Behold the sea-brine leaping High in the murky air; List to the tempest sweeping In chainless fury there. What moves the mighty torrent, And bids it flow abroad? Or turns the rapid current? What, but the voice of God? Then, answer, is the spirit Less noble or less free? From whom does it inherit The doom of slavery? When man can bind the waters, That they no longer roll, Then let him forge the fetters To clog the human soul. Till then a voice is stealing From earth and sea and sky, And to the soul revealing Its immortality. The swift wind chants the numbers Careering o’er the sea, And earth, aroused from slumbers, Re-echoes, “Man be free.” THE FUGITIVE SLAVE TO THE CHRISTIAN. The fetters galled my weary soul-- A soul that seemed but thrown away; I spurned the tyrant’s base control, Resolved at last the man to play:-- The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back? I felt the stripes, the lash I saw, Red, dripping with a father’s gore; And worst of all their lawless law, The insults that my mother bore! The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back? Where human law o’errules Divine, Beneath the sheriff’s hammer fell My wife and babes,--I call them mine,-- And where they suffer, who can tell? The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back? I seek a home where man is man, If such there be upon this earth, To draw my kindred, if I can, Around its free, though humble hearth. The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back? RESCUE THE SLAVE. AIR--The Troubadour. This song was composed while George Latimer, the fugitive slave, was confined in Leverett Street Jail, Boston, expecting to be carried back to Virginia by James B. Gray, his claimant. Sadly the fugitive weeps in his cell, Listen awhile to the story we tell; Listen ye gentle ones, listen ye brave, Lady fair! Lady fair! weep for the slave. Praying for liberty, dearer than life, Torn from his little one, torn from his wife, Flying from slavery, hear him and save, Christian men! Christian men! help the poor slave. Think of his agony, feel for his pain, Should his hard master e’er hold him again; Spirit of liberty, rise from your grave, Make him free, make him free, rescue the slave. Freely the slave-master goes where he will; Freemen, stand ready, his wish to fulfil, Helping the tyrant, or honest or knave, Thinking not, caring not, for the poor slave. Talk not of liberty, liberty’s dead; See the slave-master’s whip over our head; Stooping beneath it, we ask what he craves, Boston, boys! Boston boys! catch me my slaves.