Page:Poems Whitney.djvu/171

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the fugitive-slave-bill.
165
Our rivers, from their mountain springs,
Deepen and broaden to the sea;
And ever as they stream along;
Warble their noble mountain song
To meadow lily and tulip tree.

Forget your native hymn alas!
And be to earth's warm breast as dead—
Or breathe one breath of Freedom's morn,
One blast upon her mountain horn,
And let men know where you were born and bred!

No narrow policy—O no—
East, west, north, south alone to suit!
No chartered wrong—no "fixed fact" lie—
No mean to-day's expediency—
Seed of to-morrow's bitter fruit!

O not beneath God's light, forego
Your birthright in our dear-bought land!