I have crossed Niagara's water, Canada is now my home; But for dear ones still in bondage, Brother, unto thee I come.
I have left an aged father, But no wife is at his side; Oh, my mother! ere we lost thee, Rather would I thou hadst died. Where thou art, alas! I know not, Know not where my sisters dwell, And where my young brother pineth, None the fugitive can tell.
Scattered in that southern slave-land,
Which is Christendom's disgrace, Hopelessly they toil and languish, 'Midst the millions of our race; Who, if they but knew the power Sleeping in their fettered arm, Even in one little hour
Could their tyrant's might disarm.
Yet I would not, e'en for FREEDOM, They should strike the avenging blow; Nor should slavery's bloody altar Meet with bloody overthrow.
Rather let the hideous monster Vanquished be by truth alone; As the midnight darkness fleeth, When the glorious light steals on.
Brother! such my simple story; Thousands more could tell the same; With such added scenes of horror, As would blanch thy cheeks to name. Be "NO COMPROMISE" thy watchword, Pledge thyself to freedom now, And to ceaseless hate of bondage; Then through life redeem thy vow.
O dwellers in the valley-land,
Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial hand
Shortens to noon's triumphal hourWhile ye sit idle, do ye think
The Lord's great work sits idle too? That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?
Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In God's ripe fields the day is cried ; And reapers, with their sickles bright, Troop, singing, down the mountain side: Come up, and feel what health there is In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes; As, bending with a pitying kiss,
The night-shed tears of earth she dries!
The Lord wants reapers: O, mount up, Before night comes, and says "Too late!" Stay not for taking scrip or cup,
The Master hungers while ye wait: 'Tis from these heights alone your eyes The advancing spears of day can see, Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, To break your long captivity.
Lone watcher on the mountain-height! It is right precious to behold The first long surf of climbing light Flood all the thirsty east with gold;
But we, who in the shadow sit,
Know also when the day is nigh;
Seeing thy shining forehead lit
With his inspiring prophecy.
Thou hast thine office, we have ours; God lacks not early service here, But what are thine eleventh hours He counts with us for morning cheer; One day for Him is long enough,
And when He giveth work to do, The bruised reed is amply tough
To pierce the shield of error through.
But not the less do thou aspire Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire-
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine æried sight More worthy than our twilight dim-
For meek obedience, too, is light, And following that is finding Him.
Yon gewgaw temple-glittering in its guilt- Where Vice his most Satanic shrine hath built; Where Ruin basks in glare of open day,
And claims, with shameless confidence, his prey: With crowded victims, blinded to the last, Unheeding still the future or the past.
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