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And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane
Relax the iron hand of pride,
And bid his bondmen cast the chain,
From fettered soul and limb, aside?
Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free,
From 'farthest Ind' to each blue crag
That beetles o'er the Western Sea?
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,
When Freedom's fire is dim with us,
And round our country's altar clings
The damning shade of Slavery's curse?
Go—let us ask of Constantine
To loose his grasp on Poland's throat—
And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line
To spare the struggling Suliote.
Will not the scorching answer come
From turban'd Turk, and fiery Russ—
'Go, loose your fettered slaves at home,
Then turn, and ask the like of us!'
Just God! and shall we calmly rest,
The christian's scorn—the heathen's mirth—
Content to live the lingering jest
And by-word of a mocking earth?
