Poems (Hoffman)/Our Nation's Slavery
OUR NATION'S SLAVERY.
Is this the country boasting freedom's reign,
The highest good a nation can obtain;
Where no slave murmurs at his thankless lot,
Where all the rights of liberty are taught;
Where white and black alike rejoice to pay
Their tribute to the matters of the day;
Where tongue and pen declare their action free,
And call their land a land of liberty?
O Goddess! from thy exalted throne look down
Upon the land once cursed by slavery's frown,
But now in this thrice blest enlightened day,
Declaring that no tyrant hand shall sway
The laws that flourish for a nation's good,
So dearly purchased by a nation's blood.
Look down upon the crowds that throng the street,
On restless hands, and busy, hurrying feet;
Look in upon the homes of every grade,
Homes 'neath the wide-furled flag of freedom made;
In the great cities, crowded side by side,
And o'er the country scattered far and wide.
Here, clustered in a growing, thriving town,
There, nestled in the mountains, bare and brown;
Or where the rivers wash their verdant banks,
And dancing eddies play their noisy pranks.
In vine-wreathed valleys where Spring first awakes,
On ocean-cliffs, or shores of inland lakes;
Whether by mountains crowned or city domes,
These countless dwellings are the nation's homes;
'Tis here the child begins to realize,
The stage of life where all his future lies;
And here those first impressions leave their trace,
That coming years can never quite erase.
And in these homes are formed the minds that mold
The future with its story yet untold.
Oh, how important that these homes should be
Blest with the love of truth and liberty.
Look down, fair Goddess, on the work of years,
Look on a Nation's triumphs and her tears,
Smile on the work that has been nobly done;
Rejoice that palms of victory have been won,
But mourn when every State thine eyes have scanned,
Mourn for the many slaves in our proud land,
Mourn for the slaves who face a hopeless fate,
Mourn for the many homes made desolate.
Slaves to the wine-cup, slaves to crime and vice,
Selling their souls and for a paltry price;
Slaves to a life of misery and shame,
Bound by the fetters of a tarnished name;
Slaves to the narrowing love of gain and gold,
Slaves to their evil passions uncontrolled;
These all are slaves, and many, many more,
Countless as sands upon the ocean shore.
Read in the faces that we daily meet,
On country road or busy, bustling street,
On faces joyous and on faces grave,
Read where some tyrant hand has written,—slave.
What mean these countless dens of vice and guilt?
What mean these prisons that our land has built?
What mean these rum-shops with their poisonous breath
Hurrying scores of drunkards down to death?
They say in language undisguised and plain:
"The heartless tyrants have not all been slain."
No, though the African has gained his rights,
And freedom's star beams o'er oppression's heights,
Thousands still choose to wear the slave's iron band,
Fastening the fetters with their own free hand.
Despising all the rights our laws afford,
Take off their armor and lay down their sword;
To watch no more for evil's grave alarms,
To fight no more for freedom's priceless charms;
To live in wait of horrors to ensue,
To do whate'er their master bids them do.
Their choice, where wide-furled flags of freedom wave,
To fill a helpless slave's ignoble grave.
Why are they slaves? Can mountain chains reply?
They only echo back the question "Why?"
Can ocean waves the burdened problems solve
That many hearts, and hopes, and homes involve?
Answer, ye glittering stars with wisdom fraught,
The stars are dumb, the breakers answer not;
There is no reason and no answer given,
Though mighty hills with thunderings were riven.
The question stands unanswered by a voice:
Why will a man make slavery his choice,
When Liberty her triumph song awakes
And sheds her light on every path he takes?
The highest good a nation can obtain;
Where no slave murmurs at his thankless lot,
Where all the rights of liberty are taught;
Where white and black alike rejoice to pay
Their tribute to the matters of the day;
Where tongue and pen declare their action free,
And call their land a land of liberty?
O Goddess! from thy exalted throne look down
Upon the land once cursed by slavery's frown,
But now in this thrice blest enlightened day,
Declaring that no tyrant hand shall sway
The laws that flourish for a nation's good,
So dearly purchased by a nation's blood.
Look down upon the crowds that throng the street,
On restless hands, and busy, hurrying feet;
Look in upon the homes of every grade,
Homes 'neath the wide-furled flag of freedom made;
In the great cities, crowded side by side,
And o'er the country scattered far and wide.
Here, clustered in a growing, thriving town,
There, nestled in the mountains, bare and brown;
Or where the rivers wash their verdant banks,
And dancing eddies play their noisy pranks.
In vine-wreathed valleys where Spring first awakes,
On ocean-cliffs, or shores of inland lakes;
Whether by mountains crowned or city domes,
These countless dwellings are the nation's homes;
'Tis here the child begins to realize,
The stage of life where all his future lies;
And here those first impressions leave their trace,
That coming years can never quite erase.
And in these homes are formed the minds that mold
The future with its story yet untold.
Oh, how important that these homes should be
Blest with the love of truth and liberty.
Look down, fair Goddess, on the work of years,
Look on a Nation's triumphs and her tears,
Smile on the work that has been nobly done;
Rejoice that palms of victory have been won,
But mourn when every State thine eyes have scanned,
Mourn for the many slaves in our proud land,
Mourn for the slaves who face a hopeless fate,
Mourn for the many homes made desolate.
Slaves to the wine-cup, slaves to crime and vice,
Selling their souls and for a paltry price;
Slaves to a life of misery and shame,
Bound by the fetters of a tarnished name;
Slaves to the narrowing love of gain and gold,
Slaves to their evil passions uncontrolled;
These all are slaves, and many, many more,
Countless as sands upon the ocean shore.
Read in the faces that we daily meet,
On country road or busy, bustling street,
On faces joyous and on faces grave,
Read where some tyrant hand has written,—slave.
What mean these countless dens of vice and guilt?
What mean these prisons that our land has built?
What mean these rum-shops with their poisonous breath
Hurrying scores of drunkards down to death?
They say in language undisguised and plain:
"The heartless tyrants have not all been slain."
No, though the African has gained his rights,
And freedom's star beams o'er oppression's heights,
Thousands still choose to wear the slave's iron band,
Fastening the fetters with their own free hand.
Despising all the rights our laws afford,
Take off their armor and lay down their sword;
To watch no more for evil's grave alarms,
To fight no more for freedom's priceless charms;
To live in wait of horrors to ensue,
To do whate'er their master bids them do.
Their choice, where wide-furled flags of freedom wave,
To fill a helpless slave's ignoble grave.
Why are they slaves? Can mountain chains reply?
They only echo back the question "Why?"
Can ocean waves the burdened problems solve
That many hearts, and hopes, and homes involve?
Answer, ye glittering stars with wisdom fraught,
The stars are dumb, the breakers answer not;
There is no reason and no answer given,
Though mighty hills with thunderings were riven.
The question stands unanswered by a voice:
Why will a man make slavery his choice,
When Liberty her triumph song awakes
And sheds her light on every path he takes?