There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; The pen shall supersede the sword, And right not might shall be the lord, In the good time coming. Worth, not birth shall rule mankind, And be acknowledged stronger, The proper impulse has been given, Wait a longer. O, there’s a good time, &c. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; Hateful rivalries of creed, Shall not make their martyrs bleed, In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride, And flourish all the stronger; And Charity shall trim her lamp, Wait a little longer. O, there’s a good time, &c. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; War in all men’s eyes shall be A monster of iniquity, In the good time coming. Nations shall not quarrel then, To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake, Wait a little longer. O, there’s a good time, &c. THE BIGOT FIRE. Written on the occasion of George Latimer’s imprisonment in Leverett street Jail, Boston. O kindle not that bigot fire, ’Twill bring disunion, fear and pain; ’Twill rouse at last the souther’s ire, And burst our starry land in twain. Theirs is the high, the noble worth, The very soul of chivalry; Rend not our blood-bought land apart, For such a thing as slavery. This is the language of the North, I shame to say it, but ’tis true; And anti-slavery calls it forth, From some proud priests and laymen too. 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.