I am, sir, yours respectfully,

  J.W.C.  PENNINGTON.

LIBERTY’S CHAMPION.

BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S.

    On the wings of the wind he comes, he comes! 
      With the rolling billow’s speed;
    On his breast are the signs of peace and love,
    And his soul is nerved with strength from above: 
        While his eyes flash fire,
        He burns with desire
      To achieve the noble deed.

    To the shores of the free he goes, he goes! 
      And smiles as he passes on;
    He hears the glad notes of Liberty’s song,
    And bids the brave sons of freedom be strong. 
        While his heart bounds high
        To his crown in the sky,
      He triumphs o’er conquests won.

    To the homes of the slave he flies, he flies! 
      Where manacled mourners cry;
    The bursting groan of the mind’s o’erflow,
    Transfixed on the dark and speaking brow: 
        With a murmuring sound,
        Ascends from the ground,
    To the God that reigns on high.

    To his loved Father’s throne he hastes, he hastes! 
      And pours forth his soul in grief: 
    Uprising he finds his strength renewed,
    And his heart with fervent love is imbued;
        While the heaving sigh,
        And the deep-toned cry,
    Appeal for instant relief.

    To the hard oppressor he cries, he cries,
      And points to the bleeding slave;
    He tells of the rights of the human soul,
    And his eyes with full indignation roll: 
        While his heart is moved,
        And the truth is proved,
      He seeks the captive to save.

    Again to the foeman he speaks, he speaks,
      But utters his cry in vain;
    He breathes no curse, no vengeance seeks,—­
    For the broken hearts or the anguished shrieks,
        For the mother’s pains,
        Or the father’s gains,—­
      Upon the oppressor’s name.

    To nations of freemen once more he comes,
      To raise Liberty’s banner high;
    He tells of the wrongs of the bonded slave,
    And cries aloud, ’mid throngs of the brave,
        “O freemen, arise! 
        Be faithful and wise,
      And answer the mourner’s cry.

    In melting strains of love he calls, he calls,
      To the great and good from afar;
    Till sympathy wakes to the truthful tale,
    And the prayer of the faith, which cannot fail,
        Ascends to heaven,
        And grace is given,
      To nerve for the bloodless war.

    The truth with a magic power prevails: 
      All hearts are moved to the strife;
    In a holy phalanx, and with deathless aim,
      They seek a peaceful triumph to gain
        O’er the tyrant’s sway,
        In his onward way,
      To raise the fallen to life.