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THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS
by Pierpont, John [1785-1866]

Souls of the patriot dead
On Bunker's height who bled!
The pile, that stands
On your long-buried bones—
Those monumental stones—
Should not suppress the groans
This day demands.
For Freedom there ye stood;
There gave the earth your blood;
There found your graves;
That men of every clime,
Faith, color, tongue, and time,
Might, through your death sublime,
Never be slaves.
Over your bed, so low,
Heard ye not, long ago,
A voice of power
Proclaim to earth and sea,
That where ye sleep should be
A home for Liberty
Till Time's last hour?
Hear ye the chains of slaves,
Now clanking round your graves?
Hear ye the sound
Of that same voice that calls
From out our Senate halls,
"Hunt down those fleeing thralls,
With horse and hound!"
That voice your sons hath swayed!
'Tis heard, and is obeyed!
This gloomy day
Tells you of ermine stained,
Of Justice's name profaned,
Of a poor bondman chained
And borne away!
[389]
Over Virginia's Springs,
Her eagles spread their wings,
Her Blue Ridge towers—
That voice—once heard with awe—
Now asks, "Who ever saw,
Up there, a higher law
Than this of ours?"
Must we obey that voice?
When God or man's the choice,
Must we postpone
Him, who from Sinai spoke?
Must we wear slavery's yoke?
Bear of her lash the stroke,
And prop her throne?
Lashed with her hounds, must we
Run down the poor who flee
From Slavery's hell?
Great God! when we do this
Exclude us from thy bliss;
At us let angels hiss
From heaven that fell!
John Pierpont.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg