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FREMONTS BATTLE-HYMN. 145
The hounds of oppression were howling the knell Of martyrs and prophets, at gibbet and cell; While Mercy despaired of the blossoming years, When her harp-strings no more should be rusted
with tears. But God never ceases to strike for the Right; And the ring of His anvil came down through the
night, Though the world was asleep, and the nations
seemed dead, And Truth into bondage by Error was led.
Will the banners of morn at your bidding be
furled, When the day-king arises to quicken the world ? Can ye cool the fierce fires of his heat-throbbing
breast, Or turn him aside from his goal in the West ? Ah! sons of the plains where the orange-tree
blooms, Ye may come to our pine-covered mountains for
tombs; But the light ye would smother was kindled by One Who gave to the universe planet and sun.
Go, strangle the throat of Niagara's wrath, Till he utters no sound on his torrent-cut path ; 10 |
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