The Liberty Minstrel Part 9

Words by Pierpont. Music from "Minstrel Boy," by G.W.C.

[Music]

Our Pilgrim Fathers--where are they?

The waves that brought them o'er, Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the sh.o.r.e; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the sh.o.r.e with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the gale When the heavens looked dark, is gone; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile--sainted name!

The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced when he came in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night, On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head; But the Pilgrim--where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest; When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day, On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim _spirit_ has not fled-- It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound sh.o.r.e, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.

Words by J.G. Whittier. Music by G.W.C.

[Music]

Is this the land our fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win?

Is this the soil whereon they moved?

Are these the graves they slumber in?

Are we the sons by whom are borne, The mantles which the dead have won?

And shall we crouch above these graves, With craven soul and fettered lip?

Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, And tremble at the driver's whip?

Bend to the earth our pliant knees, And speak--but as our masters please?

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel?

Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?

Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel-- The dungeon's gloom--th' a.s.sa.s.sin's blow, Turn back the spirit roused to save The Truth--our Country--and the Slave?

Of human skulls that shrine was made, Round which the priests of Mexico Before their loathsome idol prayed-- Is Freedom's altar fashioned so?

And must we yield to Freedom's G.o.d As offering meet, the negro's blood?

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought Which well might shame extremest h.e.l.l?

Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?

Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?

Shall Honor bleed?--Shall Truth succ.u.mb?

Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?

No--by each spot of haunted ground, Where Freedom weeps her children's fall-- By Plymouth's rock--and Bunker's mound-- By Griswold's stained and shattered wall-- By Warren's ghost--by Langdon's shade-- By all the memories of our dead!

By their enlarging souls, which burst The bands and fetters round them set-- By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed Within our inmost bosoms, yet,-- By all above--around--below-- Be ours the indignant answer--no!

No--guided by our country's laws, For truth, and right, and suffering man, Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause, As Christians may--as freemen can!

Still pouring on unwilling ears That truth oppression only fears.

TO THOSE I LOVE.

Words by Miss E.M. Chandler. Music from an old air by G.W.C.

[Music]

Oh, turn ye not displeased away, though I should sometimes seem Too much to press upon your ear, an oft repeated theme; The story of the negro's wrongs is heavy at my heart, And can I choose but wish from you a sympathizing part?

I turn to you to share my joy,--to soothe me in my grief-- In wayward sadness from your smiles, I seek a sweet relief: And shall I keep this burning wish to see the slave set free, Locked darkly in my secret heart, unshared and silently?

If I had been a friendless thing--if I had never known, How swell the fountains of the heart beneath affection's tone, I might have, careless, seen the leaf torn rudely from its stem, But clinging as I do to you, can I but feel for them?

I could not brook to list the sad sweet music of a bird, Though it were sweeter melody than ever ear hath heard, If cruel hands had quenched its light, that in the plaintive song, It might the breathing memory of other days prolong.

And can I give my lip to taste the life-bought luxuries, wrung From those on whom a darker night of anguish has been flung-- Or silently and selfishly enjoy my better lot, While those whom G.o.d hath bade me love, are wretched and forgot?

Oh no!--so blame me not, sweet friends, though I should sometimes seem Too much to press upon your ear an oft repeated theme; The story of the negro's wrongs hath won me from my rest,-- And I must strive to wake for him an interest in your breast!

WE'RE COMING! WE'RE COMING!

Air, "Kinloch of Kinloch."

[Music]

We're coming, we're coming, the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea!

True sons of brave sires who battled of yore, When England's proud lion ran wild on our sh.o.r.e!

We're coming, we're coming, from mountain and glen, With hearts to do battle for freedom again; Oppression is trembling as trembled before, The Slavery which fled from our fathers of yore.

We're coming, we're coming, with banners unfurled, Our motto is FREEDOM, our country the world; Our watchword is LIBERTY--tyrants beware!

For the liberty army will bring you despair!

We're coming, we're coming, we'll come from afar, Our standard we'll nail to humanity's car; With shoutings we'll raise it, in triumph to wave, A trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave.