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Onward with your fell design;
Deeply, when the wide abyss
By the hearth, and in the bed,
And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Plenty in our valleys flow;
And when vengeance clouds your skies, Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the lost on Paradise!
We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Valleys by the slave untrod,
TO FANEUIL HALL.
TO FANEUIL HALL.
if manhood still ye claim,
M1 If the Northern pulse can thrill,
Roused by wrong or stung by shame,
Let the sounds of traffic die:
Shut the mill-gate-leave the stall Fling the axe and hammer by Throng to Faneuil Hall!
Wrongs which freemen never brooked
These your instant zeal demand,
Shaking with their earthquake-call
Every rood of Pilgrim land
Ho, to Faneuil Hall!
From your capes and sandy bars
From your mountain-ridges cold,
Through whose pines the westering stars
Once again, for Freedom's sake,
Rock your fathers' hall!
Up, and tread beneath your feet
Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade,
Up, and let each voice that speaks
Ring from thence to Southern plains,
Speak as well becomes the free
Have they wronged us? Let us then
Up! your banner leads the van,
IFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted
Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field, Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board, Answering England's royal missive with a firm, "THUS SAITH
Rise again for home and freedom! set the battle in array! What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day.
Tell us not of banks and tariffs cease your paltry peddler cries Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise?
Would ye barter man for cotton?
That your gains may sum
Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the
Is the dollar only real? — God and truth and right a dream? Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the
O my God!
for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros
For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry :
Set your feet on Mammon's
Perish banks and perish traffic-spin your cotton's latest pound — But in Heaven's name keep your honor - keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!"
Where's the MAN for Massachusetts ? Where's the voice to speak her free?
Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to the
Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer?
Sits she dumb in her de
Has she none to break the silence? Has she none to do and
O my God! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted shield, And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field !
SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON IN THE 12TH MONTH OF 1845.
ITH a cold and wintry noon-light,
Shadows weaving with the sunlight
From the gray sky overhead,
Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread.
Through this broad street, restless ever,
Ebbs and flows a human tide,
Wave on wave a living river;
Wealth and fashion side by side;
Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.
Underneath yon dome, whose coping
Grave men in the dust are groping
For the largess, base and small,
Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its table fall.
Base of heart! They vilely barter
Honor's wealth for party's place :
Leaving footprints of disgrace;
For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their race.
Yet, where festal lamps are throwing
Backward on the sunset air;
And the low quick pulse of music beats its measures sweet and rare :