The Slain at Baltimore!
E. L. Mitchell, Printer, 24 Congress St., Boston.
The Slain at Baltimore!
There’s sorrow and there’s weeping by mountain,vale and shore,
For Freedom’s new-slain martyrs,—the Dead at Baltimore!
There’s a swelling cry for vengeance on those counterfeits of men.
Who haunt that hold of pirates,—that foul assassin’s den.
And the hosts of truth are rising. From the giant woods of Maine
Come stalwart forms that fell her pines, ’mid winter’s snow and rain;
From Hampshire, whose bare mountains as Freedom’s altars swell.
Our Switzerland sends men as bold as Winkelried and Tell.
And from the fair Green Mountain State come sons of those whose mark,
Once taught the foes of liberty to dread the name of Stark;
While first our Bay State soldiers swarm from workshop, store and mill.
As first they stood at Lexington, and first at Bunker Hill.
And brave Rhode Island, small but smart, sends warriors with her Sprague.
Whose coming foes shall learn to dread, as cities dread the plague;
And teachers of Connecticut their schools a while dismiss,
To teach their foes a knowledge, whose “ignorance is bliss.”
And lo! the Empire State is roused, from inland line to coast,
And from her thousand villages starts up an armed host;
While her Imperial City, through all its circles stirred,
Is as a trumpet, through whose depths a nation’s voice is heard.
And still, as in the days of old, New Jersey has her men,
And the hosts of war are swarming in the peaceful State of Penn;
And the solemn sound is rising, fast rising to a roar,
Like the voice of many waters,—“the slain at Baltimore!”
Hark! on the morning breezes comes a low and threatening sound;
The mighty West is rising, and their marching shakes the ground;
As a countless herd of bisons o’er the level prairies rush,
Comes this eager host of warriors, to trample and to crush.
They have felt the Southron’s insults, they have borne his bitter taunts,
They have listened without answer to his weak and childish vaunts;
Till the Nation’s flag was trampled on, they patiently forebore;
But now they strike for Freedom—and the slain at Baltimore!
To a man the North has risen, and the Southrons shall be taught.
The weakness of their idol-god, their Baal, their Juggernaut.
On his car they sit at leisure, and would have our freemen strip,
And drag it to the cracking of an overseer’s whip.
They scorn our Northern workman, and his handicraft deride;
For their only skill is insolence, their capital is pride.
And what is old Virginia with her boast of ancient stock,
But a beggar, by young children fed, from off the auction block?
And South Carolina chivalry is but a standing jest,
Her bravery, the rope, the chain, the pistol at the breast.
The other rebel States, more base, are reckless all of life,
For duels there are argument, the readiest word, a knife.
Then up and at them, freemen! the sword of justice draw!
And teach to all the lawless, the dignity of law;
Bid them learn that ’tis the peaceful who in war are truly great,
And that every rebel leader shall meet a traitor’s fate.
And when the sound of conflict in speedy peace is hushed;
When the rebel ranks are scattered and their dark ambition crushed;
When the Union stands untarnished, as it stood in days of yore;
In our triumph we’ll remember, the slain at Baltimore!