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Barbarian darkness dwelt

In hopeless night upon the land;

Till England's Pilgrims touched the strand,
And in the forest knelt.

Then light broke in; the kindling dawn
Blushed on mountain, grove, and lawn;
They planted round their growing home
The classic lights of Greece and Rome;
On every hill-top bade to shine
The blessed cross of Palestine,
Blended beams of heaven and earth!
Like morning on the mountains spread,
A bright and genial day they shed,
And called the glories of New England forth.

Exalt their honored name!

Heroic founders of the state!
Inscribe their titles with the great,

Who live in deathless fame!
Nor last upon th' immortal scroll

Young Harvard's modest worth enroll;
Let his own halls resound with loud acclaim!

Through languid years of pain and gloom,
He faded slow, and early died;

Passed from the altar to the tomb,

And wrought in death the work that life denied.

Stranger in the infant nation

Where he lingered but to die,

Visions of its exaltation

Dawned on his believing eye.

Cheered by the view, serenely smiled the youth,
And gave his little all to Christ and Truth.


O, from that little rill

What soul-enlivening waters flowed,
What peace and hope to man's abode,

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What joy to Zion's hill!

As when along the desert land,
Smitten by the prophet's hand,
The rock its gushing torrent sent
To bless the tribes where'er they went.

The years are passed, the fathers gone; But still the fertile flood rolls on: Free and glorious be its flow,

A boundless wave of life and youth,— Till knowledge, liberty, and truth, Restore lost Eden to our world below.


March, 1836.

FATHER, thy gentle chastisement
Falls kindly on my burdened soul;
I see its merciful intent,

To warn me back to thy control; And pray, that, while I kiss the rod, I may find perfect peace with God.

The errors of my heart I know;
I feel my deep infirmities;
For, often, virtuous feelings glow,
And holy purposes arise,

But, like the morning clouds decay,
As empty, though as fair, as they.

Forgive the weakness I deplore;

And let thy peace abound in me, That I may trust my heart no more, But wholly cast myself on thee. O, let my Father's strength be mine, And my devoted life be thine.


February, 1843.


THE Pilgrims are launched on the wild winter main,
Their bark on the foam madly tossing:

The tempest is high; but its threats they disdain;
They are fleeing from Tyranny's sceptre and chain;
It is Liberty's sea they are crossing.

Loud rings their cry o'er the stormy wave-
Freedom! Death or freedom!

Freedom, or ocean our grave!"

Borne high on the breath of the soft summer gale,
The slave-ship is proudly careering;

What sights of despair and what voices of wail,
What anguish and madness beneath that fair sail,
To hopeless captivity steering!

Hark! hark! from the black-hold the stifled cry-
"Freedom! Death or freedom!"

Hear how it pierces the sky!

In the darkness and rain of the chill autumn night, The slave from the cane-field is striding; Through hunger and hardship he urges his flight; Nor perils dismay him, nor blood-hounds affright,

By the north star his weary feet guiding.
Help, help for him- answer his eager cry —
"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"

Tell him that rescue is nigh.

Up, up with your banners to honor the brave!
O'er your forefathers' tombs be they flying!
And hail to the hero, though black and a slave,
Who shrinks from oppression, but fears not the grave,
And throws off his fetters by dying.

Join-join in the shout that he flings on high,
"Freedom! Death or freedom!"


-'twas your forefathers' cry!

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