We have a goodly clime,
Broad vales and streams we boast;
Our mountain frontiers frown sublime,
Old Ocean guards our coast.
Suns bless our harvests fair,
With fervid smile serene,
But a dark shade is gathering there,
What can its blackness mean?
We have a birth-right proud,
For our young sons to claim—
An eagle soaring o'er the cloud,
In freedom and in fame.
We have a scutcheon bright,
By our dead fathers bought;
A fearful blot distains its white—
Who hath such evil wrought?
Our banner o'er the sea
Looks forth with starry eye,
Emblazoned glorious, bold and free,
A letter on the sky—
What hand with shameful stain,
Hath marred its heavenly blue?
The yoke, the fasces, and the chain,
Say, are these emblems true?
This day doth music rare
Swell through our nation's bound,
But Afric's wailing mingles there,
And Heaven doth hear the sound.
O God of power! we turn
In penitence to thee,
Bid our loved land the lesson learn—
To bid the slave be free.