Where christian men enslave the weak,
Because the sun has tinged their cheek?
Or, where the humblest son of toil,
Who works the mine, or tills the soil,
Can raise to Heaven his grateful eyes,
And thank the Ruler of the skies,
That, though all other goods are flown,
His limbs, his soul, are still his own;
And that no despot’s hand can blight
His home or rob him of his right;