Where is the Slave
Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluckd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.