The Liberty Minstrel Part 19

Freedom's consecrated dower, Casket of a priceless gem!

n.o.bler heritage of power, Than imperial diadem!

Corner-stone, on which was reared, Liberty's triumphal dome, When her glorious form appeared, 'Midst our own Green Mountain home.

Guard it, Freemen! guard it well, Spotless as your maiden's fame!

Never let your children tell Of your weakness, of your shame; That their fathers basely sold, What was bought with blood and toil, That you bartered right for gold, Here, on Freedom's sacred soil.

Let your eagle's quenchless eye, Fixed, unerring, sleepless, bright, Watch, when danger hovers nigh, From his lofty mountain height; While the stripes and stars shall wave O'er this treasure, pure and free-- The land's Palladium, it shall save The home and shrine of liberty.

Christian Mother.

BY MISS C.

Christian mother, when thy prayer, Trembles on the twilight air, And thou askest G.o.d to keep In their waking and their sleep, Those, whose love is more to thee Than the wealth of land or sea-- Think of those who wildly mourn For the loved ones from them torn.

Christian daughter, sister, wife, Ye who wear a guarded life, Ye, whose bliss hangs not, thank G.o.d, On a tyrant's word or nod, Will ye hear, with careless eye, Of the wild, despairing cry, Rising up from human hearts, As their latest bliss departs.

Blest ones, whom no hands on earth, Dare to wrench from home and hearth, Ye, whose hearts are sheltered well, By affection's holy spell; Oh, forget not those for whom Life is nought but changeless gloom!

O'er whose days, so woe-begone, Hope may paint no brighter dawn.

THE LIBERTY PARTY.

Words by E. Wright, jr. Tune--"'Tis Dawn, the Lark is Singing."

[Music]

Will ye despise the acorn, Just thrusting out its shoot, Ye giants of the forest, That strike the deepest root?

Will ye despise the streamlets Upon the mountain side; Ye broad and mighty rivers, On sweeping to the tide?

Wilt thou despise the crescent, That trembles, newly born, Thou bright and peerless planet, Whose reign shall reach the morn?

Time now his scythe is whetting, Ye giant oaks, for you; Ye floods, the sea is thirsting, To drink you like the dew.

That crescent, faint and trembling, Her lamp shall nightly trim, Till thou, imperious planet, Shall in her light grow dim; And so shall wax the Party, Now feeble at its birth, Till Liberty shall cover This tyrant trodden earth.

That party, as we term it, The Party of the Whole-- Has for its firm foundation, The substance of the soul; It groweth out of Reason, The strongest soil below; The smaller is its budding, The more its room to grow!

Then rally to its banners, Supported by the true-- The weakest are the waning, The many are the few: Of what is small, but living, G.o.d makes himself the nurse; While "Onward" cry the voices Of all his universe.

Our plant is of the cedar, That knoweth not decay: Its growth shall bless the mountains, Till mountains pa.s.s away.

G.o.d speed the infant party, The party of the whole-- And surely he will do it, While reason is its soul.

BE FREE, O MAN, BE FREE.

Words by Mary H. Maxwell. Music by G.W.C.

[Music]

The storm-winds wildly blowing, The bursting billows mock, As with their foam-crests glowing, They dash the sea-girt rock; Amid the wild commotion, The revel of the sea, A voice is on the ocean, Be free, O man, be free.

Behold the sea-brine leaping High in the murky air; List to the tempest sweeping In chainless fury there.

What moves the mighty torrent, And bids it flow abroad?

Or turns the rapid current?

What, but the voice of G.o.d?

Then, answer, is the spirit Less n.o.ble or less free?

From whom does it inherit The doom of slavery?

When man can bind the waters, That they no longer roll, Then let him forge the fetters To clog the human soul.

Till then a voice is stealing From earth and sea, and sky, And to the soul revealing Its immortality.

The swift wind chants the numbers Careering o'er the sea, And earth aroused from slumbers, Re-echoes, "Man, be free."

Arouse! Arouse!

Arouse, arouse, arouse!

Ye bold New England men!

No more with sullen brows, Remain as ye have been: Your country's freedom calls, Once bought by patriots' blood; Rouse, or that freedom falls Beneath the tyrant's rod!

Three million men in chains, Your friendly aid implore; Slight you the piteous strains That from their bosoms pour?

Shall it be told in story, Or troll'd in burning song, New England's boasted glory Forgot the bondman's wrong?

Shall freeman's sons be taunted, That freedom's spirit's fled; That what the fathers vaunted, With sordid sons is dead?

That they in grovelling gain Have lost their ancient fire, And 'neath the despot's chain, Let liberty expire?

Oh no, your father's bones Would cry out from the ground; Ay, e'en New England's stones Would echo on the sound: Rouse, then, New England men!

Rally in freedom's name!

In your bosoms once again Light up the sleeping flame!

THE LAST NIGHT OF SLAVERY.

Tune--"Cherokee Death-song."