Classic Poem

My country! guilty as thou art,
I love thee even yet,
Though not with all my heart;
For I can ne'er forget,
That Afric's children groan in chains,
Beneath thy peaceful shade,
And thou, unblushing, wear'st the stains,
That Slavery's blood has made.

Weep — weep, my country! — or thy blood,
May yet efface the wrong;
Let grief come o'er thee, like a flood,
And pour thy vales along;
Oh! we would have our country FREE
And PURE as blush of morn; —
Would have unsullied LIBERTY
The humblest brow adorn.

My country! wilt thou not arise,
And rear a spotless shrine;
Where freedom's voice shall reach the skies
In eloquence divine?
Where Afric's sons may join in song —
Their equal rights restor'd —
That Heav'n, besought, may hide the wrong,
Our annals now afford?

My country! haste to wipe away
The guilt which clings to thee,
Let Afric's children hail the day,
When they shall all be FREE :
Then thou, like thy triumphant bird,
Aloft may'st proudly soar;
And voice of human woe be heard,
Within thy bow'rs no more.