Dr. Charles Follen, a German patriot, who had come to America for the

freedom which was denied him in his native land, allied himself with the

abolitionists, and at a convention of delegates from all the anti-

slavery organizations in New England, held at Boston in May, 1834, was

chairman of a committee to prepare an address to the people of New

England. Toward the close of the address occurred the passage which

suggested these lines. "The despotism which our fathers could not bear

in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her

reformed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the

United States--the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of

a king--cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic

be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our

manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?"

--Dr. Follen's Address.

"Genius of America!--Spirit of our free institutions!--where art thou?

How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! son of the morning,--how art thou fallen

from Heaven! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy

coming! The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha! Art thou

become like unto us?"--Speech of Samuel J. May.

OUR fellow-countrymen in chains!

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,

A. wail where Camden's martyrs fell,

By every shrine of patriot blood,

From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!

By storied hill and hallowed grot,

By mossy wood and marshy glen,

Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,

And hurrying shout of Marion's men!

The groan of breaking hearts is there,

The falling lash, the fetter's clank!

Slaves, slaves are breathing in that air

Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!

What, ho! 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

Come thrilling to our hearts in vain?

To us whose fathers scorned to bear

The paltry menace of a chain;

To us, whose boast is loud and long

Of holy Liberty and Light;

Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong

Plead vainly for their plundered Right?

What! shall we send, with lavish breath,

Our sympathies across the wave,

Where Manhood, on the field of death,

Strikes for his freedom or a grave?

Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung

For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning,

And millions hail with pen and tongue

Our light on all her altars burning?

Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,

By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall,

And Poland, gasping on her lance,

The impulse of our cheering call?

And shall the slave, beneath our eye,

Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain?

And toss his fettered arms on high,

And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain?

Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be

A refuge for the stricken slave?

And shall the Russian serf go free

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave?

And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane

Relax the iron hand of pride,

And bid his bondmen cast the chain

From fettered soul and limb aside?

Shall every flap of England's flag

Proclaim that all around are free,

From farthest Ind to each blue crag

That beetles o'er the Western Sea?

And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,

When Freedom's fire is dim with us,

And round our country's altar clings

The damning shade of Slavery's curse?

Go, let us ask of Constantine

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat;

And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line

To spare the struggling Suliote;

Will not the scorching answer come

From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ

"Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,

Then turn, and ask the like of us!"

Just God! and shall we calmly rest,

The Christian's scorn, the heathen's mirth,

Content to live the lingering jest

And by-word of a mocking Earth?

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,

From graybeard eld to fiery youth,

And on the nation's naked heart

Scatter the living coals of Truth!

Up! while ye slumber, deeper yet

The shadow of our fame is growing!

Up! while ye pause, our sun may set

In blood, around our altars flowing!

Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth,

The gathered wrath of God and man,

Like that which wasted Egypt's earth,

When hail and fire above it ran.

Hear ye no warnings in the air?

Feel ye no earthquake underneath?

Up, up! why will ye slumber where

The sleeper only wakes in death?

Rise now for Freedom! not in strife

Like that your sterner fathers saw,

The awful waste of human life,

The glory and the guilt of war:'

But break the chain, the yoke remove,

And smite to earth Oppression's rod,

With those mild arms of Truth and Love,

Made mighty through the living God!

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,

And leave no traces where it stood;

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!



Written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chatham Street

Chapel, New York, held on the 4th of the seventh month, 1834.

O THOU, whose presence went before

Our fathers in their weary way,

As with Thy chosen moved of yore

The fire by night, the cloud by day!

When from each temple of the free,

A nation's song ascends to Heaven,

Most Holy Father! unto Thee

May not our humble prayer be given?

Thy children all, though hue and form

Are varied in Thine own good will,

With Thy own holy breathings warm,

And fashioned in Thine image still.

We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain

Around us wave their fruits once more,

And clustered vine, and blossomed grain,

Are bending round each cottage door.

And peace is here; and hope and love

Are round us as a mantle thrown,

And unto Thee, supreme above,

The knee of prayer is bowed alone.

But oh, for those this day can bring,

As unto us, no joyful thrill;

For those who, under Freedom's wing,

Are bound in Slavery's fetters still:

For those to whom Thy written word

Of light and love is never given;

For those whose ears have never heard

The promise and the hope of heaven!

For broken heart, and clouded mind,

Whereon no human mercies fall;

Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined,

Who, as a Father, pitiest all!

And grant, O Father! that the time

Of Earth's deliverance may be near,

When every land and tongue and clime

The message of Thy love shall hear;

When, smitten as with fire from heaven,

The captive's chain shall sink in dust,

And to his fettered soul be given

The glorious freedom of the just,

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