What! bend forsooth to southern rule? 
  What! cringe and crawl to souther’s clay,
And be the base, the supple tool,
  Of hell-begotten slavery?

No! never, while the free air plays
  O’er our rough hills and sunny fountains,
Shall proud New England’s sons be free,
  And clank their fetters round her mountains.

Go if ye will and grind in dust,
  Dark Afric’s poor, degraded child;
Wring from his sinews gold accursed,
  And boast your gospel warm and mild.

While on our mountain tops the pine
  In freedom her green branches wave,
Her sons shall never stoop to bind
  The galling shackle of the slave.

Ye dare demand with haughty tone,
  For us to pander to your shame,
To give our brother up alone,
  To feel the lash and wear the chain.

Our brother never shall go back,
  When once he presses our free shore;
Though souther’s power with hell to back,
  Comes thundering at our northern door.

No! rather be our starry land,
  Into a thousand fragments riven;
Upon our own free hills we’ll stand,
  And pour upon the breeze of heaven,
A curse so loud, so stern, so deep,
  Shall start ye in your guilty sleep.

OFT IN THE CHILLY NIGHT.

Oft in the chilly night,
  Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
When all her silvery light
  The moon is pouring round me,
Beneath its ray I kneel and pray
  That God would give some token
That slavery’s chains on Southern plains,
  Shall all ere long be broken;
Yes, in the chilly night,
  Though slavery’s chain has bound me,
Kneel I, and feel the might
  Of God’s right arm around me.

When at the driver’s call,
  In cold or sultry weather,
We slaves, both great and small,
  Turn out to toil together,
I feel like one from whom the sun
  Of hope has long departed;
And morning’s light, and weary night,
  Still find me broken hearted;
Thus, when the chilly breath
  Of night is sighing round me,
Kneel I, and wish that death
  In his cold chain had bound me.

ARE YE TRULY FREE?

AIR—­Martyn.

Men! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free;
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave? 
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Men unworthy to be freed,
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother’s pain?

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe God’s bounteous air,
If ye hear without a blush,
Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains;
Answer! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts forget
That we owe mankind a debt? 
No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And with hand and heart to be
Earnest to make others free.