Spirit of Freemen, wake; No truce with Slavery make, Thy deadly foe; In fair disguises dressed, Too long hast thou caress'd The serpent in thy breast, Now lay him low.

Must e'en the press be dumb?

Must truth itself succ.u.mb?

And thoughts be mute?

Shall law be set aside, The right of prayer denied, Nature and G.o.d decried, And man called brute?

What lover of her fame Feels not his country's shame, In this dark hour?

Where are the patriots now, Of honest heart and brow, Who scorn the neck to bow To Slavery's power?

Sons of the Free! we call On you, in field and hall, To rise as one; Your heaven-born rights maintain, Nor let Oppression's chain On human limbs remain;-- Speak! and 't is done.

THE SLAVE'S LAMENTATION.

AIR--Long, long ago.

Where are the friends that to me were so dear, Long, long ago--long ago!

Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer?

Long, long ago--long ago!

I am degraded, for man was my foe, Friends that I loved in the grave are laid low, All hope of freedom hath fled from me now, Long, long ago--long, long ago!

Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head-- Long, long ago--long ago!

O, how I wept when I found she was dead!

Long, long ago--long ago!

She was my angel, my love and pride-- Vainly to save her from torture I tried, Poor broken heart! She rejoiced as she died, Long, long ago--long, long ago!

Let me look back on the days of my youth-- Long, long ago--long ago!

Master withheld from me knowledge and truth-- Long, long ago--long ago!

Crushed all the hopes of my earliest day, Sent me from father and mother away-- Forbade me to read, nor allowed me to pray-- Long, long ago--long, long ago!

FLIGHT OF THE BONDMAN.

DEDICATED TO WILLIAM W. BROWN _And Sung by the Hutchinsons_

BY ELIAS SMITH.

AIR--Silver Moon.

From the crack of the rifle and baying of hound, Takes the poor panting bondman his flight; His couch through the day is the cold damp ground, But northward he runs through the night.

Chorus.

O, G.o.d speed the flight of the desolate slave, Let his heart never yield to despair; There is room 'mong our hills for the true and the brave, Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!

O, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light, Streaming far o'er the dark swelling wave; But sweeter by far 'mong the lights of the night, Is the star of the north to the slave.

O, G.o.d speed, &c.

Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds, But warm as the soft southern gales Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds, 'Mong our hills and our own winter vales.

O, G.o.d speed, &c.

Then list to the 'plaint of the heart-broken thrall, Ye blood-hounds, go back to your lair; May a free northern soil soon give freedom to _all_, Who shall breathe in its pure mountain air.

O, G.o.d speed, &c.

THE SWEETS OF LIBERTY.

AIR--Is there a heart, &c.

Is there a man that never sighed To set the prisoner free?

Is there a man that never prized The sweets of liberty?

Then let him, let him breathe unseen, Or in a dungeon live; Nor never, never know the sweets That liberty can give.

Is there a heart so cold in man, Can galling fetters crave?

Is there a wretch so truly low, Can stoop to be a slave?

O, let him, then, in chains be bound, In chains and bondage live; Nor never, never know the sweets That liberty can give.

Is there a breast so chilled in life, Can nurse the coward's sigh?

Is there a creature so debased, Would not for freedom die?

O, let him then be doomed to crawl Where only reptiles live; Nor never, never know the sweets That liberty can give.

YE SPIRITS OF THE FREE.

AIR--My Faith looks up to thee.

Ye spirits of the free, Can ye forever see Your brother man A yoked and scourged slave, Chains dragging to his grave, And raise no hand to save?

Say if you can.

In pride and pomp to roll, Shall tyrants from the soul G.o.d's image tear, And call the wreck their own,-- While, from the eternal throne, They shut the stifled groan And bitter prayer?

Shall he a slave be bound, Whom G.o.d hath doubly crowned Creation's lord?

Shall men of Christian name, Without a blush of shame, Profess their tyrant claim From G.o.d's own word?

No! at the battle cry, A host prepared to die, Shall arm for fight-- But not with martial steel, Grasped with a murderous zeal; No arms their foes shall feel, But love and light.

Firm on Jehovah's laws, Strong in their righteous cause, They march to save.

And vain the tyrant's mail, Against their battle-hail, Till cease the woe and wail Of tortured slave!