The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[66] And still, where'er to sun and breeze,
     My country, is thy flag unrolled,
With scorn, the gazing stranger sees
     A stain on every fold.

Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down!
     It gathers scorn from every eye,
And despots smile and good men frown
     Whene'er it passes by.

Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow
     Above the slaver's loathsome jail;
Its folds are ruffling even now
     His crimson flag of sale.

Still round our country's proudest hall
     The trade in human flesh is driven,
And at each careless hammer-fall
     A human heart is riven.

And this, too, sanctioned by the men
     Vested with power to shield the right,
And throw each vile and robber den
     Wide open to the light.

Yet, shame upon them! there they sit,
     Men of the North, subdued and still;
Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit
     To work a master's will.

Sold, bargained off for Southern votes,
     A passive herd of Northern mules,
Just braying through their purchased throats
     Whate'er their owner rules.