To Plymouth Rock, ye breezes, bear These words from me, as I would dare, If I were free: Is not our God Our common Father?--from the sod He formed us all; then brothers--yes; We’re brothers all, though some oppress, And grind their equals in the dust. O Heaven! tell me, is this just? ’Tis fiendish. No! I will not go, And leave my children here in woe! God help me! Out, bright dagger! gleam, And find the coward’s heart, and stream With fiendish blood! This night, this night, Or I am free, or it shall smite The master and his slave, and we Will seek the heavenly liberty! There will my master’s bloody lash No longer lacerate * * * NOTE. The last line was, from some cause, incomplete; perhaps his feelings overcame him at the conception. I concluded to give it as it was. C. W. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.