The tireless energy of will,
The power to do, the pride to dare.

What she has done can we not do?

Our hour and men are both at hand; The blast which Freedom's angel blew O'er her green islands, echoes through Each valley of our forest land.

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And Freedom'strumpet sounding clear: "Joy to the people!-woe and fear To new-world tyrants, old-world kings!"

THE FAREWELL

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.

GONE, gone, sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air,

-

Gone, gone, sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, —
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.

Gone, gone, sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,- sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. O, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go, Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, There no brother's voice shall greet

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 Snowden'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'Connell 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,

75

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, Quebeclooks 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 rocky wall 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,
And heard the Haytien's tale of wrong,
Shall gather at that summons strong,
Broglie, Passy, and him whose song
Breathed over Syria's holy sod,
And in the paths which Jesus trod,
And murmured midst the hills which hem
Crownless and sad Jerusalem,

Hath echoes wheresoe'er the tone
Of Israel's prophet-lyre is known.

Still let them come, from Quito's walls,

And from the Orinoco's tide, From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, From Santa Fe and Yucatan,

Men who by swart Guerrero's side Proclaimed the deathless RIGHTS or

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 Petion's hand,
Alone against a hostile world.

Nor all unmindful, 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 Gizeh's pile,
Or, where from Abyssinian hilis
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 wa-
ters,-

Where'er is heard the Coptic 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
Forevermore 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! O, who could dream that saw thee then,

And watched thy rising from afar, That vapors from oppression's fen

Would cloud the upward tending star?

Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard,

Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning,

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,
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!-peaceful all:
No threat of war, no savage call

For vengeance on an erring brother
But in their stead the godlike 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 its lightest word, Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred: Spain, watching from her Moro's keep Her slave-ships traversing the deep, And Rio, in her strength and pride, Lifting, along her mountain-side, Her snowy battlements 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 blow.