from Heaven!

Myron Holley.

BY W.H. BURLEIGH.

Yes--fame is his:--but not the fame
For which the conqueror pants and strives,
Whose path is tracked through blood and flame,
And over countless human lives!
His name no armed battalions hail
With bugle shriek or thundering gun,--
No widows curse him, as they wail
For slaughtered husband and for son.

Amid the moral strife alone,
He battled fearlessly and long,
And poured, with clear, untrembling tone,
Rebuke upon the hosts of Wrong--
To break Oppression's cruel rod,
He dared the perils of the fight,
And in the name of FREEDOM'S GOD
Struck boldly for the TRUE and RIGHT!

With faith, whose eye was never dim,
The triumph, yet afar, he saw,
When, bonds smote off from soul and limb,
And freed alike by Love and Law,
The slave--no more a slave--shall stand
Erect--and loud, from sea to sea,
Exultant burst o'er all the land
The glorious song of jubilee!

Why should we mourn, thy labor done,
That thou art called to thy reward;
Rest, Freedom's war-worn champion!
Rest, faithful soldier of the LORD!
For oh, not vainly hast thou striven,
Through storm, and gloom, and deepest night--
Not vainly hath thy life been given
For GOD, for FREEDOM, and for RIGHT.

VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND AGAINST SLAVERY.

Words by Whittier. Music by G.W.C.

[Music]

Up the hill side, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen;
Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low,
Like a nightstorm rising slow,
Like the tread of unseen foe.

It is coming--it is nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by;
On your own free threshholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires;
On the gray hills of your sires
Fling to heaven your signal fires.

Whoso shrinks or falters now,
Whoso to the yoke would bow,
Brand the craven on his brow.
Freedom's soil hath only place
For a free and fearless race--
None for traitors false and base.

Take your land of sun and bloom;
Only leave to Freedom room
For her plough, and forge, and loom.
Take your slavery-blackened vales;
Leave us but our own free gales,
Blowing on our thousand sails.

Onward with your fell design;
Dig the gulf and draw the line;
Fire beneath your feet the mine:
Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.

By the hearth, and in the bed,
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.
And the curse of unpaid toil,
Downwa