The spirit of the Pilgrims
Is spreading o'er the earth,
And millions now point to the land
Where Freedom had her birth:
Hark! Hear ye not the earnest cry
That peals o'er every wave?
"God above,
In thy love,
O liberate the slave!"
Ye heard of trampled Poland,
And of her sons in chains,
And noble thoughts flashed through your minds
And fire flowed through your veins.
Then wherefore hear ye not the cry
That breaks o'er land and sea?—
"On each plain,
Rend the chain,
And set the captive free!"
Oh, think ye that our fathers,
(That noble patriot band,)
Could now look down with kindling joy,
And smile upon the land?
Or would a trumpet-tone go forth,
And ring from shore to shore;—
"All who stand,
In this land,
Shall be free for evermore!"
Great God, inspire thy children,
And make thy creatures just,
That every galling chain may fall,
And crumble into dust:
That not one soul throughout the land
Our fathers died to save,
May again,
By fellow-men,
Be branded as a Slave!