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While the rain of thy wound did cover the ground,
   Of lucid dew, in the stead:
   Prove true, I said.

  To the holy truth of God,
   Prove true, I said:
  Though struck by his chastening rod,
   Or tried in the furnace dread,
Or chained, death-cold, to the rocks of old,
   Where vulture flocks were fed,—
   Prove true, I said.

  O people of my love,
   Be free, I said:
  Till all the fires above
   From the altars of heaven are fled;
Till its halls of light have sevenfold might,
   And the spheres are dumb with dread,—
   Be free, I said.

  On Afric's golden strand,
   (Be free, I said:)
  The wild wind gave command,
   And the ships before it fled,—
Till the Southern wine of this people of mine
   With Afric's blood was red:
   Be free, I said.