Anti-slavery bugle. [volume] (New-Lisbon, Ohio) 1845-1861, 1856-01-19


esitatc to engage in carrying it out. 1t is
xtreme poetic license" which clothes such
ure in bloodhound from the supposed II
onsequent upon an act decreeing the catchir
nslaving of the free blacks Of the North
THE HUNT.
An arm'd host shakes the frozen ground
And swells up like the heavy tread
or wolves along the valleys bed
A voice of wo is in that sound.
1t comes again with deepening roar,
Like anger'd surge upon the shore,
Then dies away upon the gale,
Like that wave sinking to a wall.
IIo, listen now like howl of wrath,
1t tsweeps along the mountain path.
Across the still and frozen plain
The w:ntry wind brings martial strains.
With thrilling fife and throbbing drum,
And dancing plumes, they onward come,
And on the morning air they swell
And bursts the wild and startling yell,
And far beyond the rocky pass,
Is ringing out their bugle blast.
Why this darkly winding host
Is there fOeman on our coast?
What desolating, hostile band
Hath dar'd invade our peaceful land?
Has British power again essay'd
To test the kcenness of our blades?
Or Kansas rufiians, mad with rum,
Tum'd out to butcher, burn and run?
Has all the power of Papal Rome
Come Ger to drive US from our homes!
We list the sentry's measared tramp,
AS carefully we near tho camp;
With clairvoyant ken we find
Out, and give the countersign;
Catching Blacks" is lowly spoken,
And to our steps the ranks are open.
The scene is wild. On either hand,
Are group'd q ragged, ruffian band,
Rocking with the last debauch,
Their red eyes giaring like the torch
Which yesternight the cowardly bandits,
Kindled up the sleeping hamlet.
From dingy belt, the 5lood-stain'd blade,
With smoky muzzles, are array'd;
Each weapons drain'd the crimson tide
From fleeing .afric's wounded side,
And yet are smoking with the stain
Of holy, negro-hunting fame.
The deepest pits OF sn-cursed earth,
Since fonds from lowest hell had birth,
For deeds Of dark and nameless crime,
Before, were never ranked in line.
Slumbering incach b!ood-shot gaze,
We mark the fiends who by the blaze
OF burning hut, would lift their blades,
Red with the blood of wife and babe.
And only rest when, drunk with gore,
They cannot slay or ravish more.
Here gamblers deal for souls and liquor
BY the red lamps deathly flicker,
And frequent on the night winds swell
The freezing oath end demon yell,
Portending swift, remorseless wrath
Along the negro's hunted path.
a swaying curtains crimson glare,
Shuts out from view the quarters where
In dreams of blood the chieftains slumber,
Who lead this band of death and plunder.
Upon staff just at the right,
Our country's en- mblem flaps the night,
And back where triple sentries pace,
Are grouped the trophies of the chase.
That stalwart black, with hoary hair
Why bows he low in anguish there?
His sobbing wife is lowly praying
As DER her shivering babe she's swaying;
Its ebon cheek and crispen hair,
Bcgem'd with tcar-drops frozen there.
And here an aged, stricken one
Despairing, walls her slaughtered son;
A brother reels o'e sister raiyshed-
The idol where his love was lavshed;
And gnaws in rage his heavy chain,
Till madness burns in every vein.
The dark-eyeG maiden sits alone,
Her hopes of life, slow, one by one
Were blasted, when that manly form,
By hungry hounds in pieces torn,
Was flung, with mocking jest and mirth,
To char by redly-blazing hearth,
And she, with all her young hearts trust,
Reserved by negro-hunting lust.
And here broadly moulded frame,
Wounded, bleeding, writhes in pain;
His fetters damp with jets of blood,
Which tell how gallantly he stood,
Like dark rock on the ocean strand,
With kindling eye and trusty brand
To shield, and to the last defend
His idols from the human fiends.
The strong man weeps the devils jested
When with his babes their hounds they fe
AS writhing in their smoking gore,
They struggled by the broken door.
Here's girlhood too, the rounded form
AS graceful as the whittier born;
Her check with black SO family flushed
1t seems quadroon's healthful blush.
Where she at set Of sun was weeping,
The half-robed captive now is sleeping,
Her wet cheek on the dimpled hand,
And locks froze to the ragged band
OF iron, which, Uince mornings dawn,
Its drops of blood hath slowly drawn.
She starts and weeps-aye, weeps while
ing,
Her shiyerin, form so sadly leaning;
4 form Of beauty, yet Of wo,