Classic Poem

Oh! lift the hand, and Peace shall bear
Her olive where the palm-tree grows;
And torrid Afric's desert share,
The fragrance of salvation's rose.

But if with Pilate's stoic eye,
You calmly wash when blood is spilt;
Or deem a cold unpitying sigh,
Absolves you from the stain of guilt;

Or if like Jacob's recreant train,
Who traffick'd in a brother's woe,
You hear the suppliant plead in vain,
Or mock his tears that wildly flow;

Will not the judgments of the skies,
Which threw a shield 'round Joseph sold,
Be rous'd by fetter'd Afric's cries,
And change to dross th' oppressor's gold?