Classic Poem

Scorn not the darken'd brow,
Ye of that happier race,
Who wear the rose-tint on your cheek,
With beauty's fairest grace!

Nor let our humble claim,
Who bear so hard a lot,
Be disregarded in your pray'rs,
Or in your alms forgot.

For when before their judge
The gather'd nations stand;
And bondmen, long on earth oppress'd,
Shall raise th' unfetter'd hand;

And with a grateful heart,
Heav'n's perfect justice share;
The mercy, that to us you show,
Shall be remember'd there.