Classic Poem

Ye spirits of the free!
Can ye forever see
Your brother — man,
A yok'd and tortur'd slave,
Scourg'd to an early grave, —
And raise no hand to save,
E'en when you can?

Shall tyrants from the soul,
That they in pomp may roll,
God's image tear,
And call the wreck their own; —
While, from th' eternal throne,
They shut the stifled groan,
And bitter pray'r?

Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crown'd
Creation's lord?
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of shame,
Profess their tyrant — claim
From God's own word?

No! At the battle-cry,
A host, prepar'd to die,
Shall arm for fight:
But not with martial steel,
Grasp'd with a murd'rous zeal;
Their foes no arms shall feel
But LOVE and LIGHT .

Bas'd on Jehovah's laws,
Strong in their righteous cause,
They march to save;
Vain is th' oppressor's mail,
Against their battle-hail,
Till cease the woe and wail
Of ev'ry slave.