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[42] Oh no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains;
     From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie;
From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,
     And clear, cold sky;

From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean
     Gnaws with his surges; from the fisher's skiff,
With white sail swaying to the billows' motion
     Round rock and cliff;

From the free fireside of her unbought farmer;
     From her free laborer at his loom and wheel;
From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer,
     Rings the red steel;

From each and all, if God hath not forsaken
     Our land, and left us to an evil choice,
Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken
     A People's voice.

Startling and stern! the Northern winds shall bear it
     Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave;
And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it
     Within her grave.

Oh, let that voice goforth! The bondman sighing
     By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane,
Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying,
     Revive again.

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Kingville (South Carolina, United States) (1)

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