Voice of New England.
Words by Whittier.
Music by G. W. C.
Up the hill side, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen;
Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low,
Like a night storm
Like the tread of unseen foe.
It is coming — it is nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by;
On your own free thresholds 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,
Downward through your generous soil,
Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Vines our rocks shall overgrow,
Plenty in our valleys flow; —
And when vengeance clouds your skies,
Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the damned on Paradise!
We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Freedom's strong and honest hand,
Valleys by the slave untrod,
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,
Blessed of our fathers' God!