The Liberty Minstrel Part 15

Oh! Charity!

Oh charity! thou heavenly grace, All tender, soft, and kind, A friend to all the human race, To all that's good inclined.

The man of charity extends To all his helping hand; His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends, His pity may command.

The sick, the prisoner, deaf, and blind, And all the sons of grief, In him a benefactor find; He loves to give relief.

'Tis love that makes religion sweet 'Tis love that makes us rise; With willing minds, and ardent feet, To yonder happy skies.

THE MERCY SEAT.

Words by Mrs. Sigourney. Music by G.W.C.

[Music]

From every stormy wind that blows, From every swelling tide of woes, There is a calm, a sure retreat-- Our refuge is the Mercy-seat.

There is a place where Jesus sheds The oil of gladness on our heads, A place than all beside more sweet-- We seek the blood-bought Mercy-seat.

There is a spot where spirits blend, Where friend holds fellows.h.i.+p with friend; Though sundered far, by faith we meet, Around one common Mercy-Seat.

Ah! whither could we flee for aid, When hunted, scourged, oppressed, dismayed,-- Or how our b.l.o.o.d.y foes defeat, Had suffering slaves no Mercy-Seat!

Oh! let these hands forget their skill, These tongues be silent, cold, and still, These throbbing hearts forget to beat, If we forget the Mercy-Seat.

Friend of the Friendless.

G.o.d of my life! to thee I call, Afflicted at thy feet I fall; When the great water-floods prevail, Leave not my trembling heart to fail.

Friend of the friendless and the faint!

Where should I lodge my deep complaint?

Where but with thee, whose open door Invites the helpless and the poor?

Did ever mourner plead with thee, And thou refuse that mourner's plea?

Does not thy word still fixed remain, That none shall seek thy face in vain?

Poor though I am, despised, forgot, Yet G.o.d, my G.o.d forgets me not; And he is safe, he must succeed, For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.

WAKE YE NUMBERS!

Words by Lewis. Air, "Strike the Cymbals."

[Music]

Wake ye numbers! from your slumbers Hear the song of freedom pour!

By its shaking, fiercely breaking, Every chain upon our sh.o.r.e.

Flags are waving, all tyrants braving, Proudly, freely, o'er our plains; Let no minions check our pinions, While a single grief remains.

Proud oblations, thou Queen of nations!

Have been poured upon they waters; Afric's bleeding sons and daughters, Now before us, loud implore us, Looking to Jehovah's throne, Chains are wearing, hearts despairing, Will ye hear a nation's moan?

Soothe their sorrow, ere the morrow Change their aching hearts to stone: Then the light of nature's smile Freedom's realm shall bless the while; And the pleasure mercy brings Flow from all her latent springs; Delight shall spread, shall spread her s.h.i.+ning wings, Rejoicing, Rejoicing, Rejoicing.

Daily, nightly, burning brightly, Glory's pillar fills the air; Hearts are waking, chains are breaking, Freedom bids her sons prepare: O'er the ocean, in proud devotion, Incense rises to the skies; From our mountains, o'er our fountains, See, our Eagle proudly flies!

What deploring impedes his soaring?

Millions still in bondage sighing!

Long in deep oppression lying!

Shall their story mar our glory?

Must their life in sorrow flow?

Tears are falling! fetters galling!

Listen to the cry of woe!

Still oppressing! never blessing!

Shall their grief no ending know?

Yes! our nation yet shall feel; Time shall break the chain of steel; Then the slave shall n.o.bly stand; Peace shall smile with l.u.s.tre bland; Glory shall crown our happy land-- Forever.

COMFORT FOR THE BONDMAN.

Air--"Indian Philosopher."

[Music]

Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades in this wilderness, Who groan beneath your chains; A while forget your griefs and fears, And look beyond this vale of tears, To yon celestial plains.

Beyond the bounds of time and s.p.a.ce, Look forward to that heavenly place, Which mortals never trod; On faith's strong eagle pinions rise, Work out your pa.s.sage to the skies, And scale the mount of G.o.d.

If, like our Lord, we suffer here, We shall before his face appear, And at his side sit down; To patient faith the prize is sure, For all who to the end endure Shall wear a glorious crown.

Thrice blessed, exalted, blissful hope!

It lifts our fainting spirits up, It brings to life the dead; Our bondage here will soon be past, Then we shall rise and reign at last, Triumphant with our Head.