The Voice of the North.

By John G. Whittier.

Up the hill-side, down the glen,

Rouse the Bleeping citizen;

Summon out the might of men!

Like a lion growling low—

Like a night-storm rising slow—

Like the tread of unseen foe—

It is coming —it is nigh!

Stand your homes and altars by,

On your own free threshold die.

Clang the bells in all your spires,

On the gray hills of your sires

Fling to heaven your signal-fires.

Oh! for God and duty stand,

Heart to heart, and hand to hand,

Bound the old graves of the land.

Whoso shrinks or falters now,

Whoso to the yoke would bow,

Brand the craven on his brow.

Freedom’s soil has only place

For a free and fearless race—

None for traitors false and base.

Perish party—parish clan;

Strike together while yon can,

Like the strong arm of one man.

Like the angels' voice sublime,

Heard above a world of crime,

Crying for the end of Time.

With one heart and with one mouth,

Let the North speak to the South;

Speak the word befitting both.


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