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« THE ONE IDEA."

BY SARAH JANE CLARKE.

“ We hold these truths to be self evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

Our glorious one Idea !

From the source of life it came, And it shineth far and mounteth high,

An ever living flame.

Then let it burn! what mortal hand

Its fiery wing shall bind ? For it hath reached the moral wastes,

The prairies of the mind !

Our wives, our girls, of « One Idea !".

In each devoted mind
It dwells in beauty and in power,

Like a deity enshrined.
They are no slavish devotees,

Cloistered in gloom and night, Their life is like a morn in May,

Flowers, dew, and warm sunlight:
The flowers of good and modest deeds,

The dew of generous love,
The sunlight of that perfect peace

Which cometh from above.
They have that strong, brave, soaring hope

Which true-soul freedom brings, That earnest, searless, fervent faith,

In all good, blessed things!
That beautiful, impassioned love,

That worship of the truth,
That flings around their fleeting years,

Immortal bloom and youth.
So far beneath their lofty gaze

Rank's vain distinctions lie, They could stand before a crowned queen

And look her in the eye,

It sweepeth off the wild, rank growth

of prejudice and wrong, As, fanned by mighty viewless wings,

It rolls and leaps along !

Our men are men of « One Idea !"

Ah, thou must elsewhere turn For gloomy and unsocial churls,

Ascetics hard and stern

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MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA.

Written on reading an accouni of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, (Va.) in reference to Gerce I ATIYER, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro SOMERSET in England, in 1772.

EY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The blast from Freedom's northern hills, upon its Southern way,
Bears greeting to Virginia, from Massachusetts Bay:
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horseman’s stee).

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go-
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow;
And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far,
A thousand sails of Commerce swell, but none are spread for War.

We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high
Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky;
Yet, not one brown, hard hand forgoes its honest labor here;
No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear.

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank,
Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank;
Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the hearts which man
The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea.boats of Cape-Ann.

The cold North light, and wintry sun glare on their icy forms,
Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the storms;
Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they roam,
They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home.

What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot the day.
When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array ?
How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts men
Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis, then?

Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call
Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall ?
When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on each breath
Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of “ LIBERTY on Death!”

What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved
False to their father's memory-false to the faith they loved,
If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter spurn,
Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn ?

We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell--
Ollr voices, at your bidding, take up the blood-hounds' yell-
We gather, at your summons, above our father's graves,
From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves !

Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow,
The spirit of her early time is with her even now;
Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, and cool,
She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool !

All that a sister State should do, all that a free State may,
Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day;
But that one dark loathsome burden, ye must stagger with alone,
And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown!

Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's free air
With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild despair ;
Cling closer to the cleaving curse that writes upon your plains,
The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains.

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old,
By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold-
Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market value, when
The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den!

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian name;
Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of shame;
Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe-
We wash our hands forever, of your sin, and shame, and curse,

A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath been,
Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain men;
The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still
In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill.

And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey
Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of grey,
How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning spoke;
How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke!

A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on high,
A hundred thousand voices sent back their lond reply;
Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling summons rang,
And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics sprang,

The voice of free, broad Middlesex-of thousands as of one-
The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexington-
From Norfolk's ancient villages; from Plymouth's rocky bound
To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round;

From rich and rural Worcester, where through the calm repose
Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua flows,
To where Wachusett's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir,
Swelled up to heaven the thrilling cry of God save Latimer!'

And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray-
And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay!
Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the thrill,
And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from Holyoke Hill.

The voice of Massachusetts! Of her free sons and daughters-
Deep calling unto deep aloud—the sound of many waters !
Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power shall stand ?
No fetters in the Bay State! No slave upon her land!

Look to it well, Virginians! In calmness we have borne,
In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn;
You've spurned our kindest counsels—you've hunted for our lives-
And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and gyves !

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THE BRANDED HAND.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

In 1836, Capt. Jonathan Walker, a citizen of Massachusetts, removed wi his family to Florida, and in that territory resided till 1842, when he returned to his native State. During his residence at the South, he hired, but never owned slaves—and while they were in his employ, he treated them as our Northern farmers and mechanics are accustomed to treat their laborers-recognizing their rights as men, instead of regarding them as " chattels personal.While this course won the confidence and good will of the slaves, it was anything but agreeable to the slaveholders.

In pursuance of his lawful business, Captain Walker visited Pensacola, in the month of June, 1844. While there, seven men-the same, we understand, who had worked for him during his residence in Florida-applied to him for a passage 10 Nassau, where they might enjoy that Liberty which is the inalienable right of all. Captain Walker, in obedience to the great law of humanity, received them on board his vessel-a small, open boat--and proceeded along the coast, towards the destined haven. Exposed to the broiling sun, Capt. Walker was soon taken sick, and continued very ill for many days. On the 8th of July, when off Cape Florida, they were discovered by a wrecker, which took them all captive--as clear an act of piracy as was ever commitied upon the high seas. They were taken into Key West, where Capt. Walker was thrust into jail, loaded with double irons--thence he was conveyed in the hold of a United States vessel, to Pensacola, where he was examined before a magistrale and committed to prison in default of $10,000 bail. Though greatly emaciated, and in feeble health, he was thrust into a cell unsupplied with either chair, table, or bed, and was chained to the Noor. No physician was sent him, and no attention wbatever was paid to his enfeebled condition. Here he remained till the following November, when he was taken before the United States Court, tried and convicted upon four indictments, for aiding the escape of slaves, and sentenced to pay a fine of $150, stand in the pillory one hour, be branded with the letters S. S. (slave stealer) on the right hand, and suffer imprisonment fifteen days. The whole sentence was carried into execution—the branding, was done by binding his hand 10 a post, and applying a red hot iron to the palm, which left the letters an inch long and about an eighth of an inch deep. The branding was performed by a recreant yankee from Maine, whose name is Donn. Let it be embalmed in eternal infamy. Afier ihe fifteen days of imprisonmnet had expired, he was retained in consequence of inability to pay the fine and costs of court, amounting to something over $100. On the 6th of February last, while yet in prison, three more indictments were found against him for aiding slaves to escape. On the 9th of May he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to pay a fine of $5 on each offence. This was the smallest sum the law would allow, and Capt. Walker returned his thanks to the Jury for their leniency. On the 16th of June he was liberated by the assistance of friends, who paid ihe tine, and on the 10th of July last arrived in New York.”

Welcome home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful brow and gray,
And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day-
With that front of calm endurance, on whese steady nerve, in vain,
Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts of pain !

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal cravens aim
To make God's truth thy falsehood, His holiest work thy shame ?
When all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was withdrawn,
How laughed their evil angel the bafiled fools to scorn!

They change to wrong, the duty which God hath written out
On the great heart of Humanity too legible for doubt!
They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from foot-sole up to crown,
Give to shame what God hath given to honor and renown!

Why, that brand is highest honor!-than its traces never yet
Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon set ;
And thy unborn generations as they crowd our rocky strand,
Shall tell with pride the story of their father's BRANDED HAND!

As the Templar home was welcomed, bearing back from Syrian wars,
The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scimetars,
The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson span,
So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and man!

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For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swang,
From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery wrung,
And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God-deserted shrine,
Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the bondman's blood for wine -

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