Pale Freedom in her 'leaguered camp,
Her forehead with its blood-sweat damp,
Sits by the willows drooping low,
Beside the Kansas' mournful flow,
A childless Mother in distress,
A Widow in the wilderness.
Her children fled, or by her side,
In the young bloom of strength and pride,
Fell, bleeding for her sake, and died.
Smote down by ruffians foul with grime —
The eraseless blot of every crime.
All round her, over plain and dell,
Roars the red fire of Slavery's hell,
One lurid blast whose volumed swell
Has mown her golden harvest down,
Devoured the homes of Lawrence town,
And swept the cherished rights of Man
Into black ashes where it ran.
Missouri's dregs of villain blood,
The old Palmetto's traitor-brood,
And Georgia's ruffians; with the scum
Of all their Southern Scoundreldom —
Sped on by Northern slaves, and knaves,
Who have defiled their Fathers' graves,
And cast the taint of bestial shame
On their dead Mothers' sacred name —
More foul than even the "ravening" Sire
Of their dark spirits, could desire —
Devour that goodly land like fire,
And blacken deeper the dark page
That bears the crime-blots of this age,
By deeds whose meanness would debase
The horse-thief Pawnee in his chase,
And whose sheer horror, to behold,
Might turn the prairie Wolf's blood cold.
While Freedom's sons, whose blithe advance
Gave life to all that broad expanse,
Who planted in the virgin soil
A glorious Future, by their toil—
Are ringed and scorched by that red hell —
Where waits the Leader, born to quell
Its burning march, and trample out
The fell flame — charging with a shout?
Not where the great Dome lends her flag
To swathe the whelps of Slavery's hag,
And cowards sneak with bludgeoned hand
To smite the purest of our land;
Not where the White House — once a home
For laureled Honor — has become
A den of thieves from law exempt,
The vortex of a world’s contempt.
Not in the coffle ranks of those
Who count Oppression's foes their foes,
Whose leader's old gray head has on
No wreath, from grateful Freedom won;
Nor in that small and chosen fold,
To alien-hate and Slavery sold,
Whose moral wisdom, faint and dim,
Stands sponsor, as their patronym.
No! But the South, whose poisoned lees,
And bitter scum, flow off with these,
Has left for us the pure red wine
Of her best blood of "old lang syne" —
FREMONT! the Leader— born to quell
The insurgent fires of Slavery's hell.
He comes ! thank God, we wait no more!
"Hurrah!" the wide air feels the roar
Of that loud cheer which millions pour,
Who mingle in the fiery charge
Across the Prairie's burning marge,
To trample out the invading flame,
Or backward scourge it whence it came —
To wipe the forehead, torture-damp,
Of Freedom, in her rescued camp.
Replant upon the blackened sod
Her golden seeds, for Man and God,
And rear again her fruitful vine
Broad bowered where millions might recline,
And the great Future, glad and free,
Shall celebrate her jubilee.
Prairie Camp, The
