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Oh, no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains:
From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie—
From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,
And clear, cold sky;—
From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean
Gnaws with his surges—from the fisher's skiff,
With white sail swaying to the billows' motion
Round rock and cliff;—
From the free fire-side of her unbought farmer—
From her free laborer at his loom and wheel—
From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer,
Rings the red steel;—
From each and all, if God hath not forsaken
Our land, and left us to an evil choice,
Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken
A people's voice!
Startling and stern! the northern winds shall bear it
Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave;
And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it
Within her grave.
O, let that voice go forth! The bondman, sighing
By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane,
Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying,
Revive again.
