The Woldsman's Prayer, by Edward William Barnard
Free as the joyful things that skim
The fragrant earth or sunny sky,
I join in Nature's grateful hymn,
And bless our perfect liberty.
Free as the lark, whose carol sweet
Is pealing high through spheres above,
Springs my unfetter'd soul to greet
In his own heaven the light of love.
She weaves not now of heath, or thyme,
A wreath for earth-born Fiction's brow;
The Wold must lose her wonted rhyme,
For holy raptures fill her now.
She looks abroad on earth and air,
And feels--How blessed to be free!--
She asks, "Do all that blessing share?"
Then bows in shame her humbled knee!
What--though with passing brightness shine
The heavens o'er India's western isles;
And, deck'd with beauty half-divine,
The earth through flowers and fruitage smiles!
What--though there stream on every tower
The flag, that knows no other stain!--
There man usurps unhallow'd power;
There smacks the scourge, and clanks the chain.
There--loathing life--a child of fear--
The slave, with toil and trouble wan,
No sabbath-rest his soul to cheer,
Trembles before his brother-man!
There--led to feed lust's brutal flame,
There--torn from every social tie,
The helpless maiden stoops to shame--
The parent lays him down to die!
Oh! Thou that nervest the feeblest knees,
As fond to love as strong to save,
Wilt Thou not visit earth for these?
Wilt Thou not rise t' avenge the slave?
Oh! hasten thine appointed time,
And wrench from man his human prey:
Purge out this great accursed crime,
And cast the foul reproach away!
Lo! all through Britain's favour'd land,
The Christian shrinks at Slavery's name;
And burning brow, and clenched hand,
Attest the freeman's manly shame!
Hear, Lord!--Through all her sacred walls
Thy priests proclaim the bondsman's wrong:
Her senate on the tyrant calls,
And Justice arms her stateman's tongue!
Hear, Lord!--For e'en on desert wold
In secret mounts the fervent prayer:--
Scatter the tyrant's blood-wrought gold,
And bid his slaves our freedom share.
Edward William Barnard.
April, 1826.