There have long been bruised and peeled!

Am I not a sister, say?
Have I an immortal soul?
Will you, sisters, tell me nay?
Shall I live in lust's control,
To be chattled like a beast,
By the Christian church and priest?

Am I not a sister, say?
Though I have been made a slave?
Will you not then for me pray,
To the God whose power can save,
High and low, and bond and free?
Toil and pray and vote for me!

YE HERALDS OF FREEDOM.

Music by Kingsley.

[Music]

Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave,
Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave;
Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God,
And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.

The finger of slander may now at you point,
That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint;
And those who now plead for the rights of the slave,
Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.

Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers,
May now all oppose you, the victory is yours;
The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled,
And he will give freedom and peace to the world.

Go under his standard and fight by his side,
O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride.
His gracious protection will be to you given,
And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.

I would not live alway.

BY PIERPONT.

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay,
Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day:
Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord,
And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.

I would not live alway, where life is a load
To the flesh and the spirit:--since there's an abode
For the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my last
And repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!--

I would not live alway to toil as a slave:
Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave;
For there, from their troubling, the wicked shall
And, free from his master, the slave be at peace.

OUR PILGRIM FATHERS.

Words by Pierpont. Music from "Minstrel Boy," by G.W.C.

[Music]

Our Pilgrim Fathers--where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er,
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the Mayflower moored below;
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its wa