Classic Poem

BY W. E. CHANNING .

Where the dark Danube proudly runs,
Mayhap your heart, your hope may be;
There live your brothers, — noble ones, —
For whom yon crossed the rolling sea.

And many a vine-clad cottage stands,
And peasant hearts throb aching there;
You pray, you weep, you lift your hands
To God, — for life, for light, your prayer.

You think of our dear sister's form,
Crushed by the impious Haynau's blow;
Your feelings true, your heart so warm,
Feel, then, for us, feel for our wo!

Slaves in the land of Freedom bright,
Slaves on the wild Missouri's side,
And Texan vales in sunny light,
Slaves on the old Potomac's tide!

The lash we feel, the chains we wear, —
God of the Free! shall Kossuth come,
Nor strike for us, and empty air
Pour from his mouth for his lost home?

Awake! thou burning Magyar soul!
Strike for thy brother slaves in view!
Then calmly shall the ocean roll,
Nor vex thy heart so warm and true.

Where are our wives? — to torture sold!
Kidnapped our children, — love disgraced!
Hope, home, affection, all for gold
At once torn out, and life effaced.

O Kossuth! Magyar! Man, at last!
Betray us not, nor let there be
Our curses lingering on thy past,
Our hate a household thing for thee.

Are we not men? — are we not slaves?
By the dark Danube there's no more:
Thy brothers found right glorious graves
Along his wild, romantic shore:

And we would die — but galls the chain;
Die — but in prison foul our lot:
By inches killed, the wretch's pain,
Who, dying, lives by all forgot.

Strike, then, for us, with thought and prayer,
God give thee power, most noble heart!
Nor waste thy words on empty air,
But, flying slave, take the slave's part!