Once I wished I might rehearse Freedom's paean in my verse, That the slave who caught the strain Should throb until he snapped his chain, But the Spirit said, 'Not so; Speak it not, or speak it low; Name not lightly to be said, Gift too precious to be prayed, Passion not to be expressed But by heaving of the breast: Yet,--wouldst thou the mountain find Where this deity is shrined, Who gives to seas and sunset skies Their unspent beauty of surprise, And, when it lists him, waken can Brute or savage into man; Or, if in thy heart he shine, Blends the starry fates with thine, Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee, And makes thy thoughts archangels be; Freedom's secret wilt thou know?-- Counsel not with flesh and blood; Loiter not for cloak or food; Right thou feelest, rush to do.' ODE SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, JULY 4, 1857 O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire; One morn is in the mighty heaven, And one in our desire. The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses beat not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children's voices bless. For He that flung the broad blue fold O'er-mantling land and sea, One third part of the sky unrolled For the banner of the free. The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,-- To take the statute from the mind And make of duty fate. United States! the ages plead,-- Present and Past in under-song,-- Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue. For sea and land don't understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down. Be just at home; then write your scroll Of honor o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll, A ferry of the free. And henceforth there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of liberty. The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go. For He that worketh high and wise. Nor pauses in his plan, Will take the sun out of the skies Ere freedom out of man. BOSTON HYMN READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863 The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor. 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 Which dip their foot in the seas And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds and the boreal fleece.