Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave,Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave;Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God,And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.The finger of slander may now at you point,That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint;And those who now plead for the rights of the slave,Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers,May now all oppose you, the victory is yours;The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled,And he will give freedom and peace to the world.Go under his standard and fight by his side,O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride.His gracious protection will be to you given,And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.
Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave,Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave;Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God,And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.The finger of slander may now at you point,That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint;And those who now plead for the rights of the slave,Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers,May now all oppose you, the victory is yours;The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled,And he will give freedom and peace to the world.Go under his standard and fight by his side,O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride.His gracious protection will be to you given,And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.
By Pierpont.
I would not live alway; I ask not to stay,Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day:Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord,And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.I would not live alway, where life is a loadTo the flesh and the spirit:—since there's an abodeFor the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my lastAnd repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!—I would not live alway to toil as a slave:Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave;For there, from their troubling, the wicked shallAnd, free from his master, the slave be at peace.
I would not live alway; I ask not to stay,Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day:Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord,And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.I would not live alway, where life is a loadTo the flesh and the spirit:—since there's an abodeFor the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my lastAnd repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!—I would not live alway to toil as a slave:Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave;For there, from their troubling, the wicked shallAnd, free from his master, the slave be at peace.
Words by Pierpont. Music from "Minstrel Boy," by G.W.C.
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Our Pilgrim Fathers—where are they?The waves that brought them o'er,Still roll in the bay, and throw their sprayAs they break along the shore;Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,When the Mayflower moored below;When the sea around was black with storms,And white the shore with snow.The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,Still brood upon the tide;And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,To stay its waves of pride.But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the galeWhen the heavens looked dark, is gone;As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,Is seen, and then withdrawn.The Pilgrim exile—sainted name!The hill, whose icy browRejoiced when he came in the morning's flame,In the morning's flame burns now.And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night,On the hill-side and the sea,Still lies where he laid his houseless head;But the Pilgrim—where is he?The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;When Summer's throned on high,And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,Go, stand on the hill where they lie.The earliest ray of the golden day,On that hallowed spot is cast;And the evening sun as he leaves the world,Looks kindly on that spot last.The Pilgrimspirithas not fled—It walks in noon's broad light;And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,With the holy stars, by night.It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,And shall guard this ice-bound shore,Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,Shall foam and freeze no more.
Our Pilgrim Fathers—where are they?The waves that brought them o'er,Still roll in the bay, and throw their sprayAs they break along the shore;Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,When the Mayflower moored below;When the sea around was black with storms,And white the shore with snow.The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,Still brood upon the tide;And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,To stay its waves of pride.But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the galeWhen the heavens looked dark, is gone;As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,Is seen, and then withdrawn.The Pilgrim exile—sainted name!The hill, whose icy browRejoiced when he came in the morning's flame,In the morning's flame burns now.And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night,On the hill-side and the sea,Still lies where he laid his houseless head;But the Pilgrim—where is he?The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;When Summer's throned on high,And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,Go, stand on the hill where they lie.The earliest ray of the golden day,On that hallowed spot is cast;And the evening sun as he leaves the world,Looks kindly on that spot last.The Pilgrimspirithas not fled—It walks in noon's broad light;And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,With the holy stars, by night.It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,And shall guard this ice-bound shore,Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,Shall foam and freeze no more.
Words by J.G. Whittier. Music by G.W.C.
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Is this the land our fathers loved,The freedom which they toiled to win?Is this the soil whereon they moved?Are these the graves they slumber in?Are we the sons by whom are borne,The mantles which the dead have won?And shall we crouch above these graves,With craven soul and fettered lip?Yoke in with marked and branded slaves,And tremble at the driver's whip?Bend to the earth our pliant knees,And speak—but as our masters please?Shall outraged Nature cease to feel?Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel—The dungeon's gloom—th' assassin's blow,Turn back the spirit roused to saveThe Truth—our Country—and the Slave?Of human skulls that shrine was made,Round which the priests of MexicoBefore their loathsome idol prayed—Is Freedom's altar fashioned so?And must we yield to Freedom's GodAs offering meet, the negro's blood?Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wroughtWhich well might shame extremest Hell?Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?Shall Honor bleed?—Shall Truth succumb?Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?No—by each spot of haunted ground,Where Freedom weeps her children's fall—By Plymouth's rock—and Bunker's mound—By Griswold's stained and shattered wall—By Warren's ghost—by Langdon's shade—By all the memories of our dead!By their enlarging souls, which burstThe bands and fetters round them set—By the free Pilgrim spirit nursedWithin our inmost bosoms, yet,—By all above—around—below—Be ours the indignant answer—no!No—guided by our country's laws,For truth, and right, and suffering man,Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause,As Christians may—as freemen can!Still pouring on unwilling earsThat truth oppression only fears.
Is this the land our fathers loved,The freedom which they toiled to win?Is this the soil whereon they moved?Are these the graves they slumber in?Are we the sons by whom are borne,The mantles which the dead have won?And shall we crouch above these graves,With craven soul and fettered lip?Yoke in with marked and branded slaves,And tremble at the driver's whip?Bend to the earth our pliant knees,And speak—but as our masters please?Shall outraged Nature cease to feel?Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel—The dungeon's gloom—th' assassin's blow,Turn back the spirit roused to saveThe Truth—our Country—and the Slave?Of human skulls that shrine was made,Round which the priests of MexicoBefore their loathsome idol prayed—Is Freedom's altar fashioned so?And must we yield to Freedom's GodAs offering meet, the negro's blood?Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wroughtWhich well might shame extremest Hell?Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?Shall Honor bleed?—Shall Truth succumb?Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?No—by each spot of haunted ground,Where Freedom weeps her children's fall—By Plymouth's rock—and Bunker's mound—By Griswold's stained and shattered wall—By Warren's ghost—by Langdon's shade—By all the memories of our dead!By their enlarging souls, which burstThe bands and fetters round them set—By the free Pilgrim spirit nursedWithin our inmost bosoms, yet,—By all above—around—below—Be ours the indignant answer—no!No—guided by our country's laws,For truth, and right, and suffering man,Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause,As Christians may—as freemen can!Still pouring on unwilling earsThat truth oppression only fears.
Words by Miss E.M. Chandler. Music from an old air by G.W.C.
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Oh, turn ye not displeased away, though I should sometimes seemToo much to press upon your ear, an oft repeated theme;The story of the negro's wrongs is heavy at my heart,And can I choose but wish from you a sympathizing part?I turn to you to share my joy,—to soothe me in my grief—In wayward sadness from your smiles, I seek a sweet relief:And shall I keep this burning wish to see the slave set free,Locked darkly in my secret heart, unshared and silently?If I had been a friendless thing—if I had never known,How swell the fountains of the heart beneath affection's tone,I might have, careless, seen the leaf torn rudely from its stem,But clinging as I do to you, can I but feel for them?I could not brook to list the sad sweet music of a bird,Though it were sweeter melody than ever ear hath heard,If cruel hands had quenched its light, that in the plaintive song,It might the breathing memory of other days prolong.And can I give my lip to taste the life-bought luxuries, wrungFrom those on whom a darker night of anguish has been flung—Or silently and selfishly enjoy my better lot,While those whom God hath bade me love, are wretched and forgot?Oh no!—so blame me not, sweet friends, though I should sometimes seemToo much to press upon your ear an oft repeated theme;The story of the negro's wrongs hath won me from my rest,—And I must strive to wake for him an interest in your breast!
Oh, turn ye not displeased away, though I should sometimes seemToo much to press upon your ear, an oft repeated theme;The story of the negro's wrongs is heavy at my heart,And can I choose but wish from you a sympathizing part?I turn to you to share my joy,—to soothe me in my grief—In wayward sadness from your smiles, I seek a sweet relief:And shall I keep this burning wish to see the slave set free,Locked darkly in my secret heart, unshared and silently?If I had been a friendless thing—if I had never known,How swell the fountains of the heart beneath affection's tone,I might have, careless, seen the leaf torn rudely from its stem,But clinging as I do to you, can I but feel for them?I could not brook to list the sad sweet music of a bird,Though it were sweeter melody than ever ear hath heard,If cruel hands had quenched its light, that in the plaintive song,It might the breathing memory of other days prolong.And can I give my lip to taste the life-bought luxuries, wrungFrom those on whom a darker night of anguish has been flung—Or silently and selfishly enjoy my better lot,While those whom God hath bade me love, are wretched and forgot?Oh no!—so blame me not, sweet friends, though I should sometimes seemToo much to press upon your ear an oft repeated theme;The story of the negro's wrongs hath won me from my rest,—And I must strive to wake for him an interest in your breast!
Air, "Kinloch of Kinloch."
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We're coming, we're coming, the fearless and free,Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea!True sons of brave sires who battled of yore,When England's proud lion ran wild on our shore!We're coming, we're coming, from mountain and glen,With hearts to do battle for freedom again;Oppression is trembling as trembled before,The Slavery which fled from our fathers of yore.We're coming, we're coming, with banners unfurled,Our motto isfreedom, our country the world;Our watchword isliberty—tyrants beware!For the liberty army will bring you despair!We're coming, we're coming, we'll come from afar,Our standard we'll nail to humanity's car;With shoutings we'll raise it, in triumph to wave,A trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave.Then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on!The man-stealing army we'll surely put down;They are crushing their millions, but soon they must yield,Forfreemenhaverisenand taken the field.Then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free,Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea;Let the north, west, and east, to the sea-beaten shore,Resoundwith aliberty triumphonce more.
We're coming, we're coming, the fearless and free,Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea!True sons of brave sires who battled of yore,When England's proud lion ran wild on our shore!We're coming, we're coming, from mountain and glen,With hearts to do battle for freedom again;Oppression is trembling as trembled before,The Slavery which fled from our fathers of yore.We're coming, we're coming, with banners unfurled,Our motto isfreedom, our country the world;Our watchword isliberty—tyrants beware!For the liberty army will bring you despair!We're coming, we're coming, we'll come from afar,Our standard we'll nail to humanity's car;With shoutings we'll raise it, in triumph to wave,A trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave.Then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on!The man-stealing army we'll surely put down;They are crushing their millions, but soon they must yield,Forfreemenhaverisenand taken the field.Then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free,Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea;Let the north, west, and east, to the sea-beaten shore,Resoundwith aliberty triumphonce more.
Words by a Yankee. Music by G.W.C.
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Rouse up, New England! Buckle on your mail of proof sublime,Your stern old hate of tyranny, your deep contempt of crime;A traitor plot is hatching now, more full of woe and shame,Than ever from the iron heart of bloodiest despot came.Six slave States added at a breath! One flourish of a pen,And fetters shall be riveted on millions more of men!One drop of ink to sign a name, and slavery shall findFor all her surplus flesh and blood, a market to her mind!A market where good Democrats their fellow men may sell!O, what a grin of fiendish glee runs round and round thro' hell!How all the damned leap up for joy and half forget their fire,To think men take such pains to claim the notice of God's ire.Is't not enough that we have borne the sneer of all the world,And bent to those whose haughty lips in scorn of us are curled?Is't not enough that we must hunt their living chattels back,And cheer the hungry bloodhounds on, that howl upon their track?Is't not enough that we must bow to all that they decree,—These cotton and tobacco lords, these pimps of slavery?That we must yield our conscience up to glut Oppression's maw,And break our faith with God to keep the letter of Man's law?But must we sit in silence by, and see the chain and whipMade firmer for all time to come in Slavery's bloody grip!Must we not only half the guilt and all the shame endure,But help to make our tyrant's throne of flesh and blood secure?Is water running in our veins? Do we remember stillOld Plymouth rock, and Lexington, and glorious Bunker Hill?The debt we owe our Father's graves? and to the yet unborn,Whose heritage ourselves must make a thing of pride or scorn?Grey Plymouth rock hath yet a tongue, and Concord is not dumb,And voices from our father's graves, and from the future come;They call on us to stand our ground, they charge us still to beNot only free from chains ourselves, but foremost to make free!Awake, New England! While you sleep the foes advance their lines;Already on your stronghold's wall their bloody banner shines;Awake! and hurl them back again in terror and despair,The time has come for earnest deeds, we've not a man to spare.
Rouse up, New England! Buckle on your mail of proof sublime,Your stern old hate of tyranny, your deep contempt of crime;A traitor plot is hatching now, more full of woe and shame,Than ever from the iron heart of bloodiest despot came.Six slave States added at a breath! One flourish of a pen,And fetters shall be riveted on millions more of men!One drop of ink to sign a name, and slavery shall findFor all her surplus flesh and blood, a market to her mind!A market where good Democrats their fellow men may sell!O, what a grin of fiendish glee runs round and round thro' hell!How all the damned leap up for joy and half forget their fire,To think men take such pains to claim the notice of God's ire.Is't not enough that we have borne the sneer of all the world,And bent to those whose haughty lips in scorn of us are curled?Is't not enough that we must hunt their living chattels back,And cheer the hungry bloodhounds on, that howl upon their track?Is't not enough that we must bow to all that they decree,—These cotton and tobacco lords, these pimps of slavery?That we must yield our conscience up to glut Oppression's maw,And break our faith with God to keep the letter of Man's law?But must we sit in silence by, and see the chain and whipMade firmer for all time to come in Slavery's bloody grip!Must we not only half the guilt and all the shame endure,But help to make our tyrant's throne of flesh and blood secure?Is water running in our veins? Do we remember stillOld Plymouth rock, and Lexington, and glorious Bunker Hill?The debt we owe our Father's graves? and to the yet unborn,Whose heritage ourselves must make a thing of pride or scorn?Grey Plymouth rock hath yet a tongue, and Concord is not dumb,And voices from our father's graves, and from the future come;They call on us to stand our ground, they charge us still to beNot only free from chains ourselves, but foremost to make free!Awake, New England! While you sleep the foes advance their lines;Already on your stronghold's wall their bloody banner shines;Awake! and hurl them back again in terror and despair,The time has come for earnest deeds, we've not a man to spare.
Music by G.W.C.
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Rise, freemen, rise! the call goes forth,Attend the high command;Obedience to the word of God,Throughout this guilty land:Throughout this guilty land.Rise, free the slave; oh, burst his chains,And cast his fetters down;Let virtue be your country's pride,Her diadem and crown.Then shall the day at length arrive,When all shall equal be,And Freedom's banner, waving high,Proclaim that all are free.
Rise, freemen, rise! the call goes forth,Attend the high command;Obedience to the word of God,Throughout this guilty land:Throughout this guilty land.Rise, free the slave; oh, burst his chains,And cast his fetters down;Let virtue be your country's pride,Her diadem and crown.Then shall the day at length arrive,When all shall equal be,And Freedom's banner, waving high,Proclaim that all are free.
O Thou, from whom all goodness flows!I lift my heart to thee;In all my wrongs, oppressions, woes,Dear Lord! remember me.Afflictions sore obstruct my way,And ills I cannot flee;Lord! let my strength be as my day,And still remember me.Oppressed with scourges, bonds, and grief,This feeble body see;Oh! give my burdened soul relief,Hear, and remember me.
O Thou, from whom all goodness flows!I lift my heart to thee;In all my wrongs, oppressions, woes,Dear Lord! remember me.Afflictions sore obstruct my way,And ills I cannot flee;Lord! let my strength be as my day,And still remember me.Oppressed with scourges, bonds, and grief,This feeble body see;Oh! give my burdened soul relief,Hear, and remember me.
Parody by G.W.C. Air, "Blue-eyed Mary."
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A beacon has been lighted,Bright as the noonday sun;On worlds of mind benighted,Its rays are pouring down;Full many a shrine of error,And many a deed of shame,Dismayed, has shrunk in terror,Before the lighted flame.Chorus.Victorious, on, victorious!Proud beacon onward haste;Till floods of light all glorious,Illume the moral waste.Oppression foul has foundered,The demon gasps for breath;His rapid march is downward,To everlasting death.Old age and youth united,His works shall prostrate hurl,And soon himself, affrighted,Shall hurry from this world.Victorious, on, victorious,&c.Proud liberty untiring,Strikes at the monster's heart;Beneath her blows expiring,He dreads her well-aimed dart.Her blows—we'll pray "God speed" them,Oppression to despoil;And how we fought for freedom,Let future ages tell.Victorious, on, victorious,&c.
A beacon has been lighted,Bright as the noonday sun;On worlds of mind benighted,Its rays are pouring down;Full many a shrine of error,And many a deed of shame,Dismayed, has shrunk in terror,Before the lighted flame.Chorus.Victorious, on, victorious!Proud beacon onward haste;Till floods of light all glorious,Illume the moral waste.Oppression foul has foundered,The demon gasps for breath;His rapid march is downward,To everlasting death.Old age and youth united,His works shall prostrate hurl,And soon himself, affrighted,Shall hurry from this world.Victorious, on, victorious,&c.Proud liberty untiring,Strikes at the monster's heart;Beneath her blows expiring,He dreads her well-aimed dart.Her blows—we'll pray "God speed" them,Oppression to despoil;And how we fought for freedom,Let future ages tell.Victorious, on, victorious,&c.
Words by Whittier. "Beatitude," by T. Hastings.
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Our fellow countrymen in chains,Slaves in a land of light and law!Slaves crouching on the very plainsWhere rolled the storm of Freedom's war!A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood—A wail where Camden's martyrs fell—By every shrine of patriot blood,From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well.By storied hill and hallow'd grot,By mossy wood and marshy glen,Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,And hurrying shout of Marion's men!The groan of breaking hearts is there—The falling lash—the fetter's clank!Slaves—slavesare breathing in that air,Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!What, ho!—our countrymen in chains!The whip onwoman'sshrinking flesh!Our soil yet reddening with the stains,Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh!What! mothers from their children riven!What! God's own image bought and sold!Americansto market driven,And barter'd as the brute for gold!Speak! shall their agony of prayerCome thrilling to our hearts in vain?To us, whose fathers scorn'd to bearThe paltry menace of a chain;To us, whose boast is loud and longOf holy Liberty and Light—Say, shall these writhing slaves of wrong,Plead vainly for their plunder'd Right?Shall every flap of England's flagProclaim that all around are free,From "farthest Ind" to each blue cragThat beetles o'er the Western Sea?And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,When Freedom's fire is dim with us,And round our country's altar clingsThe damning shade of Slavery's curse?Just God! and shall we calmly rest,The Christian's scorn—the Heathen's mirth—Content to live the lingering jestAnd by-word of a mocking Earth?Shall our own glorious land retainThat curse which Europe scorns to bear?Shall our own brethren drag the chainWhich not even Russia's menials wear?Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,And leave no traces where it stood;No longer let its idol drinkHis daily cup of human blood:But rear another altar there,To Truth, and Love, and Mercy given,And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,Shall call an answer down from Heaven!
Our fellow countrymen in chains,Slaves in a land of light and law!Slaves crouching on the very plainsWhere rolled the storm of Freedom's war!A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood—A wail where Camden's martyrs fell—By every shrine of patriot blood,From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well.By storied hill and hallow'd grot,By mossy wood and marshy glen,Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,And hurrying shout of Marion's men!The groan of breaking hearts is there—The falling lash—the fetter's clank!Slaves—slavesare breathing in that air,Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!What, ho!—our countrymen in chains!The whip onwoman'sshrinking flesh!Our soil yet reddening with the stains,Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh!What! mothers from their children riven!What! God's own image bought and sold!Americansto market driven,And barter'd as the brute for gold!Speak! shall their agony of prayerCome thrilling to our hearts in vain?To us, whose fathers scorn'd to bearThe paltry menace of a chain;To us, whose boast is loud and longOf holy Liberty and Light—Say, shall these writhing slaves of wrong,Plead vainly for their plunder'd Right?Shall every flap of England's flagProclaim that all around are free,From "farthest Ind" to each blue cragThat beetles o'er the Western Sea?And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,When Freedom's fire is dim with us,And round our country's altar clingsThe damning shade of Slavery's curse?Just God! and shall we calmly rest,The Christian's scorn—the Heathen's mirth—Content to live the lingering jestAnd by-word of a mocking Earth?Shall our own glorious land retainThat curse which Europe scorns to bear?Shall our own brethren drag the chainWhich not even Russia's menials wear?Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,And leave no traces where it stood;No longer let its idol drinkHis daily cup of human blood:But rear another altar there,To Truth, and Love, and Mercy given,And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,Shall call an answer down from Heaven!
BY W.H. BURLEIGH.
Yes—fame is his:—but not the fameFor which the conqueror pants and strives,Whose path is tracked through blood and flame,And over countless human lives!His name no armed battalions hailWith bugle shriek or thundering gun,—No widows curse him, as they wailFor slaughtered husband and for son.Amid the moral strife alone,He battled fearlessly and long,And poured, with clear, untrembling tone,Rebuke upon the hosts of Wrong—To break Oppression's cruel rod,He dared the perils of the fight,And in the name ofFreedom's GodStruck boldly for theTrueandRight!With faith, whose eye was never dim,The triumph, yet afar, he saw,When, bonds smote off from soul and limb,And freed alike by Love and Law,The slave—no more a slave—shall standErect—and loud, from sea to sea,Exultant burst o'er all the landThe glorious song of jubilee!Why should we mourn, thy labor done,That thou art called to thy reward;Rest, Freedom's war-worn champion!Rest, faithful soldier of theLord!For oh, not vainly hast thou striven,Through storm, and gloom, and deepest night—Not vainly hath thy life been givenForGod, forFreedom, and forRight.
Yes—fame is his:—but not the fameFor which the conqueror pants and strives,Whose path is tracked through blood and flame,And over countless human lives!His name no armed battalions hailWith bugle shriek or thundering gun,—No widows curse him, as they wailFor slaughtered husband and for son.Amid the moral strife alone,He battled fearlessly and long,And poured, with clear, untrembling tone,Rebuke upon the hosts of Wrong—To break Oppression's cruel rod,He dared the perils of the fight,And in the name ofFreedom's GodStruck boldly for theTrueandRight!With faith, whose eye was never dim,The triumph, yet afar, he saw,When, bonds smote off from soul and limb,And freed alike by Love and Law,The slave—no more a slave—shall standErect—and loud, from sea to sea,Exultant burst o'er all the landThe glorious song of jubilee!Why should we mourn, thy labor done,That thou art called to thy reward;Rest, Freedom's war-worn champion!Rest, faithful soldier of theLord!For oh, not vainly hast thou striven,Through storm, and gloom, and deepest night—Not vainly hath thy life been givenForGod, forFreedom, and forRight.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W.C.
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Up the hill side, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!Like a lion growling low,Like a nightstorm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe.It is coming—it is nigh!Stand your homes and altars by;On your own free threshholds die.Clang the bells in all your spires;On the gray hills of your siresFling to heaven your signal fires.Whoso shrinks or falters now,Whoso to the yoke would bow,Brand the craven on his brow.Freedom's soil hath only placeFor a free and fearless race—None for traitors false and base.Take your land of sun and bloom;Only leave to Freedom roomFor her plough, and forge, and loom.Take your slavery-blackened vales;Leave us but our own free gales,Blowing on our thousand sails.Onward with your fell design;Dig the gulf and draw the line;Fire beneath your feet the mine:Deeply, when the wide abyssYawns between your land and this,Shall ye feel your helplessness.By the hearth, and in the bed,Shaken by a look or tread,Ye shall own a guilty dread.And the curse of unpaid toil,Downward through your generous soil,Like a fire shall burn and spoil.Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,Vines our rocks shall overgrow,Plenty in our valleys flow;—And when vengeance clouds your skies,Hither shall ye turn your eyes,As the damned on Paradise!We but ask our rocky strand,Freedom's true and brother band,Freedom's strong and honest hand,Valleys by the slave untrod,And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,Blessed of our fathers' God!
Up the hill side, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!Like a lion growling low,Like a nightstorm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe.It is coming—it is nigh!Stand your homes and altars by;On your own free threshholds die.Clang the bells in all your spires;On the gray hills of your siresFling to heaven your signal fires.Whoso shrinks or falters now,Whoso to the yoke would bow,Brand the craven on his brow.Freedom's soil hath only placeFor a free and fearless race—None for traitors false and base.Take your land of sun and bloom;Only leave to Freedom roomFor her plough, and forge, and loom.Take your slavery-blackened vales;Leave us but our own free gales,Blowing on our thousand sails.Onward with your fell design;Dig the gulf and draw the line;Fire beneath your feet the mine:Deeply, when the wide abyssYawns between your land and this,Shall ye feel your helplessness.By the hearth, and in the bed,Shaken by a look or tread,Ye shall own a guilty dread.And the curse of unpaid toil,Downward through your generous soil,Like a fire shall burn and spoil.Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,Vines our rocks shall overgrow,Plenty in our valleys flow;—And when vengeance clouds your skies,Hither shall ye turn your eyes,As the damned on Paradise!We but ask our rocky strand,Freedom's true and brother band,Freedom's strong and honest hand,Valleys by the slave untrod,And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,Blessed of our fathers' God!
Words from the Emancipator. Music "The Chariot."
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The clarion—the clarion of Freedom now sounds,From the east to the west Independence resounds;From the hills, and the streams, and the far distant skies,Let the shout Independence from Slav'ry arise.The army—the army have taken the field,And the Liberty hosts never, never will yield;By free principles strengthened, each bosom now glows,And with ardor immortal the struggle they close.The armor, the armor that girds every breast,Is the hope of deliverance for millions oppressed;O'er the tears, and the sighs, and the wrongs of the slave,See the white flag of freedom triumphantly wave.The conflict—the conflict will shortly be o'er,And the demon of slavery shall rule us no more;And the laurels of victory shall surely rewardThe heroes immortal who've conquered for God.
The clarion—the clarion of Freedom now sounds,From the east to the west Independence resounds;From the hills, and the streams, and the far distant skies,Let the shout Independence from Slav'ry arise.The army—the army have taken the field,And the Liberty hosts never, never will yield;By free principles strengthened, each bosom now glows,And with ardor immortal the struggle they close.The armor, the armor that girds every breast,Is the hope of deliverance for millions oppressed;O'er the tears, and the sighs, and the wrongs of the slave,See the white flag of freedom triumphantly wave.The conflict—the conflict will shortly be o'er,And the demon of slavery shall rule us no more;And the laurels of victory shall surely rewardThe heroes immortal who've conquered for God.
Words from the Christian Freeman. Air, "Scots wha hae."
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Sons of Freedom's honored sires,Light anew your beacon fires,Fight till every foe retiresFrom your hallowed soil.Sons of Pilgrim Fathers blest,Pilgrim Mothers gone to rest,Listen to their high behest,Strike for Liberty.Ministers of God to men,Heed ye not the nation's sin?Heaven's blessing can ye winIf ye falter now?Men of blood now ask your vote,O'er your heads their banners float;Raise, Oh raise the warning note,God and duty call!Men of justice, bold and brave,To the ballot-box and saveFreedom from her opening grave—Onward! brothers, on!Christian patriots, tried and true,Freedom's eyes now turn to you;Foes are many—are ye few?Gideon's God is yours!
Sons of Freedom's honored sires,Light anew your beacon fires,Fight till every foe retiresFrom your hallowed soil.Sons of Pilgrim Fathers blest,Pilgrim Mothers gone to rest,Listen to their high behest,Strike for Liberty.Ministers of God to men,Heed ye not the nation's sin?Heaven's blessing can ye winIf ye falter now?Men of blood now ask your vote,O'er your heads their banners float;Raise, Oh raise the warning note,God and duty call!Men of justice, bold and brave,To the ballot-box and saveFreedom from her opening grave—Onward! brothers, on!Christian patriots, tried and true,Freedom's eyes now turn to you;Foes are many—are ye few?Gideon's God is yours!
BY REV. MRS. MARTYN.
Children of the glorious dead,Who for freedom fought and bled,With her banner o'er you spread,On to victory.Not for stern ambition's prize,Do our hopes and wishes rise;Lo, our leader from the skies,Bids us do or die.Ours is not the tented field—We no earthly weapons wield—Light and love, our sword and shield,Truth our panoply.This is proud oppression's hour;Storms are round us; shall we cower?While beneath a despot's powerGroans the suffering slave?While on every southern gale,Comes the helpless captive's tale,And the voice of woman's wail,And of man's despair?While our homes and rights are dear,Guarded still with watchful fear,Shall we coldly turn our earFrom the suppliant's prayer?Never! by our Country's shame—Never! by a Saviour's claim,To the men of every name,Whom he died to save.Onward, then, ye fearless band—Heart to heart, and hand to hand;Yours shall be the patriot's stand—Or the martyr's grave.
Children of the glorious dead,Who for freedom fought and bled,With her banner o'er you spread,On to victory.Not for stern ambition's prize,Do our hopes and wishes rise;Lo, our leader from the skies,Bids us do or die.Ours is not the tented field—We no earthly weapons wield—Light and love, our sword and shield,Truth our panoply.This is proud oppression's hour;Storms are round us; shall we cower?While beneath a despot's powerGroans the suffering slave?While on every southern gale,Comes the helpless captive's tale,And the voice of woman's wail,And of man's despair?While our homes and rights are dear,Guarded still with watchful fear,Shall we coldly turn our earFrom the suppliant's prayer?Never! by our Country's shame—Never! by a Saviour's claim,To the men of every name,Whom he died to save.Onward, then, ye fearless band—Heart to heart, and hand to hand;Yours shall be the patriot's stand—Or the martyr's grave.
Parody by J.N.T. Tucker. Air, "The Rose that all are praising."
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Oh, he is not the man for me,Who buys or sells a slave,Nor he who will not set him free,But sends him to his grave;But he whose noble heart beats warmFor all men's life and liberty;Who loves alike each human form—Oh that's the man for me,Oh that's the man for me,Oh that's the man for me.He's not at all the man for me,Who sells a man for gain,Who bends the pliant servile knee,To Slavery's God of shame!But he whose God-like form erectProclaims that all alike are freeTo think, and speak, and vote, and act,Oh that's the man for me.He sure is not the man for meWhose spirit will succumb,When men endowed with LibertyLie bleeding, bound and dumb;But he whose faithful words of mightRing through the land from shore to sea,For man's eternal equal right,Oh that's the man for me.No, no, he's not the man for meWhose voice o'er hill and plain,Breaks forth for glorious liberty,But binds himself, the chain!The mightiest of the noble bandWho prays and toils the world to free,With head, and heart, and voice, and vote—Oh that's the man for me.
Oh, he is not the man for me,Who buys or sells a slave,Nor he who will not set him free,But sends him to his grave;But he whose noble heart beats warmFor all men's life and liberty;Who loves alike each human form—Oh that's the man for me,Oh that's the man for me,Oh that's the man for me.He's not at all the man for me,Who sells a man for gain,Who bends the pliant servile knee,To Slavery's God of shame!But he whose God-like form erectProclaims that all alike are freeTo think, and speak, and vote, and act,Oh that's the man for me.He sure is not the man for meWhose spirit will succumb,When men endowed with LibertyLie bleeding, bound and dumb;But he whose faithful words of mightRing through the land from shore to sea,For man's eternal equal right,Oh that's the man for me.No, no, he's not the man for meWhose voice o'er hill and plain,Breaks forth for glorious liberty,But binds himself, the chain!The mightiest of the noble bandWho prays and toils the world to free,With head, and heart, and voice, and vote—Oh that's the man for me.
Words by Geo. Lunt. Air "Troubadour."
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Over the mountain waveSee where they come;Storm-cloud and wintry windWelcome them home;Yet where the sounding galeHowls to the sea,There their song peals along,Deep toned and free.Pilgrims and wanderers,Hither we come;Where the free dare to be,This is our home.England hath sunny dales,Dearly they bloom;Scotia hath heather-hills,Sweet their perfume:Yet through the wildernessCheerful we stray,Native land, native land—Home far away!Pilgrims,&c.Dim grew the forest path,Onward they trod:Firm beat their noble hearts,Trusting in God!Gray men and blooming maids,High rose their song—Hear it sweep, clear and deepEver along!Pilgrims,&c.Not theirs the glory-wreath,Torn by the blast;Heavenward their holy steps,Heavenward they passed!Green be their mossy graves!Ours be their fame,While their song peals along,Ever the same!Pilgrims,&c.
Over the mountain waveSee where they come;Storm-cloud and wintry windWelcome them home;Yet where the sounding galeHowls to the sea,There their song peals along,Deep toned and free.Pilgrims and wanderers,Hither we come;Where the free dare to be,This is our home.England hath sunny dales,Dearly they bloom;Scotia hath heather-hills,Sweet their perfume:Yet through the wildernessCheerful we stray,Native land, native land—Home far away!Pilgrims,&c.Dim grew the forest path,Onward they trod:Firm beat their noble hearts,Trusting in God!Gray men and blooming maids,High rose their song—Hear it sweep, clear and deepEver along!Pilgrims,&c.Not theirs the glory-wreath,Torn by the blast;Heavenward their holy steps,Heavenward they passed!Green be their mossy graves!Ours be their fame,While their song peals along,Ever the same!Pilgrims,&c.
FROM THE LIBERATOR.
Feebly the bondman toiled,Sadly he wept—Then to his wretched cotMournfully crept:How doth his free-born soulPine 'neath his chain!Slavery! Slavery!Dark is thy reign.Long ere the break of day,Roused from repose,Wearily toilingTill after its close—Praying for freedom,He spends his last breath:Liberty! Liberty!Give me, or death.When, when, oh Lord! will rightTriumph o'er wrong?Tyrants oppress the weak,Oh Lord! how long?Hark! hark! a peal resoundsFrom shore to shore—Tyranny! Tyranny!Thy reign is o'er.E'en now the morningGleams from the East—Despots are feelingTheir triumph is past—Strong hearts are answeringTo freedom's loud call—Liberty! Liberty!Full and for all.
Feebly the bondman toiled,Sadly he wept—Then to his wretched cotMournfully crept:How doth his free-born soulPine 'neath his chain!Slavery! Slavery!Dark is thy reign.Long ere the break of day,Roused from repose,Wearily toilingTill after its close—Praying for freedom,He spends his last breath:Liberty! Liberty!Give me, or death.When, when, oh Lord! will rightTriumph o'er wrong?Tyrants oppress the weak,Oh Lord! how long?Hark! hark! a peal resoundsFrom shore to shore—Tyranny! Tyranny!Thy reign is o'er.E'en now the morningGleams from the East—Despots are feelingTheir triumph is past—Strong hearts are answeringTo freedom's loud call—Liberty! Liberty!Full and for all.
Words by Mrs. Sigourney. Music by G.W.C.
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We have a goodly clime,Broad vales and streams we boast;Our mountain frontiers frown sublime,Old Ocean guards our coast.Suns bless our harvests fair,With fervid smile serene,But a dark shade is gathering there,What can its blackness mean?We have a birth-right proud,For our young sons to claim—An eagle soaring o'er the cloud,In freedom and in fame.We have a scutcheon bright,By our dead fathers bought;A fearful blot distains its white—Who hath such evil wrought?Our banner o'er the seaLooks 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 rareSwell through our nation's bound,But Afric's wailing mingles there,And Heaven doth hear the sound.O God of power! we turnIn penitence to thee,Bid our loved land the lesson learn—To bid the slave be free.
We have a goodly clime,Broad vales and streams we boast;Our mountain frontiers frown sublime,Old Ocean guards our coast.Suns bless our harvests fair,With fervid smile serene,But a dark shade is gathering there,What can its blackness mean?We have a birth-right proud,For our young sons to claim—An eagle soaring o'er the cloud,In freedom and in fame.We have a scutcheon bright,By our dead fathers bought;A fearful blot distains its white—Who hath such evil wrought?Our banner o'er the seaLooks 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 rareSwell through our nation's bound,But Afric's wailing mingles there,And Heaven doth hear the sound.O God of power! we turnIn penitence to thee,Bid our loved land the lesson learn—To bid the slave be free.
Air—"My faith looks up to thee."
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