med in her pathway below;
It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom,
And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe:
Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression;
Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay;
No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression--
She must weep as she treads on her desolate way.

O, slave-mother, hope! see--the nation is shaking!
The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong!
The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking
Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong!
Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing,
May one day lift up its unmanacled form,
While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering,
Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm.

How long! O! how long!

How long will the friend of the slave plead in vain?
How long e'er the Christian will loosen the chain?
If he, by our efforts, more hardened should be,
O Father, forgive him! we trust but in thee.
That 'we're all free and equal,' how senseless the cry,
While millions in bondage are groaning so nigh!
O where is our freedom? equality where?
To this none can answer, but echo cries, where?

O'er this stain on our country we'd fain draw a veil,
But history's page will proclaim the sad tale,
That Christians, unblushing, could shout 'we are free,'
Whilst they the oppressors of millions could be.
They can feel for themselves, for the Pole they can feel,
Towards Afric's children their hearts are like steel;
They are deaf to their call, to their wrongs they are blind;
In error they slumber nor seek truth to find.

Though scorn and oppression on our pathway attend,
Despised and reviled, we the slave will befriend;
Our Father, thy blessing! we look but to thee,
Nor cease from our labors till all shall be free.
Should mobs in their fury with missiles assail,
The cause it is righteous, the truth will prevail;
Then heed not their clamors, though loud they proclaim
That freedom shall slumber, and slavery reign.

THE FUGITIVE SLAVE TO THE CHRISTIAN.

Words by Elizur Wright, jr. Music arranged from Cracovienne.

[Music]

The fetters galled my weary soul,--
A soul that seemed but thrown away;
I spurned the tyrant's base control,
Resolved at last the man to play:--

Chorus.

The hounds are baying on my track;
O Christian! will you send me back?
The hounds are baying on my track;
O Christian! will you send me back?

I felt the stripes, the lash I sa