The Champions of Slavery

Thy triumphs, TRUTH! shall come—when Error,
     Stripped of his thin disguise, shall shrink
Before thy piercing eye with terror,
     And back into his caverns slink
Abashed and humbled—though his brow
Right haughtily is lifted now,
And many a willing devotee
Before his altar bends the knee,
Meanly exulting to be known
As Falsehood’s chosen champion.

Such are the men, oh God! who turn
     The pages of thy volume over—
Not of its blessed truths to learn—
     But haply if they may discover
Some separate text, some little clause,
To prop Oppression’s failing cause,
Sanction the trampling of thy laws,
     And wrest the poor man’s right away—
     Blind leaders of the blind are they!

Impious blasphemers! who would plunder
     Jehovah of his attributes,
That they may keep the bondman under,
     Yoked in with dumb and senseless brutes:
Yet, while with blood their garments drip,
They worship God with perjured lip—
And mark! the sanctimonious eye,
     The lifted hand, the brazen brow,
As to the poor black man they cry,
     “Off! I am holier than thou!”

Such are the men who, lost to shame,
And deaf to mercy, dare to frame
     Mischief by law, to turn away
The needy from his right, and make,
At Slavery’s beck, for Slavery’s sake,
     The merciful a prey!
Oh shame! that such should lift their hands
For evil deeds in Christian lands!
Profaning with their very breath
     The name of Freedom, while they swear
To make her weal, in life and death,
     Their own peculiar care.
Perjured and false! Yea—thrice forsworn!
The tyrant’s tool!—the good man’s scorn!

What! shall we crush our sympathies,
     And strangle pity in its birth—
And, heedless of the poor man’s cries,
As from the scourge and chain he flies,
Harden our hearts and close our eyes;
     And thrust him from our home and heart,
At their demand, whose lying lips
Boast of democracy and — whips?
Serviles! still prompt at Slavery’s beck
To bend the knee and bow the neck,
     Or, hound-like, press upon the track
Of him who haply may have broke
From his worn neck the tyrant’s yoke,
     And drag him to his bondage back?
No! till our lips are sealed in death,
We’ll speak with unbated breath
     For God and for his trampled poor!
Till in his place of guilty power,
Trembles the despot of the hour—
     Trembles the haughty evil-doer!
And bursting from Oppression’s thrall,
     Proudly the dark-browed slave shall claim,
     In Freedom’s consecrated name,
The Rights that God hath given to all!