Flight of the bondman. 
Dedicated to William W. Brown
And Sung by the Hutchinsons

By Elias Smith.

Air—­Silver Moon.

From the crack of the rifle and baying of hound,
  Takes the poor panting bondman his flight;
His couch through the day is the cold damp ground,
  But northward he runs through the night.

Chorus. 
O, God speed the flight of the desolate slave,
  Let his heart never yield to despair;
There is room ’mong our hills for the true and the brave,
  Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!

O, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light,
  Streaming far o’er the dark swelling wave;
But sweeter by far ’mong the lights of the night,
  Is the star of the north to the slave. 
O, God speed, &c.

Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds,
  But warm as the soft southern gales
Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds,
  ’Mong our hills and our own winter vales. 
O, God speed, &c.

Then list to the ’plaint of the heart-broken thrall,
  Ye blood-hounds, go back to your lair;
May a free northern soil soon give freedom to all,
  Who shall breathe in its pure mountain air. 
O, God speed, &c.

THE SWEETS OF LIBERTY.

Air—­Is there a heart, &c.

Is there a man that never sighed
  To set the prisoner free? 
Is there a man that never prized
  The sweets of liberty? 
Then let him, let him breathe unseen,
  Or in a dungeon live;
Nor never, never know the sweets
  That liberty can give.

Is there a heart so cold in man,
  Can galling fetters crave? 
Is there a wretch so truly low,
  Can stoop to be a slave? 
O, let him, then, in chains be bound,
  In chains and bondage live;
Nor never, never know the sweets
  That liberty can give.

Is there a breast so chilled in life,
  Can nurse the coward’s sigh? 
Is there a creature so debased,
  Would not for freedom die? 
O, let him then be doomed to crawl
Where only reptiles live;
  Nor never, never know the sweets
That liberty can give.

YE SPIRITS OF THE FREE.

Air—­My Faith looks up to thee.

Ye spirits of the free,
Can ye forever see
  Your brother man
A yoked and scourged slave,
Chains dragging to his grave,
And raise no hand to save? 
  Say if you can.

In pride and pomp to roll,
Shall tyrants from the soul
  God’s image tear,
And call the wreck their own,—­
While, from the eternal throne,
They shut the stifled groan
  And bitter prayer?

Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crowned
  Creation’s lord? 
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of shame,
Profess their tyrant claim
  From God’s own word?