Slavery

Heavy and cold in his dungeon hold
     Is the yoke of the oppressor;
Dark o’er the soul is the fell control
     Of the stern and dread transgressor.
          O, then come all to bring the thrall
               Up from his deep despairing
          And out of the jaw of the bandit’s law,
               Retake the prey he is tearing.

Brothers, be brave for the pining slave,
     From his wife and child riven;
From every vale their bitter wail
     Goes sounding up to Heaven.
          Then for the life of that poor wife,
               And for those children pining,
          O, ne’er give o’er till the chains no more
               Around their limbs are twining.

Gloomy and damp is the low rice swamp,
     Where their meagre hands are wasting;
All worn and weak in vain they seek
     For rest, to the cool shade hasting;
          For drivers fell, like fiends from hell,
               Cease not their savage shouting.
          And the scourges’ crack, from quivering back,
               Sends up the red blood, spouting.

Into the grave looks only the slave,
     For rest to his limbs aweary,
His spirit’s light comes from that night
     To us so dark and dreary.
          That soul shall nurse its heavy cares
               Against a day of terror,
          When the lightning gleam o his wrath shall stream
               Like fire, on the hosts of Error.

Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn
     In the right hand of Jehovah,
To smite the strong red arm of Wring,
     And dash his temples over;
          Then on amain to rend the chain
               Ere bursts the vollied thunder;
          Right onward speed till the slave is freed—
               His manacles torn asunder.