DEDICATED TO WILLIAM W. BROWN,
And sung by the Hutchinsons.
BY ELIAS SMITH.
FROM the crack of the rifle and baying of hound,
Takes the poor panting bondman his flight;
His couch through the day is the cold damp ground,
But northward he runs through the night.
O, God speed the night of the desolate slave,
Let his heart never yield to despair;
There is room ’mong our hills for the true and the brave,
Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!
O sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light,
Streaming far o’er the dark swelling wave:
But sweeter by far ’mong the lights of the night,
Is the star of the north to the slave.
Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds,
But warm as the soft southern gales
Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds,
’Mong our hills and our own winter vales.
Then list to the ’plaint of the heart-broken thrall,