116
SONGS OF THE SLAVE
I deemed that yon somewhere
Triumphs ’neath the heav’ns there,
Flies our hallo at last,
Freedom’s sunny song.
When my head I would lift,
Low again would it drift;
On in shame and sorrow
Years succession gave.
Clings the yoke still to me
And the eye waits vainly
Dawn’s redemptory glow:
I will die a slave.
My head e’en now bends low,
White locks my temples show;
Hopes no longer attain
Autumn’s riper hue,—
Shackled my hands I know
Cursèd the yoke I’ll never o'erthrow,—
In my grave shall that chain
Rest beside me too.
