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Could check the free spring-tide of Mind, that re

sounds,

Even now, at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.

But, no, 'tis in vain-the grand impulse is givenMan knows his high Charter, and knowing will

claim;

And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs, who have forg'd them, the guilt and the shame.

"If the slave will be silent!"-vain Soldier, be

ware

There is a dead silence the wrong'd may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair, But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom ;

When the blush, that long burn'd on the suppliant's cheek,

Gives place to the' avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue, that once threaten'd, disdaining to

speak,

Consigns to the arm the high office—to do.

If men, in that silence, should think of the hour,
When proudly their fathers in panoply stood,
Presenting, alike, a bold front-work of power

To the despot on land and the foe on the flood: :

That hour, when a Voice had come forth from the west,

To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant

alarms;

And a lesson, long look'd for, was taught the op

prest,

That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!

If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall

That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's

sweet day

At length seem'd to break through a long night of thrall,

And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray ;—

If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good, Though swiftly its light died away from his

Though darkly it set in a nation's best blood,
Now wants but invoking to shine out again;

If-if, I say-breathings like these should come

o'er

The chords of remembrance, and thrill, as they

come,

Then, perhaps—ay, perhaps—but I dare not say

more;

Thou hast will'd that thy slaves should be mute

I am dumb.

WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD.

Air." Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear."

[blocks in formation]

WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year
Your quills will bring at last.

One letter more, N-wc-stle, pen,

To match Lord K-ny-n's two,

And more than Ireland's host of men,

One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, &c.

Sure, never, since the precious use

Of pen and ink began,

Did letters, writ by fools, produce

Such signal good to man.

While intellect, 'mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,

Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, &c.

Ev'n now I feel the coming light-
Ev'n now, could Folly lure

My Lord M-ntc-sh-l, too, to write,
Emancipation's sure.

By geese (we read in history),

Old Rome was sav'd from ill;

And now, to quills of geese, we see

Old Rome indebted still.

Write on, write on, &c.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,

Nor beat for sense about

Things, little worth a Noble's while,

You're better far without.

Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done;

For, write but four such letters more,

And Freedom's cause is won!

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