 
BY REV. JOHN PIERPONT. Souls of the patriot dead, On Bunker’s height who bled! The pile, that stands On your long-buried bones,— Those monumental stones,— Should not suppress the groans, This day demands. For Freedom there ye stood; There gave the earth your blood; There found your graves; That men of every clime, Faith, color, tongue, and time, Might, through your death sublime, Never be slaves. LIBERTY Over your bed, so low, Heard ye not, long ago, A voice of power Proclaim to earth and sea, That, where ye sleep, should be A home for Liberty, Till Time’s last hour? Hear ye the chains of slaves, Now clanking round your graves? Hear ye the sound Of that same voice, that calls From out our Senate halls, “Hunt down those fleeing thralls, With horse and hound!” That voice your sons hath swayed! ’Tis heard, and is obeyed! This gloomy day Tells you of ermine stained, Of Justice’ name profaned, Of a poor bondman, chained And borne away! Over Virginia’s Springs, Her eagles spread their wings, Her Blue Ridge towers:— That voice, Now asks,—“Who ever saw, Up there, a higher law Than this of ours?” Must we obey that voice? When God, or man’s the choice, Must we postpone Him, who from Sinai spoke? Must we wear slavery’s yoke? Bear of her lash the stroke, And prop her throne? Lashed with her hounds, must we Run down the poor, who flee From Slavery’s hell? Great God! when we do this, Exclude us from thy bliss; At us let angels hiss, From heaven that fell! Jn. Pierpont |
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