The Liberty Minstrel Part 25

'Twas night. The floods were out, it blew A winter hurricane aloof: I heard his voice abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof; I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, I laid him on my couch to rest: Then made the ground my bed and seemed In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

I saw him bleeding in his chains, And tortured 'neath the driver's lash, His sweat fell fast along the plains, Deep dyed from many a fearful gash: But I in bonds remembered him, And strove to free each fettered limb, As with my tears I washed his blood, Me he baptized with mercy's flood.

I saw him in the negro pew, His head hung low upon his breast, His locks were wet with drops of dew, Gathered while he for entrance pressed Within those aisles, whose courts are given That black and white may reach one heaven; And as I meekly sought his feet, He smiled, and made a throne my seat.

In prison I saw him next condemned To meet a traitor's doom at morn; The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, And honored him midst shame and scorn.

My friendship's utmost zeal to try, He asked if I for him would die; The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, But the free spirit cried, "I will."

Then in a moment to my view, The stranger darted from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew, My Saviour stood before my eyes!

He spoke, and my poor name he named-- "Of me thou hast not been ashamed, These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto me."

WE'RE FOR FREEDOM THROUGH THE LAND.

Words by J.E. Robinson. Music arranged from the "Old Granite State."

[Music]

We are coming, we are coming! freedom's battle is begun!

No hand shall furl her banner ere her victory be won!

Our shields are locked for liberty, and mercy goes before: Tyrants tremble in your citadel! oppression shall be o'er.

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land.

We have hatred, dark and deep, for the fetter and the thong; We bring light for prisoned spirits, for the captive's wail a song; We are coming, we are coming! and, "No league with tyrant man,"

Is emblazoned on our banner, while Jehovah leads the van!

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land!

We are coming, we are coming! but we wield no battle brand: We are armed with truth and justice, with G.o.d's charter in our hand, And our voice which swells for freedom--freedom now and ever more-- Shall be heard as ocean's thunder, when they burst upon the sh.o.r.e!

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land.

Be patient, O, be patient! ye suffering ones of earth!

Denied a glorious heritage--our common right by birth; With fettered limbs and spirits, your battle shall be won!

O be patient--we are coming! suffer on, suffer on!

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land.

We are coming, we are coming! not as comes the tempest's wrath, When the frown of desolation sits brooding o'er its path; But with mercy, such as leaves his holy signet-light upon The air in lambent beauty, when the darkened storm is gone.

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land.

O, be patient in your misery! be mute in your despair!

While your chains are grinding deeper, there's a voice upon the air!

Ye shall feel its potent echoes, ye shall hear its lovely sound, We are coming! we are coming! bringing freedom to the bound!

We will vote for Birney, We will vote for Birney, We're for Morris and for Birney, And for Freedom through the land.

NOTE.--Suggested by a song sung by George W. Clark, at a recent convention in Rochester, N.Y.

WE ARE ALL CHILDREN OF ONE PARENT.

Words from the Youth's Cabinet. Music by L. Mason.

[Music]

Sister, thou art worn and weary, Toiling for another's gain; Life with thee is dark and dreary, Filled with wretchedness and pain, Thou must rise at dawn of light, And thy daily task pursue, Till the darkness of the night Hide thy labors from thy view.

Oft, alas! thou hast to bear Sufferings more than tongue can tell; Thy oppressor will not spare, But delights thy griefs to swell; Oft thy back the scourge has felt, Then to G.o.d thou'st raised the cry That the tyrant's heart he'd melt Ere thou should'st in tortures die.

Injured sister, well we know That thy lot in life is hard; Sad thy state of toil and wo, From all blessedness debarred; While each sympathizing heart Pities thy forlorn distress; We would sweet relief impart, And delight thy soul to bless.

And what lies within our power We most cheerfully will do, That will haste the blissful hour Fraught with news of joy to you; And when comes the happy day That shall free our captive friend, When Jehovah's mighty sway Shall to slavery put an end:

Then, dear sister, we with thee Will to heaven direct our voice; Joyfully with voices free We'll in lofty strains rejoice; Gracious G.o.d! thy name we'll bless, Hallelujah evermore, Thou hast heard in righteousness, And our sister's griefs are o'er.

Manhood.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Tune, "Our Warrior's Hearts," page 128.

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that; The coward-slave, we pa.s.s him by, We dare be poor, for a' that; For a' that and a' that; Our toils obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd, for a' that.

What though on homely fare we dine, Wear hodden gray and a' that, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that; The honest man tho' e'er so poor, Is king o' men for a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will, for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the world all o'er Shall brothers be, for a' that.

Terms explained:-- _Gowd_--gold.

_Hodden_--homespun, or mean.

_Gree_--honor, or victory.

The Poor Voter's Song.

Air, "Lucy Long."

They knew that I was poor, And they thought that I was base; They thought that I'd endure To be covered with disgrace; They thought me of their tribe, Who on filthy lucre doat, So they offered me a bribe For my vote, boys! my vote!

O shame upon my betters, Who would my conscience buy!