The future with its story yet untold.
Oh, how important that these homes should be
Blest with the love of truth and liberty.
Look down, fair Goddess, on the work of years,
Look on a Nation's triumphs and her tears,
Smile on the work that has been nobly done;
Rejoice that palms of victory have been won,
But mourn when every State thine eyes have scanned,
Mourn for the many slaves in our proud land,
Mourn for the slaves who face a hopeless fate,
Mourn for the many homes made desolate.
Slaves to the wine-cup, slaves to crime and vice,
Selling their souls and for a paltry price;
Slaves to a life of misery and shame,
Bound by the fetters of a tarnished name;
Slaves to the narrowing love of gain and gold,
Slaves to their evil passions uncontrolled;
These all are slaves, and many, many more,
Countless as sands upon the ocean shore.
Read in the faces that we daily meet,
On country road or busy, bustling street,
On faces joyous and on faces grave,
Read where some tyrant hand has written,—slave.
What mean these countless dens of vice and guilt?
What mean these prisons that our land has built?
What mean these rum-shops with their poisonous breath
Hurrying scores of drunkards down to death?
They say in language undisguised and plain:
"The heartless tyrants have not all been slain."
No, though the African has gained his rights,
And freedom's star beams o'er oppression's heights,
Thousands still choose to wear the slave's iron band,
Fastening the fetters with their own free hand.
Despising all the rights our laws afford,
Take off their armor and lay down their sword;
Oh, how important that these homes should be
Blest with the love of truth and liberty.
Look down, fair Goddess, on the work of years,
Look on a Nation's triumphs and her tears,
Smile on the work that has been nobly done;
Rejoice that palms of victory have been won,
But mourn when every State thine eyes have scanned,
Mourn for the many slaves in our proud land,
Mourn for the slaves who face a hopeless fate,
Mourn for the many homes made desolate.
Slaves to the wine-cup, slaves to crime and vice,
Selling their souls and for a paltry price;
Slaves to a life of misery and shame,
Bound by the fetters of a tarnished name;
Slaves to the narrowing love of gain and gold,
Slaves to their evil passions uncontrolled;
These all are slaves, and many, many more,
Countless as sands upon the ocean shore.
Read in the faces that we daily meet,
On country road or busy, bustling street,
On faces joyous and on faces grave,
Read where some tyrant hand has written,—slave.
What mean these countless dens of vice and guilt?
What mean these prisons that our land has built?
What mean these rum-shops with their poisonous breath
Hurrying scores of drunkards down to death?
They say in language undisguised and plain:
"The heartless tyrants have not all been slain."
No, though the African has gained his rights,
And freedom's star beams o'er oppression's heights,
Thousands still choose to wear the slave's iron band,
Fastening the fetters with their own free hand.
Despising all the rights our laws afford,
Take off their armor and lay down their sword;
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