Classic Poem

Long have our burning bosoms sigh'd
O'er wrongs, our brethren felt;
Oft for his need, before our God,
In supplication knelt.

E'en mingling with the grateful thought,
That we ourselves were free,
Came bitter thoughts of those who groan'd,
In ceaseless slavery.

And when the loftier, holier trust
Of those whom Christ had bought,
Drew forth our hearts to him, in love,
Who had our freedom wrought;

We felt that those, for whom, with us,
That priceless blood was shed —
Aye, freemen of the Lord — were crush'd,
Beneath their fellows' tread.

And woman's voice was all too weak,
And woman's strength too frail,
To lift the note, whose warning tones
Should make the guilty quail.

But, brethren! blessed be the might,
That nerves your hearts, to pour
In proud oppression's ear, the wrongs,
That thousands now deplore.