Astræa nought to me avails,
If but her phantom hold the scales;
Who, with her finger in my fob,
Like saint bedeckt, like strumpet rob,
And smiling say: “Peace, friend, be still,
This is the law—the people’s will.”
If slavery’s shadow in the North
Hath such results as these brought forth;
Then what must be the moral state,
Of those who feel its full grown weight?