The Bondman's Lament

     Wo for the captive, wo!
When not a tear for our sorrow is shed;
Pining and bleeding and trampled low,
     Under the cruel treads
Of the oppressor, whose sandals soak 
In the warm life-blood of the hearts he's broke.

     O, who will plead for us,
Now that our brothers are cold and mute
At wrongs that would claim, were he trampled thus,
     Tears from the very brute,—
Wrongs that we've borne for years and years,
Till now not a day-beam of promise appears?

      Birds! on the tender spray,
Singing of Liberty all the bright morn, 
Listen sweet birds, ere ye fly away 
     And are forever gone,
Learn the captive's wo, and the spoiler's crime, 
And bear the tale to the northern clime.

     Mournfully, sadly then,
Pour ye our plaint in the pleasant wood, 
Unconsciously moving the hearts of men
    With a new thought of good,
Lighting their souls with a generous glow 
Of pity, sweet healer of human wo.

     Winds of the scented vale,
Drunken with perfume, and sated with song, 
Stay awhile winds, for the bitter tale!
     Of our unuttered wrong,—
Wait, that the wail of the slave may sigh 
O'er the hills of the North-land, whither ye fly.
     
     Streams, that go dancing on
Freighted with joy to the meadows green, 
Bearing a blessing where-ever ye run,
     Tell of the woes ye've seon,
To the great Water, and bid its wild waves 
Thunder the tale of the bleeding slaves.

     Spirits, who fill the air
With a low murmuring of pleasant tones, 
Hear ye, and echo our song of despair, 
     And our deep uttered groans;—
Then to the God of the stricken poor
Fly with the tale of the wrongs we endure.

     Man hath not pitied us;
Naked and bruised he hath left us alone;
Ground to the dust by a wasting curse
     We are all doomed to groan;
Waiting, despairing, yet lingering on,
Though the joy our life, and its hope are gone.