the honor of a birth-place in
your State.—Alvan Stewart.

My native State, well done!
  Ay, proud of thee,
Proud to be called thy son,
  Land of the free!

No slave has turn‘d thy sod
 For other‘s pride,
No bondman ever trod
 Thy mountain side.
Unwet with tears and blood
  By slavery wrung,
Sternly has Justice stood
  Thy hills among.

Strong on thy hill sides stand,
  Freedom and laws:
Earth has no nobler band,
  No holier cause.

Free as thy mountain streams
  Or eagle‘s flight,
Brightly thy spirit gleams
  For God and right.

When leagued oppression reigns
 And bondmen groan,
Breathe Freedom‘s stirring strained,

Amid oppression‘s storm
 And error‘s night,
Beams forth thy radiant form,
 Angel of light!

Dark slavery quails to meet
  Thy lightning eye,
Flashing whence bold hearts beat
  For liberty.

Raise that free voice again
 By tyrants feared,
Despite oppression‘s reign,
[new page]

From the Glasgow Chronicle

Oh! the whale is free of the boundless sea;
He lives for a thousand years;
He sinks to rest on the billow‘s breast,
Nor the roughest tempest fears.
The howling blast, it hurries past,
Is music to lull him to sleep;
As he scatters the spray of his boisterous play,
As he dashes—the king of the deep.
Oh! the rare old whale, ‘mid storm and gale,
In his ocean home will be,
A giant in might, where might is right,
And king of the boundless sea.

A wondrous tale could the rare old whale
Of the mighty deep disclose,
Of the skeleton forms of bygone storms,
And of treasures that no one knows.
He has seen the crew, when the tempest blew,
Drop down from the slippery deck,
Shaking the tide from his glassy side,
And sporting with ocean and wreck.
Then, the rare old whale, &c.

Then, the whale shall be still dear to me,
When the midnight lamp burns dim;
For the student‘s book, and his favorite nook,
Are illumined by the aid of him;
From none of his tribe could we e‘er imbibe;
So useful, so blessed a thing.
Then we‘ll on land go hand in hand,
To hail him the Ocean King.
Oh! the rare old whale, &c.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 10
April 25. 1839.
[End handwritten]


We copy the following thrilling stanzas from the poems of Wm. B. Tappan, Esq. To
most of our readers they will doubtless be new, and to all acceptable, as articles from that
source always are.


Lift ye my country‘s banner high,
And fling abroad its gorgeous sheen;
Unroll its stripes upon the sky,
And let its lovely stars be seen.

Blood, blood, is on its spangled fold,
Yet from the battle comes it not;
God! all the seas thy channels hold,
Cannot wash out the guilty spot.

These glorious stars and stripes that led
Our lion-hearted fathers on,
Vailed [sic] only to the honoured dead—
Beaming where fields and fame were won:

These symbols that to kings could tell
Our young republic‘s rising name,
And speak to falling realms the knell
Of glory past, of future shame:

Dishonoured shall they be by hands
On which a sacrament doth lie?
The light that heralded to lands
Immortal glory—must it die?

No! let the earthquake-utterance be
From thousand swelling hearts—not so!
And let one voice from land and sea,
Return indignant answer—NO!
Up, then! determine, dare and do,
What justice claims, what freemen may;
What frowning heaven demands of you,
While yet its muttering thunders stay;

That thou, forever from this soil
Bid SLAVERY‘S withering blight depart;
And to the wretch restore the spoil,
Though thou may‘st not the broken heart;

That thou thy brother from the dust
Lift up, and speak his spirit free!
That millions whom they crime hath curst,
May blessings plead on thine and thee.

Then to the universe wide spread
Thy glorious stats, without a strain;
Bend from your skies, illustrious dead!
The world ye won is free again.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 11
May 2. 1839.
[End handwritten]

Selected for the Massachusetts Abolitionist, by a Lady.

Lo! where to yon plantation drooping goes
The sable herd of human kind, while near
Stalks a pale despot, and around him throws,
The scourge that wakes, that punishes the tear.

E‘en at this moment on the burning gale
Floats the weak wailing of the female tongue:
And can e‘en woman‘s softness nought avail,
Must naked woman shriek amid the throng?

Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend
With the green bev‘rage of our morning meal;
The while to love meek mercy we pretend,
Or for fictitious ills affect to feel.

And there are men, who, leaning on the laws,
What they have purchased claim a right to gold,
Cursed be the tenure, cursed its cruel cause;
Freedom‘s a dearer property than gold!

And there are men with shameless front have said
That Nature formed the Negro for disgrace;
That in his limbs subjection is displayed,
The doom of slavery stamped upon his face.

Send your stern gaze from Lapland to the line,
And every region‘s natives fairly scan,
Their forms, their face, their faculties combine,
And own the vast variety of Man.

               EQUAL RIGHTS.

Much truth had been assented to in time,
Which never till this day had made a due
Impression on the heart. Take one example;
Early from Heaven it was revealed, and oft
Repeated in the world, from pulpits preached,
And penned and read in holy book, that God
Respected not the persons of mankind.
Had this been truly credited and felt,
The King in purple robe had owned indeed,
The beggar for his brother; pride of rank
And office thawed into paternal love;
Oppression feared the day of equal rights
Predicted: covetous extortion kept
In mind the hour of reckoning soon to come;
And bribed injustice thought of being judged,
When he should stand on equal foot beside
The man be wronged. And surely—nay ‘tis true,
Most true beyond all whispering of doubt
That he who lifted up the reeking scourge,
Dripping with gore from the slave‘s back, before
He struck again, had paused, and seriously
Of that tribunal thought, where God himself
Should look him in the face, and ask in wrath,
Why didst thou this? Man! was he not thy brother?
Bone of thy bone, and flesh and blood of thine?
But ah! this truth by heaven and reason taught
Was never fully credited on earth.

[new page]


Republicanism. Slave-holding, man-stealing.
Democracy. Lynch Law, Gagism, ―Slavocracy.‖
Christianity. Selling heathen to convert heathen.
Chivalry. Woman scourging.
Hospitality. Robbing the poor to pamper the rich.
―Just and Equal.‖ Working for nothing and finding yourself.
―Contented and happy.‖ Dancing and singing to drown sorrow.
Kindness. Two hundred lashes, ―well laid on,‖ and a seat in the stocks over night.
Well fed. ―A peck of Indian-corn meal per week.‖
Well clothed. ―One linen shirt and pantaloons for the summer, and a linen shirt and
woollen [sic] coat and pantaloons for the winter.‖
Circulating medium. Bullets.
Metallic currency. Iron collars, chains, and handcuffs.
Precious metals. Bowie knives and dirks.
Lawful TENDER. Whips, stocks, and thumb-screws.
Patriarchs. George McDuffie and Chancellor Harper.
Missionaries. ―Worthless Vagabonds.‖
Wise logic. ―Cold steel and Dupont‘s best.‖
Liberty. (Obsolete.)
Sounding Brass. ―We‘ll dissolve the Union.‖
State Rights. ―Let him set foot in South Carolina and we‘ll hang him.‖
Comity. ―Twenty four lashes on the bare back, and banishment from the state in twenty
four hours.‖
Rhetorical flourish. ―All men are created equal.‖
Splendid absurdity. ―Certain inalienable rights.‖
Theology. ―Here we see God dealing in slaves.‖ Rev. Clapp.
Divine Institution. Slave breeding—―be fruitful, multiply, and replenish the earth.‖
―Wind.‖ General Hamilton.
―White slaves.‖ Farmers and mechanics of New England.
Fanatics.—Wilberforce, Sharpe, Clarkson, Wesley, Brougham, Jefferson, Franklin, Jay.

No. 11 contains the Grimkes‘ letter. [End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 12
May 9. 1839.
[End handwritten]

                       From the Christian Witness
                          THE FUGITIVE

‗Ye shall torture no more with the scourge and the chain,
For the fetter that bound me is broken in twain;
And I leave you the links with the blood-rust thereon,
A witness of deeds that the despot hath done.

‗Away—and for ever—I spurn the control
That hath fettered my body, and bowed down my soul—
With the pride of a freeman I trample in scorn
The yoke that my neck hath too patently borne!

‗Ye may follow my track where the herbage is red,
For my foot hath been bathed in the blood of your dead—
Ye may follow in vengeance—but wo [sic] for the hour!
For your footsteps are girt by a perilous power!‘

He spoke—and the triumph of vengeance was seen
In the flash of his eye and the pride of his mien,
And he muttered a curse on the land of the South,
While a smile of derision still played round his mouth.

One look on the spot which his hared hath cursed,
And away, like a steed of the wild, he hath burst!
Exultant, he bounds over hill-top and plan,
And his foot spurns the earth with the pride of disdain.

No more shall the blood of the fugitive drip
All warmly and red from the overseer‘s whip—
No longer shall thrill on the fugitive‘s ear,
The threat of the master, the taunt, and the jeer.

Away to the land of the North—for her star
Shall beacon thy course from its blue home afar—
Away, like the wind—pausing not to look back,
For the seeker of blood shall be quick on thy track!
Where the home of the planter magnificent stood,
There are smouldering rains and foot-prints in blood,
Where the tone of the viol rose soft on the air,
Is the voice of the mourner—the wail of despair!

Wo [sic]! wo! for the lovely, the good, and the brave,
By the whirlwind of vengeance swept down to the grave
For the spoiler swept on like a demon of wrath,
And Massacre yelled in his havoc strewn path!

On the still air of midnight, a terrible cry,
Like the trumpet of Doom, called the sleepers—to die!
They woke—but the prayer of their anguish was bain [sic],
For the sabre is red with the blood of the slain!

When the morning looked out from the East with its sun,
The work of destruction and vengeance was done—
And the smoke, like a pall, wrapt the desolate scene,
And scowled darkly where Beauty had been!
                                                      [Handwritten]over[End handwritten]
[next page]

What marvel? Yet weep for the tree and the flower
Swept down to the dust in a terrible hour!
For the strength that hath passed from the place where it
For the light that was quenched in a tempest of blood!

Oh! this was the work of revenge and despair,
When the fetter and yoke were too galling to bear—
For the iron had entered the fugitive‘s soul,
Till he spurned in his hatred the tyrant‘s control.

From his wife and his child they had torn him apart,
Unheeding the anguish that gnawed at his heart—
And he knew that the daughter be idolized, must
Be doomed to a life of pollution and lust.

Then the demon awoke—and he vowed in his wrath,
That the blood of the master should crimson his path,
And that Ruin should howl o‘er their desolate hearth,
Who had scoffed at his wo [sic] in the madness of mirth.

And dark was the hatred he nursed in his breast,
Till the thirst for revenge robbed his spirit of rest—
Then he swept o‘er their home like a whirlwind of fire,
And Destruction trod close in the path of his ire!

Flow darkly, St. Illa! for mixed with thy flood,
There are tears in the track of the Shedder of blood!
And thy waves have a tone like a funeral wail,
As they fling their low voice to the answering gale!

From his death-work the Slayer in triumph hath gone—
Weep, land of the South! for his deed is thine own!
Ay, weep! till thine eyeballs in agony swim,
For the cup of thy trembling is filled to the brim!
                                                    W.H.B. [Handwritten] [William
                                                    Henry Brisbane] [End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 13
May 16. 1839.
[End handwritten]

  Stern daughter of the voice of God!
    O Duty! if that name thou love,
    Who art a light to guide, a rod
    To check the erring, and reprove;
  Thou who art victory and law
  When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm‘st the weary strife of frail humanity!

 There are who ask not if thine eye
   Be on them; who in love and truth,
 Where no misgiving is, rely
   Upon the genial sense of youth;
 Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;
 Who do thy work and know it not:
May joy be theirs while life shall last!
And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

  Serene will be our days, and bright,
   And happy will our nature be,
  When love is an unerring light,
    And joy its own security.
  And blest are they, who in the main
  This faith, even now, do entertain;
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

 I, loving freedom, and untried;
    No sport of every random gust,
 Yet being to myself a guide,
    Too blindly have reposed my trust,
 Full oft, when in my heart was heard
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed, from day to day;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

 Through no disturbance of my soul,
  Or strong compunction in me wrought,
   I supplicate for thy control;
      But in the quietness of thought:
   Me this uncharted freedom tires;
   I feel the weight of chance desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

  Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
    The Godhead‘s most benignant grace;
  Nor know me anything so fair
    As in the smile upon thy face;
  Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
  And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and

  To humbler functions, awful power!
    I call thee: I myself commend
  Unto thy guidance from this hour;
    O! let my weakness have an end!
  Give unto me, made lowly wise,
  The spirit of self-sacrifice;
[last line indecipherable in copy]
[new page]


A few years since, Mr. S.F. Smith wrote a fine parody on the popular national English
       ―God save great George our king,
       Long may he live,‖
which commences,
       ―My country, ‘tis of thee,
       Sweet land of liberty.‖
Our ingenious correspondent has given us below a parody on Mr. Smith‘s. It is quite a
singular coincidence, that since the following was placed in our hands, another parody on
the same hymn has appeared in the Liberator of Friday last.—ED. HER.

                             A PARODY

                      My country—‘tis o‘er thee,
                      Dark land of slavery,
                       O‘er thee I weep.
                      Land, proud of Freedom‘s name!
                      Land, cursed with Slavery‘s stain!
                      Thy boastings loud proclaim
                      Thy guilt most deep.

                      My native country—thee!
                      Land, not of Liberty!
                         Thy fate I fear.
                      I fear thy lust of power,
                      Thy trampling on the poor,
                      Have brought the dreadful hour
                         Of vengeance near.

                      Let mournful dirges swell,
                      O‘er mountain, hill and dell,
                        While Slavery reigns:
                      Let the boasting tongues be dumb,
                      That rest of Freedom sung,
                      Till, with contrition stung,
                        They join the strains.

                      To Thee—to Thee—we pray,
                      ―Author of Liberty!‖
                       Bid slavery cease!
                      Chase its dark shades away!
                      Turn darkness into day!
                     Thy love and power display,
                      O God of peace!

States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane,
E‘en as His will and His decrees ordain;
While honor, virtue, pity, bear sway,
They flourish; and as these decline, decay;
In just resentment of His injured laws,
He pours contempt on them and on their cause.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 14
May 28. 1839.
[End handwritten]


Half our sorrows—half our troubles
 Making head and heart to ache,
Are the fruits of blowing bubbles,
 Bright to view, but quick to break.

All have played the child imbecile,
 Breathing hard to swell the sides
Of a shining fluid vessel,
 Frailer than the air it rides.

From the infant‘s cradle rising,
  All the bubble mania show;
Oft, our richest wealth comprising
  In the bubbles that we blow.

Brilliant, buoyant, upward going,
 Pleased we mark them in their flight;
Every hue of iris showing,
 As they glance along the light.

Little castles, high and airy,
  With their crystal walls so thin,
Each present the wicked fairy,
  Vanity, enthroned within!

But, when two have struck together,
 What of either do we find?
Not so much as one gay feather
 Flying hope has left behind!

Still the world are busy blowing,
  Every one, some empty ball;
So the seeds of mischief sowing,
  Where, to burst, the bubbles fall.
Nor, for self alone, to gather,
 Is our evil harvest found;
Oft with pipe and cup, we rather
 Step upon our neighbor‘s ground.

Thus amusing one another,
  While our glistening playthings rise
We may doom a friend or brother,
 To a life of care and sighs.

Do you doubt my simple story?
 I can point a thousand ways,
Where this bubble-making glory
 Has in darkness hid its rays!

Yet we‘ll spare a slight confusion,
  Caused the world by giving names;
Since, a right to some delusion,
  Every one from nature claims!
                       H. F. GOULD


Christian mother! when thy prayer
Trembles on the twilight air,
And thou askest God to keep,
In their waking and their sleep,
Those whose love is more to thee
Than the wealth of land and sea,
Think of those who wildly mourn
For the loved ones from them torn.

Christian daughter, sister, wife!
Ye who wear a guarded life—
Ye, whose bliss hangs not, like mine,
On a tyrant‘s word or sign,
Will ye hear, with careless eye,
Of the wild despairing cry,
Rising up from human hearts,
As their latest bliss departs?

Blest ones! whom no hands on earth
Darres [sic] to wrench from home and hearth,
Ye whose hearts are shelter‘d well,
By affection‘s holy spell,
Oh, forgot not those for whom
Life is naught but changeless gloom,
O‘er whose days of cheerless sorrow,
Hope may paint no brighter morrow.
                              E.M. CHANDLER
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 15
May 28. 1839.
[End handwritten]
From the Green Mountain Emporium.

―Away from the ruin!—Oh, hurry ye on,
While the word of the Angel yet slumbers undrawn!
Away from the doom‘d and deserted of God—
Away, from the Spoiler is rushing abroad!‖

The warning was spoken—the righteous had gone,
And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone;
All gay was the banquet—the revel was long,
With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song.

‘Twas an evening of beauty. The air was perfume,
The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom;
And softly the delicate viol was heard,
Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird.

And beautiful creatures moved down in the dance,
With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance;
And white arms wreath‘d lightly, and tresses fell free,
As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree.

And the shrine of the idol was lighted on high,
For the bending of knee and the homage of eye;
And the worship was blended with blasphemy‘s word,
And the wine-bibber scoff‘d at the name of the Lord!

Hark! the growl of the thunder—the quaking of the earth!
Wo [sic]—wo to the worship, and we to the mirth!
The black sky has open‘d—there‘s flame in the air—
The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare!

And the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song
And the low tone of love had been whisper‘d along;
For the fierce flames went lightly o‘er palace and bower,
Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour!
Down—down, on the fallen, the red ruin rain‘d,
And the reveller [sic] sank with his wine-cup undrained;
The foot of the dancer, the music‘s loved thrill,
And the shout and the laughter grew suddenly still.

The last throb of anguish was fearfully given;
The last eye glared forth in its madness on heaven!
The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain,
And death brooded over the pride of the Plain!


Oh! the heart is a free and fetterless thing,
A wave of the ocean! a bird on the wing!
A riderless steed o‘er the desert-plain bounding:
A peal of the storm o‘er the valley resounding:
It spurns at all bonds, and it mocks the decree
Of the world and its proud ones, and dares to be free.

Oh! the heart may be tamed by a smile or a tone
From the lip and the eyes of a beautiful one;
But the frown and the force with its impulse contending,
Ever find it as adamant cold and unbending,
It may break, it may burst, but its tyrants will see.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 16
June 6. 1839.
[End handwritten]

               From the ―Poems of W.B. Tappan.‖


The slaveholder‘s throne is the African‘s grave;
 Thou hast marked it on Caribbee‘s shore!
He frowns, and the soil of the generous and brave,
 Is steeped with the innocents‘ gore.

On these beauteous isles, pearly gems of the deep,
  All of nature is lovely and fair;
‘Tis man, godlike man, bids his fellow to weep,
  His brother casts out to despair.

Could your griefs, wretched slaves! could your injuries
 O, God, what a tale to unfold!
Blush, blush, guilty Europe! shroud, manhood, thy cheek,
 Weep, weep for the passion of gold.

Yet that here, where our symbol, the wild eagle, flies,
  O shame! writhes the African‘s soul—
That on fields brought by freedom, an outcast he dies,
 Time! veil it—‘twill darken thy scroll.

Why smoke your proud summits, ye hills of the slain?
 In days of the battle, why fell
The thousands, whose bones whitened valley and lain,
 When the war-cry was slavery‘s knell?

Why laud we, exulting, the Festival Day?
 And why to the glorious Dead
Do our hearts the oblation of gratitude pay,
 As on their cold ashes we tread?

My country! that plightedest to Freedom thy troth,
 Redeem it!—thou art not yet free;
On Eternity‘s page thou recordst thine oath,
 ‘Tis broken! there‘s Slavery with thee.

Philadelphia, 1823.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 17
June 13 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Massachusetts Spy.

―It is vain,‖ said an Indian chief, when importuned to remove beyond the Rocky
Mountains, that he might be free from the rude aggressions of the white man—―It is
vain—neither mountain nor flood can stay the march of the people who have usurped the
dominions of the red man. They will follow, and persecute, and destroy him, until the
shriek of the last of the Indian race shall mingle with the roar of the Pacific.‖

They pointed far to the setting sun,
 As he sank in his splendor down,
As they vainly plead with the lingering one,
 Till his brow wore an angry frown.
―O bright is the land of the rising day,
 Dark son of the lonely wood,
But brighter the land of his closing ray,
 And it teems with its treasured good.

 ―Wide—wide are the boundless hunting-grounds,
 When the rock-crowned hills are o‘er,
And the tall trees wave, and the wild deer bounds,
 And the pale face comes no more.
Then haste thee, chief, to that sunny shore;
 Yes, haste with thy warriors there,
Where the white man‘s voice shall threat no more,
 Nor claim of thy joys a share.‖

But he drew his form to its noblest height,
  That son of the dauntless Free—
And his dark eye glanced with a kindling light,
  And a withering agony;—
―It is vain,‖ he cried with a thundering tone,
  O shame to the white-man‘s face,--
‘Tis a vain retreat to those regions lone,
  Woe, woe to the Indian‘s race.

―Ye bound o‘er the rocks and the swelling streams,
 Ye leap o‘er the mountains high,
Ye stride from the land of the sun‘s young beams,
 To the realm where they fade and die.
We will go no more where the sun declines;
 We will die where our kindred died;
We will guard their dust and their sacred shrines,
 Till we sleep by their mouldering side.

―Yet a fleeting span—and our Father‘s eye,
 Though he sinks to his slumbering now,
Shall weaken with woe in the eastern sky,
 And a cloud on his mournful brow.
He will search from the morn to the starless night,
 For the tribes of his children true;
He will vainly seek for the council light,
 Ah! none shall its flame renew!

  ―He will call for the men of the sounding bow,
  He will ask of the mountains—‗where‘—
He will light up the caves, and will search them low—
  But in vain shall he seek them there—
Then a sound shall come to the mortal ear,
  Like the shriek which the red man gave,
[last line indecipherable in photocopy]
[new page]

  ― ‘Tis a voice that rings from the western main,
  Where our slaughtered remnant are—
‘Tis the cry of a people spoiled and slain,
  ‘Tis their deep Anathema.
The pale men walked through the godly land,
  Where our freeborn sires were nursed,
And proud ‘mid the rocks and the wild woods stand;
  Be the soil to the white man cursed!

―Let the blade he rears for his children‘s bread,
  Be nipped in its greenest prime,
Let famine stalk with her direst tread,
  ‘Tis her just destroying-time!
Let the hearts of his foes wax fiercely bold,
  And strength to their arms be given;
Let his babes be slain on his hearth-stone cold,
  Or to hopeless bondage driven!

― ‗Ah! then let him think of the broken vow,
  And the oath so falsely sworn,
Let it wring his soul—let it brand his brow,
  Till his heart of pride be shorn;—
And then let him think of the red-man‘s doom,
  And he feels the deadly thrust,
And down let him sink to a nameless tomb,
  Accursed in the voiceless dust!‘ ‖
The writer of the following prophetic lines has lived to witness the fulfillment of the
prediction uttered by him in 1807, concerning the West India Isles.—The Lord speed the
day when our colored brother shall rise to manhood here.

Muse! take the harp of prophecy:--behold!
The glories of a brighter age unfold;
Friends of the outcast! view the accomplished plan,
The Negro*, towering to the height of man.
The blood of Romans, Saxons, Gauls and Danes,
Swelled the rich fountain of the Briton‘s veins;
Unmingled streams of a warmer life impart,
And quicker pulses to the Negro‘s heart:
A dusky race beneath the evening sun,
Shall blend their spousal currents into one:
Is beauty bound to color, shape, or air?
No: God created all his offspring fair.
Tyrant and slave their tribe shall never see,
For God created all his offspring free;
Then Justice, leagued with Mercy from above,
Shall reign in all the liberty of love;
And the sweet shores beneath the balmy west
Again shall be the ‗islands of the blest.‘
        *We are aware our colored brethren object to the term Negro, considering it a
term of reproach, as such however it was not used by the writer of the poem entitled
―West Indies.‖
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 18.
June 20. 1839.
[End handwritten]

From Pringle‘s Poetical Works.
LUKE X. 29

―Who is my neighbor?‖-SELFISHNESS replies,
The man who best can aid your steps to rise;
The powerful—for whose favor all contend;
The wealthy—who may prove a useful friend;
The fashionable—whose notice is a grace;
In short, whoe‘er is forward in the race
Of worldly honor. Such as lag behind,
The poor, the‘ oppressed, the wretched of mankind,—
If you are prudent, from their presence fly—
Leave them to PROVIDENCE, and pass them by.

My Son, be this thy simple plan:
Serve God, and love thy brother man;
Forget not, in temptation‘s hour,
That Sin lends Sorrow double power;
Count life a stage upon thy way,
And follow Conscience, come what may:
Alike with heaven and earth sincere,
With hand, and brow, and bosom clear,
‗Fear God—and know no other fear.‘
                               From ―Missions‖—By W.B. TAPPAN.
Thou precious Gospel! power is seen in thee,
From every yoke to set all captives free.
Where thy pure influence is truly felt,
Spurned are all idol gods to which man blindly knelt.
Hark! to a voice o‘er glad Caribbean waves,*
Telling that men walked forth, no longer slaves.
The fetters broke,—for ever unconfined,
Henceforth expatiates the immortal mind,—
Doing, what mind, free as its Giver, can,
To prove the affinity of God to man.
‘T is much, that now the tiller of the soil
Shall henceforth reap the harvest of his toil;
‘T is much,—no longer in the world alone,
He feels home‘s treasures are, indeed, his own.
No tyrant‘s hand shall on his wife be laid,
No ruffian dealer in his children trade;—
Nor to the cord and whip shall subject be
The body, yea, ‘t is more,—the SOUL is free!
The soul, once bought with priceless blood, and sold
By man, unblushingly, for sordid gold.
What earthquake cry has on that prison broke,
And from the guiltless captive loosed the yoke?
The same strong voice that rocked Philippi‘s cell,
Has wrought Emancipation work, so well!
The Gospel‘s influence stooped to melt the chain,
And bring up man to sit with men again.
O speed it then, till on our millions fall
Its warmth and light, which play upon the wall
Of their sad dungeon, and barred out by sin,
As yet, with blest deliverance, shine not in!
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 19.
June 27. 1839.
[End handwritten]

THOMAS PRINGLE, the poet, and Secretary of the London Anti-Slavery Society, was
schooled for the latter important post by living several years in the border of a British
Slave Colony, the Cape of Good Hope, when the double piracy of robbing the natives of
their land and their liberty was going on much more rapidly than their conversion to
Christianity. While witnessing scenes of violence and oppression, his soul was kindled
up with sympathy for the poor Hottentots and Bushmen; and among the numerous ways
in which it burst forth in their behalf were several poems, worthy of a prophet‘s lyre.
Several of these poems, and especially ―the Bechuana Boy,‖ have been extensively
copied in our anti-slavery periodicals. We give below a composition which exhibits to
the best advantage Mr. Pringle‘s power as a mere port—and how exceedingly much there
was in him of that stuff of which poets are made. We cannot forebear to preface it with
the judgment of that great mountaineer of Parnassus, the author of the ―Ancient Mariner,‖
and ―Sunrise in the vale of Chamouni.‖ He says in a letter to Mr. Pringle, at the
commencement of their acquaintance, that he had accidentally fallen upon the piece four
or five months before, and adds, ―Though at that time so busy that I had not looked at any
of the new books, I was taken so completely possession of, that for some days I did little
else but read and recite your poem, now to this group and now to that; and since that
time have either written or caused to be written, at least half a dozen copies. * * * I do
not hesitate to declare it among the two or three most perfect lyric poems in our

       From Pringle‘s Poetical Works.

Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o‘ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams—that departed ere manhood‘s noon;
Attachments—by fate or by falsehood reft [sic];
Companions of early days—lost or left;
And my native land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame,
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All—all now forsaken—forgotten—forgone!
And I—a lone exile remembered by none—
My high aims abandoned,--my good acts undone,--
Aweary of all that is under the sun,--
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
[last line indecipherable in photocopy.]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 20
July 4. 1839.
[End handwritten]

                             FOURTH OF JULY.
                             By L. H. SIGOURNEY.

We have a goodly clime,
 Broad vales and streams we boast,
Our mountain frontiers frown sublime,
 Old Ocean guard our cost;
Suns bless our harvest 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 [sic] bright,
 By our dead fathers bought:
A fearful blot disdains 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.

What mean those shouts from yonder gathering crowd?
 And why these empty boasts of liberty?
Should an enslaving nation boast aloud
 Of Freedom? No, ‘tis base hypocrisy!

Go, loose the chains from off thy brother’s neck!
 Go, raise thy sons from their degraded caste!
Or stop thy cannon‘s roar, for freedom‘s sake!
 Your shame is echoed with each thundering blast.

What mean those streaming flags—with stripes and stars,
 So proudly waving in the summer‘s sky
Speak they a nation free? These loud huzzas
 That rise e‘en from the midst of slavery!

Are they not mockery on Jehovah‘s sight?
 Does He beheld them with approving smile?
―Huzzas‖ for freedom! and that freedom‘s light
 Shut out from millions on Columbia’s soil!

My country! hide thy head for very shame!
  A by-word and a hissing thou, to kings:
Thy boasted Liberty is but a name,
  While Slavery‘s shriveled [word?] by thine Eagle‘s wings.

From the Emancipator.

Know ye the land where the scourge and the fetter
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?
Where the church volunteers as the tyrant‘ abettor,
And lends her bold sanction to loftiest crime?
Know ye the land of the collar and chain,
Where the slave pineth ever in sorrow and pain;
Where woman is driven to toil by the lash—
Her quivering back cut by many a gash;
Where infants are torn from their mother‘s embrace,
And sold by the pound to the traders in flesh;
Where the horn of the hunter, the cry of the hound,
In quest of the fugitive bondmen resound;
Where thrives the vile commerce in manacled men,
And the wife and the husband are murdered for gain;
Where the Bible is locked from the sorrowing mind,
That the despot his victim more firmly my bind;
Where the captive wild shriek of the frightened air rings,
But though melting its tones no deliverance brings:
‘Tis the clime of the South, ‘tis the land of the brave—
Can we pass by in silence Humanity‘s grave?
Oh! wild us the maniac-yell of despair
Are the tales which they tell; and the deeds which they
bear!                                    D.C.
Poughkeepsie, May 27th, 1839.
[Handwritten] No. 20 contains a segment for Southern paper to exchange [End
[new page]


God, is thy throne accessible to me,
Me of the Ethiop skin? May I draw near
Thy sacred shrine, and humbly bow the knee,
While thy white worshippers are kneeling here?

May I approach, Celestial Purity,
And not offend thee with my sable face?
This company of saints, so fair to see,
Behold! already shrink from the disgrace.

And in thine earthly courts I‘ll gladly bow,
Behind my fellow-worms, and be denied
Communion with them will my Lord allow
That I may come, and touch his bleeding side?

In that blest fount have I an equal claim
To bathe, with all who wear the stain of sin?
Or is salvation by another name
Than thine? or must Ethiop change his skin

Thou art our Maker—and I fain would know
If thou hast different seats prepared above,
To which the master and servant go
To sing the praise of thine eternal love?

There will be my buyer urge the price of gold,
Which here for this unseemly clay he gave,
That he my portion may allot, and hold
In bondage still the trembling, helpless slave?

Or will that dearer ransom paid for all,
A Saviour‘s blood, impress me with the seal
Of everlasting freedom: from my thrall—
And wash me white—and this crush‘d spirit heal?

Then will I meekly bear these lingering pains,
And suffer scorn, and be by man opprest,
If at the grave I may put off my chains,
And Thou wilt take me where the weary rest.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 21
July 11. 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Herald of Freedom.

We are not in the habit of dealing with ―traders in the wagon.‖ Indeed, we had occasion
to rank them in last week‘s with the politicians, and to say of both, that they were
generally pro-slavery. But we have since then lit on one, as it were, who struck us at first
sight as an exception to our rule. He seemed an abolitionist—and there was nothing of
the ordinary loco-motive traffic about his cart or his cut. In fact, as he caught his eye, it
savored more of the ―fine frenzy,‖ than of the dissolute lack-scruple leer of the Bryce
Snailfoot brotherhood. He has us to pay withal. But as ―we had some talk,‖ we offered
him, ―rather than not trade,‖ a year’s Herald, if he would reel us off a pair of anti-slavery
verses, of his own spinning, for we felt that the creature was a poet.—Says he, it‘s ―A
Bargain,‖ and he gleamed his grey eye, ―from heaven to earth—earth to heaven‖ and
handed over these following, quicker than lightning, and ever shivered a white pine.
Thought we, mister Pedlar, you are—the musician cried, when he heard a stroller strike
the Harlaem [sic] organ—either the—―d--! or Handel‖—You are either the
unaccountable, or Burns come back, or Cowper—on the whole you are Cowper. It is the
keen argument, the significant satire, the Vesuvian fire of Poetry half smothered in the
eruption—the restrainings of calling and of constitutional delicacy. Finally, and on the
whole, we charged our ―Pedlar‖ as the Shade of Cowper.


Twelve hundred million dollars! Mr. Clay
Says that‘s the price, we freemen ought to pay
(All levied from the free states by a tax)—
As compensation, if the South relax
Twenty-four hundred thousand negro backs
From their accustomed rate of raw-hide dressing,
And ―turn their slaves all loose,‖ with freedom‘s bless-

A pretty bargain this! for it appears
That a slave ―clears himself‖ once in five years.
Take, then, ―a boy‖ that is, like most slaves bred,
Up with the light, and very late to bed,
Fed quite as full, and clothed about as dirty,—
And, between fifteen years and five-and-thirty,
If we have rightly reckoned in our rhymes,
He pays his master for himself four times!
For,--for the master‘s tenderness and cares,
His kind attentions and his daily prayers,
His counsels, and his hominy, we ween [sic],
He is well paid before the boy‘s fifteen;—
So, at that age, says Equity, who sits
In judgment here,—the man and thing are quits.
All beyond this, then, is clear profit, wrung
From nerves and muscles,—nerves and muscles strung
To their full tension by the twisted lash
That on the limbs leaves many a gory gash;
And this that what the Lord ordained at first,
As man‘s great blessing may be so reserv‘d,
That the rich few, exempt from labor now,
May eat their bread without a sweating brow,
While the poor many must, with drooping head,
And sweating face, toil without eating bread!

THINGS,   then, of human aspect that survive
The kick and cow-skin till they‘re thirty-five,
Whether they‘ve toil‘d at cotton or at rice,
Have, four times bought themselves at market price:
Yet, not a limb, a muscle, or a bone
That God made for them is, as yet, their own;
Yet their frail hearts and brittle hopes are shivered;
For, though they‘re paid for, they are not DELIVER‘D
And now, forsooth, before they go away,
(Such are the terms proposed by Mr. Clay)
They, or their friends for them again must pay!
It is, indeed, a very pretty sum!
State it again, ―it doth the mouth become.‖
Forty-eight hundred million dollars, laid
Down at your feet,—and yet you are not paid;
But, ere you open to the slave his door,
Must have twelve hundred million dollars more!

Nay, friend, we think, if we truth must tell.
This looks as though you didn‘t mean to sell.
We think that, dealing on so large a scale,
You might propose some better ―terms of sale.,‖
For, if you don‘t we cannot trade—we guess:—
Can‘t you, good sir, now, take a LEETLE less?
EXTRACT.                                                  ,

―Yes, doubtless, we‘re a free, a Christian People,
Holding this truth to be self-evident,
That all men are by heaven created equal,
Endow‘d alike with right to liberty.
Doubt ye the fact? And have ye ne‘er beheld
Upon your public ways, a group of beings,
Aye, human beings, with immortal souls,
Driven to market, like a flock to slaughter,—
Chain‘d, sold, lash‘d, mangled, at the sound discretion
Of worthies, doubtless of superior nature,—
Because enveloped in a paler skin;
The dearest ties the heart can know dissevered,—
The parent parted from her infant treasure,
The fainting maiden from her lover torn
And doom‘d to toil and slavery forever.‖
                               SAMUEL T. SMITH
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 22
July 18 1839.
[End handwritten]

From Pringle‘s Poetical Works.


O Camalu—green Camalu!
 ‘Twas there I fed my father‘s flock,
Beside the mount where cedars threw
 At dawn their shadows from the rock;
There tended I my father‘s flock
 Along the grassy-margined rills,
Or chased the bounding bontebok [sic]
 With hound and spear among the hills.

Green Camalu! methinks I view
  The lilies in thy meadows growing;
I see thy waters bright and blue
  Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing;
I hear, along the valleys lowing,
  The heifers wending to the fold,
And jocund herd-boys, loudly blowing
  The horn, to mimic hunters bold.

Methinks I see the umkoba-tree
 That shades the village chieftain‘s cot;
The evening smoke curls lovingly
 Above that calm and pleasant spot.
My father?—Ha!—I had forgot—
 The old man rests in slumber deep;
My mother?—Ay! she answers not—
 Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.

My brothers too—green Camalu,
 Repose they by thy quiet tide?
Ay! there they sleep—where white men slow
 And left them—lying side by side.
No pity had those men of pride,
 They fired the huts above the dying!
White bones bestrew that valley wide—
 I wish that mine were with them lying.

I envy you by Camalu,
  Ye wild hearts on the woody hills;
Though tigers there their prey pursue,
  And vultures slake in blood their bills.
The heart may strive with Nature‘s ills,
  To Nature‘s common doom resigned:
Death the frail body only kills—
  But thraldom [sic] brutified the mind.

Oh, wretched fate!—heart desolate,
 A captive in the spoiler‘s hand,
To serve the tyrant whom I hate—
 To crouch beneath his proud command.
Upon my flesh to bear his brand—
 His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!—
Would God, I in my native land
 Had with my slaughtered brothers died!

Ye mountains blue of Camalu,
 Where once I fed my father‘s flock,
Though desolation dwells with you,
 And Amakosa‘s heart is broke,
Yet, spite of chains, these limbs that mock,
 My homeless heart to you doth fly,—
As flies the wild dove to the rock,
 To hide its wounded breast—and die!

Yet ere my spirit wings its flight
 Unto Death‘s silent shadowy clime,
UTIKO! Lord of life and light,
 Who, high above the clouds of Time,
Calm sittest where you hosts sublime
 Of stars wheel round thy bright abode.
Oh, let me cry unto thee climb,
 Of every race of Father-God!

I ask not judgments from thy hand—
  Destroying hail or parching drought,
Or locust-swarms to waste the land,
  Or pestilence by famine brought,
I say the prayer Jankanna† taught,
  Who wept for Amakosa‘s [sic] wrongs—
‗Thy kingdom come—thy will be wrought—
  For unto Thee all power belongs.‘
Thy kingdom come! Let light and grace
  Throughout all lands in triumph go;
Till pride and strife to love give place,
  And blood and tears forget to flow;
Till Europe mourn for Afric‘s woe,
  And o‘er the deep her arms extend
To lift her where she lieth low—
  And prove indeed her Christian Friend!

*Camalu is a glen at the source of the Kat river. The ‗Captive of Camalu‘ is supposed to
express the feelings of some of those Caffres and Ghonaquas converted by the
Missionary Williams, who, after the devastating wars of 1818, 1819, were forced to
become bondmen among the Boors, or imprisoned in Robber Island. See Philip’s
Researches, pp. 190-192.
       †The Caffre name for Dr. Vanderkamp.


Of manly wisdom if there lacketh aught
In the fair structure of dear woman‘s mind,
It is Heaven‘s benison, of so sweet a kind,
That she may walk this earth, with evil fraught,
And know it not. For purity untaught,
And unassailable, in her enshrined,
Shines like the ray in precious stone confined,
Through the clear adamant of holy thought,
But man, that makes and combats evil, needs
The serpent‘s wisdom, and the serpent‘s lure
Comes with it, and his feet too often leads
Astray: Woman, with light, and instinct sure,
Walks virtue-charm‘d ‘mid the world‘s blackest deeds,
Unharm‘d—―For to the pure all things are pure.‖
[new page]

From The Liberator.

DEAR BROTHER GARRISON,—If         the following extempore effusion is worthy of a place in
the Liberator, it is at your service.
                                 WM. J. SNELLING.


AIR—The Marseilles Hymn.

Heirs of the brave, who live in story,
 In peace enjoy what valor won,
Remembrance of your country‘s glory
 Bequeathed from patriot sire to son.
Lo! Fields of plenty bloom around us,
 And Freedom‘s sons, a sacred band,
 The guardians of their country stand,
Where Freedom‘s choicest gifts surround us!
       Rejoice, this day rejoice!
       Proclaim to land and sea,
       Tell to the skies, with one vast voice.
       Our father-land is free!

Lo! on the prophet‘s rapt eye gleaming,
 What visions of the future rise!
The stars that light a nation beaming,
 While God accords what men denies;
The power and pride of despots taming,
 What earth has never known before,
 That man is man, and none is more,
To man of every hue proclaiming!
       United, hand in hand,
       Hear us, O earth and sea,
       Tell all the world our father-land
       Was, is, and shall be free!
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 23
July 25th 1839.
[End handwritten]

POETRY.—We design occasionally to fill our poet‘s corner with extracts that have the
benefit of age—for both poetry and music improve by age as well as wine—and by
acquaintance far more. We mean, of course, the true sort. For this week we select
Coleridge‘s sublime Hymn. Every body has read it—it is in our school books—but it
will bear reading every fortnight, and will make the heart larger every time it is red.
Well, to make the heart larger is the work before the abolitionists, so it is not
inappropriate to our columns.


Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mount
Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the
Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its ―flowers of loveliest

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life‘s own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing – there
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief sole sovereign of the vale!
Or struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself earth‘s rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
[new page]

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death.
From dark and icy caverns called you forth.
Down these precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shattered and the same forever?
Who gave you your invaluable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came,)
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?

Ye icefalls! Ye that from the mountain‘s brow
Adown enormous ravine slope amain—
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! Silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious at the gates of heaven
Beneath the knee full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! Sing, ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal forest!
Ye wild goat sporting around the eagle‘s nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utters forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with the sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling [sic] with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch! Tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

LONG HAIR.—It is said that the present fashion of dandies wearing their hair like that of a
poodle dog, originated with a Frenchman, whose ears had been cut off for swindling. We
expect that many of our exquisites follow the fashion because their ears are too long.—
Balt. Sun.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 24
August 1 1839.
[End handwritten]

        We copy the following lines from the work of Hannah More. We would call the
attention of our countrymen to them, and ask how long ye will defer the work of mercy.
Britain has begun the work. She has knocked off the chains from 800,000 slaves. To-
day is the anniversary of that glorious event. A happy jubilee to the redeemed captives.
God speed the day when our two and half millions shall lift their unfettered arms, and
unite with Britain‘s emancipated ones in shouting praises of thanksgiving for their
deliverance from oppression.

  Shall Britain, where the soul of freedom reigns
Forge chains for others she herself disdains?
Forbid it, Heaven! O let the nations know
The liberty she loves, she will bestow;
Not to herself the glorious gift confined,
She spreads the blessing wide as human kind;
And, scorning narrow views of time and place,
Bids all be free in earth‘s extended space.

 What page of human annals can record
A deed so bright as human rights restored?
O may that god-like deed, that shining page,
Redeem OUR fame, and consecrate OUR age!
And let this glory mark our favored shore,
To curb false Freedom and the tree restore.

  And see, the cherub Mercy from above,
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love!
On Britain‘s isle she sheds her heavenly dew;
And breathes her spirit o‘er th‘ enlightened few,
From soul to soul the spreading influence steals,
Till every breast the soft contagion feels
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore,
With the best message angel ever bore;
Hark! ‘tis the note which spoke a Savior‘s birth!
Glory to God on high, and peace on earth!
She vindicates the pow‘r of heaven adored,
She still wears the clank of chains, and sheaths the sword;
She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands
From bursting hearts unbinds th‘ oppressor‘s bands;
Restores the lustre of the Christian name,
And clears the foulest blot that dinned its fame.

  As the mild spirit hovers o‘er the coast,
A fresher hue their withered landscapes boast;
Her healing smiles the ruined scenes repair,
And blasted Nature wears a joyous air;
While she proclaims thro‘ all their spicy groves,
‗Henceforth your fruits, your labours, and your loves,
‗All that your sires possessed, or you have sown,

  And now, her high commission from above,
Stamp‘d with the holy characters of love,
The meek-eyed spirit waving in her hand,
Breathes manumission o‘er the rescu‘d land;
She tears the banner stained with blood and tears,
And, LIBERTY! thy shining standard rear!
As the bright ensign‘s glory she displays,
See pale OPPRESSION faints beneath the blaze!
The giant dies! no more his frown appals [sic],
The chain, untouched, drops off; the fetter falls.
Astonished Echo tells the vocal shore,
Oppression fall‘n, and Slavery is no more!
The dusky myriads crowd the sultry plain,
And hail the MERCY long invoked in vain.
Victorious Pow‘r! she bursts their two-fold bands,
And Faith and Freedom spring from Britain‘s hands.

 And Thou! great source of Nature and of Grace,
Who of one blood didst form the human race;
Look down in mercy in thy chosen time,
With equal eye on Afric‘s suff‘ring clime:
Disperse her shades of intellectual night,
Repeat thy high behest—Let there be Light!
Bring each benighted soul, great God, to Thee,
And with thy wide salvation make them free!

Unchristian thought! on what pretence soe‘er
Of right inherited, or else acquired;
Of loss, or profit, or what plea you name,
To buy and sell, to barter, whip, and hold
In chains, a being of celestial make—
Of kindred form, of kindred faculties,
Of kindred feelings, passions, thoughts, desires;
Born free, and heir to an immortal hope.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 25
August 8th 1839.
[End handwritten]

Sung at a Temperance Dinner in Faneuil Hall,
July 4th, 1839.



Says Jonathan, says he, ―To-day
  I will be independent,
And so my grog I‘ll throw away,
  And that shall be the end on ‘t.
    Clear the house! the ‘tarnal stuff
     Shan‘t be here so handy;
    Wife has giv‘n the winds her snuff,
     So now here goes my brandy!

Chorus.—Clear the house, &c.

Our fathers, though a sturdy folk,
 Were sometimes rather skittish;
And so they wouldn‘t wear the yoke
 Brought over by the British.
    Yonder, on old Bunker‘s head,
    From their necks they shook it;
  There they fired off all their lead,
   And then they had to hook it.

Chorus.—Yonder, on, &c.

But though they fit and run away,
 They wa‘rn‘t a bit of cowards;
They lived to fight another day,
 When lookin Gin‘ral Howe-wards.
   What could then the Gin‘ral do
     For his own salvation?
   Why, he ‗cuss‘d and quit‘ the u-
     niversal Yankee nation.

Chorus.—What could then, &c.

The tyrant that our fathers smoked
  Lay skulkin in a tea-pot;
There‘s now ‗a worser‘ to be choked,
 In bottle, or wee pot;
    Often in a glass he shows
     What he calls his ‗body;‘
    And often wades, up to his nose,
      In a bowl of toddy.

Chorus.—Often in a glass, &c.

Sometimes he creeps up, through the slim
 Stem of a very fine pipe;
And sometimes plunges, for a swim,
 All over in a wine-pipe;
  But, he‘s tickled, most of all,
    When he hears the summons
  Down his favorite pipes to crawl—
   The wind-pipes of the rum-uns.

Chorus.—But, he‘s tickled, &c.

And when he gets the upper hand,—
 This tyrant, base and scurvy—
He strips a man of house and land,
 And turns him topsy-turvy.
  Neck and heels he binds him fast,
    And says that he is his‘n;
  And lets him have, rent-free, at last,
     A poor-house of a prison.

Chorus.—Neck and hands, &c.

And now,‖ says Jonathan, ―tow‘rds Rum
 I‘m desp‘rate unforgivin;
The tyrant, never more, shall come
 Into ‗the house I live in.‘
   Kindred spirits, too, shall in-
     to outer darkness go forth;
   Whisky, Toddy, Julep, Gin.
     Brandy, Beer, and so forth.
Chorus.—Kindred spirits, &c.

While this COLD WATER fills my cup,
 Duns dare not assail me;
Sheriffs shall not lock me up,
 Nor my neighbors bail me;
  Lawyers will I never let
     ‗Choose me as defendant;‘
  Till to death I pay my debt,

Chorus.—Lawyers will I never let, &c.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 26
August 15 1839.
[End handwritten]


If yon bright stars, which gem the night,
  Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred-spirits re-unite,
  Whom death has torn asunder here;
How sweet it were at once to die,
  And leave this blighted orb afar,
Mixt soul and soul, to cleave the sky,
  And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,
  Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If wandering through each radian one,
  We failed to find the loved of this;
If there no more the ties shall twine,
  That death‘s cold hand alone could sever;
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
  More hateful—as they shine for ever.

It cannot be—each hope, each 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 bears,
   When heaviest weighs life‘s galling chain,
‘Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears,
   The pure in heaven shall meet again.


Written on receiving an elegant walking-cane, manufactured from a portion of the wood-
work of Pennsylvania Hall, which the fire had spared.


Token of friendship true and tried,
 From one whose fiery heart of youth
With mine has beaten, side by side,
 For Liberty and Truth;
With honest pride the gift I take
And prize it for the giver‘s sake.

But not alone because it tells
 Of generous hand and heart sincere,
Around the gift of friendship dwells
 A memory double-dear—
Earth‘s noblest aim—man‘s holiest thought,
With that memorial frail inwrought!

Pure thoughts and sweet-like flowers unfold
 And precious memories round it cling,
Even as the Prophet‘s rod of old
 In beauty blossoming:
And buds of feeling pure and good
Spring from its cold unconscious wood.

Relic of Freedom‘s shrine—a brand
  Plucked from its burning!—let it be
Dear as a jewel from the hand
  Of a lost friend to me!—
Flower of perished garland left,
Of life and beauty unbereft!

Oh! if the enthusiast pilgrim bears
 A relic from the crumbling stone
Of Carcalla‘s marble stairs,
 Or round the Parthenon—
Or olive-bough from some wild tree,
Hung over old Thermopylæ.

If leaflets from some hero‘s tomb,
  Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary,--
Or flowers whose plundered sisters bloom
  On fields renowned in story,—
Or fragment from the Alhambra‘s crest,
Or the grey rock by Druids blessed!—

If Erin‘s shamrock greenly growing
  Where Freedom led her stalwart kern,
Or Scotia‘s ‗rough bur thistle‘ blowing
  On Bruce‘s Bannockburn—
Or Runnymead‘s wild English rose,
Or lichen plucked from Sempach‘ snows!

If it be true that things like these
  To heart and eye bright visions bring.
Shall not far holier memories
  To this memorial cling?
Which needs no mellowing mist of time
To hide the crimson stains of crime!

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned—
  Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod,
Lifting on high with hands unstained
  Thanksgiving unto God:
Where Mercy‘s voice of love was pleading
For human hearts in bondage bleeding

Where midst the sound of rushing feet
 And curses on the night air found,
That pleading voice rose calm and sweet
 From woman‘s earnest tongue;
And Riot turned his scowling glance,
Awed, from her tranquil countenance!

That Temple now in ruin lies,—
   The fire-stain on it shattered will,
And open to the changing skies
   Its black and roofless hall,
It stands before a Nation‘s sight
A grave-stone over buried Right!

But from that ruin, as of old,
 The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying,
And from their ashed white and cold
 Its timbers are replying!
A voice which Slavery cannot kill
Speaks from its crumbing arches still!

And e‘en this relic from thy shrine
 Oh, holy Freedom!—hath to me
A potent power of voice and sign,
 To testify of thee
And as I grasp it now I feel
A stronger faith—a warmer zeal.
[new page]

Nor all unlike that mystic rod
   Of old stretched o‘er the Egyptian wave,
Which opened in the strength of God
   A pathway for the slave,
It yet may point the bondmen‘s way
And turn the spoiler from his prey!
Sixth month 28th, 1839.

Evening: —I am now listening to JOHN SCOBLE.—The celebration this evening
commenced by singing an original hymn, written for the occasion, by our English

Hasten, O Lord, we pray,
 The great and glorious hour,
When from the river to the sea,
 The earth shall own thy power;

When thy pure Gospel light
 Shall brighten every Isle,
And, gilded by its radiance bright,
 The wilderness shall smile;

When from the Plains below,
 Unto the Heights above,
The heart of ever man shall glow

When solemn praise and prayer
 To thee shall ever rise,
And Earth itself become once more
 A blissful Paradise.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 27
August 22nd 1839
[End handwritten]


‘Twas morn—the rising splendor rolled
On marble towers and roofs of gold;
Hall, court, and gallery below,
Were crowded with a living flow;
Egyptian, Arab, Nubian there,
The bearers of the bow and spear;
The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage,
The slave, the gemmed and glittering page—
Helm, turban, and tiara, shone
A dazzling rung round Pharaoh‘s throne.

There came a man—the human tide
Shrank backward from his stately stride;
His cheek with storm and time was tanned;
A shepherd‘s staff was in his hand;
A shudder of instinctive fear
Told the dark king what step was near.
On through the host the stranger came,
It parted round his form like flame.

He stooped at the footstool stone,
He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne;
Erect he stood amid the ring,
His only words—―Be just, O King!‖
On Pharaoh‘s cheek the blood flushed high,
A fire was in his sullen eye;
Yet on the chief of Israel
No arrow of his thousands fell;
All mute and moveless as the grave,
Stood chilled the satrap and the slave.

―Thou‘rt come,‖ at length the monarch spoke;
Haughtier and high the words outbroke—
―Is Israel weary of its lair,
The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare?
Take back the answer to your band:
Go reap the wind; go, plough the sand;
Go, vilest of the living vile,
To build the never-ending pile,
Till, darkest of the nameless dead,
The vulture on their flesh is fed.
What better asks the howling slave
Than the base life our bounty gave?‖

Shouted in pride the turbanned [sic] peers;
Upclashed to heaven the gold spears.
―King! thou and thine are doomed!—Behold!‖
The prophet spoke; the thunder rolled;
Along the pathway of the sun
Sailed vapory mountains wild and dun.
―Yet there is time,‖ the prophet said—
He raised his staff—the storm was stayed.
―King! be the word of freedom given:
What art thou, man, to war with heaven?‖

There came no word. The thunder broke!
Like a huge city‘s final smoke,
Thick, lurid, stifling, mixed with flame,
Through court and hall the vapors came.
Loose as the stubble in the field,
Wide flew the men of spear and shield;
Scattered like foam along the wave,
Flew the proud pageant, price and slave:
Or, in the chains of terror bound,
Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground.
―Speak, king!—the wrath is but begun—
Still dumb—then, heaven, thy will be done!‖

Echoed from earth a hollow roar,
Like ocean on the midnight shore;
A sheet of lightning o‘er them wheeled,
The solid ground beneath them reeled;
In dust sank roof and battlement;
Like webs the giant walls were rent;
Red, broad, before his startled gaze,
The monarch saw his Egypt blaze.
Still swelled the plague—the flame grew pale;
Burst from the clouds the charge of hail;
With arrowy keenness, iron weight,
Down poured the ministers of fate;
Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed,
Covered with death the boundless field.

Still swelled the plague—uprose the blast,
The avenger, fit to be the last;
On ocean, river, forest, vale.
Thundered at once the mighty gale.
A thousand ships were on the wave—
Where are they?—Ask that foaming grave?
Down go the hope, the pride of years,
Down go the myriad mariners;
The riches of earth‘s richest zone,
Gone! like a flash of lightning, gone!

And, lo! the first fierce triumph o‘er,
Swells ocean on the shrinking shore;
Still, onward, onward, dark and wide,
Engulfs the land the furious tide.
Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king,
Thou serpent, reft of fang and sting;
Humbled, before the prophet‘s knee,
He groaned, ―Be injured Israel free.‖

To heaven the sage upraised the wand;
Back rolled the deluge from the land;
Back to its caverns sank the gale;
Fled from the noon the vapors pale;
Broad burned again the joyous sun;
The hour of wrath and death was done.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist.
No 28.
August 29. 1839.
[End handwritten]

―The silver is mine, and the gold is mine—saith the Lord of Hosts.‖—Haggai ii:8.

Whose is the gold that glitters in the mine?
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord‘s?
And lo, the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,
Are they not His who made them?

                       Ye who hold
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gathered gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour‘s name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be
When, like the grass blade from the autumn frost,
You fall away?

                       Point out to me the forms
That in your treasure chambers shall erect
Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all.
Oh man! whose wrinkling labor is for heirs
Thou knowest not who; thou in thy mouldering bed
Unkenned, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep;
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.

                      Now, thou mayest give
The famished food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speak as thou art
Upon earth‘s surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of Kings.
From the Abolitionist.

Servants of God, with fearless hearts who stand,
To trumpet truths eternal as the sun,
Who, with a voice of thunder shake the land,
Where slavery‘s damned deeds are daily done,
Your holy work is only yet begun.
Arrayed against you, is a noble band
Of SOUTHERN CHIVALRY, who honor love,
Who rob the poor, and manly courage prove,
Vanquishing women; aye, a Reverend host
Of gowned men, too, seeming Priests of God—
Bishops in lawn arrayed, whose greatest boast,
The crosier and the whip, all red with blood,
Together bound in one, have smiling trod
Dark slavery‘s path and thought of God have lost.
Bedford, N.Y.                         J.
[new page]

From the Emancipator.

Heard ye that cry? ‘Twas the wail of the 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 dies.

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 of God of Hosts; whose vengeance deferred,
Gather 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.


So the dread Bastile,
With all the chambers in its horrid towers,
Fell to the ground, by violence o‘erthrown
Of indignation, and with shouts that drowned
The crash in falling. From the wreck
A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise,
The appointed seat of equitable law
And mild paternal sway. The potent shock
I felt; the transformation I perceived
As marvellously [sic] regarded as in that moment,
When from the blind mist issuing I beheld
Glory, beyond all glory ever seen,
Expression infinite of heaven and earth,
Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile prophetic harps
In every grove, were singing, ―War shall cease;
Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured?‖
Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck
The Tree of Liberty! My heart rebounded;
My melancholy voice the chorus joined.
―Be joyful, all ye nations; in all lands,
Ye that are capable of joy be glad!
Henceforth, whate‘er is wanting in yourselves,
In others ye shall promptly find; and all,
Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth,
Shall with one heart honor their common kind.‖
                                WODSWORTH [sic]


The BIBLE, free as winds of heaven,
This Age to all the world has given.
To all, the Word of Life? Yes! save
The hordes that wear the name of Slave,
And wear his bonds, and feel the rod;
For this, wilt thou not judge, O God!
Will not thy vengeance put to shame
The followers of the equal cross,
Who glory in the Christian‘s name,
Yet count a brother‘s soul as dross?

[Handwritten]: Original in the Abolitionist [End handwritten]
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 29.
September 5 1839
[End handwritten]


The following Ode, by Rev. J. Pierpont, was sung at the Temperance Celebration in
Faneuil Hall, to the air—―Ye Mariners of England.‖

Lift up, lift up the standard,
And plant it near the well!
And, gathered underneath its folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem, that is set in praise
Of brooks and cisterns, sing!
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring;—
Yea, give a chorus loud and long,
To aqueduct and spring.

Green hills and smiling valleys!
Ye once were red with gore,
When Freedom‘s thunders o‘er you rolled
And broke along our sbore [sic].
The holy skies have pored their rains,
And sifted down their snows,
Till the stain of the slain,
That beneath your turf repose,
Is washed away, and the sods are clean
Where the martyred brave repose.

Even so will ice and water
Make clean our living clay,—
Then let them grace our festive board
On Independence day;
The day that tells us of the blood
That was, like water, poured
From their veins, on the plains
Where the cumbrous sheath was thrown away,
And flashed the freeman‘s sword,
Ye heroes of the bottle,
Who ―bumper‖ every toast,
Who keep your wine in cobwebs wrapped,
And make its age your boast,
The oldest wines your vaults have known,
From press or vat to flow,
Is new to the dew
That six thousand years ago
Came down to fill our cups, one night,
Six thousand years ago.

Ye champions of cold water,
Who quaff that drink divine,
Who‘ve given your rum and brandy o‘er,
And bid adieu to wine,
The bottles that ye crack to-day,
By God‘s own hand are given;*
Some in earth have their birth,
And some are made in heaven,
The granite rock and spring are those,
And these the clouds of heaven.
[new page]

Then UP the Temperance standard!
And plant it by the wall,
And, shaded by its waving folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set to chime
With babbling waters sing,
Give one strain to the rain,
Give another to the spring,
Yes, give a chorus loud and long,
To aqueduct and spring!
*Who numbereth the clouds in wisdom?
And who poureth out the bottles of heaven?
                       Job xxxviii. 37.

From the Youth‘s Cabinet.
―Sister, thou art fair and lovely.‖

Sister, thou art worn and weary,
  Toiling for another‘s gain;
Life with thee is dark and dreary,
  Filled with wretchedness and pain:
Thou must rise at dawn of light,
  And thy daily task pursue,
Till the darkness if the night
  Hide thy labors from thy view.

Oft, alas! thou hast to bear
 Sufferings more than tongue can tell;
Thy oppressor will not spare,
 But delights thy griefs to swell;
Oft thy back the scourge has felt,
 Then to God thou‘st raised the cry
That the tyrant‘s heart he‘d melt
 Ere thou should‘st in tortures die.

Injured sister, well we know
  That thy lot is life is hard;
Sad thy state of toil and wo [sic],
  From all the blessedness debarred;
While each sympathizing heart
 Pities thy forlorn distress;
We would sweet relief impart,
 And delight thy soul to bless.

And what lies within our power
 We most cheerfully will do,
That will haste the blissful hour
 Fraught with news of joy to you;
And when comes the happy day
 That shall free our captive friend.
When Jehovah‘s mighty sway
 Shall to slavery put an end:

Then, dear sister, we with thee
  Will to heaven direct our voice;
Joyfully with voices free
  We‘ll in lofty strains rejoice,
Gracious God! thy name we‘ll bless,
  Hallelujah evermore,
Thou hast heard in righteousness,
  And our sister‘s griefs are o‘er.

From the Christian Witness

If to the heroes of the olden time,
         Who fought and suffered, Liberty! for thee,
         Daring to die to make a people free,
Honors belong and triumph‘s-hymns sublime,
Making their names the watch-words of a clime—
         What meed [sic] of purest glory shall be given
         To him who stands, sustained alone by heaven,
Battling with single arm a nation‘s crime?
Unmoved, unswerving in the thickest fight,
         Though scoffs, and jeers, and curses from the vile,
         And hate, be poured upon his head the while,
The fearless champion of the True and Right?
What meed for him? Profane not with your lays
His name—for Earth no language hath to speak his praise!
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 30
September 12. 1839
[End handwritten]

From the Pa. Freeman.

The following lines were suggested on being present at the trial of a man in Philadelphia,
claimed as a fugitive slave. He was surrendered to the claimant, and in the presence of
the court and spectators, immediately handcuffed and taken off to the South, ACCORDING
TO THE LAWS OF AMERICAN PIRACY. It may also be remarked, as a pleasant fact to the
republican ear, that the court room where immortal man was thus christened a slave, is
where our boasted Declaration was cradled, and the great truth proclaimed to the world,
that all men ARE created equal. The shocking inconsistency, therefore, of such a trial, in
such a place, may well startle our sensibilities.—For solemn mockery, it finds a parallel
only in the bloody records of the Inquisition. The reader may give the actors in such a
scene, whatever name he pleases. The English language furnishes none sufficiently
burning to express the writer’s abhorrence.

And thus you bow to God‘s image down,
  And chattelize it here,
Where your own Eagle stoopeth o‘er
 A land to Freedom dear.
You bow that IMAGE to the dust,
 And brand it but a thing;
And claim protection in the sin
 From that proud Eagle‘s wing.

Ay, on this spot your fathers trod
  At Freedom‘s holy birth,
And hung their free flag out before
 The tyrant-ridden earth—
And bid it float o‘er land and sea
 ―In peril‘s darkest night‖—
A talisman that bid them on—
  The polar star of Right—

Ay, even here, beneath the shade
 Of Independence Hall,
Where trampled Right stood forth erect
 At Freedom‘s trumpet-call—
Your heel is on your brother‘s neck
 To crush his manhood down;
And palsied Justice shrinks with awe
 When petty tyrants frown.

How dare you lift your servile heads,
 Or lisp a freeman‘s name,
While on your brow is stamped the curse—
 The burning mark of shame!
Go, write upon your father‘s tombs,
 ―Fanatics slumber here;‖
And blot the ―stars and stripes‖ all out,
 Where‘er your flags appear!

And dip their folds in human blood,
  As you now do your hands,—
Fit emblems then to waft your name
  And guilt to other lands.
Go, let them float o‘er Turk and Khan
  And gladden the Malay;
And steel the heathen heart to crime,
  To mark the Christian‘s prey!

Go, fling your blood-stained banner out
 On every pirate sea;
And let it stream in kindred pride,
 Proclaiming robbery.
And Algerine shall give you praise
 As ―boon companions‖ then,
And bid you teach his pirate ranks,
 Your skill in hunting men!

And joy to you in Afric‘s coast,
 To breathe congenial air,
When sable man-thief cometh down
 To hail you brother there!
Thrice favored then, to claim a tie
 You have extinguished here—
But fellow feeling makes you kind
 And robber brethren dear!

Rome‘s tyrant trampled on her pride
 And blotted out each name,
And struck each good man‘s statue down
 That pointed her to fame;—
Go then, like him, and basely raze
 Yon OLD HALL to the earth;
Lest Freedom’s sons should catch the fire
 Of their old fathers‘ worth!—

And let there be another spot,
  Where tyrant tongues may hiss—
Like ―Pennsylvania‘s‖ fire-scathed walls,
  Your guilt should burn on this!
A name—a glorious name be yours,
  To ring from clime to clime;
When Freedom stands itself accursed,
Eighth month 22d, 1839.
[new page]

From the Pennsylvania Freeman.

Father! in a happy home,
Smiling when thy children come,
Clustering around thy knee,
Wilt thou have those children free?
Have them, one day, firmly stand
On their ―own,‖ their ―native land,‖
Never for a single hour,
Helpless slaves of tyrant power;
Have proffer‘d gifts of heaven,—
  Chainless hand, unbranded brow,—
Ever to thy loved ones given?
  To the polls!—secure them now.

Husband! who each passing year
Provest thy chosen one more dear,
Think of many a deep-felt trial,
Uncomprising self-denial;
Torturing care in silence borne,
Smiles of love, forever worn;

All her warm heart‘s pure affection,—
Every claim on thy protection!
Be her breast to fear a stranger!
 Though the threat‘ning southrons come,
Guard her from approaching danger,
 To the polls!—protect her home.

Brother, with a parent‘s care!
He who filled that vacant chair,
He who watched thy early years,
With a father‘s hopes and fears,
Left a sacred charge to thee—
Blooming youth and infancy!
Guard that precious charge from wrong!
Threat‘ning ills around the throng!
Through a dark‘ning cloud is o‘er thee,
  Heed it not!—serenely bright
Is the narrow path before thee,
  To the polls!—support the right.
Freemen! would you still be free!
As you prize liberty,
As you wish your sons may stand
With unfettered soul and hand;
As ye feel for those who‘ve borne
Undeserved reproach and scorn:
As ye will not, lowly kneeling,
  Bend your own necks to the chain,—
Oh! by every gen‘rous feeling,
  To the polls!—n‘er pause again.
[last line indecipherable in photocopy.]
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 31.
September 19. 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Herald of Freedom.

         Woman again. The following beautiful versification of a touching incident—
touching to any heart that is not made of American ossification—is from a highly
esteemed, though personally unknown correspondent. We learn by it her abolitionism—
for which we give thanks to Him who wrought it. We thank the poet also—and in the
name of the slave, ask farther boon of the same kind at her hand. Let ―poet‘s corner‖ in
our little ship be hereafter occupied as a ―ladies’ cabin.‖ If verses of the other sex come
on board we will give them as good quarters as the colored woman gets on board the
steam boat—the open deck.—Ed. Her.
―The tender of the mill was an old man, whose despised locks were gray and thin, and on
whose brow the hands of time and sorrow had written many faceless lines. ‗You like the
apdrenticeship [sic] as well as freedom, don‘t you?‘ we asked. ‗Oh, no, massa: freedom
still better.‘ ‗You are old and will not enjoy freedom long; why do you wish for freedom
then?‘ ‗Me want to die free massa, and me want to see children free too.‘ ‖—Eman. in the
West Indies, p. 59.

I saw an aged man, oppressed with woe,
Walk faintly on, irresolute and slow,
His silver locks played loosely in the wind,
His restless glance betrayed an anxious mind,
And tears, that down his cheek unbidden stole
Proclaimed the secret anguish of his soul,
For on that care-worn brow ere lines that spoke
Of all the ills of slavery’s galling yoke,
And one might read in that dejected eye,
Of long years spent in hopeless misery,
Of woes untold—of sorrows unexpressed,
Of griefs unshared—of wrongs yet unredressed;
But when that joyful mandate he had herd,
That by one thrilling, life-inspired word,
Transformed from brutes degraded and oppressed,
To men, enfranchised, civilized and blest,
Thousands, who till they saw this happy day,
Had pined in sullen, hopeless grief away,
I looked again; and oh, the change that passed
Upon that brow! no longer overcast
With the dark cloud of misery and care,
And the heart-withering anguish of despair,
The hopes that conscious liberty inspire
Illumined his eye with more than youthful fire,
And earth scarce felt the light elastic tread,
As swiftly o‘er the ground his footsteps sped.
―Alas! old man,‖ said I, ―canst thou rejoice
Even at the sound of Freedom‘s heavenly voice?
Those notes tho‘ sweet as from an angel‘s breath,
Have yet no power to stay the shafts of death.
Thy days are numbered, thou wilt never know
The joys with which the free man‘s bosom glow.‖
[next page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 32
Thursday Sept 26. 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the N. Haven Herald.
MR. EDITOR.—The following was written immediately after reading the N.Y. Sun‘s
account of Cinquez and his companions. That account may be incorrect in some of its
details, though it falls far below the mournful reality ―buccaneers‖ who conduct the
dreadful slave trade. Many a noble chief has been doomed by them. That is his absolute
sway over his companions. That his bold attempt to regain liberty and home does not
make him a pirate, we feel by fancying ourselves in his circumstances.
         North Branford, Sept. 7, 1839.                              J.D.B.


Son of a scorned, down-trodden race,
 Whose mighty agonies and groans
Are pleasant music to the base,
    Thy cause our nature owns.
They call thee pirate!—rank thy deed
 With all that men should curse and hate,
And souls, to whom but gold may plead,
  Scowl if we call it great.

By such, the garb and skin are deemed
  Our nature‘s Nazareth;—can they there
Find aims, of which they never dreamed,
   E‘en with the skin they wear?
MEN feel thee from thy country torn,
  The writhing prey of murderous thieves;
Thy soul, to sacred freedom sworn,
   Their sympathy receives.

Thou hast a cherished native home,
 Where hearts must pine that love thee well,--
Nor dost thou need the blood of Rome,
   To feel its sacred spill.
The mother of thy babes must weep
 Till eye is dim and heart is broken,
And, in thy soul, how oft and deep
  Those pleading babes have spoken.
Thou hast a people, noble chief,
 Who owned, adored thy magic sway,
Whose simple songs are hushed in grief
   Since thou wert torn away.
Perchance, the Spaniard found thee dreaming
 Of future ages, when thy name
Should float in song, all brightly beaming
   With deeds of well won fame.

Spaniard! the fiend thy mother‘s breast
  Bred thee to hate as all that‘s evil,
As babes, in whiter arms caressed,
   Are taught to dread the devil:
Shouldst thou, thus wronged and nursed, have brooked
  In slavery‘s blood and chains to roll thee

Had triumph, equal to thy will,
 Which burned with nature‘s holiest flame,
Restored thee to thy native hill,
       There had a hero‘s name
Awoke in glory on thy brow;—
  There hearts would leap and songs would swell
To honor thee;—nor there hads‘t thou
       Pined in a prison cell.

Hearts, too indignant to forget,
 Are listening while thy tale is told;
Wronged man, hope brightens for thee yet!
        To infamy unsold,
This soil would spurn us, should we dare
  To crush thee with a felon‘s doom;
Our fathers‘ ashes, kindling there,
 Would curse us from the tomb.
[new page]


―The steady subsistence of the agitation.‖—
       Correspondent of the National Intelligencer.
―Abolitionism is rapidly dying away.‖—
                              Pro-Slavery Papers.

Dying away—day after day—
 This is the burden of our lay!
And louder yet shall the chorus ring—
 For southern votes we‘ll strain our throats,
 Till the air shall thrill with our servile notes,
For the ―sunny South‖ hath bidden us sing.
 What care we that the press be free?
 Freedom and slavery cannot agree!
Muzzle the press!—for the South hath spoken—
 Down with petition! kill abolition
With addled-egg logic and club-ammunition!
Discussion must cease or the compact is broken.
 Dying away—day after day—
 This is the song we sing for pay.

 True, we oppose, as every one knows,
 The ―abstract‖ system of kicks and blows,
But—slaves are contented and masters kind.
 True, we believe to plunder and thieve
 Is not the best thing that a man can achieve,
But—the system has flourished for—time out of mind,
 We know ‘tis an evil, the child of the devil,
  But to tell the South so would be thought hardly civil;
Besides it was sanctioned by Peter and Paul—
 All good men abhor‘t [sic]—but the Bible is for ‘t,
 And our hearts are at ease under pleas of this sort—
And Colonization‘s the ―cure‖ after all!
 Dying away—day after day—
 This is the burden of our lay.

 The ―fanatics‖ are few—they are gaining ‘tis true,
 And the time may be bear when our course we shall
But still we‘ll protest they are ―dying away;‖
  Our conscience bought, we will lie, as we ought,
  Nor give to the future a serious thought—
Sufficient the evil thereof to the day!
  With the many we‘ll shout, and in time turn about,
  For ‘tis easy to wear our coats either side out;
And we‘ve learned from the schools that ―experience is
   Old Time will disclose we are moral Jim Crows,
  And can veer like a cane with the wind as it blows—
While the South pays best, for the South we‘ll fight!
  Dying away! dying away!
  This is the song we sing for pay!

        We have seen the above in several of the papers, without any ear-mark. Hence
we are unable to render ―honor where honor is due.‖ As our British brethren would say, it
is ―clever.‖—ED. ABO.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 33
Thursday Oct 3 1839.
[End handwritten]

                              THE PRESS.

                    God said, ―Let there be light!‖
                    Grim darkness felt his night,
                             And fled away;
             Then, startled seas, and mountains cold
             Shone forth, all brought in blue and gold,
                    And cried, ― ‘Tis day! ‘tis day!‖

                     ―Hail holy light!‖ exclaim‘d
                     The thund‘rous cloud, that flam‘d
                             O‘er the daisies white;
      And lo, the rose in crimson dress‘d,
      Lean‘d sweetly on the lily‘s breast,
                     And, blushing, murmur‘d, ―Light!‖

                     Then was the skylark born;
                     Then rose th‘ embattled corn;
                              Then floods of praise
      Flow‘d o‘er the sunny hills of noon:
      And then, in stillest night, the moon
                     Poured forth her pensive lays.

                     Lo, heaven‘s bright bow is glad!
                     Lo, the trees and flowers, all clad
                             In glory, bloom!
      And shall the mortal sons of God,
      Be senseless as the trodden clod,
                     And darker than the tomb?

                    No, by the MIND of man!
                    By the swart artisan!
                            By God, our Sire!
      Our souls have holy light within,
      And every form of grief and sin
                    Shall see and feel its fire.

                       By earth, and hell, and heaven,
                The shroud of souls is riven!
                       Mind, mind alone,
Is light, and hope, and life, and power:
Earth‘s deepest night, from this bless‘d hour—
                The night of minds—is gone!

              ―The Press!‖ all lands shall sing;
              The Press, the Press, we bring,
                     All lands to bless:
       Oh, pallid want! oh, labor stark!
       Behold, we bring the second ark!
                     The Press! the Press! the Press!
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist.
No 31
Thursday October 10. 1839.
[End handwritten]


Lo! once in triumph on his boundless plain,
The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign;
With fires proportioned to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye,
Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,
The spear, the lion, and the woods his own;
Or led the combat, bold without a plan,
An artless savage, but a fearless man!

The plunderer came! alas, no glory smiles
For Congo‘s chief on yonder Indian isles;
For ever fallen! no son of nature now,
With freedom chartered on his manly brow!
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away,
And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day,
Starts with a bursting heart, for evermore
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore!

The shrill horn blew: at their alarum [sic] knell
His guardian angel took a last farewell;
That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind.
Poor fettered man! I hear thee whispering low
Unhallowed vows to guilt, the child of wo [sic];
Friendless thy heart—and canst thou harbor there
A wish but death, a passion but despair!

The widowed Indian, when her lord expires,
Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires:
So falls the heart at thraldom‘s [sic] bitter sigh—
So virtue dies, the spouse of liberty!
                                THOMAS CAMPBELL
Murdered at Alton, Illinois, November 7, 1837.

Here rests, oh God! thy martyr! Men should give
Due honor to his ashes, as they tread
Over the grace of one whose actions shed
Lustre undying, fame not fugitive,
On the proud name his children bear. He died,
Not as the traitor, whose base spirit yields,
For ease or safety, rights that God hath given,--
Not as the craven, who, for truth and heaven,
With doubtful heart the keen edged weapon wields,
And from the field ingloriously is driven,--
By courage high his death was sanctified,
His deeds, by faith and prayer—and none hath striven
More nobly in a noble cause—therefore
Honor be his, and praise for evermore.
                                W.H. BURLEIGH



Thank God, that though thy body Death has slain,
  Thy quenchless spirit nothing could subdue;
  That though thou art removed from mortal view,
Thou livest evermore—and not in vain!
Our loss is but thine everlasting gain!
  Of FREEDOM‘S friends, the truest of the true
 Wast thou, as all her deadly foes well knew!
For bravely her good cause thou didst maintain.
No threats could move, no perils could appal [sic],
 No bribes seduce thee, in thy bright career:—
O, many a fettered slave shall mourn thy fall,
 And many a ransomed one let drop the tear;
A nation, wakened by thy trumpet-call—
 The world itself—thy memory shall revere!
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 35
October 17. 1839.
[End handwritten]

       From Robert Burns.


When chill November‘s surly blast
   Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
  Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
  Seemed weary won with care;
His face was furrowed o‘er with years,
  And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
 Began the reverend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
 Or youthful‘s pleasure rage?
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
 Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
 The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moor,
  Out spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
  A haughty lordling‘s pride—
I‘ve seen yon weary winter sun
  Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
  That man was made to mourn.

O man! while in thy early years,
 How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
 Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway,
 Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature‘s law,
 That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
 Or manhood‘s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
 Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
 With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, Oh! ill-matched pair!
 Shew man was made to mourn.

A few seem favorites of Fate,
 In Pleasure‘s lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
 Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
 Are wretched and forlorn;
Through weary life this lesson learn,
 That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills
  Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
 Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven erected face
 The smiles of love adorn,—
Man‘s inhumanity to man
 Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o‘er-labored wight,
 So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
 To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow worm
 The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
 And helpless offspring mourn.

If I‘m designed on yon lordling‘s slave—
  By nature‘s law designed,
Why was an independent wish
  E‘er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
  His cruelty and scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
  To make his fellow mourn?
Yet not let this too much, my son
 Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
 Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
 Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
 To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man‘s dearest friend!
 The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
 Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
 From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh! a blest relief to those
 That weary-laden mourn.



Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolved, with soul resigned,
Prepared power‘s proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist.
No 36.
October 24. 1839.
[End handwritten]



They knew that I was poor,
 And they thought that I was base;
They thought that I‘d endure
 To be covered in disgrace;
They thought me of their tribe,
 Who on filthy lucre doat [sic],
So they offered me a bribe
 For my vote, boys! my vote!
    O shame upon my betters,
     Who would my conscience buy!
   But I‘ll not wear their fetters,
     Not I, indeed, not I!

My vote? It is not mine
   To do with as I will;
To cast, like pearls, to swine,
   To these wallowers in ill.
It is my country‘s due,
   And I‘ll give it, while I can,
To the honest and the true,
   Like a man! like a man!
     O shame, &c.

No, no, I‘ll hold my vote,
 As a treasure and a trust,
My dishonor none shall quote,
 When I‘m mingled with the dust;
And my children, when I‘m gone,
 Shall be strengthened by the thought,
That their father was not one
 To be bought, to be bought!
    O shame, &c.

Earth‘s children cleave to the Earth—her frail,
  Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist, that leaves the vale,
  And lessens in the morning ray,
Look how by mountain rivulet,
  It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
  Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
  To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
  And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain—it passes still
  From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
  The world with glory, wastes away;
Till, parting from the mountain‘s brow,
  It vanishes from human eye,
An that which sprung of earth is now
  A portion of the glorious sky.


Would‘st thou a wanderer reclaim,
A wild and restless spirit tame—
Check the warm flow of youthful blood,
And lead a lost one back to God?
Pause, if thy spirit‘s wrath be stirred;
Speak not to him a bitter word.
Speak not—that bitter word may be
The stamp that seals his destiny.

If widely he has gone astray,
And dark excess has marked his way,
‘Tis pitiful—but yet beware,
Reform must come from kindly care.
Forbid the parting lips to move,
But in the gentle tones of love.
Though sadly his young heart hath erred,
Speak not to him a bitter word.

The lowering frown he will not bear,
The venom‘d chidings will not hear,
The ardent spirit will not brook
The stinging tooth of sharp rebuke.
Thou would‘st not goad the restless steed
To calm his fire, or check his speed—
Then let no angry tones be heard;—
Speak not to him a bitter word.

Go kindly to him—make him feel
Your heart yearns deeply for his weal;
Tell him the dangers thick that lay
Around his ―widely devious way‖—
So shalt thou win him—call him back
From pleasure‘s smooth, seductive track,
And warnings, thou hast mildly given,
May guide the wanderer up to Heaven.
[new page]

Mass Abolitionist
No 37
October 31 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Massachusetts Abolitionist.

        The Rev. Jarvis Gregg was a man whose memory his friends and acquaintance
will always delight to cherish. Our country has given birth to a few men of more
intellectual promise and moral worth. He was one of the few early advocates of the cause
of the slave, who appreciated the labors of George Thompson, and manfully vindicated
his career in the Andoverian campaign. But he soon rested from his labors, having just
entered upon a professorship in Western Reserve College. The following from his pen,
taken from a lady‘s Album, evinces his feeling for the oppressed.

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.

How gloomy were this vale of tears
 But for thy fragrant smiles!
Thy presence banishes our fears
 And all our woe beguiles.

In thy mild light we travel on
  And smile at toil and pain,
And think no more of Eden‘s 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 or 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.‖
June 1, 1835                          J.G.
[next page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 38
October Novem 4. 1839.
[End handwritten]

From the Literary Examiner and Western Mon. Review


―Like the, oh stream! to glide in solitude
  Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star,
  Unseen by man, and from the great world‘s jar
Kept evermore aloof—methinks ‘twere good
To lived thus lonely through the silent lapse
  Of my appointed time.‖ Not wisely said,
  Unthinking Quietest! The brook hath sped
Its course for ages through the narrow gaps
  Of rifled hills, and o‘er the reedy plain,
  Or ‘mid the eternal forests, nor in vain—
The grass more greenly groweth on its brink,
And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there,
  And of its crystal waters myriads drink,
  That else would faint beneath the torrid air.



Inaction now is crime. The old Earth reels
  Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold,
  Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold
Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels
The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels
  In worship foul to Mammon, is contemned [sic].
  He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemmed
Corruption‘s tide, and from the ruffian heels
Of impious tramplers rescued perilled [sic] Right,
  Is called fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers
  Maliciously assailed. The poor man‘s tears
Are unregarded—the oppressor‘s might
Revered as law,—and he whose righteous way
Departs from evil, makes himself a prey.



What then? Shall Truth‘s anointed Priest succumb
  To popular Falsehood, and fling down his shield,
  And drop the sword he hath been taught to wield
In Virtue‘s cause? Shall Righteousness be dumb,
Awe-struck before Injustice? No!—a cry,
   ―Ho! to the rescue!‖ from the hills hath rung,
  And men have heard and to the combat sprung,
Strong for the right, to conquer or to die!
  Up, Loiterer! for on the winds are flung
The banners of the Faithful!—and erect
Beneath their folds the hosts of God‘s elect
  Stand in their strength. Be thou their ranks among
Fear not, nor falter, though the strife endure,
Thy cause is sacred, and the victory sure.



A horse, poor and worn,
Was turned out forlorn
By the dusty road to graze,
All the remnant of his days.
Lame in all his legs but one,
Hobbled he and nibbled he alone—
Save that ever and anon
Came a thumping cruel stone
By some wicked urchin thrown,
Finally, it came to pass,
In the driest dearth of grass,
Bounded up a noble stag,
Like a captain with his flag.
Eyes the creature had, to weep,
And a soul of finest feeling,
While his antlers seemed to sweep
Stars from out the azure ceiling.
Cousin he might be, ‘tis true,
To the thankless one that browsed
On the vine that had him housed,
Kindly, from the canine crew;
Or to him, more proud than wise,
Who in love with what adorns
Gloried in her useless horns,
But his spindles did despise.
Yet he was a noble dear,
And approaching kindly near
To the steed so poor and lame,
Cried he loudly, ―What a shame!
Help, O help, in Mercy‘s name!‖
Soon an ox, that chanced to feed
Near at hand in velvet mead,
Heard and answered to the call—
Owned such starving was a sin—
Made a gap in meadow-wall—
Helped the famished sufferer in,
Pricking up his ears, the steed
Chiefly thanked the gallant deer,
Who like errant cavalier
Took his part in greatest need—
Thinking, too, the patient ox
Who removed the fence of rocks.
[new page]

Scarcely done the friendly deed,
When the doers disagreed.
He that stood so proudly horned
All the fences greatly scorned—
Snuffed the breezes of the wild—
Wished to live as nature‘s child—
Counseled ox and horse to be
Comrades of his liberty.
But the ox, so staid and steady,
Thought the stag was light and heady.
―Fenceless liberty! Oh, fudge!‖
Cried he, ―never will I budge
From the fields I know so well
Tow‘rds the woods of which you tell.‖
―Out upon thee,‖ said the deer,
―Traitor to our brother here,
Thou wouldst make his living more
Wretched than it was before!‖
Warmer waxed this dispute,
Brute retorting upon brute,
Till the horse, revived by food,
Using all the leg he could,
Gave his friend the ox a kick!
Much the stag approved the trick.
But it turned out very ill—
Bounding over dale and hill,
Off the stag his course pursued,
While with all his gratitude
Poor, lame and nearly blind,
Had, perforce, to stay behind—
Where this lesson he might learn;—
Friend the humblest never spurn,
Though it be to please another
Dearer to thee than a brother.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 39.
November 14. 1839.
[End handwritten]


Star of the North! though night winds drift,
  The fleecy drapery of the sky,
Between thy lamp and me, I lift,
  Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest,
And, of a land of freedom tellest.

Star of the North! while blazing day
  Pours round me its fill tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
  I, too, lie hid, and long for night:
For night:—I dare not walk at noon,
Nor dare I trust the faithless moon.

Nor faithless man, whose burning lust
  For gold hath riveted my chain;
Nor other leader can I trust
  But thee, of even the starry train;
For all the host around thee burning,
Like a faithless man, keep turning, turning,

I may not follow where they go:
   Star of the North, I look to thee
While on I press: for well I know
   Thy light and truth shall set me free:—
Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth;
Thy truth, that all my soul believeth.

They of the East beheld the star
  That over Bethlehem‘s manager glowed:
With joy they hailed it from afar,
  And followed where it marked the road,
Till, where its rays directly fell,
They found the Hope of Israel.
Wise were the men who followed thus
  The Star that sets man free from sin!
Star of the North! thou art to us—
  Who‘re slaves because we wear a skin
Dark as is Night‘s protecting wing—
Thou art to us a holy thing.

And we are wise to follow thee!
  I trust thy steady light alone.
Star of the North! thou seem‘st to me
  To burn before the Almighty‘s throne,
To guide me through these forests dim,
And vast, to liberty and HIM.

Thy beam is on the glassy breast
   Of the still spring upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
   And bow my parched lips to drink
Guide of the friendless negro‘s way,
I bless thee for this quiet ray!

In the dark top of the southern pines
   I nestled, when the driver‘s horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
   My fellows, at the break of the morn.
And there I lay till thy sweet face
Looked in upon ―my hiding place.‖

The tangled cane-brake, where I crept
  For shelter from the heat of noon,
And where, while others toiled, I slept
  Till wakened by the rising noon,
As it stalks felt the night wind free,
Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee.

Star of the North! in bright array.
  The constellations round thee sweep,
Each holding on its nightly way,
  Rising, or sinking in the deep,
And, it hands in mid heaven flaming,
The homage of some nation claiming.

This nation to the Eagle* cowers;
  Fit ensign! she‘s a bird of spoil:—
Like worships like! for each devours
  The earnings of another‘s toil.
I‘ve felt her talons and her break,
And now the gentler Lion seek.

The Lion,* at the Virgin‘s* feet
   Crouches, and lays his mighty paw
Into her lap!—an emblem meet
   Of England‘s Queen, and English law:—
Queen, that hath made her Islands free!
Law, that holds out its shield to me!

Star of the North! upon that shield
  Thou shinest—Oh! for ever shine!
The negro, from the cotton field
  Shall, then, beneath its orb recline,
And feed the Lion, couched before it,
Nor heed the Eagle, screaming o‘er it!

*The constellations Aquila, Leo, and Virgo, are here meant by the astronomical figure.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 40
November 21. 1839
[End handwritten]

                                 TO N. P. TRIST, ESQ.,
                                      THIS POEM,
                                  ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE
                                  TRADE CHARACTER,
                  Which Mr. Trist has recently most zealously defended
                    from the various slanders heaped upon it in Great
                       Britain and America, by the fanatics of both
                        countries, in an official communication in
                          eulogy of this injured trade, addressed
                             to the British Commissioners for
                               the suppression of the traffic,
                                       IS DEDICATED,
                                    BY THE AUTHOR.


―Come, let us lie in wait for blood, let us lay snares for the innocent without cause. Let
us swallow him up like hell, and whole, as one that goeth down to the pit. We shall fill
our houses with spoils. Cast in thy lot with us, and let us all have one purse.‖—[Prov. i.
1 to 14.]

Behold yon placid, plodding, pale old man,
His meek yet sombre features closely scan;
In his calm look how wisdom‘s light is shed—
How the gray hairs become his honored head!
Mark how the merchants bow to him on ‘Change,
See on the wharf how many greetings strange;
Highly respected—prized—revered, indeed!
By all ―reports‖ his fame is widely spread.

Behold his house!—if marble speak elsewhere,
―Sermons in stones‖ are with a vengeance here.
Whate‘er the potent will of wealth can do,
Or pride can wish, is offered to your view.
Those pictured walls—those gilded panels see!
This glaring pile in all its pomp and survey.
The grandeur strikes—one must not look for taste;
What‘s gorgeous cannot always be quite chaste.

Behold his heart!—it is not all, I ween,
Looks fair without that‘s likewise well within;
The lust of gold that feeds on human gore,
May fix its canker on the inmost core—
Deprave, corrupt, and fester every part,
Nor leave one spot of soundness in that heart,
O how the guilt of man, man can begrime,
And make the purest current black with crime.

Behold his guilt! Nay, shrink not at its gloom;
Let culprits wince, to whom its traits come home!
Sound all the depths of infamy elsewhere—
The common baseness of mankind lay bare;
Drain every cup of rime to its last lees;
Still with the sum of turpitude in these
―Be light as air,‖ compared with guilt like this—
Of wholesale murder—and its trade is his.

Behold his conscience! O what deep repose!
Its slumbers on, in one long deadly doze.
Why do you wonder that it thus should sleep—
That crime should prosper, or that guilt so deep,
So long unfelt, should seem unscathed; in fine,
Is the heart‘s hardness, think you, no dread sign
Of wrath of God? and such repose as this
Deserve the name of peace or happiness?

For him, no peace is purchased by his deeds;
He lives by war, he deals in men, and trades
In flesh and blood, and he supplies the gold
To stir the strife, whose victims you behold;
The human cargo to its full amount
Is duly shipped and stowed, on his account,
Greased for the mart and sold by parcel there,
Spectres of men, the pictures of despair.

To him what boots it, if the sale was good,
How many perished in the fray of blood;
How many peaceful villages attacked,
That living cargo to complete were sacked;
How many wretched beings, in each town,
Maimed at the onslaught! or in flight cut down!
How many infants from the breasts were torn
And frenzied mothers dragged away forlorn.

To him what boots it how the ship is crammed!
How many hundreds in the hold are jammed!
How small the space, what piteous cries bellow,
What frightful tumult in that den of wo[sic]!
Or how the hatches when the gale comes on
O‘er struggling hands and heads are battened down,
How death is sure to thin that crowded hold;—
The voyage pays, if but one-half are sold.

To him what boots it, in that dungeon drear
How many beings gasp and pant for air,
How many creatures draw infected breath,
And drag out life there in the midst of death!
Yet lo look down my God! confront despair!
The shrieks and groans of that live mass to hear;
To breathe that horrid atmosphere and dwell
But for one moment in that human hell.

To him what boots it, if he sell the sound,
How many sick—(that might not sell) were drowned;
How many feeble children, pined away,
Or wasted bodies, made their plash per day!
They‘re only negroes!—true, they count not here—
Perhaps their cries and tears may count elsewhere.
And One on high may say for these and all
―A price was paid,‖ and it redeemed from thrall.

Was it not spoken by ―the Lord on hight [sic]‖
―He that shall steal and sell a man shall die?‖
Is it not written, ―Thou shalt do no wrong?‖
―Let go my captives!‖ and release the throng,
―Undo the burden of the yoke to me!‖
And ―let the poor and the oppressed go free!‖
[new page]

Made in the image of their God, shall they
Not ―rise again,‖ like you, ―at the last day?‖

We to the man ―who lies in wait,‖ and then
―Sets snares and traps to catch‖ his fellow men,
Who bends his victims to ―the yoke, whose bond
Are the bands of brass,‖ and smiles while each despot […]
―We to the man who builds his house by wrong,
Consumed the people—and doth prolong
Their horrid feuds to fill his hands with spoil,
And sell the prey that‘s left alive for toil.

We to the ―merchants who are princes‖ here,
Those titled felons, miscreants who bear
The name of Christian!—boast of freedom‘s light,
And wage eternal war with human right.
Who ravage nations, which they never saw,
By written order, and their word is law,
Or waste a province to provide a prey,
And dare to make humanity their plea.

Why thus ―doth every one of you despise
His brother‖ man, and scoff the stranger‘s cries?
―Have you not all one Father,‖ who‘s above?
―Hath not one God created you in love‖!
―Do you to others as you would that men
Should do to you,‖ when you ensnare, or chain,
Or sell, these stolen men, and each who sees
―A thief runs with them for such spoils as these.‖

Perhaps fanatics only thus may feel,
Or deem eternal justice that may deal!
Perhaps the merchant here portrayed may think
In guilt‘s great chain he‘s but the farthest link.
Forsooth, he sees not all the ills take place,
Nor goes in person to the human chase!
He does not hunt the negro down himself,
His factor only furnishes the pelf [sic].

He does not watch the blazing huts beset,
Nor slips the horde at rapine‘s yell, nor yet
Selects the victims from the captured bands,
Nor spears the aged with his proper hands!
The orphan‘s cries, the childless mother‘s groans
He does not hear; not sees the human bones—
Strewed o‘er the desert, bleaching in the sun,
Memorials sad of murder‘s trade foregone.

He does not brand the captives for the mart,
Nor stow the cargo! ‘tis the captain‘s part.
To him the middle passage only seems
A trip of pleasure, that with profit teems;
Some fifty deaths or so on board his ship,
Are bagatelles in such a gainful trip;
Nay, fifty thousand dollars he can boast,
His latest cargo yielded from the coast.

He stabs not human nature, I admit,
With his own hands—his crime is blacker yet;
He skulks behind the bold marauder‘s deeds,
And pays for rapine as its rage succeeds.
He plunders only—purchasing the prey;
He only kills by proxy too, while they
Who sell the slaves must snare the victims first;—
They make the war—he defrays the cost!

Such is the merchant in his trade of blood;
The ruthless savage in his fiercest mood
Is not more cruel, merciless in strife,
Heedless of war, and reckless of man‘s life!
To human suffering, sympathy and shame
His heart is closed, his life‘s sole end and aim
Is sordid gain, to him, the means are nought,
The paltry gold is all he gives a thought.

Behold him now in social circles shine,
Polite and courteous—bland, almost benign.
Calm as the grave, yet affable to all,
His well taught smile has nothing to appal [sic].
It plays like sun beams on a marble tomb,
Or coldly glancing o‘er as death-like gloom
Steals o‘er his features, like the crisping air
On lake Asphaltes as it stagnates there.

Serene as summer hour the Euxine looks
Before the gale its slumb‘ring rage provokes.
Who would imagine whole the calm is there
What deadly work its depths might yet declare,
Or think beneath such gently swelling waves
Thousands of human beings find their graves?
Go musing moralist, and reconcile
The scowl of murder with its merchant‘s smile.

Behold his friends, observe the kindred traits;
They must resemble, for one draught portrays
The tribe of Cuban traders, one and all,
Of ev‘ry grade, the rapine great or small.
Stealers of men and shudders of man‘s blood,
In deed or purpose, this unhallowed brood;
Contagious guilt within their circle reigns,
And all in contact with it shews its stains.

Behold the land, regard its fertile fields,
Then count the victims of the wealth it yields;
Know whence they come and how they came to be
Condemned in this strange land to slavery.
And when you hear the ―cry of man go up,‖
Robbed of their hire and wronged, till not one hope
Is left for life, then venture to reply,
Shall not the land yet tremble for this cry?

God of all light and truth, thy justice here
Cause men to feel—its outraged laws to fear;
Smite foul oppression stalled in guilty state,
Raise ―the poor stranger‖ spoiled and desolate.
―Lord,‖ who doth ―loose the fettered!‖ in due time,
Break down this bondage and efface this crime;
Let Truth and Justice, mailed for man‘s redress,
Prevail at last, o‘er Fraud and Faithlessness.
                                RICHARD ROBERT MADDEN.
Boston, Oct. 27, 1839.
[new page]

Massachusetts Abolitionist
No 41
Thursday Nov 28 1839 –
[End handwritten]



CHILD, among the honied flowers,
Passing life‘s bright morning hours;
Playing in the silver rills,
Where they bathe Judea‘s hills;
Looking with an earnest eye,
As the birds flit lightly by;
Infant of the joyous heart,
Canst thou tell me who thou art?

Thou whose little hand in play,
Hurls the clustered grapes away;
While thou lov‘st to watch the bee,
Or to win a lamb to thee,
And to view the fleecy flock
Resting by the shadowy rock,
Dost thou know, mild, beauteous boy,
What thine errand—whence thy joy?

Thou art sent, thou blessed one,
As the dawn before the sun,
Ushering in His healing light,
To the realms of death and night!
‘Twas thy name that Gabriel spoke
By the altar, while the smoke
From thy father‘s incense roll‘d,
When thy coming he foretold.

Heaven‘s pure innocence is now
Seal‘d upon thy peaceful brow!
God‘s own spirit filleth thee,
Sainted babe, for thou art he,
Who before his Lamb shall go,
Crying that the world may know
He hath life to give the dead
In the blood he comes to shed!

Though from nature wild and rude,
Come thy raiment, rest, and food,
Angels will their vigils keep
Nightly o‘er thy desert sleep;
Through the wilderness by day,
They will point and guard the way,
‘Till to Israel thou appear,
Showing heaven‘s mild kingdom near.

High and glorious thou, the part
For thine eye, and hand, and heart!
When thy feet on Jordan‘s side,
Feel the waters as they glide,
Thou the Son of God shalt see,
Come to be baptized of thee—
Hear him named, and see the Dove
Resting on him from above!


Married in Tallmadge, Ohio, Nov. 2, Lyman Burrill, Esq., of Elyria, in the same state, to
Miss Clarissa, daughter of Elizur Wright, Esq., of the former place.

Strange years, sweet sister, hurriedly have fled
Since we together traced, with playful jokes,
The leaf-strown [sic] path that to the school-house led,
Low, log-built, underneath Dame Nature‘s oaks—
Long since in ashes by the ‗settler’s‘ strokes.
And one has fled, to dwell in brighter climes,
That frolicked gladly in those sunny times,
And linked our guardian hands—a blessed charge
That when we led her made us feel so large!—
Thy mate, I trust, deserves a heart and hand
Of Mercy‘s kindest—as can testify
Full many an outcast of our slave-cursed land.
Long may he live right well to know, as I,
Thy worth is that which all the rubies can buy.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 42
Thursday Dec 5. 1839.
[End handwritten]


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.
                         Liberty Bell.


It broke on the hush of morn—
   It startled the dull midnight,
Like the stirring peal of a battle-horn,
   It summoned them forth to the fight:
It rose o‘er the swelling hill,
   By the meadow‘s green it was heard,
Calling out for the strength of the freeman‘s will,
   And the might of a freeman‘s sword!

The rivers heard the noise—
 The valleys rung it out;
And every heart leap‘d high at the voice
 Of that thrilling battle-shout!
They sprang from the bridal bed,
 From the pallet of labor‘s rest,
And they hurried away to the field of the dead,
 Like a tardy marriage-guest.

They left the plough in the corn,
  They left the steer in the yoke;
And away from the mother and child that morn,
  And the maiden‘s first kiss, they broke!
In the shower of the deadly shot,
  In the lurid van of the war,
Sternly they stood, but they answered not
  To the hireling‘s wild hurrah.

But still as the brooding storm,
 Ere it lashes ocean to foam,
The strength of the free was in every arm,
 And every heart on its home.
Of their pleasant homes they thought,
 They prayed to their father‘s God—
And forward they went till their dead blood bought
 The bless‘d free land they trod.


Lose this day loitering—‘twill be the same story
To-morrow, and next more dilatory;
The indecision brings its own delays,
And days are lost lamenting over days.
Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute—
What you can do, or dream you can, begin it;
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
Only engage, and then the mind grows heated—
Begin it, and the work will be completed!
[new page]

Mass Abolitionist
No 43
Thursday Dec 12 1839.
[End handwritten]

[Hand symbol] The poem, of which the following is an extract, fills more than four
columns in the Emancipator. It will well repay perusal, and we shall publish it as fast as
our columns will permit.—ED. ABO.

                                 THE SUGAR ESTATE:
                                      A POEM,
                                     ILLUSTRATIVE OF
                     ―LIFE‖ AND DEATH. IN CUBAN SLAVERY.

―Happy the bonds that hold you.
Sure they be sweeter far than liberty;
There is no blessedness but in such bondage,
Happy! thrice happy chains, such links are heavenly.‖
                              BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
                                    BY R.R. MADDEN.
                                    DEDICATED TO THE
                              REV. THEODORE CLAPP,
                    in remembrance of his arduous efforts in the pulpit,
                                    In defence of one
                             of the newly discovered parts
                                   and parcels of the
                                 Christian Dispen-ation,
                                      so consolatory
                               to the devotional feelings
                             of the Slave Dealers of Cuba.
                                 By the Most Obedient,
                                         Humble Servant
                                        of His Reverence,
1839                                 -------------                  R.R.M.

                                     THE PLANTER.

No more of rapine! and its wasted plains,
Its stolen victims, and unhallowed gams;
Its Christian merchants, and the brigands bold,
Who do the work of pillage with their gold.
No more of horrors sickening to the heart,
Commercial murders, and the noonday mart
Of living ―cargoes;‖ and the frightful trace
Of pain and anguish in each sunken face.

Far from the city and its tainted breath,
Its moral plague and atmosphere of death!
Its morgue of feeling, and the grave, in sooth,
Of freedom, justice, honesty, and truth!
Its empty churches, and its crowded jails,
Its grasping dealers, and its human sales:
Its gambling nobles, and its spendthrift crowd—
Profuse, rapacious, indolent and proud.

Far from our thoughts, its guilt‘s impending fate,
The cry of vengeance, or the curse of hate;
Its tone and fashion, and its fell pursuits,
Its morning deeds, and evening balls and routs;
Its walks and gardens, and its Barracones,
Its Tacon‘s glories, and its Bozal‘s groans,
Its invoiced negroes, and its smirking beaus,
Its bills of landing, and its billet doux.

Far from the deadly influence, which doth
Degrade the tyrant and the victim both;
The daily press—its amatory strains,
Its puling sonnets, and its clanking chains:
Far from domestic furies, and their scenes,
Their angry gestures, and their gala miens,
Their home-spent passions, and their smiling lips,
Their outdoor meekness, and their indoor whips.

Their tender glances, and their love-sick sighs,
Their female scourgings, and their household cries;
And all the private circles of the host,
Who buy and sell the plunder of ―the coast.‖
Far from the foreign traders, who compete
In style and fashion with the rich and great;
Who feast the ladies of the slave trade clique,
And give ―such charming soirees‖ once a week.
Far from Assemblies, where the odious trade
A common subject of discourse is made;
Where dealers talk jocosely of their plans,
And playful fair ones tap them with their fans;
And say ―they‘re naughty,‖ when they speak in sport,
Of swearing captors fairly out of court;
Or when their mirth is in its highest mood,
They jest of murder, and the joke seems good.

Far from a spot, where men of every clime,
By easy stages led from crime to crime,
Pursue this traffic, or protect its cause,
And laugh to scorn their country‘s outraged laws.
E‘en where the bluff republican contends
For slave trade interests, and their guilt defends:
Brawls about freedom, and his native land,
And brags of bondage, on a foreign strand.

Far from the Consuls, who protect the trade,
Who sell their seals, and signatures, to aid
The ―paper Captains‖ to deceive their foes,
And thus on British cruisers to impose.
Far from official dabblers in the mart,
By small degrees grown ossified at heart,
Who seem to think their ―pound of flesh‖ is quite
Their own to keep or sell by legal right.

Far from the seat of government, where he
Who rules the land, (but reigns o‘er none who‘re free)
Performs the solemn mockery of State.
Prohibits crime, and gravely tells its fate;
While the offender lays the dollars down,
And pays for each Bozal his half doubloon;
Or when the crime is dragged before his eyes,
Castilian honor lifts its head and lies.

Now for the country and the peaceful scenes,
Of rural pleasure, where contentment reigns,
[new page]

The happy plains, where man‘s productive toil
Finds sweet requital in a fertile soil,
Where healthful labor daily dews the brows,
And evening brings to nature sweet repose,
Where grateful peasants love their master kind,
And peace and plenty bless the simple mind.

Oh ―Rus,‖ how often on my sleepless bed,
Thy ―Quando te aspiciam‖ I‘ve said!
When shall my trammelled [sic] spirit walk abroad,
And range those fields unknown to vice and fraud!
When shall I look on nature‘s face again,
And see ―the Queen of the Antilles‖ in cane?
When shall I hear the song of birds once more!
And hail the time when harvest yields its store?
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 44
December 19. 1839—
[End handwritten]

[Hand symbol] We continue this week Dr. Madden‘s poem. The following portion most
graphically describes the hospitality, and faithfully exhibits the logic, of nabobs who hold
their fellow men as chattels personal. Reader, please imprint it on your memory, and
next week you will see the ―Sugar Estate‖ of the same nabob through Dr. Madden‘s own
eyes, as he saw it in the hours when the sleep of the free laboring man is sweet in both
theory and fact.
                                 THE SUGAR ESTATE:
                                         A POEM,
                                     ILLUSTRATIVE OF
                       ―LIFE‖ AND DEATH. IN CUBAN SLAVERY.

Behold the country!—All my hopes are crowned!
Here peace and joy are surely to be found;
Here nature riots in luxuriant growth,
And loves to sport in ev‘ry shape uncouth.
The giant Ceiba rears its bulk on high,
The rustling Cocoa here confronts the sky,
The straggling Date, the waving Palm behold!
The shady Mango, and its fruit of gold.

The broad-leafed Plantain and the sheltered walk
Of sweet Bananas, with each bending stalk,
The choice Anona, and Sapota see,
And all the kindred tribe of the Mammee;
And high o‘er all the fair Palmetto reigns,
The royal Palm, the pride of Cuba‘s plains,
Whose column gently swelling from its base,
Soars with Ionian elegance and [grace.]

Where is the vast domain can boast of trees
To form a royal avenue like these?
The Theban temple, and its lengthened […]
Of granite sphinxes rise before me now.
Yet here do nature‘s splendid columns lead
To no such sacred edifice, indeed.
The vista strikes—no sculptured walls surprise;
A planter‘s house is all that meets our eyes.

The owner comes, a cavalier, ‘tis plain,
In mien and manner—nay, a Conde, e‘en,
A youthful noble, by his bearing proud,
And poor, herhaps [sic], if all was paid he owed.
Time less than pleasure may perchance have done
This work of years, and left but skin and bone;
Yet is the wreck of youthful vigor still
Enough remains, to shew the tailor‘s skill.

The solemn farce of Spanish etiquette,
In town and country, no one must forget.
The rigid Conde—halts, at distance due,
Draws himself up and takes me in review;
Bow number one—advancing to the door,
Bow number two—as formal as before,
Bow number three—an effort at a smile,
And greeting them in true Castilian style.

Sir, you are welcome to my house and lands,
Whate‘er I own is quite at your commands,
My whole estate at your disposal lies,
(And echo dwells upon that word and dies,)
Regard these slaves, I pray, sir, as your own,
No hesitation, compliment there‘s none.
I‘m highly flattered that you like this hall,
You must accept it, furniture and all.

You find me here quite in a rustic way;
I love the country—and can truly say,
I envy none—for all my time is spent
To make my people happy and content.
You see them yonder in that field of cane,
They want for nothing:—if the poor in Spain,
Or England yet, were so well off as these,
The poor indeed would then be at their ease.

Observe—the field is not so very far—
How full of mirth and glee our negroes are,
How well they look, how light their work?—you see
What happy creatures even slaves can be.
We spare no pains, indeed to make them so,
Of course—it is our interest so to do—
Besides—you know—humanity it would wrong,
—But here the bell for dinner went ding dong.

The Conde‘s house, his table and address,
Were all in keeping, showy to excess.
His style of greeting answered to his board,
Garnish of words, and dishes in accord;
Abundant sweetmeats, fritters and ragoots,
Hock, soda water, claret—and for those
Who like old topics—one that smells of graves,
The old proverbial happiness of slaves.

Pleased with my host and likewise with his cheer,
How could I doubt—the truth of words so clear—
One‘s stomach has such influence we find
In forming just opinions—o‘er the mind.
And hence we travelling [sic] gentleman, who dine
With merchant-planters—judge them by their wine,
And if the‘re [sic] civil, courteous, and give feasts,
We think their slaves are treated like their guests.

Of course I thought so in the present case,
And after dinner, though not after grace,
‘Tis highly pleasing, Senor Count, I said,
To hear your slaves are so well clothed and fed,
So lightly worked—at labor so elate,
And treated so humanely as you state:
I am no friend to slavery indeed,
But here your slave can wish not to be freed.

No one, perhaps, replied the Count, can more
Than I do, hate this system, and abhor:
[new page]

Is vile and odious in the last degree.
Sir, ―in the abstract‖—it must be condemned,—
It is the practice only I defend;
For ―quo ad‖ morals, nothing can be wor[s]e;
But ―quo ad‖ sugar, ‘tis our sole resource.

I‘ve alway[s] said ―on principle‖ ‘twas wrong,
And never purchase when the gang is strong;
For prices are so ruinous of late,
A man, who buys, must mortgage his estate.
But, while I own the system cannot last,
I feel for Cuba—and its sons opprest,
―Its vital interests,‖ and the ―vested rights‖
In Bozal negroes, of the injured whites.

I freely grant that treaties should be kept
In certain cases, some I must except,
Those, where a ―sacred privilege‖ is touched,
Or staple trade‘s insidiously approached.
But treaties are like protocols at par,
Truces in love, or stratagems in war,
Compacts to drive through in a coach and four,
Suspended state hostilities—no more.

But, trust me, sir, whate‘er I may object
On certain scores—I mean no disrespect
To your great nation—nay, you need not smile,
I only think—the government is vile,
Whose treaties are such preconcerted feats
To please a set of hypocrites and cheats!
A pack of wretches, envious of our gains,
Who raise an outcry, ‘bout our whips and chains!

Fools and fanatics! ―Exaltados‖ knaves!
Rogues, who would rob poor planters of their slaves,
Friends in disguise! philanthropists who‘d swear
That black in white to bring their ends to bear.
Villains, who talk of savages, in fine,
Of slaves possessed of human rights like mine;
Scoundrels, who think that men like us were made
To dig the ground, or grind the cane indeed.

Yes, cried the Conde, as he wiped his brow,
I always speak as I have spoken now,
Coolly and calmly, on a subject so
Important here, and interesting too!
I‘m sure you see the only wish I have
Is for the real welfare of the slave,
And must perceive the only dread I feel,
Is for the negro, from fanatic zeal!

You see how ―happy and content‖ he is,
His bondage here comparatively bliss,
To that, from which he happily was torn,
In which, too, he and all his race were born,
Having no claim to freedom from his birth,
And none, of course, in after life, on earth,
For all his rights are vested in that soil
Whereon his rightful owner spends his toil.

You see his title to a master‘s care,
To food and clothing—for the wear and tear
Of [word indecipherable] and sinews on his master‘s plains,
The best of titles, while his strength remains.
Where wants are few, no wages are required
Nor is the sort of stimulus desired,
Crack but the whip—it stirs the dullest drones,
It makes them lively, and its breaks no bones.

In short, take all things here into account,
You must acknowledge there‘s no small amount
Of human, heartfelt happiness and bliss
On an estate, that‘s managed, sir, like this.
There may be some plantations, to be sure,
Where slaves have some slight hardships to endure,
When masters happen to abuse their power,
But men, of course, err seldom on that score.

Besides they have protection from the laws,
A special Syndie doth defend their cause;
But how the slave‘s to get before the judge,
Escape the whip, complain, and dare to budge
Beyond his master‘s gate—are things, no doubt,
Presumed to be, and are, but not found out,
‘Tis quite sufficient that the laws are good,
The master‘s will is ne‘er misunderstood.

Pleased to be able to acknowledge here,
Assent to truths so palpable and clear:
O, Senor Conde! I exclaimed, indeed,
The master‘s will is law, must be obeyed.
His word is legal evidence, in sooth,
His wealth all the influence of truth;
His mill-house […] behold the justice‘s seat,
The culprit sits, the negro at his feet.

Nothing […] of Lictors, and of rods,
Or bondmen trembling at their master‘s nods:
Of savage […] or of legal crimes,
Of pagan customs, or of heathen times.
‘Tis sweet to think we live in Christian lands
Where bondage mild holds men by silken bands.
We have no pagan scourgings to abash,
We but enliven labor with the lash.

‘Tis good to know the system works so well,
That slaves and masters in such friendship dwell
That negroes hug their chains with such delight,
And owners use their power like angels quite.
‘Tis well, I say, that things are thus within,
When all without, looks black, and clouds begin
To overcast the whole horizon round
Of slavery in all its haunts renowned.

I think, sir, said the Cinde, you must be
Fatigued with so much riding, and I see
You are not quite accustomed to our roads,
They do for us, tho‘ only paths through woods
I‘m grieved you will not spend another day,
But since I can‘t prevail on you to stay,
You may depend you shall be called at four,
And find your horse then saddled at the door.
[new page]

For the Abolitionist.

The Sabbath is upon me!
I feel its holy power,
I hear its chime of bells,
But to my heart there is a sound
Not heard by mortal ears;
Unlike the clang of earthly instruments;
As ‘twere the deep and solemn swell,
Of some mighty curfew.
Its echoes round me grandly roll—
Though ‘tis not loud, I hear it still;
As if it did possess me, and were breathed
Into the air, and mingled with my senses.
Its tones speak to the inner life
With gentle power; but strong—
How soft, how rich and noble!
They keep time to the thoughts
Filled with sweet veneration,
Born of God‘s Spirit
On his holy day.
Far among the hills,
Earth seems to sleep
In its Creator‘s arms,
Dreaming of its birth-day.
Yet in my soul there is
A quiet deeper far,
Than e‘er with holy thrall
Pervades Earth‘s Sabbath solitudes;
A mightier calm, a loftier repose—
Now all is still to outward seeming,
Yet heart and fancy do not sleep;
But in a heavenly watchfulness,
Do dwell on things unseen.                       ELF.
Dec. 5, 1839

For the Abolitionist.
MR. EDITOR,—The affecting ―Incident in Slavery,‖ found in a recent number of your
paper, suggested the following:—

Wilt thou from my side depart?
 Thou who hast the power to save,
Thou who hast a human heart,
 Canst thou leave me here a slave?

Heartless avarice fixed a price
  On his brother‘s flesh and bone,—
I have earned the ransom twice,
  Toiling when my tasks were done.

Waiting for her stolen child,—
 Spending life and strength in vain,—
Twice hath Freedom near me smiled—
 Smiled—and left me in my chain.

Fraud bade chill despair enfold me—
  We enforced the frequent groan,
Till thy blessed words had told me—
  Freedom yet might be my own.

Then were my complainings hushed,
 Hopes of freedom left their grave—
Must those hopes again be crushed?
 Canst thou leave me here, a slave?

Bondman! yet a little longer
 Bear the chain, the yoke endure,
Truth—than yoke and fetter stronger,—
 Fights for thee,—and her victory sure.   D.
Boston, Dec. 3, 1839.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 45
Thursday Dec 26. 1839
[End handwritten]

                                THE SUGAR ESTATE.
                                  BY R.R. MADDEN.

Who ever spent a night on an estate
In time of crop, and went to bed at eight,
And, roused at midnight, heard the frightful bell,
Or startling coach‘s loud blast at change of spell;
The crack of whips, the hurried tramp of men,
The creaking mill, the drivers‘ threats, and then
The sudden scream, the watchful bloodhounds‘ growl,
And midst the din the strokers‘ ceaseless howl;

All the dread noise that‘s requisite to keep
The jaded cattle, and the slaves from sleep:
To rouse the weak, and drown the women‘s sighs,
One deaf‘ning uproar of discordant cries;
Who ever heard these horrid midnight sounds,
And might not deem Hell had enlarged her bounds,
Made this Plantation part of her domain,
And gave its owner slaves, and lust of gain?

Perhaps my ears deceived me, or I might
Have dreamt, tho‘ not of paradise, all night.
My host so careful seemed to spare his guest
The sight of negro grounds or works when prest;
I rose determined to compare accounts
‘Twixt sight and sound, and judge of both at once.
So forth I went—(a sad pursuit, forsooth)
A slave plantation through—in quest of truth.

The day had not yet dawned the mills about,
The drowsy negroes haggard and worn out;
The Mayoral oversees the band,
Before me now is standing whip in hand;
The fine white shirt and trowsers [sic] of his class,
The long straight sword and hilt of plated brass;
The straw hat slouching o‘er his olive face,
Sturdy in person, stout and firm in pace.

What means this sword that dangles at his side,
The blood hound crouching near, what ills betide
A man of peace, a harmless mayoral,
Thus to be armed, and guarded thus withal?
All in his mien and air when closely scanned,
Announce a man accustomed to command;
The bold regard, the quick and searching glance,
Of one who dealt but little in romance.

With all due awe and reverence possest,
I felt the power of him whom I addrest.
The man, for one who held a despot‘s sway,
Was frank and civil—unreserved and free.
The mill, the works, the sugar-house were shown.
The negro huts, and hospital alone,
It needed some persuasion to obtain
A sight of; but they‘re seldom shown or seen.

Here were three hundred negroes, old and young,
The working gang about two hundred strong;
While these they made two thousand boxes clear,
Of Muscovado sugar the last year;
Or ten for every negro hale and strong,
Just twice the weight from British slaves once wrung:
All to the charge of British planters laid,
Compared with this, is light as air indeed.

Here were three hundred slaves, of these alone
Fifty were females—and of all not one
On the estate was married by a priest,
Or ever saw one Sabbath day or feast.
No sacred rite, no sacrament was known,
The pagans christened—and internment done—
The Christian pastor‘s duty was observed,
The laws obeyed, and decency preserved.
Here ‗twas admitted that death might e‘en
Some ten per cent, a year, or twelve have been;
A large consumption too of human life,
Where wholesale carnage shows no battle strife.
The births were then in an excess?—not they,
Last year the births on the estate were three;
True, in a dozen years—the slaves would cease,
On the estate, with such a great decrease;—

But then the Bozal market is quite nigh,
And there the planter keeps up his supply;
‘Tis cheaper far to buy new strength, I‘m told,
Than spare the spent, or husband out the old.
But times there are when men have listened long
And heard atrocious things, as if no wrong
Was done their ear or offered to their heart,
That silence seems to be a felon‘s part.

Would the obliging Mayoral, I said,
Be pleased to tell me where I‘d find the shed,
And see the aged slaves of the estate;
The weak, the old decrepit slaves, whose fate
Was now to feel a tender master‘s care,
For whom they toiled thro‘ life; if such there were,
How did it happen none were to be seen
Unfit for labor, ev‘ry where I‘d been?

No pregnant women whom the law doth yield
A month‘s brief rest and respite from the field;
No tender children on the Sabbath day,
Trained to be good, poor things, or taught to pray.
‘Tis true your law allows not that a slave
Should learn to read or write—but I must crave
Its pardon humbly, if I say, from the first
To last, each letter of it, is accurst.

I‘d always thought that Mayorals were men
Who never laughed, but I judged wrongly then;
For this man laughed outright, with might and main,
‘Till his great sides with laughter shook again.
At length, somewhat composed, he coolly said,
You‘ve not long been in Cuba, or you‘ve paid
Not much attention to the plantation,
And have to learn what slaves are for, in fine […]

We purchase slaves to cultivate our plains;
We don‘t want saints or scholars to cut canes:
We buy a negro for his flesh and bone,
He must have muscle, brains he may have none.
But where, you ask, the old decrepit slaves?
Where should they be, of course, but in their graves
We do not send them there before their time,
But let them die when they are past their prime.

What use indeed are they on an estate,
They cannot work, what right have they to eat?
But do not grieve about the old I pray,
Slaves who are worked by night as well as day,
Seldom grow old—the four hours‘ sleep in crop
For five long months, and one by one will drop—
Better to die, and buy a new Bozal,
Than feed the weak, and fill the hospital.

Yes, twenty hours of unremitting toil,
Twelve in the field, and eight in doors to boil
Or grind, is labor, lets not men grow old,
But life is cheap—and sugar, sir, is gold.
You speak of pregnant women, and suppose
We can afford to give such slaves repose!
This is another great mistake indeed,
It answers better far to buy than bread.

Besides the women always are at strife;
A Mayoral has quite a wretched life,
Where there are many women on the estate;
There should be none, if my word had much weight.
They‘re always shamming, skulking from the field,
Sure to be sick when strangers are beheld;
For then the Creole, for some fancy mere,
Will have no flogging, while his friends are here.
As for the talk of marriage—you must jest,
What marry wretched negroes by a priest?
Besides, there‘s not a priest within some ten
Or twelve long leagues of the estate; and then,
Were one to come, the Conde‘d have to pay;
Whereas, I marry all the best and shortest way:
We have not many marriages, ‘tis true.
The men are many, and the females few.

But then of all we take the best of care,
You‘ve seen their huts within that well-watered square
As fast as bolt and bar can keep them in,
They‘re safe at night—‘till they‘re let out I ween.
We have no doubt some runaways at times,
(This on estates ‘s the first and worst of crimes:)
You‘ve seen a few who work in chains by day,
And in the stocks have got by night to stay.

We never flog, sir, more than we can help,
Tuesdays and Fridays are the days we skelp;
And out of these we seldom use the lash,
Except to stir the gang that carries trash.
Or make the women tend the mill look sharp,
For these will wrangle, jabber, growl, and carp,
Unless you ply the whip: ‘tis strange indded [sic],
How much sound drubbing women always need.

But as to food, you may be sure we give
Enough, if not to fill, at least to live;
Two meals a day, four ounces of jerked beef,
A pound of yams, two plaintains are the chief;
The sole provision at each meal served out.
It does not do to let them grow too stout;
‘Nor is it here, nor on estates around,
That fat and saucy negroes may be found.

Nay, said the speaker, in a tone more grave,
Gaze as you may at every haggard slave;
‘Tis not the want of food, or clothes, or care,
That kills the negroes off, from year to year.
But want of rest—come nearer—step this way—
For walls themselves, you know, have ears, they say;
Night after night, in constant labor past,
Will break down nature, and its strength at last.

Is it human nature to support
Such toil as this? In human strength, in short,
To do with four hours‘ sleep? and yet endure
The monstrous lie that negroes need no more.
No doubt you think the Mayoral‘s to blame,
He works the negroes thus, and his the shame;
The master does not live on the estate,
He knows but little of his slaves‘ hard fate.

The Conde,—true it is, does not reside
On his estate like all his class: his pride
Is to exist in luxury and ease,
At the Havana—and indulge in these.
There in his squalid splendor he can move,
Exhaust the vices and imagine love;
Plume up his haughty indigence in smiles,
And spend a harvest on a harlot‘s wiles.

There can he find among his gay compeers
Gamblers enough, and spendthrifts of his years;
To get a ―motte‖ up in the forenoon,
And one at night, in spite of old Tacon.
There can he stake a crop upon a card,
God help the negroes if his luck is hard:
The Conde then we‘re sure to see next day,
The gambler comes to find new means to play.

―Servant of servants‖ to the slave of vice,
The Mayoral is summoned in a trice:
The agent soon appears before his lord,
[new page]

Bows to the ground, and tells what sugar‘s stored.
He‘s told that last year‘s crop will never do,
A large increase is wanted, funds are low;
The debts of old, the merchant‘s one per cent.
A month for loans, have swallowed up the rent.

Money is wanted, sugar must be made,
The produce doubled—or—his wages paid;
The count must seek another mayoral,
Who‘ll work the negroes, let what will befall.
He‘ll not be told, they can‘t be worked much more,
They sleep too much—what do they want with four
Or five hours‘ sleep? The neighbors round agree
That slaves in crop can do right well with three.

Sugar he‘ll have, he cares not how, or by
What cruel means, he gets a new supply.
‘Tis idle to remonstrate or refuse;
Obey one must—or his employment lose.
You seem to think a gamester‘s heart is made
Of human stuff, that‘s moved by prayers or swayed
By any human influence, save one:
The lust of gold to play for stakes unwon.

The Conde‘s orders are obeyed of course,
And these augmented rigor must enforce:
―Bocco abajos‖—morning, noon, and night,
Unceasing torture, and unsparing might.
Numbers arise, and driftless schemes are rife,
Of wild revenge ‘mongst men who‘re sick of life;
And when its outburst comes, what signifies,
Who is the victim—if a white man dies?

I know full well the perils of my post,
How many lives its duties vile have cost!
You see this sword, these blood-hounds at my beck,
On these I count to keep the slaves in check,
These are the dogs we train to hunt them down,
To scent them out and chase the Cimaroon:
These are our friends and allies, and ‘tis fit
That brutes like these should be so, I admit.

Ah, Senor Mio, briefly I replied,
The words you speak are not to be denied;
You know too well your orders it appears,
For me to question or dispute your fears.
Too well you know the torments you inflict,
For me to doubt the sufferings you depict;
Too long you‘ve outraged and oppressed the poor,
For me to think your system can endure.

Your fields are fair and fertile I allow,
But no good man can say—―God speed the plough.‖
There‘s wealth unfailing in your people‘s toil,
‘Twould wrong the poor to cry—―God bless the soil.‖
‘Twere asking blood to beg that God would deign
To ―give the early and the latter rain.‖
One prayer indeed can be hardly be supprest:
God help the slave, and pity the opprest.

Planters of Cuba, strangers and creoles,
Condes, and Consuls of congenial souls;
Nobles with titles at the market rates,
Settlers from ―Old Virginia,‖ and its farms,
Sharpers in exile, safe from laws alarms—
Brokers in bills, and bankrupts with estates;
One word at parting, —look to your estates,
Warning of ruin‘s written on your gates.

See the commencement of the end at hand,
Behold the finger moving o‘er the land,
Of righteous justice, pointing to the Isles,
Where bondage reigned, but now where freedom smiles;
Think of the wrongs inflicted on your slaves;
Their groans, their hardships, and their early graves.
Think of yourselves, and tremble for your own,
For wives and children beggared and undone.

When they are beggared, said the Mayoral,
‘Tis time enough to think about their fall;
But now we‘ve got to think about the crop,—
The whip must crack or else the work would stop.
The sound that‘s music to the practised ear,
The strain that cheers the tristful amateur,
To hear again, the stranger may decline,
Whose heart has felt as sick as these as mine.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 46
Thursday January 2. 1840
[End handwritten]

From the Sun of Liberty.

Ho! up with our banner, the Flag of the Free!
The old one is red with the stripes of the slave.
Oppression has stained it, by land and by sea:
‘Tis shame to the just and defeat to the brave.
Ho! up with our banner, all starry and white,
The bird of the skies in his own native light.
With the olive of peace and the terrors of law,
His brightness the hearts of all freemen shall draw.
Ho! up with our banner, the Flag of the free,
Till all are as chainless and happy as we.

Foul slavery‘s curse, in our own native land,
Is tearing from millions the image of God—
Is stamping their flesh with its withering brand,
And blasting their souls with its torturing rod.
And, seizing the standard of stars and of stripes,
The reins of the people all sternly it gripes,
And lashes the parties,—(republican span!)
All foaming with blood, to THE TRAFFIC IN MAN!
Ho! up with our banner, the Flag of the Free,
Till all are chainless and happy as we.

―E PLURIBUS UNUM!‖ We‘ll make it a truth!
The lie that has sundered out county shall fall.
By the wisdom of age and the muscle of youth,
We swear to demolish old slavery‘s wall.
―E PLURIBUS UNUM‖—all men are the same,
The sa[v]age and the civil, the wild and the tame:
The rights of THE HUMAN whoever disputes,
Is solely entitled to herd with the brutes.
So, up with our banner, the Flag of the Free,
Till all are as chainless and happy as we.

What though we are feeble, and scattered and few,
Our cause is our country‘s, our weapons divine:
As sure as the sunrise, the good and the true
Shall flock to our standard and form in our line.
All spirits shall aid us that love to be just,—
The pulpit for one, or be ―false to its trust.‖
The free in their millions, like triumphing waves,
Shall rush to the rescue of millions of slaves.
Then up with our glory, the Flag of the Free,
Till all are as chainless and happy as we.

To the polls of the people, the fountain of law,
On the rights of immortals, as question the first,
The brunt and the heat of the battle we‘ll draw.
Let his memory rot, as craven accurst,
Who places his office, or cotton, or pelf,
Above the high manhood with cowardly fright,
Or quails from the standard with cowardly fright,
Lest his country should sink by the raising of right
Ho! up with our banner, the Flag of the Free,
Till all are as chainless and happy as we.

Shall mountains and rivers be mantled with shame?
Shall altars and hearth-stones, and heaven-born light,
And the opening page of republican fame
Be blotted and perish in conquering night?
Shall MAN be less honored on Freedom‘s own soil,
Than the weed that is nursed by his annual toil?
Cry the waves from old Europe, The thing cannot be.
Niagara thunders it back to the sea!
Then nail the bright banner, THE FLAG OF THE FREE,
Till all are as chainless and happy as we!

From the Sun of Liberty.

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 have 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.
[new page]

From the Sun of Liberty.

On the subject of W.I. Emancipation, dedicated to the ―Women of Great Britain‖—
written by a ―Member of the Board‖ of the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society, will be
found for sale at the Fair in the Marlboro‘ Chapel. We have perused it with deep interest.
It could only have been written by one whose soul is baptized with a sympathy for the
slave that knows no limits. There is feeling in a woman’s heart—let every woman read
this little poem and imbibe the spirit of its gifted author.—Were every woman‘s heart in
our land thus deeply affected with the miseries of her sisters in bondage, slavery would
soon fall beneath the weight of her influence and prayers. Speaking of woman‘s labors in
the cause of benevolence, in the commencement of the poem, she says, —not is the
compliment an empty one,—

E‘er since creation into being woke,—
E‘er since from chaos star and planet broke,—
E‘er since in Eden Woman graced the soil,
Help-meet for man in wretchedness and toil:
E‘er since those days, her hand hath led the way
To sooth the sorrows incident to clay.

Did Burmah cry, did China‘s millions weep,
Did Famine o‘er the earth destruction sweep,
Did the poor Pagan mother cast away
Her helpless babe, to crocodiles a prey,
Did Hindoo window mount the pile to die,
Did Juggernaut‘s crushed millions heave a sigh,
Did Greenland cast a wishful glance around,—
Did Otaheite receive no joyful sound,—
If these besought, say, when did woman fail
To lend an ear or heed the sorrowing tale?
Who swifter on the wing of love, t‘impart
A ray of comfort to each fainting heart?
Witness, thou grave beneath the Hopia tree!
Witness, ye winds that wafted o‘er the sea
A thousand barks, that bore from Christian lands
Those truthful women to yon coral strands!
Behold a Harriet and an Anna bear
The tidings of the Cross to millions there,
Braving the dangers of the restless flood,—
Planting the Cross where late Pagodas stood!

*      *       *      *       *      *       *
And now in later day, when man has riven
Those holy ties, by God and Nature given,
And impious hands on human heart-strings laid,
And for the priceless soul, a price hath paid,—
Who hath arisen o‘er the Atlantic wave,
To plead for Right, for Freedom, for the Slave?
‘Tis Woman speaks, and lo! at her command
Free and erect eight hundred thousand stand!
Eight hundred thousand hearts beat high and strong
While peals the echoing anthem loud and long,
Of joy immense, immeasurable deep,—
For Afric‘s sire no longer vigil keeps,
Lest by the land of Britain‘s sons, is grasped
The dear, dear idol to his bosom clasped.

The following lines put into the mouth of Zaza, captured female slave, are touching:

                                My country, my country!
                                 How long I for thee,
                                  Over the mountain,
                                  Far over the sea—
                                Where the sweet Joliba
                                   Kisses the shore,
                                  Say, shall I wander
                                 By thee never more?

My country, my country! how long I for thee,
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?

My country, my country! how long I for thee!
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.

My country, my country! how long I for thee!
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.

My country, my country! how long I for thee!
Over the mountain, far over the sea!

From the Son of Liberty.

        On a cradle-quilt received from the Girls‘ Anti-Slavery Society in Shrewsbury, in
the centre, under an ark of balrushes, is written—
        ―And when she had opened it, she saw the child, and behold the babe wept.‖—Ex.
ii. 6.

Slavery! thy victims‘ tears
Are treasured in the sky!
The captives‘ groan, Jehovah hears,
And their redemption‘s nigh.

In one corner of the quilt—

       With busy fingers this quilt was made;
       We hope it may grace some cradle bed,
       Where soft and warm and gently laid,
       Some sweet little baby rests its head.
       May thy lullaby sweet be a song of the free;
       And its music oft hush thee to sleep;
       Sweet mercy and truth be the nurses for thee,
       And faithful and kind is the watch they will keep.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 49
Jany 9. 1840
[End handwritten]

From the Philanthropist.

A Virginian, on his way, it is supposed to Missouri, was recently passing through this
State, with two women and their children, held by him as slaves. The elder of the women
had been torn away from several of her children who were left behind in Virginia in
slavery. One of then, a helpless blind boy, her brutal master sold from her, for the paltry
sum of one dollar. For this wretch, a certain portion of the community in Clinton and
Warren counties are striving to excite a great deal of sympathy, because in passing
through them, the slave-women whom he had brought into the state and attempted to hold
as slaves, in defiance of its Constitution, were prevailed on to leave him, taking their
children with them.

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 pleasures and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little boy will care.

My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast
Once more let thy poor little blind one be press‘d;
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.

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 hath left me alone.
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 mortal 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 lov‘d 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.
[new page]

Mass Abolitionist
No 48.
[End handwritten]

For the Abolitionist.

MR. EDITOR,—I am glad to see that in your zeal for political action against slavery, you
do not overlook the importance of producing that public sentiment on which alone
successful political action can be based. True, just so far as such sentiment is produced,
it ought to show itself in efforts to reform the laws; but we should never forget that the
best of laws are of no avail without a virtuous mass to support them. The greatest and
heaviest part of our work seems to me to be, the sweetening of the fountain. When the
shepherds (spiritual and temporal,) of the people who feed on the flock, it is no wonder
that the wolves should. I do not think it can be said that our teachers in learning, morals
and theology are behind any other class in the community on the subject of abolition, but
they ought to be a great way before. When influential portion of the men in high stations,
both state and church, can be quoted as advocating and act upon the principles of
oppression, reform is rendered exceedingly difficult. Society, under no matter what kind
of government, will be full of outrage and rapine till those who are set to expound and
enforce law—human and divine—manifestly show the work of such law on their own
hearts and lives.
         There is a fable written by Philibert Hegemon, a French author of the sixteenth
century, and contained in the most recent collection of La Fontaine, which forcibly
illustrates this subject. My scrambling version of it may perhaps serve to impress the
truth upon some minds.

                          THE WOLF AND THE SHEPHERDS.

        A wolf replete
        With humanity sweet,
(A trait not much suspected,)
        On his cruel deeds,
        The fruit of his needs,
Profoundly thus reflected.

       I‘m hated, said he,
       As joint enemy,
By hunters, dogs and clowns:
       They swear I shall die
       And their hue and cry
The very thunder drowns.
      My brethren have fled
      With price on the head
From merry England‘s land:
      King Edgar came out
      And put them to rout,
With many a deadly band.

       And there‘s not a Squire
       But blows up the fire
By hostile proclamation;
       Nor a human brat
       Dares to squall, but that
Its mother mocks my nation.

       And all for what?
       For a sheep with the rot,
Or scabby, mangy ass,
Or some snarling cur
On which I‘ve broken fast!

        Well, henceforth I‘ll strive
        That nothing alive
Shall die to quench my thirst—
        No lambkin shall fall,
        Nor puppy, at all,
To glut my maw accurst.
        With grass I‘ll appease,
        Or browse on the trees,
Or die of famine first.

        What of carcase [sic] warm?
        Is it worth the storm
Of universal hate?—
        As he spake these words,
        The lords of the herds,
All seated at their bait,
        He saw; and observed
        The meat which was served
Was nought but roasted lamb!
        Oh, Oh! said the beast,
        Repent of my feast—
All butcher as I am—
        On these vermin mean
        Whose guardian e‘en
Eat at a rate quadruple!—
        Themselves and their dogs,
       As greedy as hogs,
And I, a wolf, to scruple!

         Look out for your wool!
         I‘ll not be a fool—
The very pet I‘ll eat—
         The lamb the best looking,—
         Without any cooking,—
I‘ll strangle from the test;
         And swallow the dam
         As well as the lamb,
And stop her foolish bleat.
         Old Hornie, too, rot him,
         The sire that begot him,
Shall be among my meat!

       Well reasoning beast!
       Were we sent to feast
On creatures wild and tame?
       And shall we reduce
       The beasts to the use
Of vegetable game?

       Shall animals not
       Have flesh-hook nor pot,
More than in age of gold?
       And we claim the right,
       In pride of our might,
Themselves to have and hold?

       Oh, shepherds that keep
       Your folds full of sheep,
The wolf was only wrong,
       Because, so to speak,
       His jaws were too weak
To break your palings strong!
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 49
January 22 1840.
[End handwritten]

From the North Star.

STAR of the North! Thou are not bigger
 Than is the diamond in my ring:
Yet, every black, star-gazing nigger
 Looks at thee, as at some great thing!
Yes, gazes at thee, till the lazy
 And thankless rascal is half crazy.

Some Quaker scoundrel must have told ‘em,
 That, if they take their flight tow‘rd thee,
They‘ll get where ―massa‖ cannot hold ‘em,
 And therefore to the North they flee.
Fools! to be led off, where they can‘t earn
Their living, by the lying lantern.

Thou‘rt a cold water star, I reckon,
  Altho‘ I‘ve never seen thee, yet,
When to the bath thy sisters beckon,
  Get e‘en thy golden sandals wet;
Not in the wave have known thee dip,
In our hot nights, thy finger‘s tip.

If thou would’st, nightly, leave the pole
  T‘ enjoy a regular ablution
In the North sea, or Symmes‘ hole,
  Our ―Patriarchal Institution,‖
From which thou givest many a ransom,
Would, doubtless, give thee something handsome.

Altho‘ thou‘rt a cold water star,
 As I have said (I think) already,
Thou‘rt hailed by many a tipsy tar,
 Who loves thee, just because thou‘rt steady.
And holdest the candle for the rover
When he is more than ―half seas over.‖
But while Ham‘s seed, our land to bless,
  ―Increase and multiply‖ like rabbits,
We like thee, Yankee star, the less
  For thy bright eye and steady habits.
Pray waltz with Venus, Star of Love,
Or take a bout with reeling Jove!

Thou art an abolition star,
 And to my wench will be of use, if her
Dark eye should find thee, ere the ear
 Of our true old slave-catcher, ―Lucifer,
Son of the morning,‖ upward rolls
And with its light puts out the pole‘s.

On our field-hands thou lookest, too—
 A sort of nightly overseer—
Can‘st find no other work to do?
 I tell thee thou‘rt not wanted here;
So, pray, shine only on the oceans,
Thou number one of ―Northern notions.‖

Yes, northern notions—northern lights!
  As George Fox hated holy-water,
So hate I all that Rogers writes,
  Or Weld—that married Grimke‘s daughter.
So hate I all those northern curses,
From Birney‘s prose to Whittier‘s verses.

―Put out that light!‖ exclaimed the Moor,
   (I think they called his name Othello,)
When opening his wife‘s chamber door
  To cut her throat—the noble fellow!
Noblest of all the nigger nation!
File leader in Amalgamation!

―Put out the light!‖—and so say I.
  Could ―I quench thee, thou flaming minister,‖
No longer in the northern sky,
  Should burn thy beacon fire so sinister.
North Star! thy light‘s unwelcome—very—
We‘ll vote thee, ―an incendiary!‖

And to the Northern States we‘ll write,
  And tell them not to let thee shine,
(Excepting of a cloudy night)
  Anywhere south of Dixon‘s line;
If beyond that thou shine an inch,
We‘ll have thee up before Judge Lynch:—

And when, thou Abolition Star,
  Who preachest Freedom in all weathers,
Thou hast got on thy coat of tar,
  And, over that, a cloak of feathers,
That thou art ―fixed‖ none will deny,
If there‘s a fixed star in the sky.

Pocatalico, South Carolina.
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist
No 50
Thursday Januy 29. 1840
[End handwritten]

[Hand symbol]The CHRISTIAN WITNESS of the 2d inst., contains some beautiful ―Rhymes
for the New Year,‖ as we suppose, from the pen of its gifted editor. We extract a few
lines of his tribute to BENJAMIN LUNDY.—They are worthy of the memory of a great and
good man.—Pa. Freeman.

 ―Wo! for thy many triumphs, Death!
Wo! that the righteous perisheth,
 And no man layeth it to heart!
Yet hath his spirit sweet release,
His troubles and his trials cease,
And ever, in the perfect peace
 Of God he hath a part.

*      *      *      *      *      *         *

Rest, FRIEND OF MAN!—thy grace shall be
 Henceforth a shrine, where pilgrim-feet
Shall press the turf that covers thee—
 And pilgrim‘s lips thy deeds repeat—
How, in an evil age and time,
Thy voice rebuked the tyrant‘s crime,
And bade the bondman hope and wait
The coming of a happier fate,
When Freedom‘s mandate should be spoken,
And every yoke and fetter broken.
The slave, upspringing from his chain,
 The tyrant, from his guilt set free,
Shall wet thy grave with tears, like rain,
 Weeping and blessing thee.
 And until Time his flight shall end,
Thy deeds of daring shall be known—
The moral triumphs thou hast won—
[new page]

Mass. Abolitionist.
No 51
February 6 1840
[End handwritten]

                                 For the Abolitionist.
                              THE NORTHERN SLAVES.
                                        in behalf of
                              THE LOWELL ABOLITION FAIR.
                                 Feb. 6, 7, and 8, 1840.

        ―There was never a community where one class was not held in bondage by
another class.‖—Speech of Mr. Pickens of S.C., Jan. 21, 1836.
        ―A very slight modification of the arguments used against the institutions which
sustain the property and security of the South, would make them equally effectual against
the institution of the North.‖—Mr. Calhoun’s Report, in the Senate, Feb. 4, 1836.

Ay, we have slaves, mere hopeless chattels,
   Among these rocks and hills fanatic,
To black our boots and fight our battles,
   From mountain-top to plains aquatic!
Small right have we to throw a stone
   At men for being mere slaveholders,
When back the charge may well be thrown,
   To rest on all our northern shoulders!—
Indeed, to speak the truth between us,
It hits here all of homo genus.

Yes, we have slaves, and eke slave-breeding,
  And have had from the days of yore.
By over-working, under-feeding,
  I cannot say we‘ve used them sore;
But then, their course for ever speeding,
  We always work them more and more,
Till some are sweating, if not bleeding,
  Poor weary things, from every pore!
I purpose now to mark the cases
Of four or five poor subject races.

And first, beneath the dust degraded,
 Held always to unwilling toil,
The race of PLOUGHS may be paraded,
  That till our cold and rocky soil.
These serfs, by various ―parents‖ aided.
  Are made all obstacles to foil.
Far better than if hoed or spaded,
  They turn their furrows sleek as oil.
Their lazy drivers, many a mile,
Just muse of politics the while.

Next come our KEELS that plough the brine;
  Chained porters, with their loads enormous,
That bring us Sunday clothes so fine;
  And partly light, and feed, and warm us.
Their case has called forth many tears—
  For all their gay and glorious flappers.
We make the winds their overseers,
  With naughty waves for understrappers.
‘Tis pitiful,—the way they lash on
The wretched things when roused to passion!

A race of slaves next claims inspection,
  That carry mostly smiling faces.
Though much addicted to reflection,
  Of thought or care they show few traces.
The scamps are prone to form connection,
  And run away, at various paces;
And e‘en to rise in insurrection,
  Impatient of their narrow spaces.
If caught—‘twould make a millstone feel—
They‘re often broken on the wheel!

They‘ll bear great burdens, in their way,—
  Against it, nothing with beating;
And here, it is but truth to say,
  They‘re rogues at thievishness and cheating,—
So much, they sometimes even steal us!
  Though mostly prompt with clear confession.
Their father is one Mr. Cœlus;
  And when not ruffled by oppression,
In features, they are like him—very.
Their mother‘s maiden name was Terry.

By Lowell, once, we caught one jogging;
 And armed with law and charter-seal,
We took him up, without much dogging;
 And since, with fetter on his heel,
Impelled by many a paddle-flogging,
  He‘s turned the biggest spinning-wheel
That ever went by Yankee cogging—
  Its buzzing often makes us reel.
All this he does flat on his back.
We call the fellow MERRY MACK.

Next come the serfs of BOILER breed,
 All hot and puffing with exertion.
They drudge and labor hard, indeed,
 And always only by coercion.
The slaves of slaves, on coarsest feed,
 For our advantages or diversion,
They ply their strength or try their speed,
 Through suffering many a foul aspersion.
So much they serve us, that we seem
Almost to breathe and think by steam!

In such bondage, pray what wonder,
  If when half drunk, and madly goaded
By red-hot brands, in voice of thunder,
  These injured vassals have exploded—
And bursting shackles all asunder,
  Have much their masters discommoded?
Hard work, such slaves to throttle under,
  When daily at their hearts corroded
By your incendiary pine,
Or coals fanatic from the mine!

But, chiefly, we must make confession,
 Our PRINTING TYPES, of divers races,
Are suffering much from our oppression.
 Oh, what a multitude of cases
That ought to make a deep impression,
 And draw forth tears from hardest faces
Within this proud and cruel nation!
 Through endless time, and boundless spaces,
The scenes in which they are actors
Will show how black our characters!

By these each northern human noddle
Is made less ―sinned against then sinning;‖
In spite of Freedom‘s cant and ―twaddle,‖
Each lords it o‘er our underpinning.*
E‘en brats whom poverty doth swaddle
In muslins that our slaves are spinning,
While yet they can but scarcely toddle,
To lisp like masters are beginning;
And if they bear no slaves but these,
Are sure to beat the A.B. Cs.

And now, kind Southern neighbors, hark all!
  Your ―institutions‖ doubtless are
―Peculiar,‖ and most ―patriarchal.‖
  Your chattels greet your special care;
With face and eyes of kindred sparkle.
  Ours, dullest things that ever were!
To make them work, takes, light and dark, all,
  For managers, and none to spare,
God‘s creatures of the stature human—
They‘ll mind no chattel-man or woman!
[new page]

                                 From the North Star.
                           THE WORLD‘S CONVENTION
                                 IN LONDON IN 1840.
                                BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Yes, let them gather!—Summon forth
The pledged philanthropy of Earth,
From every land, whose hills have heard
  The bugle-blast of Freedom waking;
Of shrieking of her symbol-bird
  From out his cloudy eyrie breaking;
Where Justice hath one worshipper,
Or Truth one altar built to her;
Where‘er a human eye is weeping
  O‘er wrongs which Earth‘s sad children know,
Where‘er a single heart is keeping
  Its prayerful watch with human woe:
Thence let us come, and greet each other,
And know in each, a friend and brother!

Yes, let them come! from each green vale
 Where England‘s old baronial halls
 Still bear upon their storied walls
The grim crusader‘s rusted mail,
Batter‘d by Paynim spear and brand
On Malta‘s rock or Syria‘s sand!
And mouldering pennon-staves once set
 Within the soil of Palestine,
By Jordan and Gennesaret;
 Or, borne with England‘s battle line,
O‘er Acre‘s shattered turrets stopping,
Or, ‘midst the camp their banners drooping,
 With dews from hallowed Hermon wet.
A holier summons now is given
 Than that gray hermit‘s voice of old,
Which unto all the winds of heaven
 The banners of the Cross unrolled!
Not for the long deserted shrine,
 Not for the dull, unconscious sod,
Which tells not by one lingering sign
 That there the Hope of Israel trod;
But for that TRUTH, for which alone
 In pilgrim eyes are sanctified
The garden moss, the mountain stone,
Whereon His holy sandals pressed—
The fountain which His lip hath blessed—
Whate‘er hath touched His garment‘s hem,
At Bethany or Bethlehem,
  Or Jordan‘s river side.
For FREEDOM, in the name of Him
  Who came to raise Earth‘s drooping poor,
To break the chain from every limb—
  The bolt from every prison door!
For these, o‘er all the earth hath passed
An ever deepening trumpet blast,
As if an Angel‘s breath had lent
Its vigor to the instrument.

And Wales, from Snowdon‘s mountain wall,
Shall startle at that thrilling call,
  As if she heard her Bards again;
And Erin‘s ‗harp on Tara‘s wall‘
  Give out its ancient strain,
Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal—
  The melody which Erin loves,
When o‘er that harp, mid bursts of gladness,
And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness,
  The hand of her O‘Connel moves:
Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill,
And mountain hold, and heathery hill,
  Shall catch and echo back the note,
As if she heard upon her air
Once more her Cameronian‘s prayer
  And song of freedom float.
And cheering echoes shall reply
From each remote dependency,
Where Britain‘s mighty sway is known,
In tropic sea or frozen zone;
Where‘er her sunset flag is furling,
Or morning gun fire‘s smoke is curling;
From Indian Bengal‘s groves of palm,
And rosy fields and gales of balm,
Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled
Through regal Ava‘s gates of gold;
And from the lakes and ancient woods,
And dim Canadian solitudes,
Whence, sternly from her rocky throne,
Queen of the North, Quebec looks down;
And from those bright and ransomed Isles
Where all unwonted Freedom smiles,
And the dark laborer still retains
The scar of slavery‘s broken chains!

From the hoar Alps, which sentinel
The gateways of the land of Tell,
Where morning‘s keen and earliest glance
  On Jura‘s icy top is thrown;
And from the olive bowers of France
  And vine groves garlanding the Rhone,—
‗Friends of the Blacks,‘ as true and tried
As those who stood by Oge‘s side—
Brissot and eloquent Gregoire—
When with free lip and heart of fire
The Haytien told his country‘s wrong,
Shall gather at that summons strong,
Broglie, Passy, and him whose song,
Breathed over Syria‘s holy sold,
And in the paths which Jesus trod,
And murmured midst the hills which hem
Crownless and Jerusalem,
Hath echoes whereso‘er the tone
Of Israel‘s prophet-lyre is known.
[new page]

Still let them come—from Quito‘s walls,
   And from the Oronoco‘s tide—
  From Lima‘s Inca-haunted halls—
  From Santa Fe and Yucatan,—
    Chiefs who by swart Guerrero‘s side
Proclaimed the deathless RIGHTS OF MAN,
    Broke every bond and fetter off,
    And hailed in every sable serf,
A free and brother Mexican!
Chiefs who across the Andes‘ chain
    Have followed Freedom‘s flowing pennon,
And seen on Junin‘s fearful plain,
Glare o‘er the broken ranks of Spain,
    The fire-burst of Bolivar‘s cannon!
And Hayti, from her mountain land,
    Shall send the sons of those who hurled
Defiance from her blazing strand—
The war-gage from her Petition‘s hand,
    Alone against a hostile world.

Nor all mindful thou, the while,
Land of the dark and mystic Nile!—
    Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame
    All tyrants of a Christian name,—
When in the shade of Gezch‘s pile,
Or, where from Abyssinian hills,
El Gerek‘s upper fountain fills,
Or where from Mountains of the Moon,
El Abiad bears his watery boon,
Where‘er thy lotus blossoms swim
    Within their ancient hallowed waters,
Where‘er is heard thy Prophet‘s hymn,
    Or song of Nubia‘s sable daughters,—
The curse of SLAVERY and the crime,
Thy bequest from remotest time,
At thy dark Mehemet‘s decree
For evermore shall pass from thee;
    And chains forsake each captive‘s limb
Of all those tribes, whose hills around
Have echoed back the cymbal sound
    And victor horn of Ibrahim.

And thou, whose glory and whose crime
To earth‘s remotest bound and clime,
In mingled tones of awe and scorn
The echoes of a world have borne,
My country! glorious at thy birth,
A day-star flashing brightly forth—
    The herald-sign of Freedom‘s dawn!
Oh! who could dream who saw thee then,
    And watched thy rising from afar,
That vapors from oppression‘s fen
Would feed thy upward tending star.
Or, that Earth‘s tyrant powers, which heard,
    Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy day
Would rise so soon, prince, peer and king,
    To mock thee with their welcoming,
Like Hades when her thrones were stirred
    To greet the down-cast Star of Morning!
‗Aha! and art thou fallen thus?
Art THOU become as one of us?‘

Land of my fathers!—there will stand,
Amidst that world-assembled band,
Those owning thy maternal claim,
Unweakened by thy crime and shame,—
The sad reprovers of thy wrong—
The children thou hast spurned so long.
Still with affection‘s fondest yearning
To their unnatural mother turning,
No traitors they!—but tried and leal [sic],
Whose own is but thy general weal,
Still blending with the patriot‘s zeal
The Christian‘s love for human kind,
To caste and climate unconfined.

A holy gathering!—peacefull [sic] all—
No threat of war—no savage call
    For vengeance on an erring brother;
But in their stead, the God-like plan
To teach the brotherhood of man
    To love and reverence one another,
As sharers of a common blood—
The children of a common God!—
Yet, even at the lightest word,
Shall Slavery‘s darkest depths be stirred:
Spain, watching from her Moro‘s keep,
Her slave-ships traversing the deep;
Lifting, along her mountain side,
Her snowy battlement and towers—
Her lemon groves and tropic bowers,
With bitter hate and sullen fear,
Its freedom-giving voice shall hear;
And where my country‘s flag is flowing,
On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing,
     Above the Nation‘s council halls,
Where Freedom‘s praise is loud and long,
     While close beneath the outward walls,
The driver plies his reeking thong—
     The hammer of the man-thief falls,
O‘er hypocritic cheek and brow,
The crimson flush of shame shall glow:
And all who for their native land
Are pledging life and heart and hand—
Worn watchers o‘er her changing weal,
Who for her tarnished honor feel—
Through cottage door and council hall
Shall thunder an awakening call.
The pen along its page shall burn
With all intolerable ssorn [sic]—
And eloquent rebuke shall go
On all the winds that Southward blow;
From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb,
Warning and dread appeal shall come,
Like those which Israel heard from him,
The Prophet of the Cherubim,
Or those which sad Esaias hurled
Against a sin-accursed world;
Its wizard-leaves the Press shall fling
Unceasing from its iron wing,
[new page]

With characters inscribed thereon,
   As fearful in the despot‘s hall,
As to the pomp of Babylon
   The fire-sign on the palace-wall!
And, from her dark iniquities,
Methinks I see my country rise:
Not challenging the nations round
   To note her tardy justice done—
Her captives from their chains unbound,
   Her prisons opening to the sun.
But tearfully her arms extending
Over the poor and unoffending;
   Her regal Emblem, now no longer
A bird of prey, with talons reeking,
Above the dying captive shrieking,
But, spreading out her ample wing—
A broad, impartial covering—
   The weaker sheltered by the stronger!—
Oh, then to Faith‘s anointed eyes,
   The promised token shall be given;
And on a nation‘s sacrifice,
Atoning for the sin of years,
And wet with penitential tears—
   The fire shall fall from Heaven!
Philadelphia, Pa.
[new page]

                                  From the Liberty Bell.
                                   ―THE LAST HOPE.
                              (From the German of Korner.)
                                  BY CHARLES FOLLEN.

―Why knit ye the brow, so stern and so stark,
Why stare at the night so wild and so dark,
 Brave spirits, who never should tremble?
The storm is howling, and heaving the tide,
The earth is reeling on every side;
 Our trouble we will not dissemble.

―The fires of hell are rising again,
Much generous blood has been lavished in vain,
  Still the wicked, the powerful, glory;
But never despair: your help is in God;
Not in vain the beginning is crimsoned with blood,
  ‘Tis the day star that rises so gory.

―If once there was need of courage and might,
Now gather all courage and stregth [sic] for the fight,
  Lest the ship in the haven yet perish.
The tiger is crouching; ye young men, awake!
Ye old men, to arms! my countrymen, break
  From the slumbers of death which you cherish!

―What avails it to live, if liberty fall?
What is there so dear in this Infinite All,
 As our own mother country that bore us?
We‘ll free our dear country, or hasten our way
To the free, happy fathers—yes, happy are they
 Who have died in the struggle before us.

―Then howl on, ye storms, and roll on, thou tide,
And tremble, old earth, on every side!
  Our free spirits bid you defiance.
The earth we tread on beneath us may sink,
As freemen we‘ll stand, and never will shrink;
  With our blood we will seal our alliance.‖
The meeting then adjourned sine die, and united in
prayer, led by Joseph Knight of Massachusetts.
                               JOSHUA LEAVITT, Rec. Sec’y.
[new page]

                                   Sacred Classical Works
                          PRINTED AT THE CODMAN PRESS AND FOR SALE


                                       Flagg & Gould

                                               Price in boards.
STUART‘S HEBREW GRAMMAR, 3d edit. . . . . $2 00
     OF HEBREW STUDY, VOL. I. . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 00
COURSE OF HEBREW STUDY, VOL. II. No. 1. . . . . . 1 37½
     Do.   Do.    Do. (paper covers)                   1 25
GIBBS‘ MANUAL HEBREW LEXICON. . . . . . . . . 2 50
     THE NEW TESTAMENT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 00
     ―     ARCHÆOLOGY. . . . . . . . . . .              3 00
LOWTH‘S LECTURES ON HEBREW POETRY. . . . . .            2 50


A very beautiful (London) edition of the HEBREW PSAL-
       TER. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   75


[Hand symbol] A liberal discount made to Booksellers.

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