Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/300

268 Oh, say, shall Prussia’s banner be
 * A refuge for the stricken slave?

And shall the Russian serf go free
 * By Baikal’s lake and Neva’s wave?

And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane
 * Relax the iron hand of pride,

And bid his bondmen cast the chain
 * From fettered soul and limb aside?

Shall every flap of England’s flag
 * Proclaim that all around are free,

From farthest Ind to each blue crag
 * That beetles o’er the Western Sea?

And shall we scoff at Europe’s kings,
 * When Freedom’s fire is dim with us,

And round our country’s altar clings
 * The damning shade of Slavery’s curse?

Go, let us ask of Constantine
 * To loose his grasp on Poland’s throat;

And beg the lord of Mahmoud’s line
 * To spare the struggling Suliote;

Will not the scorching answer come
 * From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ:

“Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
 * Then turn and ask the like of us!”

Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
 * The Christian’s scorn, the heathen’s mirth,

Content to live the lingering jest
 * And by-word of a mocking Earth?

Shall our own glorious land retain
 * That curse which Europe scorns to bear?

Shall our own brethren drag the chain
 * Which not even Russia’s menials wear?

Up, then, in Freedom’s manly part,
 * From graybeard eld to fiery youth,

And on the nation’s naked heart
 * Scatter the living coals of Truth!

Up! while ye slumber, deeper yet
 * The shadow of our fame is growing!

Up! while ye pause, our sun may set
 * In blood around our altars flowing!

Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth,
 * The gathered wrath of God and man,

Like that which wasted Egypt’s earth,
 * When hail and fire above it ran.

Hear ye no warnings in the air?
 * Feel ye no earthquake underneath?

Up, up! why will ye slumber where
 * The sleeper only wakes in death?

Rise now for Freedom! not in strife
 * Like that your sterner fathers saw,

The awful waste of human life,
 * The glory and the guilt of war:

But break the chain, the yoke remove,
 * And smite to earth Oppression’s rod,

With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
 * Made mighty through the living God!

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
 * And leave no traces where it stood;

Nor longer let its idol drink
 * His daily cup of human blood;

But rear another altar there,
 * To Truth and Love and Mercy given,

And Freedom’s gift, and Freedom’s prayer,
 * Shall call an answer down from Heaven!

, whose presence went before
 * Our fathers in their weary way,

As with Thy chosen moved of yore
 * The fire by night, the cloud by day!

When from each temple of the free,
 * A nation’s song ascends to Heaven,

Most Holy Father! unto Thee
 * May not our humble prayer be given?

Thy children all, though hue and form
 * Are varied in Thine own good will,

With Thy own holy breathings warm,
 * And fashioned in Thine image still.

We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain
 * Around us wave their fruits once more,

And clustered vine and blossomed grain
 * Are bending round each cottage door.

And peace is here; and hope and love
 * Are round us as a mantle thrown,

And unto Thee, supreme above,
 * The knee of prayer is bowed alone.

But oh, for those this day can bring,
 * As unto us, no joyful thrill;

For those who, under Freedom’s wing,
 * Are bound in Slavery’s fetters still: