Was clay in Slavery’s shaping hand,

As if a far-blown trumpet stirred

The languorous sin-sick air, I heard:

“Does not the voice of reason cry,

Claim the first right which Nature gave,

From the red scourge of bondage fly,

Nor deign to live a burdened slave!”

Our father rode again his ride

On Memphremagog’s wooded side;

Sat down again to moose and samp