Is spreading o'er the earth,
And millions now point to the land
Where Freedom had her birth:
Hark! Hear ye not the earnest cry
That peals o'er every wave?
"God above,
In thy love,
O liberate the slave!"

Ye heard of trampled Poland,
And of her sons in chains,
And noble thoughts flashed through your minds
And fire flowed through your veins.
Then wherefore hear ye not the cry
That breaks o'er land and sea?--
"On each plain,
Rend the chain,
And set the captive free!"

Oh, think ye that our fathers,
(That noble patriot band,)
Could now look down with kindling joy,
And smile upon the land?
Or would a trumpet-tone go forth,
And ring from shore to shore;--
"All who stand,
In this land,
Shall be free for evermore!"

Great God, inspire thy children,
And make thy creatures just,
That every galling chain may fall,
And crumble into dust:
That not one soul throughout the land
Our fathers died to save,
May again,
By fellow-men,
Be branded as a Slave!

What Mean Ye?

TUNE--'_Ortonville_.'

What mean ye that ye bruise and bind
My people, saith the Lord,
And starve your craving brother's mind,
Who asks to hear my word?

What mean ye that ye make them toil;
Through long and dreary years,
And shed like rain upon your soil
Their blood and bitter tears?

What mean ye, that ye dare to rend
The tender mother's heart?
Brothers from sisters, friend from friend,
How dare you bid them part?

What mean ye when God's bounteous hand,
To you so much has given,
That from the slave who tills your land,
Ye keep both earth and heaven?

When at the judgment God shall call,
Where is thy brother? say,
What mean ye to the Judge of all
To answer on that day?

Hymn for Children.

AIR:--"_Miss Lucy Long_."

BY W.S. ABBOTT.

While we are happy here,
In joy and peace and love,
We'll raise our hearts, with holy fear,
To thee, great God, above.

God of our infant hours!
The music of our tongues,
The worship of our nobler powers,
To thee, to thee belongs.

The little, trembling slave
Shall feel our sympathy;
O God! arise with might to save,
And set the captive free.

No parent's holy care
Provides for him repose,
But oft the hot and briny tear,
In sorrow freely flows.

The God of Abraham praise;
The curse he will remove;
The slave shall welcome happy days,
With liberty and love.

Pray wit