Our young men are brutalized in intellect, and their manly energies are chilled by the frosts of slavery. Sometimes they are called to witness the agonies of the mothers who bore them writhing under the lash, and as if to fill up to overflowing the already full cup of demonism, they are sometimes compelled to apply the lash with their own hands. Hell itself cannot overmatch a deed like this,—and dark damnation shudders as it sinks into its bosom, and seeks to hide itself from the indignant eye of God.
“They till oppression’s soil where men,
For liberty have bled,
And the eagle wing of freedom waves,
In mockery over head.
The earth is filled with the triumph shouts
Of men who have burst their chains,
But theirs the heaviest of them all
Still lay on their burning veins.
In the tyrants halls there are luxury,