The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,— To take the statute from the mind, And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,—  Present and Past in under-song,— Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don’t understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll Of honour o’er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll, A ferry of the free.

And, henceforth, there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of LIBERTY.

The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go.

For He that worketh high and wise, Nor pauses in his plan, Will take the sun out of the skies Ere freedom out of man.

BOSTON HYMN.

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863.

The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, his name is Freedom,— Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west, And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave: None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble, No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest, And trim 

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