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THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.
| Who bids for God's own image ? - for his grace Which that poor victim of the market-place
Hath in her suffering won ?
My God! can such things be?
Is even done to Thee?
In that sad victim, then,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!
A Christian up for sale!
Her patience shall not fail !
A heathen hand might deal
Ye neither heed nor feel.
Con well thy lesson o’er,
The outcast and the poor.
But wisely shut the ray
One stern command — OBEY !
So shalt thou deftly raise The market price of human flesh; and while On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave, reverend men shall tell
Thy poor disciples sell.
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Their inmates into day :
But our poor slave in vain
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long • Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand, Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell From the black slave-ship’s foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain, —
Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky,
HOW LONG, O GOD, HOW LONG ?
STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.
TS this the land our fathers loved,
1 The freedom which they toiled to win ? Is this the soil whereon they moved ?
Are these the graves they slumber in ?
With craven soul and fettered lip?
And tremble at the driver's whip?
Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?
The dungeon's gloom — the assassin's blow, Turn back the spirit roused to save The Truth, our Country, and the Slave ? Of human skulls that shrine was made,
Round which the priests of Mexico Before their loathsome idol prayed,
Is Freedom's altar fashioned so ? And must we yield to Freedom's God, As offering meet, the negro's blood ? Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought
Which well might shame extremest hell ? Shall freemen lock the indignant thought?
Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell? Shall Honor bleed ? — Shall Truth succumb ? Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ?
No - by each spot of haunted ground,
Where Freedom weeps her children's fall -
By Griswold's stained and shattered wall -
The bands and fetters round them set -
Within our inmost bosoms, yet -
For truth, and right, and suffering man,
As Christians may — as freemen can !
While woman shrieks beneath his rod,
The image of a common God !
The danger and the growing shame ?
Which should have filled the world with fame? And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn, A world's reproach around us burn? Is 't not enough that this is borne ?
And asks our haughty neighbor more ?
Clank round the Yankee farmer's door?
Must he be told his freedom stands
On Slavery's dark foundations strong On breaking hearts and fettered hands,
On robbery, and crime, and wrong? That all his fathers taught is vain That Freedom's emblem is the chain ? Its life — its soul, from slavery drawn?
False — foul - profane! Go — teach as well Of holy Truth from Falsehood born!
Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell !
Ye shall not hear the truth the less -
No fetter on the Yankee's press.!