Classic Poem

My country, that nobly could dare
The hand of oppression to brave,
O, how the foul stain canst thou bear,
Of being the land of the slave?

His groans, and the clank of his chains
Shall rise with the shouts of the free,
And turn into discord the strains
They raise, God of mercy, to thee.

The proud knee at his altar we bend,
On God as our Father we call:
We call him our Father and Friend,
And forget he 's the Father of all.

His children he does not forget;
His mercy, his power can save;
And, sure as God liveth, he yet
Will liberty give to the slave.

O talk not of freedom and peace!
With the blood of the slave on our sod:
Till the groans of the negro shall cease,
Hope not for a blessing from God.

He asks, — am not I a man?
He pleads, — am not I a brother?
Then dare not, and hope not you can
The cry of humanity smother.

'T will be heard from the south to the north,
In our halls, and in poverty's shed:
It will go like a hurricane forth,
And wake up the living and dead.

The dead whom the white man has slain,
They cry from the ground and the waves:
They once cried for mercy in vain,
They plead for their brothers the slaves.

O! let them my country be heard!
Be the land of the free and the brave!
And send forth the glorious word,
This is not the land of the slave!