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Boston Hymn - The Atlantic

  The word of the Lord by night
  To the watching Pilgrims came,
  As they sat by the sea-side,
  And filled their hearts with flame.

  God said,—I am tired of kings,
  I suffer them no more;
  Up to my ear the morning brings
  The outrage of the poor.

  Think ye I made this ball
  A field of havoc and war,
  Where tyrants great and tyrants small
  Might harry the weak and poor?

  My angel,—his name is Freedom,
  Choose him to be your king;
  He shall cut pathways east and west,
  And fend you with his wing.

  Lo! I uncover the land
  Which I hid of old time in the West,
  As the sculptor uncovers his statue,
  When he has wrought his best.

  I show Columbia, of the rocks
  Which dip their foot in the seas
  And soar to the air-borne flocks
  Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

  I will divide my goods,
  Call in the wretch and slave:
  None shall rule but the humble,
  And none but Toil shall have.

  I will have never a noble,
  No lineage counted great:
  Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
  Shall constitute a State.

  Go, cut down trees in the forest,
  And trim the straightest boughs;
  Cut down trees in the forest,
  And build me a wooden house.

  Call the people together,
  The young men and the sires,
  The digger in the harvest-field,
  Hireling, and him that hires.

  And here in a pine state-house
  They shall choose men to rule
  In every needful faculty,
  In church, and state, and school.

  Lo, now! if these poor men
  Can govern the land and sea,
  And make just laws below the sun,
  As planets faithful be.

  And ye shall succor men;
  'T is nobleness to serve;
  Help them who cannot help again;
  Beware from right to swerve.

  I break your bonds and masterships,
  And I unchain the slave:
  Free be his heart and hand henceforth,
  As wind and wandering wave.

  I cause from every creature
  His proper good to flow:
  So much as he is and doeth,
  So much he shall bestow.

  But, laying his hands on another
  To coin his labor and sweat,
  He goes in pawn to his victim
  For eternal years in debt.

  Pay ransom to the owner,
  And fill the bag to the brim.
  Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
  And ever was. Pay him.

  O North! give him beauty for rags,
  And honor, O South! for his shame;
  Nevada! coin thy golden crags
  With Freedom's image and name.

  Up! and the dusky race
  That sat in darkness long,—
  Be swift their feet as antelopes,
  And as behemoth strong.

  Come, East, and West, and North,
  By races, as snow-flakes,
  And carry my purpose forth,
  Which neither halts nor shakes.

  My will fulfilled shall be,
  For, in daylight or in dark,
  My thunderbolt has eyes to see
  His way home to the mark.