Awake! every valley is teeming

With hosts, and red banners are streaming-
And lips white with pallor
Are crimson'd by valor,
And slaves fan the fire till it quickens!
Awake! for the last struggle thickens-
The beacons are lighted,

The battle-vows plighted,

And Russell, and Sydney, and Hampden, and Tell, And Warren, and Hale,

By mountain and vale,

With freedom's rude host like an avalanche swell; And martyr-blocks sodden

With blood-and turfs trodden

By iron-heel'd legions are borne

In the van-and red fetters torn

From the limbs of pale Women, are flung
To the flames of the forge, whence they sprung!

VI.

Awake! the mail'd despots are broken-
The voices of millions have spoken
In thunder, their fall!
And Liberty's shout has o'ertaken
The echo, and wildly are shaken
Both pillar and wall,

And valley, and cavern, and dell;
Each spot where a tyranny fell,

Or where crumbled a chain,
As a temple and fane,
Where gather the feet of the Free,
Of the Free, the Free! Such are ye!

TO THE MILLION.

I.

Why shall a million bow down to one man—
Or why shall one tread on the necks of a realm ?
The lash and the lance, or the rod and the ban,

Ye may rise if ye dare in an hour, and o'erwhelm ! And be free as the wind, or the cloud, or the wavesYe are fools, to kneel down and be silently slaves!

11.

Could they chain such as Tell? or dare even

To lift up the fetters he dashed to the earth

As well might they grasp at the sunlight of heaven,
As hope to enslave by the free spirit's hearth;
And who are ye, shrivel'd, and wasted, and torn,
Who bear not a Tell's heart, the tyrant to scorn!

III.

I own ye not brothers-if arms ye have got,
And beat them not strongly 'gainst tyranny's breast;
I own ye not fellows-who, kneeling, dare not

To hurl back the fetters by which ye are prest;
If ye have God's image, then prove ye are God's,
By crushing earth's sceptres, and breaking its rods!

IV.

Ye shriek in your bondage, and howl in your mines, Ye kiss the red hoof as it tramples you down; Sweat blood in the furrow for tyranny's shrines,

And lick the low dust at the beck of the crownI own ye not, bondsmen-who dare not to feel

Ye have might to crush tyrants, and shiver their steel!

SONG OF THE SLAVE.

I.

O, Liberty! I wait for thee
To break this chain and dungeon-bar
I hear thy spirit calling me,
Deep in the frozen north afar,

With voice like God's, and visage like a star!

II.

Long cradled by the mountain-wind,
Thy mate the eagle and the storm,
Arise! and from thy brow unbind
The wreath that gives it starry form,

And smite the strength that would thy strength deform!

III.

Yet, Liberty! thy dawning light,
Obscured by dungeon-bars, shall cast
A splendor on the breaking night,
And tyrants, flying pale and fast,
Shall tremble at thy gaze, and stand aghast!

TO SLAVES EVERYWHERE.

I.

Slaves of a vassal land,

Why do ye bow

Can ye not vow

And rise with battle brand,

And break the lash, that makes the red flesh quiver!
Nor cry from day to day, "O, Tyrant, do deliver!"

III.

Why do ye sit in chains,
Why plead-when ye,
May thus be free,

E'en as the wind! whose reins

Are in the hands of the storm-brewing sky,
Loose as the cloud that dances swiftly by.

IV.

Have ye not lips of fire
To pass the word?
Have ye not heard

That ye are men? and higher

Was never king than one of ye! whose strength
Shall clutch, and smite him from his throne at length.

V.

Call not on Hercules !

Lift at the wheel,

And he shall reel

Whom ye were wont to please,

By fawning like slimed reptiles at his feet!
Then, freedom's triumph shall be first complete!

VI.

Ireland, or other land

If they have heart
And soul, to start!

Need wear no more the band,

But with their millions, in the firm earth trample
All whips and chains, and warn by their example!

VII.

Rise, ye generations,

Who, to the rod

Debase the God

Of men, and nations!

Ye are the Earth's Omnipotent, all ye—
And may, or may not, as ye will, be free!

UP, BROTHERS, UP!

I.

Up, brothers, up! the light begins
Along the eastern sky,

To promise that the night is past,
And better days are nigh;

A clarion voice rings o'er the hills,
The valleys catch the sound-
And freedom is the stirring cry
That fills the world around!

II.

It pierces through the fading gloom,
Its strength the peasant feels-
And old oppression from its throne
With shame and terror reels;

All men lift up their hearts and hands,
More fearless and more free,

And loud ring out the common shout...
No more we'll bend the knee!

F

111.

From smithy-forge, from fisher's cot,
From ploughs that break the lea.
From iron looms, from smoking mines,
From ships that cleave the sea-
One voice unites, and mightier
Sweeps on, and ever on;

The tyrant's day, the vassal's work
Are gone, for ever gone!

IV.

Up, brothers, up! and share the light.
Rejoice, the day has come,

When freedom decks the lowest shrine,
And guards the poorest home;
Rejoice, and pledge with strengthening ties

The new-born heart and mind,

To keep the boon, and pass it on

To all of human kind.

V.

Rejoice that ye have broke at length
The thong and heavy chain,

Which neither age nor human strength
Can bind ye with again;

Rejoice, and swear ye will not bend

Nor give the guerdon back,

Though glistening steel disputes the way, And flame is on your track!

THE PEASANT KING.

I.

There is a man of prouder heart,

And nobler far I ween,

Than sceptred king or laurel'd chief,

Or warrior in his sheen!

Who would not give to prince or peer
The splendor of his name,

Though hosts ran shouting at his heels,
The heralds of his fame!

II.

See! yonder is his palace high!
His kingdom firm and wide;

His throne the cot, his sword the plough;

His realm the valley-side!

His only hosts, his flocks and herds,

And fields of nodding grain,

The subjects of his royal rule,

The lords of his domain !

III.

He wants no helms, nor iron hands,
Nor pomp of waving plumes;
Nor vassal knee, nor courtier tread,
Nor India's soft perfumes!