BOSTON HYMN READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863 THE word of the Lord by night And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, Up to my ear the morning brings Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor? My angel, his name is Freedom,Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing. Lo! I uncover the land Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best; I show Columbia, of the rocks I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave: I will have never a noble, Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state. Go, cut down trees in the forest Cut down trees in the forest And build me a wooden house. Call the people together, The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling and him that hires; And here in a pine state-house In church and state and school. Lo, now! if these poor men And make just laws below the sun, 'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again : I break your bonds and masterships, And I unchain the slave: Free be his heart and hand henceforth As wind and wandering wave. I cause from every creature But, laying hands on another To-day unbind the captive, Pay ransom to the owner And fill the bag to the brim.' Who is the owner? The slave is owner, And ever was. Pay him. O North! give him beauty for rags, With Freedom's image and name. Up! and the dusky race That sat in darkness long, Be swift their feet as antelopes, Come, East and West and North, By races, as snow-flakes, And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes. My will fulfilled shall be, VOLUNTARIES I Low and mournful be the strain, - What his fault, or what his crime? Or what ill planet crossed his prime? Heart too soft and will too weak To front the fate that crouches near, Dove beneath the vulture's beak; Will song dissuade the thirsty spear ? Dragged from his mother's arms and breast, Displaced, disfurnished here, His wistful toil to do his best Chilled by a ribald jeer. |