Written on the occasion of George Latimerâ€™s Imprisonment in Levorett Street Jail, Boston.
O, kindle not that bigot fire,
â€˜T will bring disunion, fear and pain
â€˜T will rouse at lust the southerâ€™s ire,
And burst our starry land in twain.
Theirs is the high, the noble worth,
The very soul of chivalry;
Rend not our blood-bought land apart,
For such a thing as slavery.
This is the language of the North,
I shame to say it but it is true;
And anti-slavery calls it forth,
From some proud priests and laymen too.
What! bend forsooth to southern rule?
What! cringe and crawl to southerâ€™s clay,
And be the base, the supple too!
Of hell-begotten slavery?
No! never, while the free air plays
Oâ€™er our rough hills and sunny fountains,
Shall proud New Englandâ€™s sons be free,
And clank their fetters round her mountains.
Go if ye will and grind in dust,
Dark Africâ€™s poor, degraded child;
Wring from his sinews gold accursed,
And boast your gospel warm and mild.
While on our mountain tops the pine
In freedom her green branches wave,
Her sons shall never stoop to bind
The galling shackle of the slave.
Ye dare demand with haughty tone,
For us to pander to your shame,
To give our brother up alone,
To feel the lash and wear the chain.
Our brother never shall go back,
When once he presses our free shore;
Though southerâ€™s power with hell to back,
Comes thundering at our northern door.
No! rather be our starry land,
Into a thousand fragments riven;
Upon our own free hills weâ€™ll stand,
And pour upon the breeze of heaven,
A curse so loud, so stern, so deep,
Shall start ye in your guilty sleep.