The Anti-Slavery Harp | Page 5

his chains!
The heaven-stamped image--the
God-given soul--
No more shall the spoiler at pleasure control.
O,
shame to Columbia, that on her bright plains,
Man pines in his fetters,
and curses his chains!
Shame! shame! that her star-spangled banner
should wave
Where the lash is made red in the blood of the slave.
Sons of old Pilgrim Fathers! and are ye thus dumb?
Shall tyranny
triumph, and freedom succumb?
While mothers are torn from their
children apart,
And agony sunders the cords of the heart?
Shall the
sons of those sires that once spurned the chain,
Turn bloodhounds to
hunt and make captive again?
O, shame to your honor, and shame to
your pride,
And shame on your memory ever abide!
Will not your old sires start up from the ground,
At the crack of the
whip, and bay of the hound,
And shaking their skeleton hands in your
face,
Curse the germs that produced such a miscreant race?
O, rouse ye for freedom, before on your path
Heaven pours without
mixture the vials of wrath!
Loose every hard burden--break off every
chain--
Restore to the bondman his freedom again.
FLING OUT THE ANTI-SLAVERY FLAG.

AIR--Auld Lang Syne
Fling out the Anti-slavery flag
On every swelling breeze;
And let
its folds wave o'er the land,
And o'er the raging seas,
Till all
beneath the standard sheet,
With new allegiance bow;
And pledge
themselves to onward bear
The emblem of their vow.
Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
And let it onward wave
Till it shall
float o'er every clime,
And liberate the slave;
Till, like a meteor
flashing far,
It bursts with glorious light,
And with its Heaven-born
rays dispels
The gloom of sorrow's night.
Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
And let it not be furled,
Till like a
planet of the skies,
It sweeps around the world.
And when each
poor degraded slave,
Is gathered near and far;
O, fix it on the azure
arch,
As hope's eternal star.
Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
Forever let it be
The emblem to a
holy cause,
The banner of the free.
And never from its guardian
height,
Let it by man be driven,
But let it float forever there,

Beneath the smiles of heaven.
THE YANKEE GIRL.
She sings by her wheel at that low cottage door,
Which the long
evening shadow is stretching before;
With a music as sweet as the
music which seems
Breathed softly and faintly in the ear of our
dreams!
How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye,
Like a star glancing
out from the blue of the sky!
And lightly and freely her dark tresses
play
O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!
Who comes in his pride to that low cottage door--
The haughty and
rich to the humble and poor?
'Tis the great Southern planter--the

master who waves
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves.
"Nay, Ellen, for shame! Let those Yankee fools spin,
Who would
pass for our slaves with a change of their skin;
Let them toil as they
will at the loom or the wheel
Too stupid for shame and too vulgar to
feel!
"But thou art too lovely and precious a gem
To be bound to their
burdens and sullied by them--
For shame, Ellen, shame!--cast thy
bondage aside,
And away to the South, as my blessing and pride.
"O, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong,
But where
flowers are blossoming all the year long,
Where the shade of the
palm-tree is over my home,
And the lemon and orange are white in
their bloom!
"O, come to my home, where my servants shall all
Depart at thy
bidding and come at thy call;
They shall heed thee as mistress with
trembling and awe,
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law."
O, could ye have seen her--that pride of our girls--
Arise and cast
back the dark wealth of her curls,
With a scorn in her eye which the
gazer could feel,
And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel:
"Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold
Are dim with the
blood of the hearts thou hast sold!
Thy home may be lovely, but
round it I hear
The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear!
"And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours,
And greener thy
landscapes, and fairer thy flowers;
But, dearer the blast round our
mountains which raves,
Than the sweet sunny zephyr which breathes
over slaves!
"Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,
With the iron of
bondage on spirit and heel;
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner

would be
In fetters_ with _them_, than in freedom with _thee!"
From Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.
JEFFERSON'S DAUGHTER.
"It is asserted, on the authority of an American Newspaper, that the
daughter of Thomas Jefferson, late President of the United States, was
sold at New Orleans for $1,000."--Morning Chronicle.
Can the blood that, at Lexington, poured o'er the plain,
When the sons
warred with tyrants their rights to uphold, Can the tide of Niagara wipe
out the stain?
No! Jefferson's child has been bartered for gold!
Do you boast of your freedom? Peace, babblers--be still;
Prate not of
the goddess who scarce deigns