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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FA- And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain

That hellish foes confederate for his harm
TIERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

Can wind around him, but he casts it off
The breaking waves dashed high

With as much ease as Samson his green withes On a stern and rock-bound coast,

He looks abroad into the varied field And the woods against a stormy sky

Of nature ; and though poor, perhaps, compared Their giant branches tossed ;

With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,

Calls the delightful scenery all his own. And the heavy night hung dark

His are the mountains, and the valley his,
The hills and waters o'er,

And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
When a band of exiles moored their bark With a propriety that none can feel,
On the wild New England shore.

| But who, with filial confidence inspired,

Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. And smiling say, “My Father made them all!” Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; Are they not his by a peculiar right,

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored And by an emphasis of interest his,

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Whose eyes they fill with tears of holy joy, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind with stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. That planned and built, and still upholds, a world | Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, So clothed with beauty for rebellious man: And having human feelings, does not blush, Yes, ye may fill your garners, ye that reap And hang his head, to think himself a man? The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good I would not have a slave to till my ground, In senseless riot ; but ye will not find

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth A liberty like his, who, unimpeached

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong,

No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, Just estimation prized above all price,
And has a richer use of yours than you.

I had much rather be myself the slave,
He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad ? Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave With all his roaring multitude of waves. That parts us are emancipate and loosed. His freedom is the same in every state ;

Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs And no condition of this changeful life,

Receive our air, that moment they are free ; So manifold in cares, whose every day

They touch our country, and their shackles fall. Bring its own evil with it, makes it less. That 's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, Nor penury can cripple or confine ;

And let it circulate through every vein No nook so narrow but he spreads them there Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds Is felt, mankind may feel her merey too. His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

WILLIAM COWPER.

WILLIAM COWPER.

SLAVERY.

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of

the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes

of wrath are stored ;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terri-

ble swift sword.
His truth is marching on.

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O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more ! My car is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ;
It does not feel for man; the natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax,
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own, and, having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred

circling camps ; They have builded him an altar in the evening

dews and damps ;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and

faring lamps.
His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows

of steel : “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you

my grace shall deal ;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent

with his heel,
Since God is marching on.”

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