Part 11

YOUR BROTHER IS A SLAVE.

O weep, ye friends of Freedom, weep! Shout liberty no more; Your harps to mournful measures sweep, Till slavery's reign is o'er. O, furl your star-lit thing of light-- That banner should not wave Where, vainly pleading for his right, Your Brother toils--a Slave!

O pray, ye friends of Freedom, pray For those who toil in chains, Who lift their fettered hands to day On Carolina's plain! God is the hope of the Oppressed; His arm is strong to save; Pray, then, that freedom's cause be blest, Your Brother is a Slave!

O toil, ye friends of Freedom, toil! Your mission to fulfil,-- That Freedom's consecrated soil Slaves may no longer till; Ay, toil and pray from deep disgrace Your native land to save; Weep o'er the miseries of your race, Your Brother is a Slave!

COME JOIN THE ABOLITIONISTS.

AIR--When I can read my title clear.

Come join the Abolitionists, Ye young men bold and strong. And with a warm and cheerful zeal, Come help the cause along; O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, when Slavery is no more, When Slavery is no more. 'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, When Slavery is no more.

Come join the Abolitionists, Ye men of riper years, And save your wives and children dear, From grief and bitter tears; O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, when Slavery is no more, When Slavery is no more, 'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, When Slavery is no more.

Come join the Abolitionists, Ye dames and maidens fair, And breathe around us in our path Affection's hallowed air; O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, when woman cheers us on, When woman cheers us on, to conquests not yet won. 'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring, When woman cheers us on.

Come join the Abolitionists, Ye sons and daughters all Of this our own America-- Come at the friendly call; O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O that will be joyful, when all shall proudly say, This, this is Freedom's day--Oppression flee away! 'T is then we'll sing, and offerings bring, When freedom wins the day.

THERE'S A GOOD TIME COMING.

There's a good time coming boys, A good time coming; There's a good time coming boys, Wait a little longer. We may not live to see the day, But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming; Cannon balls may aid the truth, But thought's a weapon stronger; We'll win our battle by its aid, Wait a little longer. O, there's a good time, &c.

There's a good time coming boys, A good time coming; The pen shall supersede the sword, And right, not might shall be the lord, In the good time coming. Worth, not birth shall rule mankind, And be acknowledged stronger, The proper impulse has been given, Wait a little longer. O, there's a good time, &c.

There's a good time coming boys, A good time coming; Hateful rivalries of creed, Shall not make their martyrs bleed, In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride, And flourish all the stronger; And Charity shall trim her lamp, Wait a little longer. O, there's a good time, &c.

There's a good time coming boys, A good time coming; War in all men's eyes shall be, A monster of iniquity, In the good time coming. Nations shall not quarrel then, To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake, Wait a little longer. O, there's a good time, &c.

THE BIGOT FIRE.

Written on the occasion of George Latimer's Imprisonment in Levorott street Jail, Boston.

O, kindle not that bigot fire, 'T will bring disunion, fear and pain; 'T will rouse at last the souther'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't 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 souther's clay, And be the base, the supple tool, Of hell-begotten slavery?

No! never, while the free air plays O'er our rough hills and sunny fountains, Shall proud New England's sons be free, And clank their fetters round her mountains.

Go if ye will and grind in dust, Dark Afric'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 souther'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 we'll stand, And pour upon the breeze of heaven, A curse so loud, so stern, so deep, Shall start ye in your guilty sleep.

OFT IN THE CHILLY NIGHT.