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!

THE BRANDED HAND.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

In 1836, Capt. Jonathan Walker, a citizen of Massachusetts, removed with 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 to 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 committed 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 magistrate 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 floor. No physician was sent him, and no attention whatever 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 to 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 DORR. Let it be embalmed in eternal infamy. After the 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 the fine, 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 whose 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 baffled 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!

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave,

Thou for His living presence in the bound and bleeding slave;

He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod,

Thou for the true SHECHINAH, the present home of God!

For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swung,
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

While the multitude in blindness to a far off SAVIOUR knelt;

And spurned, the while, the temple where a present SAVIOUR dwelt; Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison shadows dim, And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto HIM!

In thy lone and long night watches, sky above and wave below,
Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the babbling schoolmen know;
God's stars and silence taught thee as His angels only can,

That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope of heaven is MAN!

That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and creed,
In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy in his need;
But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain and rod,
And herds with lower natures the awful form of God!

Then lift that manly right hand, bold ploughman of the wave!
Its branded palm shall prophesy SALVATION TO THE SLAVE!'
Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads may feel
His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel.

Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our northern air-
Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God look there!
Take it henceforth for your standard-like the Bruce's heart of yore,
In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be seen before!

And the tyrants of the slave land shall tremble at that sign,
When it points i fingers southward along the Puritan line:

gorged leeches, and the church's locust band, When they look from slavery's ramparts on the coming of that HAND!