And Oge standeth in his hall; But now he standeth not alone;-- A brother's there, and friends; and all Are kindred spirits with his own; For mind will join with kindred mind, As matter's with its like combined. They speak of wrongs they had received-- Of freemen, of their rights bereaved; And as they pondered o'er the thought Which in their minds so madly wrought, Their eyes gleamed as the lightning's flash, Their words seemed as the torrent's dash That falleth, with a low, deep sound, Into some dark abyss profound,-- A sullen sound that threatens more Than other torrents' louder roar. Ah! they had borne well as they might, Such wrongs as freemen ill can bear; And they had urged both day and night, In fitting words, a freeman's prayer; And when the heart is filled with grief, For wrongs of all true souls accurst, In action it must seek relief, Or else, o'ercharged, it can but burst. Why blame we them, if they oft spake Words that were fitted to awake The soul's high hopes--its noblest parts-- The slumbering passions of brave hearts, And send them as the simoom's breath, Upon a work of woe and death? And woman's voice is heard amid The accents of that warrior train; And when has woman's voice e'er bid, And man could from its hest refrain? Hers is the power o'er his soul That's never wielded by another, And she doth claim this soft control As sister, mistress, wife, or mother. So sweetly doth her soft voice float O'er hearts by guilt or anguish riven, It seemeth as a magic note Struck from earth's harps by hands of heaven. And there's the mother of Oge, Who with firm voice, and steady heart, And look unaltered, well can play The Spartan mother's hardy part; And send her sons to battle-fields, And bid them come in triumph home, Or stretched upon their bloody shields, Rather than bear the bondman's doom. "Go forth," she said, "to victory; Or else, go bravely forth to die! Go forth to fields where glory floats In every trumpet's cheering notes! Go forth, to where a freeman's death Glares in each cannon's fiery breath! Go forth and triumph o'er the foe; Or failing that, with pleasure go To molder on the battle-plain, Freed ever from the tyrant's chain! But if your hearts should craven prove, Forgetful of your zeal--your love For rights and franchises of men, My heart will break; but even then, Whilst bidding life and earth adieu, This be the prayer I'll breathe for you: 'Passing from guilt to misery, May this for aye your portion be,-- A life, dragged out beneath the rod-- An end, abhorred of man and God--