Chapter 8 No.8

Low and mournful be the strain,

Haughty thought be far from me;

Tones of penitence and pain,

Moanings of the Tropic sea;

Low and tender in the cell

Where a captive sits in chains,

Crooning ditties treasured well

From his Afric's torrid plains.

Sole estate his sire bequeathed-

Hapless sire to hapless son-

Was the wailing song he breathed,

And his chain when life was done.

What his fault, or what his crime?

Or what ill planet crossed his prime?

Heart too soft and will too weak

To front the fate that crouches near,-

Dove beneath the vulture's beak;-

Will song dissuade the thirsty spear?

Dragged from his mother's arms and breast,

Displaced, disfurnished here,

His wistful toil to do his best

Chilled by a ribald jeer.

Great men in the Senate sate,

Sage and hero, side by side,

Building for their sons the State,

Which they shall rule with pride.

They forbore to break the chain

Which bound the dusky tribe,

Checked by the owners' fierce disdain,

Lured by "Union" as the bribe.

Destiny sat by, and said,

"Pang for pang your seed shall pay,

Hide in false peace your coward head,

I bring round the harvest-day."