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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Anti-Slavery Poems (search)
t and the morn Bear off your prey! On, swift and still! the conscious street Is panged and stirred; Tread light! that fall of serried feet The dead have heard! The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins Gushed where ye tread; Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red! Beneath the slowly waning stars And whitening day, What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way? What faces frown upon ye, dark With shame and pain? Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark? Is that young Vane? Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on With mocking cheer? Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage are here! For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch's fire, Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed The Tyrian sire. Ye make that ancient sacrifice Of Mall to Gain, Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, Beneath the chain. Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn And hate, is near; How think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear? Thank God! our mother State can yet Her fame retrie
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Songs of Labour and Reform (search)
he sword. Go, let your blinded Church rehearse The lesson it has learned so well; It moves not with its prayer or curse The gates of heaven or hell. Let the State scaffold rise again; Did Freedom die when Russell died? Forget ye how the blood of Vane From earth's green bosom cried? The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong; All holy memories and sublime And glorious round ye throng. The bluff, bold men of Runnymede Are with ye still in times like these; The sen scrolls a breath can float; The crowning fact The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote! For pearls that gem A diadem The diver in the deep sea dies; The regal right We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice; The blood of Vane, His prison pain Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, And hers whose faith Drew strength from death, And prayed her Russell up to God! Our hearts grow cold, We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain; The stake, the cord, The axe, the