Classic Poem

Ah! heard ye that shriek of despair,
Wrench'd wild from the breast of the slave?
Hark! hark! how it pierces the air!
'Tis surely the knell of the grave.

With anguish it strikes through the frame,
And swift sends the blood to the heart,
To think how despis'd is his name,
Who taught us to act well our part.

The tyrant will surely be paid,
For stripes he so often hath giv'n;
Account of them all will be made,
By him, who is ruler in heav'n.