# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/Our Countrymen

OUR COUNTRYMEN.
These lines are by the accomplished sister of the poet. The editor hopes to be pardoned by their writer, while he is certain of receiving the thanks of readers for inserting them.
'We do not know when we have read any thing which grated more harshly upon our Republican feelings, than the following sentence. It is from a letter of a young American, giving an account of his interview with Prince Metternich. Is it then true, that any of our institutions are such as to give pleasure to the Prime Minister of European despotism? And is it also true that the effect of these institutions upon the morals of any of our citizens is such, as to make them ashamed of the honest pursuits of industry? If so, is it not time they were modified?'—St. Louis Observer.
'Among other things, the Prince asked me if I was engaged in commerce. (Now I knew commerce was despised here.) I answered, I was the proprietor of land and Slaves. The company seemed to be pleased; for each Hungarian or Servian nobleman is so, under the feudal system of this day.'
Morning o'er proud Vienna! on spire and palace wall, A broad, bright coloring of gold, the early sunbeams fall—
The soft rich breath of breezes comes laden with perfume, From the dewy groves of citron, and the orange tree in bloom. In the gardens of the palaces, the hand of Art hath given A beauty, that might well awake the Turkman's dream of Heaven; Where the fountain gushes cool beneath the greenly arching vine, And flowers of magic loveliness, beneath its shadow twine— Where the wail-note of the prisoned bird tells the story of a land, Glittering in stolen wealth, retained by stern oppression's hand.
Within that lovely city, of vassalage and power; Of poverty and wasted wealth—of hovel and of tower, Are gathered on their kingly pride, a power-abusing band— The titled heads and iron hearts of Austria's groaning land, From Presburg's halls and Servia's mines, the prince and noble meet, To forge anew the chains that bind the serf beneath their feet; 'Midst hearts and feelings like his own, Prince Metternich is there, A tyrant, that would crush the soul of freedom every where.
The hater of all freedom! a spirit in whose power The light of liberty would be the meteor of an hour.
One stands within a gorgeous hall, amidst that despot band, A stranger from the western world—our freedom-favored land; Where th' heaven appealing vow hath said, that all mankind are free, And where Europe's poor down-trodden, for hope and refuge flee; A son of our America! a wanderer where the soul, The life of freedom sleeps enchained in tyranny's control! Where crowns and titles, and the pomp of kingly power have crushed, And trampled myriads of the poor and suffering to the dust;— Will he not scorn the princely hand, that binds a brother down? And hate the land of lord and slave—of fetter and of crown?
'So, thou art from America—and pray what dost thou there? 'Toil like our Servian vassals—or trade in merchant's ware?' Bland are the tones of Metternich—but a bitter smile reveals The hatred that his tyrant heart for freedom's birthplace feels:
A son of free America—amidst those titled knaves, He answers Austria's haughty prince—'My trade is in my slaves!' A smile of mockery and joy o'er each stern visage steals, As the answer of our countryman a kindred soul reveals; The bosom-friends of Metternich—the tyrant of the times, They hate our blessings, but they love our follies and our crimes.
Shame rest upon our countrymen, who in their wanderings claim Companionship with tyranny—by kindred deeds of shame. America a mockery! a strengthener to the hands Of robbery and wrong, and crime in less enlightened lands! Where the fires on Freedom's altars, with feeble flickerings burn; The hearts that light and nurse them there, to us for guidance turn. Millions of Freedom's children, of every clime and name, Watch anxiously the western world, and glory in our fame. The guide of nations! shall our path so blind and erring be, That hope must die, where'er a heart is burning to be free?
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