The Anti-Slavery Harp | Page 4

of the free,
Can ye forever see
Your brother man
A
yoked and scourged slave,
Chains dragging to his grave,
And raise
no hand to save?
Say if you can.
In pride and pomp to roll,
Shall tyrants from the soul
God's image
tear,
And call the wreck their own,--
While, from the eternal throne,

They shut the stifled groan
And bitter prayer?
Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crowned


Creation's lord?
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of
shame,
Profess their tyrant claim
From God's own word?
No! at the battle cry,
A host prepared to die,
Shall arm for fight--

But not with martial steel,
Grasped with a murderous zeal;
No arms
their foes shall feel,
But love and light.
Firm on Jehovah's laws,
Strong in their righteous cause,
They
march to save.
And vain the tyrant's mail,
Against their battle-hail,

Till cease the woe and wail
Of tortured slave!
COLONIZATION SONG.
TO THE FREE COLORED
PEOPLE.
AIR--Spider and the fly.
Will you, will you be colonized?
Will you, will you be colonized?
'Tis a land that with honey
And milk doth abound,
Where the lash is
not heard,
And the scourge is not found.
Chorus, Will you, &c.
If you stay in this land
Where the white man has rule,
You will
starve by his hand,
In both body and soul.
Chorus.
For a nuisance you are,
In this land of your birth,
Held down by his
hand,
And crushed to the earth.
Chorus.
My religion is pure,
And came from above,
But I cannot consent

The black negro to love.
Chorus.
It is true there is judgment
That hangs o'er the land,
But 't will all
turn aside,
When you follow the plan.
Chorus.
You're ignorant I know,
In this land of your birth,
And religion
though pure,
Cannot move the curse.
Chorus.

But only consent,
Though extorted by force,
What a blessing you'll
prove,
On the African coast.
Chorus.
I AM AN ABOLITIONIST.
AIR--Auld Lang Syne.
I am an Abolitionist!
I glory in the name:
Though now by Slavery's
minions hiss'd
And covered o'er with shame,
It is a spell of light
and power--
The watchword of the free:--
Who spurns it in the
trial-hour,
A craven soul is he!
I am an Abolitionist!
Then urge me not to pause;
For joyfully do I
enlist
In FREEDOM'S sacred cause:
A nobler strife the world ne'er
saw,
Th' enslaved to disenthral;
I am a soldier for the war,

Whatever may befall!
I am an Abolitionist!
Oppression's deadly foe;
In God's great
strength will I resist,
And lay the monster low;
In God's great name
do I demand,
To all be freedom given,
That peace and joy may fill
the land,
And songs go up to heaven!
I am an Abolitionist!
No threats shall awe my soul,
No perils cause
me to desist,
No bribes my acts control;
A freeman will I live and
die,
In sunshine and in shade,
And raise my voice for liberty,
Of
nought on earth afraid.
THE BEREAVED MOTHER.
Air--Kathleen O'More.
O, deep was the anguish of the slave mother's heart,
When called
from her darling for ever to part;
So grieved that lone mother, that
heart broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.
The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock,
While the child of her

bosom is sold on the block;
Yet loud shrieked that mother, poor heart
broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.
The babe in return, for its fond mother cries,
While the sound of their
wailings, together arise;
They shriek for each other, the child and the
mother,
In sorrow and woe.
The harsh auctioneer, to sympathy cold,
Tears the babe from its
mother and sells it for gold;
While the infant and mother, loud shriek
for each other,
In sorrow and woe.
At last came the parting of mother and child,
Her brain reeled with
madness, that mother was wild;
Then the lash could not smother the
shrieks of that mother
Of sorrow and woe.
The child was borne off to a far distant clime,
While the mother was
left in anguish to pine;
But reason departed, and she sank broken
hearted,
In sorrow and woe.
That poor mourning mother, of reason bereft,
Soon ended her sorrows
and sank cold in death;
Thus died that slave mother, poor heart
broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.
O, list ye kind mothers to the cries of the slave;
The parents and
children implore you to save;
Go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and
brothers,
From sorrow and woe.
THE CHASE.
AIR--Sweet Afton.
Quick, fly to the covert, thou hunted of men!
For the bloodhounds are
baying o'er mountain and glen;
The riders are mounted, the loose rein
is given,
And curses of wrath are ascending to heaven.
O, speed to
thy footsteps! for ruin and death,
Like the hurricane's rage, gather

thick round thy path;
And the deep muttered curses grow loud and
more loud,
As horse after horse swells the thundering crowd.
Speed, speed, to thy footsteps! thy track has been found;
Now, sport_
for the _rider_, and _blood_ for the _hound!
Through brake and
through forest the man-prey is driven;
O, help for the hopeless, thou
merciful Heaven!
On! on to the mountain! they're baffled again,

And hope for the woe-stricken still may remain;
The fast-flagging
steeds are all white with their foam,
The bloodhounds have turned
from the chase to their home.
Joy! joy to the wronged one! the haven he gains,
Escaped from his
thraldom, and freed from