Anti-slavery bugle. [volume] (New-Lisbon, Ohio) 1845-1861, 1850-10-12

nut where yOn PRISON long ana low
Stands back against the pale star r-glow,
Chafcd by the ceaseless wash of waves,
There watch and pine the Christian slaves
Rough bearded men, whose inr-of wives
Wear out with grief their lonely lives,
And youth, still flashing from his eyes
The clear blue of New England skies,
A treasured lock Of whose soft hair
Now wakes some sorrowing mothers PRAYER
Or, worn upon some maiden breast,
Stirs with the loving hearts unrest
A bitter cup each life must drain.
The groaning Earth is cursed with pain,
And, like the scroll the angel bore
The shuddcring Hebrew seer before,
O'er-writ alike without, within,
With all the woes which follow sin;
But, bitterest Of the ills beneath
Whose load man totteis down to death,
Is that which plucks the regal crown
or freedom from his forehead down,
And snatchcs from his powcrlcss hand
The scep;rcd sign of sclf-command,
EHacing with the chain and rod
The image and the seal of God
I'LL from his nature, day by day,
The manly virtues fall away,
And leave him naked, blind, and mute,
The godlikc merging in the brute
Why mourn the quiet ones who die
Beneath affections tender eye,
u..s>- .i,o;,- l.,,ee ej,eid sd sheir lliss---
Like ripencd -shcavcs gathered ini
oh wceper, from that tranquil sod,
That holy harvest-home of God,
Turn to the quick and suffering. shed
Thy tears upon the living dead
Thank God above thy dear ones graves;
They sleep with Him: they are not slaves
What dark mass, down the mountain sides
Swift-pouring, like stream divides -
A long, loose, struggling caravan,
Camel and horse and armed man.
The moons low crescent, glimmcring o'cr
Its grave of waters to the shore,
Lights up that mountain cavalcadc,
And glints from gun and spear and blade.
Near and more near now o'cr them falls
The shadow of the city walls.
Hark, to the sentry's challenge, drowned
In the fierce trumpet's charging sound
The rush OF mon, the musket peal,
The short, sharp clang of meeting steel
Vain, Moslem, vain, thy life blood poured
So freely OH thy foeman's sword.
Not to the swift nor TO the strong
For he who strikes for freedom wears
The armor OF the captive's prayers,
And Nature proffers 10 his cause
The strength of her eternal laws,
While he whose arm essays to bind
And herd with common brutcs his kind,
Strives evcrmorc at fearful odds
With Nature and the jealous gods,
And dares the dread rccoil which late
Or soon their right shall vindicatc.
lis done-that struggle sharp and STERN
The star-fiag houts the walls of Deme
Joy TO the captive husband Joy
10 thy sick heart, oh, brown locked boy!
In sullen wrath the conquered Moor
Wide open hings your dungeon door,
And leaves ye tree from cell and chain,
The owners of yourselves again.
Dark as his allies desert
Soilcd with the battles stain, and worn
With the long marches Of his band
Through hottest wastes of rock and sand
Scorched by the sun and furnace breath
OF the red deserts wind of death,
With welcome words and grasping hands
The victor and dcliycrer stands
The tale is one of distant skies;
The dust of half a century lies
Upon it, yet its hero's name
Still fingers on the lips Of Fame;
And lives there one who loves TO turn
10 Eaton by the walls of Derne.
And speak the praise of him who gave
Deliverance to the Moorman's slave,
Yet dares TO brand with shame and crime
The heroes of our land and time
The self-forgetful ones who stake
Home, name, and life, for freedoms sakel
God mend his heart, who cannot feel
The impulse of that holy zeal,
And secs not with his sordid eyes
The beauty of self-sacrihce!
Though in the sacred place he stands,
Uplifting consecrated hands,
Unworthy are his lips to tell
OF Jesus martyr-miracle,
Or name Alright that dread embrace
OF suffering for fallen race.