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FREEDOM

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 4, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, No. 27.

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FREEDOM.

By Ina D. Coolbrith

[From a poem by Oakland's sweet singer, Ina D. Coolbrith, read at a Fourth-of-July celebration, 1895.]
"Of old sat Freedom on the heights!" (So sang a singer of our day.) O golden age of pure delights! O planet, happy in her sway!
* * * * * * *
For thee the Mayflower crossed the sea; Her sails were wings of thy desire; And on the virgin shores to thee She builded high the altar-fire.
She wove the banner of the stars; Thy spirit mailed her arm with might To break the Old World's prison-bars, And write the New World's name in light.
But in the Mayflower's heart, unguessed, Lurked still one foe not overthrown; It bound about her brother's wrist The shackles stricken from her own.
Then didst thou rise in grievous ire, O Freedom! storm in majesty! As sweeps the prairie storm of fire, Thy legions swept from sea to sea,
And cleansed thy shame to spotless white, And made the land thy very own; And once again was known her light, God's Rainbow-Land, from zone to zone.
Are we still thine, O Freedom? Join Thy voice to mine, and utter clear Thy truth; lest, cowardly, I coin The lie to lull the rising fear.
Speak thou the blame we shame to own; What tawdry despot rules the hour! How, servile, at a tinsel throne, We bow to pelf, we bow to power.
We drain the ore from nature's veins, And festering fetters forge, to bind Our cringing souls in mammon's claims— Slaves! Slaves!—in limb, in will, in mind!
We sleep, while Cain's uplifted hand With crimson drops befouls the sod; Crime writes across the shuddering land Its awful blasphemy of God;
And wrecks of men drift to and fro, And Dives feasts in jeweled state, And dreams to melody, while, lo! In thousands, Lazarus at the gate!
The sons of patriot sires, we dare The bribe to give, to take the bribe! And sit beneath the Old World's sneer, The king-ruled nations' jest and gibe.
Like theirs shall leisured lords of lands Mock the tired tiller of the soil With scanty harvest? Toiling hands Gain as their guerdon only toil?
O, for the loyal faith of old! The simple dignity and truth! The law that was not bought and sold! The clean soul of the nation's youth!
Heed! lest our banner mock the arch It mimics—heaven's starry home! The music of our pageant march Be Nero's play to burning Rome.
There is no slavery like sin; Where wrong is, freedom can not be; By right alone her crown we win, In honor, only, are we free.