Classic Poem

Daughters of the Pilgrim-Sires!
Dwellers by their mould'ring graves!
Watchers of their altar-fires!
Look upon your country's slaves.

And can ye behold, unmov'd,
All the crushing weight of grief,
That their aching hearts have prov'd,
And refuse to send relief?

Are not woman's pulses warm,
Beating in that anguish'd breast?
Is it not a sister's form,
On whose limbs those fetters rest?

Oh! then save her from a doom,
Worse than aught that ye may bear;
Let her pass not to the tomb,
Midst her bondage and despair.