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UR fellow-countrymen in chains!
O Slaves in a land of light and law!
Slaves crouching on the very plains
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war!
A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood
By storied hill and hallowed grot,
And hurrying shout of Marion's men!
-our countrymen in chains! The whip on wOMAN'S shrinking flesh! Our soil yet reddening with the stains,
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh ! What! mothers from their children riven! What! God's own image bought and sold! AMERICANS to market driven,
And bartered as the brute for gold!
Speak! shall their agony of prayer
Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong,
What! shall we send, with lavish breath,
Strikes for his freedom, or a grave ?
Our light on all her altars burning?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
The impulse of our cheering call?
Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free,
Go-let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat;
Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
the heathen's mirth
Content to live the lingering jest
Shall our own glorious land retain
That curse which Europe scorns to bear? Shall our own brethren drag the chain Which not even Russia's menials wear?
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,
Scatter the living coals of Truth!
The shadow of our fame is growing!
Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth
Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
Up now for Freedom! - not in strife
The glory and the guilt of war:
Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
Nor longer let its idol drink
His daily cup of human blood:
But rear another altar there,
To Truth and Love and Mercy given, And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer, Shall call an answer down from Heaven !
UST God! - and these are they
Who minister at thine altar, God of Right!
Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay
What! preach and kidnap men ?
What! servants of thy own
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save
Pilate and Herod, friends!
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!
Paid hypocrites, who turn
Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book
Of those high words of truth which search and burn
Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord
How long, O Lord! how long
Shall such a priesthood barter truth away,