21
Where now beneath his burthen
The toiling slave is driven,—
When now a tyrant's mockery
Is offered unto Heaven,—
Where Mammon hath its altars
Wet o'er with human blood,
And Pride and Lust debases
The workmanship of God—
There shall thy praise by spoken,
Redeemed from falsehood's ban,
When the fetters shall be broken,
And the slave shall be a man!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!—
A thousand hearts are warm—
A thousand kindred bosoms
Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence
With secret Fraud combine,
The wall of fire is round us—
Our present Help was thine!
Lo—the waking up of nations,
From Slavery's fatal sleep—
The murmur of a universe—
Deep calling unto deep!—
Joy to thy spirit, brother!—
On every wind of Heaven
The onward cheer and summons
Of Freedom's soul is given!
